“I’d rather see him in his home environment and surprise him.”
Ms. Knowles surveyed him over her reading glasses. “Now why would you want to do that?”
“I have something I’d like to return to him in private.”
“If you insist.” The registrar’s multi-ringed fingers flurried across the keyboard. “4312 Arlington Court. It’s close to the campus.”
Rex retrieved the SUV and, following her directions, entered a respectable neighborhood with freshly mown lawns and shiny cars in the driveways. At #4312 he saw a BMW parked in the garage next to a red Chevy pick-up. The contents of the mailbox confirmed what he already suspected. He rang the bell expectantly. Someone must be home since the garage was wide open.
A yapping bark ripped through the house. When the front door opened, a rat-like creature confronted him from the arms of a lacquered redhead not quite old enough to be Klepto’s mother.
“Luella Shaw?”
The woman whipped the cigarette from her lips, releasing a stream of smoke, and peered at him, the sides of her heavily made-up eyes creasing into crow’s feet. “Is this about my ex?” she asked suspiciously. A meanness about the mouth hinted that life had not always been a bed of roses and she begrudged every thorn.
“Not as far as I know. Does Ty Clapham live here?”
“Ty-ler!” she screeched, turning toward the interior of the house. Her high-heel mules clicked across the tiled hall, revealing toned legs beneath a short flannel beach wrap.
Klepto appeared in a pair of board shorts, eyes popping out of his head. Rex was pleased to see he had caught the boy at a disadvantage, as planned.
“Don’t let all the cold air out the front door,” Luella shrilled.
“You’d better come in,” Klepto said, glancing up and down the street.
Rex did so.
“Uh, follow me.” Klepto led him through the house past a home office containing a treadmill and a master bedroom with an unmade king-size bed. He gestured to a patio table in the lanai where a pair of plastic rafts floated in a kidney-shaped pool.
Rex took a seat, enjoying Klepto’s red-faced confusion, each waiting for the other to speak. Gossip magazines covered the glass-top table, along with an overflowing ashtray and numerous pots of glittery nail polish. Removing from his pocket the gray button Klepto had given him the day before at the memorial service, he stuck it in the student’s face. “I saw R.J. today,” he announced.
“Yeah?”
“He sends his best.”
Klepto smirked. “Sure he does.”
“I don’t know why you thought I’d buy the story about the button. But I think your main objective was to alert me to the fact that your friend Dixon didn’t kill himself, and for some reason you didn’t want to go to the police with your theory.”
“The cops are morons.”
“Well, they certainly got the wrong man in the drug bust.”
“How do you know for sure that’s not R.J.’s button?”
“He no longer has his hoodie. Hasn’t had it for months. But I know who does.”
Klepto gazed at him, his mouth slightly open, apparently hesitant to say anything and put his foot in it.
“And I don’t think he would have rushed out to buy a new one just like it, especially if he intended to visit campus, where security would associate him with the gray-hooded man in the video. If he had intended to go and kill Dixon Clark, I think he would have tried to disguise himself a bit better. So what’s the real story behind the button?”
“I found it in Dix’s room like I said. I don’t know whose it is. It’s definitely not Dix’s.”
“What is your grouse with R.J. Wylie? Is it because he was popular? Had success with the women?”
At that moment Luella slid open the glass door carrying a tray with a jug and two glasses. “I brought y’all some ice tea.”
Rex swept aside the magazines to make room. “Most kind. Thank you.”
As she bent down to deposit the tray, her wrap fell open revealing a lacy black bra encasing a pair of stretched breasts. Rex pretended not to notice. Her hand, which still held a cigarette, swept to her chest, spilling ash in the jug.
“Okay, Lou. You can go now,” Klepto said tightly.
She flounced off, retying her wrap, the hem swirling in the air. She did have a fine pair of legs.
“Not your mother, then?” Rex inquired, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t. “She said something about an ex. Did she revert to her maiden name or is Shaw her husband’s name?” He poured himself some ice tea, careful not to let any ash tip into his glass. “First or second husband?”
“Second.” Klepto spoke in a constrained voice.
Gone were the swagger and insolent repartee of the previous day. Rex knew he was getting to him. “It’s an amazing coincidence that StudentSpace.com is registered to Luella.” He took a sip of the instant tea that tasted of saccharine and artificial lemon.
“So, you found out I run the site. Congratulations.”
“Anyone could have if they’d tried.” Rex was not going to implicate his son in the discovery. “The university could not have tried hard enough. Unless, of course, they knew who was behind the site and didn’t want to lose one of their scholarship students.”
“The dean asked me to tone it down, but these things take on a life of their own.”
“It must give you an immense sense of power to control something that has so much influence on people’s lives. Why didn’t you delete the ditty about your friend?”
“That would be censorship. I do moderate the forums to some extent, but it’s a full-time job to read every post and ban people and monitor all that crap.”
“That would make your site less popular too, wouldn’t it? People crave conflict and confrontation, and your advertisers reward you for the number of hits to your site. Entrepreneurs like you don’t give a hoot about the Bill of Rights; you just try to exploit them for all they’re worth.” Rex found himself becoming as riled as he ever allowed himself to get.
