The school was easy to identify; every glass door in the campus had the SCAM logo stenciled on it. Bouchard chuckled and said, “I wonder if the logo is indicative of the quality of the education?” Knowing that many of these so-called vocational colleges were nothing more than diploma mills, Houston, too, wondered just how appropriate the acronym was.
A number of students walked out of the building, and Bouchard commented, “Seems to be a large summer contingent.”
“Most of these for-profit vocational schools offer two-year associate degrees and are in session year-round. A friend of mine has a kid attending one, she’s studying to be a medical assistant.”
“Must be tough going all year,” Bouchard commented.
“Well, in a way it’s not such a bad thing. They get vocational training, and besides, once they get a job it’s gonna be year-round anyway.”
They walked inside the building and entered a door that had REGISTRAR painted on the glass. He thought the overweight elderly woman behind the desk that fronted the door leered at him. Whether her attitude was caused by their interrupting her or because she might have to move, he wasn’t sure. “May I help you?” Her tone sounded as cold as the blue tint in her hair.
“My name is Mike Houston, and this is my partner, Anne Bouchard. Mr. and Mrs. Archie Guerette—they’re grandparents of one of your students, Cheryl Guerette—and they have . . .” The woman became attentive when he mentioned Cheryl—she obviously knew her by name. “. . . asked us to check on Cheryl. Is there someone I can speak to?”
“That would be the Registrar, Ms. Cooper. Please, have a seat. I’ll tell her you’re here.” She grunted as she got up, muttering under her breath that the school needed an intercom. She ran her hands over her imposing derrière, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in the fifty yards of material that had been used to make her dress, and walked deeper into the suite. She stopped before a closed door, knocked, and waited a few seconds. A muffled voice summoned her into the inner sanctum. After a few moments, she waddled back out. Houston noted the exertion of walking thirty or forty feet had left her breathing hard, and her forehead shone with perspiration. Her struggle reminded him of an aunt who suffered from a glandular imbalance and became so large that she was unable to climb the stairs to her second floor. The woman inhaled deeply, trying to catch her breath, and said, “You can go in now.”
He thanked her and stepped aside to allow Bouchard to precede him into the Registrar’s office. As large as the receptionist was, Ms. Cooper was the opposite. She was so skinny that Houston thought she would make most supermodels turn green with envy. Her office was small and immaculate, which, based on his experience, was unusual for college administrators. After his discharge from the Marines, he’d taken a number of night courses at Northeastern University, and his deans and professors had worked in a pile of books and papers, the flotsam and jetsam of university life.
Ms. Cooper stood and offered her hand. Houston took it and gently shook it a single time; her hand was thin, skeletal, and so pallid that blue veins were visible through the skin. She seemed so frail that he was fearful of crushing her hand, and he made a point of gripping it lightly.
“How may I help you, Mr. Houston?” The pitch of her voice was so high that he was certain that when she spoke the head of every dog in the neighborhood popped up.
“I’m here about a student. Cheryl Guerette.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss our students. I’m sure you’re familiar with privacy laws.”
Houston had anticipated that, and after he had agreed to help, he had Archie take them to his bank, where they got a notarized letter authorizing them access to any information pertaining to Cheryl Guerette. Bouchard reached inside her bag and handed it to the Registrar. “We have authorization,” she said.
Ms. Cooper read the letter and inspected the notary’s seal like a bank teller inspecting a hundred dollar bill suspected of being counterfeit. “How do I know you’re the people authorized in this letter? Do you have ID?”
Houston took out his Maine driver’s license and handed it to her. “Will this suffice?”
She compared him to the picture and handed the license back. She picked up the letter and said, “Can I have this?”
“We’ll let you have a photocopy, but we always keep the originals in our files,” Houston said. “Should an auditor or anyone else want to see it, you can refer them to us.”
Cooper motioned for them to sit in the straight-backed wooden chairs that fronted her desk. Before she could say anything, Houston said, “Cheryl’s grandparents have retained my partner and me to look into her whereabouts. They haven’t heard from her in several weeks.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Something set off alarm bells in his head. Similar to the obese secretary, Ms. Cooper knew Cheryl without checking a file. Her coldness indicated there was history between Cooper and Cheryl. “You seem familiar with Cheryl.”
“Unfortunately, most of the staff and faculty are familiar with her. Suffolk is a small school. We own the two buildings on either side of this one and only enroll about a hundred students per semester.”
“Tuition must be astronomical,” Bouchard said.
“Actually, it’s quite affordable. We get a number of grants through the National Endowment for the Arts. Regardless, one of the positive aspects to our small size is that it allows us to be close to our students. Ms. Guerette was particularly troublesome.”
“Troublesome . . . how so?” Houston asked.
“All I can tell you is that she is no longer a student here. Anything else I might say on the matter would be hearsay and rumor.”
I’ll bet you know every word of it, Houston thought. Instead he asked, “So she’s been suspended?”
“No. She was expelled for violating our Student Code of Conduct. Her behavior forced us to dismiss her permanently. Are you satisfied? Now, I’m really quite busy. Is there anything else?”
