"Really?" Gage said.
The man slipped the radio back on his belt. He had the kind of saggy, flush complexion of someone who'd spent most of his life trying to find the bottom of a shot glass. "We need authorization for this, sir," he said. Even his breath smelled of booze.
Gage pointed at his van. "Do you know who's sitting in that Volkswagen over there?"
"Sir—"
"It's Berry Fleicher, the victim's mother. She just wants us to get his drawing pad. I doubt the police will miss all his renderings of Klingons."
Gage started for the door. Unfortunately, the older security guard stepped in the way and placed a hand on Gage's chest. Gage slapped it away, and all three of the security guards scurried into motion, jumping into his path and barking orders at him, a jumble of movement and noise.
"Don't put your hand on me again," Gage said.
"Stand back, sir," the older man said, his knuckles bone-white as he gripped the baton still strapped to his side.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Gage said.
"We have our orders, sir. No one goes in or out of the dorm without authorization."
"Whose authorization? The police?"
The man shook his head. "No, sir. From the vice president of academic affairs, Provost MacDonald."
"And he gave the order?"
"Yes, sir."
"At the request of the police?"
"I don't know, sir. I'd really appreciate it if you stand back a few steps, sir. You're making us all a bit nervous, sir."
"Stop calling me sir," Gage said. "It's making me edgy, and when I get edgy, I start hitting people with my cane. The name's Garrison Gage. I'm a private investigator working for Berry Fleicher."
"I know who you are, sir," the man said.
The way he said it, so pointedly, it was almost as if he were issuing a threat—as if there was some kind of conspiracy afoot, everybody talking about Gage, warning each other, keeping tabs, following his every move. It made Gage think of Percy's warning not to stir things up in town, how they could turn on him if he pushed too hard in the wrong ways.
"Uh-huh," Gage said. "What's your name?"
"Officer Jantz, sir—Mr. Garrison, sir."
"Officer's your first name?"
"Sir—"
"Are you a football fan, Officer?"
"What?"
"Specifically our local high school heroes, the Bobcats?"
"I'm not sure I follow," Jantz said, though his narrowing eyes said the opposite.
"I just want to know whose side you're on."
Jantz took a moment to respond, and when he did, his voice had gone from cool to subzero in friendliness. "Just doing my job … sir."
"Right. Is Provost MacDonald in today?"
Officer Jantz's eyes told Gage the answer was yes before the man even started to speak. "Sir—"
"Where's his office? Is it on the other side of the cafeteria there?"
When Jantz didn't answer, Gage turned abruptly and headed for the sidewalk that led to the cafeteria building and beyond, leaving the three security guards to squabble among themselves. He heard the squawk of the radio, Jantz delivering a warning to someone about Gage, but then Gage was beyond earshot. Karen hurried to keep up. Pine needles and crumpled oak leaves littered the lawn on both sides of the sidewalk. A rake lay by a pile of leaves near an idle John Deere riding mower, but there were no grounds crew to be seen.
"Are you always that … friendly?" Karen asked him.
"Only on my best days," he said.
"You don't care for people in positions of authority much, do you?"
"That's not true. I like Santa Claus. He's in a position of authority. He decides who's naughty and nice. Plus, he also has employees who wear uniforms."
"So your one exception is a fictional character who doles out gifts to children based on an arbitrary system of merit?"
Gage gaped at her. "He's fictional?"
"I stand corrected."
"If he's fictional, why do I still find coal in my stocking every Christmas?"
Reaching the cafeteria, they veered to the right, swinging their way around it, passing empty benches and bike racks with bikes still chained to them, not a single student to be seen anywhere. A few other buildings, nestled among the firs, came into view, three of them, just as brown and squat and deserted as the others. The campus could have been the scene of a Twilight Zone episode. Gage glanced over his shoulder and saw that one of the security officers, the dark-haired kid who hadn't said a word, was following them. When the kid saw that Gage was looking, he whispered into his radio with one hand and reached for his baton with the other.