Klepto grabbed the jug and spilt some tea on the table while pouring a glass.
“You’re clearly an intelligent young man,” Rex said, relenting. “Why not put your talents to better use? Honest work allows you to sleep better at night.” Rex hoped he wasn’t coming across as too sanctimonious, but he really wanted to get through to the boy. He genuinely deplored seeing a good brain go to waste.
“I sleep fine at night. So, why are you so concerned about my welfare?”
“Because, even though you’re not directly responsible for your friend’s death, I can’t help thinking you’re in it for something. I know it was you on the video, not R.J.”
“Yeah? Prove it.”
“You’re the right height for one thing, and when I saw you at the memorial service with your hands in the pockets of that leather jacket, I had a flashback to the video, which I’d just viewed. It was in the body language.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What’s done is done. We can’t put back the clock and spare R.J. all the aggravation he went through on your account, but you can help make things right.”
“How?”
“You can tell me who posted that poem about Dixon and his stash.”
“It’s not that easy to track.”
“You can do better than that. I could take that button to the police, tell them you were withholding evidence in a homicide, reveal it was you on video selling coke, even get enough students to file a complaint about how you stole stuff from them. Then I could go to the papers with the story. Local TV vans and reporters would camp in Luella’s front yard. How long do you think it would be until she kicked you out? You have it pretty good here. Free use of the BMW, the pool—”
“Okay, look, I think I know who wrote the poem,” Klepto cut in. “I listed a chemistry textbook on eBay, but then I noticed that drafts of a poem had been scribbled all over it.”
“Do you still have it?”
> “Yeah, I couldn’t sell it in that state for a decent price. I’ll get it for you.”
Klepto returned a few minutes later with a hardcover textbook. On the fly leaf was scrawled the name of one Andy Palmer. Inside, written in tiny script in the margin were versions of the Nantucket ditty. Rex imagined him composing it while sitting bored at some lecture.
“Why did Dixon set R.J. up?” he asked.
“I persuaded him that it was R.J. in the video. He genuinely thought it was until it came out in court about the dealer being under six foot. R.J. is a lot taller. Dix figured out it was me, but by then it was too late. R.J. was acquitted anyway, so we thought that would be the end of it.”
“Someone wouldn’t let it go. They were out for blood.” Rex got up, clutching the textbook under his arm. “Thanks for your cooperation. And, Ty? Watch out for those psychopathic tendencies. I hope you learn how to analyze yourself out of them.” He paused as he reached the sliding glass doors to the house. “You were bright enough to figure out that Dixon didn’t kill himself. Nobody else did.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Whatever it takes.”
Resolutely, Rex saw himself out.
When Rex arrived back at the motel, he checked the room phone to see if Helen had called, and was disappointed to see that she had not. He then went for a swim. Performing his fifty laps gave him a chance to review where he was with the case and to rid himself of some of his agitation over the injustice of it all. Klepto and Bethany Johnson were going about their lives as usual, while R.J. was involved in risky construction work with little prospect of ever going back to college. Dixon’s murderer had also gone scot-free. Rex was determined to rectify this one perversion of justice.
First he needed to check all the facts so that he would be in a strong position to elicit a confession. This had to be achieved with all speed and efficiency, since tomorrow was his last day to wrap everything up.
Toward 4:00 he headed back to the university and swung by the office of Student Affairs to get the address he needed. As he was leaving, he met Campbell returning from the marine science lab, a plastic bag in his hand.
“This is for you,” he told his dad. “Compliments of Ms. Johnson. It’s R.J.’s hoodie.”
“You peeked?”
“His initials are scrawled on the label. What was she doing with it?”
Ignoring the question, Rex compared the button Klepto had given him to the gray material, just to be sure. It was not a match.
“Want to grab a coffee?” Campbell asked.
“Why not.”
“Strange that R.J. is still hanging around Jax,” his son remarked. “He could’ve gone to another college.”
“His dad depleted his savings on hiring a lawyer. There’s nothing left. He had to take out a second mortgage on his house.”
“The college should have paid for R.J. to finish his studies after what they put him through.”
“I suppose there was enough proof that he was involved in drugs. And I don’t think the dean of students appreciated the wee prank he played on him.”
“Sucks for R.J.”
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, they gravitated toward the fountain at the center of campus and perched on the stone ledge. The sun filtered through the oak trees, dappling the cropped grass with light. A soft breeze wafted across the open space. Students in T-shirts and tank tops milled about, in no apparent hurry to be indoors on such a mellow afternoon.
“So what’s new?” Campbell asked. “Are you going to solve the case by the time we leave Saturday?”
“With any luck, but I’d prefer not to tell you about it just yet. You might inadvertently give something away, and I don’t want the culprit catching on.”
“It’s not someone I know, is it?”
“It’s someone conspicuous by their absence at the memorial service. And that’s all I’m telling you.”
Campbell sighed, knowing better than to persist in his questions.
“I can tell you that Klepto is the mastermind behind StudentSpace.com,” Rex told him.