Houston surmised that Cheryl must have done something unusually severe. Schools such as this one only worried about two things: student retention and the dollars associated with it. Administrators and faculty only had one duty: keep the students in class and the revenue flowing. “Ms. Cooper, there must have been something more than hearsay and rumor for such a severe action.”
“All I’ll say is there were a number of incidents, all in violation of the student code of conduct.”
“Ms. Cooper,” Houston said, “we are here to find Cheryl, not place any responsibility or blame on your school. We represent her family.”
“I’m sorry, due to the possibility of . . . well, if you require more, I’ll need some sort of legal documentation from—” Cooper hesitated and then said, “I’m sorry, but that is all I am going to say on the subject. Now, can I do anything else for you?”
“There is one other thing,” Bouchard said. “Cheryl’s grandmother told us that she had a friend—Sarah Wilson. Can you tell us how we might get in touch with her? Maybe you could give us a number where we might call her?”
Cooper pondered the question for a few seconds, and then she removed her glasses; unconsciously, she chewed one of the plastic earpieces. “Law prohibits me from giving the number to you—unless you have another letter pertaining to information about Sarah.”
“I understand,” Bouchard replied. “She and Cheryl were roommates, were they not?”
“Yes, that much I can tell you.”
They thanked Cooper and made their way out of her office.
_________________
They found the apartment where Cheryl and Sarah Wilson lived three blocks from the school. Houston was thankful the young women lived so close. Apartments near college campuses usually charged higher-than-average rent, and many students lived in Boston’s less affluent neighborhoods, relying on mass transit to travel back and forth. This was especially true in late August when the heat and humidity made walking very far out of the question. They checked the mailboxes in the foyer and
found Sarah’s name on the box labeled 2A. Bouchard tried the door leading to the inner stairs and was surprised when it opened. “Lousy security,” she commented.
“Unfortunately, most of these converted single-family homes don’t install security systems.”
“They should.” Bouchard entered the building first, and Houston followed her up the stairs to the second floor. She knocked on the door and for several moments stood to the side and listened for sounds from within. There was no sign of occupancy; Sarah was obviously not at home. On either side of the door were windows that overlooked the street, and Houston walked over to one. He peered outside, looking for a place where they could keep an eye on the apartment and smiled when he saw a coffee shop across the street.
The investigators left the building and crossed the thoroughfare. They entered the coffee shop, bought iced tea, and sat at one of three small tables the shop owner kept on the sidewalk. Bouchard selected a table, and they settled back to wait.
Houston sipped his drink and looked at Bouchard. She caught his look and asked, “What?”
“Nothing, this is just so . . . so like when we were on the force.”
“I know,” she said. “There are times when I miss being a police officer.”
“There’s one thing I don’t miss about it.”
“Which is?”
“We no longer have to hide our feelings from everyone. I can come right out and tell you that I love you whenever I want to.”
She smiled. “Be careful, Houston. You’re starting to sound romantic rather than like a big bad Marine sniper.”
He grinned. “You know better than anyone a lot of that is just an act. Besides, you bring out the touchy-feely side of me.”
She laughed. “Where is this coming from?”
“Oh, it’s always been there, I just keep it hidden from most of the world.”
“I know one other person that you need to show it to more often.”
Houston bent forward. “If you say something absurd like Jimmy O, I’ll never show you this side of me again.”
“No, I was not alluding to Jimmy. I was talking about your daughter, Susie.”
“What? She knows that I care for her and love her.”
Bouchard reached across the table and tapped him on the forehead. “It doesn’t hurt to tell her once in a while, you dolt.”
He grew pensive.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Susie scares me.”
Bouchard leaned back. “Now who’s being absurd? How can a man be scared of his own daughter?”
“When he suddenly realizes she’s no longer the little girl who idolizes him but is an intelligent young woman who sees him as he really is.”
“Maybe,” Bouchard said, “you need to try something different with her.”
“Like what?” He took a drink of his iced tea.
“Like stop being the all-powerful father and become a friend and mentor to her.”
He placed his drink on the table and said, “That’s another reason that I love you. You always know what to say to me when I need my eyes opened.”
Bouchard placed her hand on his. “Mike, you can be so strong in many ways yet so weak in so many others.”
“That,” he said, “is why we make such an ass-kicking team, hon—we complement each other.”
Bouchard suddenly became alert. “I think she’s here,” she said, watching a young woman enter the apartment building.
A few minutes later, one of the windows opened. Houston threw their empty cups into a nearby trashcan, and he and Bouchard crossed the street.
Bouchard said, “Let me lead. She’ll be more likely to open the door for a woman than a strange man.”
They climbed the stairs, and Houston knocked on the door and stepped aside so Bouchard was in front when it opened as far as the security chain would allow. He hated those stupid chains. As a security device they were only as good as a swift kick against the door; a buzzer on the entrance door was a much more secure device.
“Yes?”
“Sarah? Sarah Wilson?” Bouchard asked.
