by Meg Cabot
“Uh,” I interrupt. “The offices weren’t ransacked. That’s how they looked when I was there. Cameron’s a student . . . and a writer. That’s how writers are.” Private eyes are too, but I don’t feel that admitting this will add anything to the investigation.
“Oh,” Turner says, looking dubious, and continues, “So Perez unloosened the cord and performed CPR, requesting emergency services via radio, which responded to the student center approximately five minutes later, three forty-five today—”
“Turner,” Canavan interrupts in a bored voice. “What have I told you about using that thing for note taking? What are you going to do when there’s a real emergency in this city and you can’t access any of your data because your wireless service has crashed because it exceeded its bandwidth?”
Turner looks confused. “That can happen?”
Canavan digs his notepad from his belt. “You know what’s never gonna exceed its bandwidth? Paper. And what have I told you about sharing incident reports with suspects?”
“Not to,” Turner says shamefacedly.
I gasp. “Suspect? You think I tried to kill that boy? I thought you said you came by to pick me up because Cooper was worried about me. I thought you said you were here to protect me.”
“Well,” Canavan says with a shrug. “That, and because you’re one of only two people caught on the hallway security monitors going into that kid’s office today, besides him.”
I’m flabbergasted.
“So you are arresting me? Who’s the other person? Why aren’t you arresting him? Or her?”
“We’re having a little trouble identifying the other person,” Canavan admits. “Due to the fact that the security tapes are not in our possession.”
“What do you mean, the security tapes aren’t in your possession? Who possesses them?”
“They were confiscated from the college security office about a half hour ago by someone named Lancaster.”
Hearing the name, I begin to fume. “He’s with the—”
“—State Department,” Detective Canavan finishes along with me.
“So they do know about Jasmine being the leak,” I say, then chew my bottom lip nervously. I’d chew on my thumbnail, but I only have a month till I get married, not enough time for it to grow back, though my future sister-in-law Tania assures me I can get gel nails that will look almost completely natural.
Surely, I tell myself, it isn’t my fault Cameron was attacked. Cooper had to have been wrong about someone following me into the offices of the Express. I hadn’t seen anyone I’d recognized . . . except, of course, Hamad.
But it couldn’t have been Hamad, since I’d seen him going into Fischer Hall shortly before I had . . . unless, of course, he’d doubled back and attempted to kill Cameron.
If Hamad had been the killer, wouldn’t he be skilled enough in assassination techniques to have stuck around to make sure he finished the job?
Except who else could have reason not only to suffocate Jasmine, but attempt to choke the life out of the editor of the college’s daily news blog?
One of the first principles of criminology—which will be my major at New York College (if I ever get through all my prerequisites and am allowed to begin taking classes in my major)—is that crimes are committed for very few reasons: Financial or material gain (greed) is a major one. Passion, such as anger, jealousy, lust, or love, is also way up there, along with a desire to cover up another crime.
Whenever a crime is committed, a good detective always asks herself one question:
“Who benefits?” I ask, a little more loudly than I’d intended to.
“No shouting from the backseat,” Canavan snaps. “The no-yapping rule goes for you too, Wells, as well as Turner here. Can’t you see I’m driving? Why I haven’t put in for retirement is beyond me. I could be home barbecuing a nice juicy steak in my backyard right now if it weren’t for you two yahoos.”
“I’m serious,” I say. Detective Canavan loves his job, and he knows it, even if training newbies and “rescuing” the girlfriends of private eyes aren’t his favorite things to do. “We’ve failed to ask ourselves the crucial question of criminal investigation: who benefits from the death of Jasmine Albright?”
“Aw, jeez,” Canavan says, rolling his eyes behind his aviators. “Castle again?”
“Whoever killed Jasmine—and meant to kill Cam—benefited by silencing them about something only they knew,” I continue, ignoring him.
Detective Turner likes this game.
“It had to be something about the prince,” he says. “And most likely something that happened the night of the big party. Right?”
“Right,” I say. “Only what? Who would benefit most from keeping that secret?”
“The prince!” Turner cries.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Canavan mutters.
“I think so too,” I say. “And the prince’s bodyguard Hamad—the one you saw grab me—clearly feels highly protective of the prince. If Rashid were to be shamed in some way—like being kicked out of school for having drugs, or something—the bodyguard would definitely have a lot to lose . . . not only his cushy career, but maybe even his life, if he were ever to go back to Qalif. They have people executed there for things we take for granted, like fornication.”
Turner looks confused. “What’s that?”
“Premarital sex. So Hamad would benefit big-time from hushing up any scandal concerning the prince.”
“We need to find out if it’s that Hamad guy on that security tape from the student center,” Turner says.
“Totally,” I agree. “Or we need to find Jasmine’s phone, which has been missing since the night she was killed. Because I’m guessing whatever happened the night of the party that the killer wants to cover up, she recorded it, and was going to send it to the Express, but never got the chance, because the killer stopped her.”
“Maybe,” Turner says excitedly, “that A-rab guy and the prince are lovers, and the girl filmed them having a homosexual interlude at the party, and the A-rab wants to keep it quiet so he and the prince can continue their shocking affair of the flesh.”