Every time Gage saw them reach for their batons, he was momentarily filled with the desire to challenge them to a duel. They had their batons. He had his cane.
The administration building was the farthest from the others, helpfully named Administration Building, tucked so close to the towering fir trees behind it that the long slender trunks seemed at first glance to be spires attached to the building. An atrium in the front, with slightly opaque smoked glass, was the building's one gesture toward aesthetics and modernity, though in reality it only served to give the place an air of phony pretentiousness.
"What are you going to do?" Karen asked.
"Ask him why we can't have Connor's drawing pad," Gage said.
"And if that doesn't work?"
"I haven't thought that far head."
Inside the atrium, they found an obnoxiously large reception desk made of the same smoked glass. Nobody sat behind it. Before the security guard reached the door, Gage and Karen headed down a hall with blue carpet so thin and smooth, it reflected the overhead fluorescent lights like it was water. The registrar's glass window was closed and a black curtain drawn behind it. They followed the reader board and took a right at the end of the hall. Gage heard the guard call out to them, but he rounded the corner without a glance back.
The buzzing lights and the hum of a drinking fountain were all that greeted them. Except for the door at the end of the hall, the one they needed, the dozen or so other doors were closed. They stepped through the open door into an area as soothing as a dentist's waiting room, oak end tables, cushioned chairs, watercolor paintings lining the walls. A young blond woman—hardly more than a girl, she couldn't have been more than twenty—came out from behind a cherrywood desk. Her stylish outfit, a charcoal gray pantsuit adorned with a sparkling Bearcat pendant on the lapel, would have been the envy even of women on Madison Avenue, but her awkward walk and nervous mannerisms gave off the whiff of someone playing a role.
"Can I help you, sir?" she said, her voice cracking a little at the end.
"I guess you're considered essential personnel, huh?" Gage said.
"What?"
There were three doors off the reception area, all of them conveniently labeled: Vice President of Academic Affairs Dan MacDonald, Vice President of Finance Ed Leiber, and Executive Assistant Janet O'Dell. Dan's door was cracked open, the others closed. "Is Dan in?" Gage asked.
"Sir," the girl said, "if you don't have an appointment—"
"Really?" Gage said. "You're going to dust off that one with what's going on right now?"
This, apparently, was too complex an interaction for the poor girl, because she merely blinked at them. Judging by the way her curves fit into that pantsuit of hers, he guessed that she hadn't been hired because of her mental fortitude. Before Gage could explain, Dan MacDonald appeared in his doorway. Mid-fifties and still lean, tall enough that he could have once played basketball for the school, he was dressed in tan chinos and a powder-blue polo with the Bearcat logo over the right breast. The shirt was tight enough to show the world how much time he spent at the gym, which must have been plenty considering the wide swath of his chest and the way his biceps bulged in his short sleeves. His black hair, slicked straight back, was thin enough that Gage saw bits of gleaming scalp. His nose was a bit crooked, his face blocky and rumpled, weathered by the sun and th
e scuffles of his youth.
The door behind them opened and the security guard came through, still gripping the baton, locked and loaded. MacDonald held up his hand with the swiftness of a cop stopping traffic.
"It's okay," MacDonald said, "I'll see them."
He could have pricked the guard with a balloon, the way the kid deflated. MacDonald gestured to his office, and Gage and Karen stepped through the doorway. Walking by him, Gage got a whiff of the man's cologne, like a tropical breeze with a hint of mango.
The room was small but meticulously decorated—an oak desk, oak paneling, lots of pictures on the walls, a few ferns strategically arranged. The whole back was a window to the forest. The pictures, in oak frames that matched the desk, all showed MacDonald in various exotic locales, in front of pyramids and mountain ranges, castles and canyons. MacDonald crossed behind his desk, and Gage and Karen stood behind the two chairs, but none of them sat. The laptop on his desk purred like a cat. They shook hands and made introductions. MacDonald had big hands and a grip that matched them.