“Do I know you?”
“No, but Cheryl’s grandparents do. They’ve asked us to find her. They’re worried and want to know if she’s all right. I wonder if you might talk with us for a few minutes.”
It became obvious that Sarah Wilson was smarter than most people her age when she said, “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Do you know the names of Cheryl’s grandparents?” Bouchard asked.
She nodded.
Houston passed the notarized letter through the door. “Her grandfather gave us this so we could look at her school records.”
Wilson read the letter, then handed it back and said, “Just a moment.”
The door closed, and Houston heard the chain slide. It opened, and Sarah stepped aside. “Come in.”
They walked into a typical scantily furnished student apartment. Houston waited until Sarah took a seat on a ratty easy chair before sitting on an old couch that felt as if it had ten or more broken springs. Houston studied her for a couple of seconds. She was girl-next-door pretty. If Hollywood ever decided to remake a 1960s teen-queen movie, she would be perfect for the title role. She curled her legs under her, ensuring that her skirt covered them, and tried to cover the holes that years of use had worn into the arms of the chair. Her fingers tapped as she fidgeted in the seat.
She returned Houston’s intense scrutiny, obviously wondering if she had made a mistake by allowing these people into her home. Wilson finally broke the silence. “Is Cheri all right?” she asked.
“That’s what we hope to find out. You called her Cheri,” Houston said. “Is Cheri her street—” He quickly changed the phrase he almost said, replacing it with: “stage name?” Street or stage, he was not surprised the girl had assumed one; knowing what it was would make tracing her much easier. It would be easier to find a streetwalker named Cheri the same way it would be easier to trace John Wayne than Marion Mitchell Morrison.
“Yeah, she felt Cheryl was too plain. An artist and model needs a name that will stand out, and she figured a French name would make her more memorable. Is she in trouble or something?” She stopped tapping her fingers and placed her hands in her lap, clenching them together.
“We don’t know—that’s the problem,” Bouchard answered. “Cheryl hasn’t contacted her family in several weeks, but what bothers us most is nobody seems to know where she might be.”
“She might have gone to New York City.”
“Why there?”
“She always talked about going there.” She gave each of them an intent look. “How much do you know about acting?”
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate my knowledge at minus five,” Houston answered.
“Well, it’s common knowledge in the industry that Hollywood or Broadway are where you have to be if you’re serious about making it.” The solemn timbre of her voice and the intensity of Sarah’s gaze proved how strongly she believed what she said.
“When did you see her last?”
“It was in early July.” Wilson looked away, and Houston knew she sought a way to avoid saying anything that might harm her friend.
“Sarah, we know Cheryl was kicked out of school,” Bouchard said. “If you hide anything from us, it could hurt her much more than if you tell me what you know.”
Wilson turned to face them. For several seconds her look reminded him of the sixties mantra, “Never trust anyone over thirty.” It was obvious that Wilson was trying to decide how much trust she could place in these older strangers. Finally, she came to a conclusion and said, “Early in the year, Cheri was a model student. You wouldn’t believe how talented she is, and with her looks, she could go to the top. But something changed her—she started going wild.”
“Wild, like in—?” Bouchard probed.
“Partying and staying out until all hours of the night. Cheri got heavily into drugs and alcohol . . .
and not party stuff like grass and coke. She was doing heroin. I could have lived with that. But when she started bringing that man around . . .”
“What man?” Bouchard countered.
“She said he was her agent. I didn’t buy it for one minute.” She turned away, breaking eye contact, and began picking at the frayed fabric on her chair. Houston knew she was holding something back.
“Do you have any idea where Cheryl might be living now?” Houston asked.
“She didn’t say anything to me. She knew I disapproved of what she was doing.” She paused for a second. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude or anything. I like to have a good time just like all the other kids, but Cheryl just went over the edge. I can’t prove anything, but some of my stuff started disappearing—I know she stole it and sold it for drugs. I confronted her, and we argued. Then I went home for the weekend, and when I got back, she was gone along with all her things. If she didn’t go to New York, you might look in Roslindale—that’s where he lives.”
“By ‘he,’ do you mean the guy she brought around?” Houston inquired.
“Yeah, I think his name was Mel.”
“What do you know about him?” Bouchard asked.
“Not a lot. But I didn’t trust him. He was creepy. It didn’t surprise me one bit when I learned he was a drug dealer.”
Houston offered her the picture Betty Guerette had provided. “Do you recognize this man with Cheryl?”
She took the photo, and after a cursory look, she nodded. “That’s Mel. He used her—got her hooked on drugs and used her.”
“You know that for a fact?” Bouchard asked.
“Yeah, Cheri told me that she met him at a party, and he fixed her up with some crack. A couple of times, she tried to get me to go with her.”
“But you didn’t.”
Sarah responded to the concern in Bouchard’s voice. “Lord, no. I want a modeling career as much as anyone, but I’m not going to do it by smoking crack and sleeping with every asshole who says he has connections.”
The Fisherman Page 4