Both Canavan and I turn our heads to look at him. Turner goes slightly red around the collar of his shirt.
“What?” he asks. “I saw that in a movie once.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Canavan says darkly.
“If fornication is against the law in their country, you can bet homosexuality is too,” Turner goes on excitedly. “Sarge, we’d better bring that Hamad guy in for questioning right away. I think Ms. Wells is right, there’s something hinky about him.”
“Turner.” Canavan tightens his grip on the steering wheel as he fights for patience. “Need I remind you that in this country, homosexuality is not a crime?” His voice rises in volume with each word. “And we are not going to cause an international incident by bringing in the bodyguard of the heir to the throne of Qalif for questioning without one shred of evidence against him because a half-assed probie like you thinks there’s something hinky about him.”
Turner begins to mutter something apologetic when Detective Canavan suddenly cries, “Shit on a cracker!” and slams on the brakes.
At first I think he’s reacting to a brilliant insight he’s had about the crime, but then I see he’s reacting to something else.
We’ve been driving in circles around Washington Square Park—the most circuitous route I’ve ever seen anyone take to get to the Sixth Precinct—continuously passing the same joggers, dog walkers, and pedestrians hurrying from work. We’re about to pass them once again when I notice what’s caused Canavan to slam on the brakes: a group of students, ignoring the “Don’t Walk” light, who march straight out into the middle of the street to cross to the college’s main administration building.
If the detective hadn’t braked in time, he’d have run right into them. Several other vehicles, including the free New York College trolley, have done the same. All of them are honking angrily, the
taxi drivers shouting obscenities.
The students ignore them, marching up the curb and into the administration building, their expressions either stony-faced or tearstained.
“Kids today,” Turner says, shaking his head in disgust. “They all think they’re so entitled. Don’t even have to obey traffic lights because Mommy and Daddy always told them how perfect they are, and their coaches all gave them awards for participating, not even winning. I should get out and write each of them a ticket for jaywalking. If I were still on patrol, I would.”
“I bet you would,” Canavan mutters.
“I know those kids,” I say from the backseat.
“What?” Canavan says. “You know those kids? Are they retarded, or something?”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, yes, I know them, but no, they aren’t retarded. Those are the RAs who got fired from Fischer Hall for partying with the prince.”
Canavan whistles. “No wonder they look so pissed off.”
“That’s where the president’s office is,” I say, leaning down in the backseat to see if I can spot the top of the building. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’d be able to spy President Allington up there, through his plate-glass windows. His office is too high up, and he’d said he was leaving at five, anyway. “I bet they’re going in there to demand their jobs back. It won’t work, though. The office will be closed.”
“Life is rough,” Canavan says philosophically. “Especially when you’re a kid who had everything one minute, then had it all taken away the next.”
“Why don’t we wait out here for ’em?” Turner looks excited. “Then we can snag ’em when they come out again, and question them.”
“About the shocking ‘homosexual affair of the flesh’?” Canavan asks. “Yes, Turner, why don’t we do that? Then, after I’ve pistol-whipped you to death, no jury in the world would hold me responsible because they’d all agree that you’re such an incompetent ass, it would be justifiable homicide.”
“I can see that you two have some relationship issues you need to work out,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Why don’t you drop me at that corner over there and we’ll take this up another time.”
I point to a corner of the park where there happens to be a new bakery famous for its freshly made, warm-out-of-the-oven cookies, which it sells—and will deliver, free—with a container of milk. Cookies and milk seem like exactly the right thing to eat after so much talk about murder and attempted murder and affairs of the flesh.
“Keep your Spanx on, Wells,” Canavan says. “I’m taking you home, like I promised your boyfriend. Just wanted to make sure the royal guard wasn’t tailing us. Wouldn’t like them to figure out where you live, now would we, in case they decide to shut you up next?”
I swallow and look behind us. We’re not being followed by anyone, though, unless you count the goofy-looking New York College trolley, picking up and dropping off excited freshmen attending various late-afternoon orientation events.
“I’m not wearing Spanx” is all I can think of to say in reply to the detective. “That’s insane. Who wears Spanx under stretch cords? They’d show a line across the thigh.”
Detective Canavan only grunts in reply as he continues to drive the rest of the way around the park toward Cooper’s brownstone. Turner, looking chagrined by his supervisor’s rejection of his colorful suggestion, plays Angry Birds on his smartphone in silence. I’m the only one in the car who notices the blind man near the center of Washington Square, over by the fountain.
Unlike other blind men I’ve seen there in the past, however, this one isn’t strumming a guitar for small change or using a German shepherd to guide him. This one is whipping a red-tipped white cane back and forth in front of him like it’s a machete and he’s Crocodile Dundee, mowing down jungle grass to make a path.
I lean forward to get a better look, not daring to believe my eyes, but they haven’t deceived me.
It’s Dave Fernandez, all right. He seems to be headed back toward Fischer Hall, a happy bounce in his step that matches the smile on his face. He appears mightily pleased with the way things are going (And why wouldn’t he be? He just scored free room and board for a year in one of the most expensive places to live on earth), perfectly unaware that flocks of pigeons—and confused pedestrians—are scattering from the walkway in front of him in order to escape being struck by his cane.