"The great detective at last," he said.
"Excuse me?" Gage said.
"I've read all about you—kind of been a fan since you found that girl on the beach a couple years ago."
"Abby Heddle," Gage said.
"Right. Very impressive, the way you found the killers. Really shook up the town."
"Yeah."
"And the woman last year, your friend. That was a tough business too."
"Uh-huh."
MacDonald shook his head, glancing down at his laptop. "And now this. I was just reading the Oregonian. Our little town keeps getting in the news for all the wrong reasons. And you're always in the middle of it."
"Believe me," Gage said, "it's not my intention."
"Oh, I know. You came here to retire, didn't you?"
"No, I came here to quit. I'm too young to retire."
MacDonald closed his laptop and ran a hand through his hair. There was enough product in it that the gesture hardly made a dent. "Maybe it's time to quit somewhere else."
"I'm sorry?"
"Maybe you should pick another town. One that fits you better."
"Wow. Thank you for that unsolicited travel advice."
"It's not me," MacDonald said. "Like I said, I'm a fan."
"Like you said."
"But your name gets mentioned a lot. Some of the parents weren't all that comfortable with Zoe in the dorm. People were concerned."
"Oh, they were, were they?"
"Please," MacDonald said, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness, "this isn't personal."
"Sounds pretty personal to me."
"I'm just trying to give you a sense of the mood. Around this campus and this town. When you start poking around, well, people are just expecting things to go from bad to worse."
"I see."
"And when you bring an FBI agent along for the ride, it doesn't help." He nodded to Karen. "No offense."
"I'm not on duty," Karen said.
"Doesn't matter. People just see dark clouds and expect rain."
"They should bring umbrellas," Gage said.
"What? Oh, a joke. Right."
"Apparently not, based on your reaction. Listen, Dan—can I call you Dan? Or do you prefer Danny? Right now I'm just concerned with Berry Fleicher. She wants to retrieve the boy's drawing pad from his room. How can we make that happen?"
MacDonald nodded solemnly. "A drawing pad?"
"That's right."
"Why does she want it?"
"It has sentimental value."
"I see."
He clasped his hands and rested his chin upon the point of his fingers, appraising Gage and Karen the way he must have looked at a flunking undergrad. Gage imagined that most students would have melted right there, admitting that their excuses were unjustified, begging for forgiveness and departing meekly. Outside, from the reception area, came the clicking of a keyboard and the squeak of a swivel chair.
"Well," MacDonald said, as if that word and the wide, what-can-I-do sweep of hands that accompanied it were all the answer they needed.
"You're saying no?" Gage said.
"I'm saying it's out of my hands. Nobody goes in and out of that building except the police."
"And apparently campus security."
"Well, yes, of course them. Though not inside the room."
"So that's really a no?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Is there a forensics expert in there now?"
"I have no idea. It's not my concern."
"But it is your concern that no one else go inside."
"Yes."
Now it was Gage's turn to play the part of the thoughtful administrator, nodding and rubbing his chin. "So here's a hypothetical. What do you think one of the Portland TV stations would think if they found out that you wouldn't give the victim's mother a drawing pad filled with doodles of spaceships? What do you think they would say when they found out that the victim used to give these doodles to his mother as tokens of his affection?"
MacDonald was impressively restrained in how much of his reaction he allowed to slip through his defenses—only the slightest, barest hint of a smile, the tiniest upturn at the corners of his mouth, all lips and no teeth. This was a cobra's smile. The only thing lacking was the flick of a forked tongue.
"That," MacDonald began, drawing out the word in the most measured fashion, "would not be in the school's best interest."
"No," Gage said, "I imagine not. Karen, what do you think? Do you think news like that would put BBCC in a positive light?"
"I don't think that would help enrollment," she said.
"No, not at all," Gage said.
"Might hurt the bottom line."
"Yep."
"All right, all right," MacDonald said, "you made your point." He still offered them his best stoic face, but he slumped into his chair. Unable to look down on them from on high, he seemed so much less intimidating, the big desk overwhelming him. He reached for his phone. "I'll have to get permission, of course."