“I know. It’s gone viral. He posted a blog saying he was being suspended as of today until he shut it down. He’s asking students to vote for or against the college’s decision. There’s talk of a riot. The consensus is that Hilliard is in violation of the First Amendment by forcing him to abort it.”
“Free speech among students is typically protected in this country, except where it disrupts educational activities or invades the rights of others.”
“Someone leaked that the Clarks were going to sue the school,” Campbell said around a mouthful of bagel. “They’re claiming the libel on SS.com pushed Dix over the edge and Hilliard did nothing to prevent it. I suppose the Clarks would have to go after the school since Klepto hasn’t got any money.”
“I don’t know if the Clarks are aware yet of who runs StudentSpace.com. And, anyway, I don’t think it’s the money they’re after; it’s the principle. They feel the university should protect the welfare of its students first and foremost. I found out from Student Affairs that Klepto was the webmaster for the school’s official site in his first year. I went to see him at his home. That’s where he runs his operation.”
“Did you see his fancy lady?”
“Luella Shaw.”
“She’s the one the website is registered to! What’s she like?”
“A wee bit trashy, to be honest. I suppose she must have done quite well out of her divorce settlement. Four-bedroom house, double garage, pool.”
At that moment, Campbell’s gaze drifted to a couple walking hand in hand on the far side of campus. “Isn’t that Mike and Kris? I wonder how long they’ve been dating.”
“They were sitting together at the memorial service.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Well, you only had eyes for Melodie.” He turned toward Campbell, determined to broach an important matter. Something had been bothering Rex since he had seen Mike at the Student Health Center. He decided to try the direct approach. “Son, I wanted to talk to you about STDs.”
Campbell stared at him in abject horror.
“I picked up a leaflet at the Health Center on campus,” Rex explained.
“What were you doing there?”
“I went to see the medical professional who prescribed Xanax to Dixon.”
“Dad, I don’t have any STDs. I don’t have indiscriminate sex and I don’t do drugs, for your information. I know you’ve been dying to ask me.”
“None at all?”
“Occasionally I hit the bong, that’s all. I get a natural high from surfing and playing guitar.”
Rex slumped with relief on the fountain ledge. “Thank you for putting my mind at ease.”
“You smoke a pipe. I never even touch cigarettes.”
“Point taken.” Campbell was very good on the offensive, which was, come to think of it, his position in soccer.
“You didn’t really think I was on drugs, did you?”
“Truth to tell, I didn’t know what to think. I was that worried.”
“Was it Grandma who put the idea in your head? She worries about everything.”
“Don’t I know it? No, I didn’t tell her about our phone conversation. She thinks I came out here on a whim.”
“I was feeling stressed. It’s been strained around here since R.J. was arrested.” Campbell regarded him with curiosity. “Didn’t you ever experiment with drugs?”
“Pot is five times stronger now than it was in my day.”
“Where did you read that?”
“At the university library.”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time there.”
“Aye. Funny how I never saw you there once.” Punching his son jovially on the shoulder, Rex got up off the fountain ledge. “See you later. I need to go find someone.”
He calculated that by 5:00 most classes would be out and Andy Palmer would be back in his dorm, but after knocking fruitle
ssly at the door for fifteen minutes, he gave up and went to try Campus Security. After much persuasion, the guard looked up Palmer’s parking permit registration and told Rex which lot he had been assigned and what vehicle he drove.
Rex looked around Parking C for a yellow Hyundai Elantra. No car fit that description. There was nothing to do but bide his time until Palmer returned. Rex desperately hoped the author of the Nantucket poem had not taken off for an early weekend. In the meantime, there was one other thing he could do.
He had found out from Campus Security the number of the detective at the Jacksonville Police Department who had arrested R.J. Wylie. Rex formed an instant dislike upon first phone contact. Beecham didn’t want to be reminded of his error, but as soon as Rex mentioned he might have a homicide case all wrapped up and ready for the detective to close, he became more attentive. Not only a homicide, Rex told him; he would provide the real culprit in the drug bust, and Beecham could explain away the confusion between two similarly dressed boys of the same age. Rex felt he was bargaining with the devil, yet he needed proof of Klepto’s involvement to completely exonerate R.J.
“Talk to my informant,” the detective grunted into the phone. “Guy by the name of Wayne Price. You’ll find him at The Shamrock this evening.”
At the appointed time, Rex found himself in a murky sports bar with big screen TVs at each corner and a green patterned carpet reeking of beer. Most of the customers were loners. He had taken the precaution of tucking a slim voice recorder in his breast pocket.
Before he was halfway to the bar, he recognized the police informant from the video. At first glance, Wayne Price could pass for thirty, but as Rex approached he saw he was closer to forty. A wariness in the eyes and a hard set about the shoulders hinted at time served in prison. As a prosecutor, Rex could tell a seasoned felon a mile off. He slid onto the stool beside Price and ordered a beer, attempting to look casual and not as though he had wandered onto a bad American cop show.
“You the guy wanted to see me ’bout the student bust?” Price asked, swinging around and surveying the room. “Make it snappy. If I pull out my cell phone, it means you gotta leave.”
Phi Beta Murder Page 13