I know it might be wrong, but I’m seized by a sudden urge to laugh. The fact that Dave can be so joyous—so fearless and lacking in self-pity—brings cheer into even my heart, which I’ve recently been told has become hardened from my job.
All I can think is if Dave Fernandez, who’s been through so much pain and heartache, can navigate the crowded paths of Washington Square Park without being able to see, surely I can navigate the paths of my own life, murky as they’ve gotten lately.
But the sudden surge of optimism leaves me when Detective Canavan’s Crown Vic pulls up in front of Cooper’s pink brownstone and I see three familiar figures sitting on the stoop, waiting for me.
23
I thought of wearing white
But I really hate white
I thought of wearing puce
But who the hell wears puce?
“Marriage Song,”
written by Heather Wells
To give credit where it’s due, Detective Canavan seems to be taking Cooper’s request to protect me seriously. He pulls out his service revolver—though he doesn’t hold it high enough for anyone outside the car to notice—and asks suspiciously, “You know any of those mutts on your front stoop, Wells?”
“I know all of them,” I reply in a tired voice. “Unfortunately.”
“What do you mean by ‘unfortunately’?” Canavan asks. “Should I shoot them or not?”
“Well, it’s up to you, but the two girls sitting there with what appears to be a gigantic wedding present between them are my future sisters-in-law,” I say. “Although it might make things easier for me in the short term if you shot them, in the long term, it’ll probably cause a lot of headaches, especially for you, since they don’t look all that threatening. Of course, it depends on what’s in the box.”
“What about the big guy?”
Leaning against the doorframe with his massive arms folded across his chest is a large black man in a pair of clear-framed glasses. He’s wearing a black knit watch cap and a blue Yankees jacket, despite the fact that it’s close to eighty degrees outside. At his feet is a duffel bag large enough to hold a young child. He’s assiduously avoiding eye contact with Cooper’s sisters, sitting a few steps below him in light summer dresses and sandals.
“That’s Virgin Hal,” I say. “He’s one of Cooper’s friends. I have no idea what he’s doing there, but please don’t shoot him either. I imagine he’s waiting for Cooper.”
“Did you say Virgin Hal?” Turner asks, the word “virgin” having roused him from his smartphone. “The guy who looks like a linebacker is a virgin?”
“Apparently,” I say. “But please forget I mentioned it. It’s some kind of private joke. I’ve asked Cooper not to call him that, but the name’s stuck, somehow. Can you unlock the door now? Whatever fresh hell this is that awaits me, I have to go deal with it.”
Canavan lowers his old-school Smith & Wesson (it’s sad that I now recognize the make and model of individual guns, but this is what comes from being engaged to a private investigator) and presses a button on his console, releasing the lock on my door.
“Using my keen powers of observation,” Detective Canavan remarks, “for which, it should be noted, I am well known, I’m guessing that your boy Cartwright sent his pal Virgin Hal over to keep an eye on you until he’s able to get home from wherever the hell he is, and keep you from kicking up more shit.”
“That,” I say, my fingers on the car handle, “is a ridiculous and sexist statement. Cooper isn’t like that. He knows I can take care of myself. Hal’s probably here to fix the Wi-Fi. It’s been on the blink l
ately.”
This is an outright lie. But I can’t tell the detectives the real reason I suspect that Hal is on the front stoop, since it will only alarm them, and probably cause them to want to come into the house. This would be a disaster since there’s no telling what level of contraband Cooper has holed up in there. While my fiancé swore to uphold the law when he passed the state private investigator exam, then got his license, at times he’s been known to bend it a little. Okay, maybe a lot.
“Hal’s a tech geek,” I explain. “I bet Cooper called him to check his computer.”
This is the biggest lie I’ve told yet.
“A six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound tech geek,” Canavan says drily. “Who happens to show up the day we found you being harassed by a billionaire oil sheikh’s son, who I consider a suspect in a murder at your place of work. Sure, Wells. Anything you say.”
Canavan’s not falling for my fibs, but he’s apparently too fed up to question me further.
“Well, it’s been great spending time with you, as always, Wells,” he goes on. “See you at the wedding, if not sooner, when we bring you down to the station for questioning.”
I’ve opened the car door and am getting out, but now I pause with one foot on the pavement and turn back to stare at him.
“The wedding?”
It’s not that I don’t like Detective John Canavan. But I purposely did not invite him to my wedding because every time I see his face, I’m reminded of multiple crime scenes from my past at which he was present, memories I don’t particularly care to think about on the day on which I pledge eternal love to Cooper Cartwright.
“Sure,” Canavan says, checking out his mustache in the rearview mirror. “The wife’s excited about the invitation. She bought a new dress and everything. She’s making me rent a tux, so the food at that reception of yours had better be good. We’re talking steak, right? I’m not shelling out a hundred bucks for a tux to drive all the way into the city on a weekend and sit there and eat goddamned chicken, especially after everything you and I have been through togeth—”