"Of course," Gage said.
"There's no guarantees."
"Well," Gage said, "I'm pretty confident that you can convince Chief Quinn if you use the same scintillating logic I did. I do have a couple questions first, though."
MacDonald put the phone back in its cradle. "Oh? The fun continues?"
"I want to know if you can tell me anything about these two boys that might be helpful."
"I've already told the police everything I know. Which unfortunately isn't all that much."
"Yes, but see, I'm not the police."
"Believe me," MacDonald said, "you've made that abundantly clear."
"Were they both good students? Were there any complaints about them? Anything unusual?"
MacDonald sighed. "Mr. Gage, I really am a fan. I meant what I said. But you've got to understand my position. My hands are tied. You can threaten me with the press again, but it won't make a difference. I have been instructed to only divulge information to the police on these matters."
"You mean you've been specifically instructed not to cooperate with me."
"It comes out that way, yes."
"By whom?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss."
"You know," Gage said, "I'm really just trying to help here."
"I know you see it that way."
"And I suppose the same would go for other people on this campus? I'll find a lot of doors closing in my face?"
"I imagine so."
"So much for being a fan—"
"Mr. Gage—"
"All right. Well, at least we know where we stand." Gage looked at Karen. "You ready? Or are there questions you'd like to ask and not get the answers to?"
"Lots," Karen said, "but I'll keep them to myself for now."
"Probably for the best," Gage said. "I do have one more question, though. Who took the pictures?"
It took MacDonald a moment to realize that the ques
tion was directed at him. "What?"
Gage pointed at the walls. "Somebody had to take them. Who was with you? The same girlfriend, or a different one each time?"
"Oh. Various friends."
"Friends."
"Sure. I like to travel. I invited different companions to come with me."
"And yet you never put their pictures on the wall. Only yours."
For the first time, MacDonald showed signs of being flustered, a bit of pink in his face, a bit of a stutter in his voice. "I have pictures of my friends at home. My office is more of a public space, so I take more precautions."
"They're all of legal age, right?" Gage said.
"Excuse me?"
"The girls?"
MacDonald stared at Gage a few beats, then shook his head slightly. "I think it's time for you to go, sir."
"Do you think their parents would approve?"
MacDonald reached for his phone, and when he spoke, his voice was clipped and icy. "Should I call campus security?"
"Sure, I could use the protection. This is a rough neighborhood."
He left abruptly. MacDonald called after them, insisting there was no guarantee he could get approval from the police immediately, but Gage and Karen were down the hall before MacDonald finished his sentence. As they passed, the girl at the reception desk kept her gaze fixed on her computer monitor, like a student nervous that her hands were going to get slapped by the teacher's ruler.
While they'd been inside, the sun had climbed higher, shining down from far overhead. Steam rose off the grass, the warmth of the rays giving the tan and brick buildings more color and vibrancy. If not for the total lack of students, it would have been a good time for a promotional photo. In their absence, two more police cars had parked out front, one a standard cruiser, the other an unmarked black Crown Victoria. Gage was pretty sure who drove the unmarked one. The gray-haired supervisor emerged from the dorm, and sure enough, who should join him but two of his favorite people in the world.
"Trenton and Brisbane," Gage said. He pointed his cane at them, an innocent gesture, and all three of them flinched. "Tell me where I can buy one of those trench coats. They really are dashing."
The two detectives, grim-faced as always, only shook their heads. Standing side by side, rather than sitting as they had been back at the station, they came off even more as an odd couple: Trenton tall, pale, and lanky, with short but thick red hair; Brisbane short, weathered, and frumpy, with only a few strands of gray hair as reminders of what had once been. The knee-length trench coats were all that tied them together—except, of course, for the sour way they regarded Gage. Trenton, giving Gage his best Irish glare, thrust a spiral drawing pad at him.
The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series) Page 9
