Ghost Wanted (26 page)

Through the open door I heard her moving about. I stepped into the loft room and appraised her.

She adjusted a navy silk scarf at the throat of a heather gray blouse. I saw her in the mirror, short straight gold hair framing a finely sculpted face, smooth forehead, straight nose, lips perhaps a trifle thin, sharp chin, flawless complexion, clear eyes of a deep sea blue. I thought of Marlene Dietrich in
Witness for the Prosecution
. Neither the actress nor the film would likely be meaningful to Michelle or Joe, but I felt a chill. The same calculating intelligence. The same deceptive appearance of ordinary humanity. The same arrogant confidence.

Eleanor applied a stroke of blush to both cheeks, raised one perfectly darkened eyebrow, nodded in satisfaction. She returned the brush to a makeup tray, closed the lid. She rose, brushed a piece of lint from flared-leg navy trousers. Navy alligator flats appeared new.

She was unhurried as she walked down the steps. She didn't glance toward the desk. Had she looked, a flash drive lay innocently in the third compartment. She would not know it was a substitute. She picked up a large leather shoulder bag from a window seat, strolled to the front door.

Outside she closed the door firmly, moved lithely down the steps and across a short patch of lawn to the graveled drive. The shiny silver BMW coupe had been recently washed. She swung into the driver's seat, dropped the bag on the other seat.

I squeezed in beside the bag, moved it just enough to be comfortable.

She turned on the CD player, lowered the driver's window. The car purred, a beautiful machine in top condition. As she drove, she smiled contentedly as she listened to Dave Brubeck's “I'm in a Dancing Mood
.
”
The breeze stirred her short blonde hair. An attractive woman in an expensive car on her way to an excellent job. I studied her face and felt a wrenching misgiving. I knew she was guilty, knew she had connived and brought misery, including death, and yet there was no hint of cruelty and greed in her smooth features, nothing in her demeanor to betray her. The phone call yesterday had informed her there would be a police search of the offices this morning, but she was en route with an aura of invincibility.

We were nearing the campus on a tree-lined boulevard. She appeared in no hurry. Her expression was untroubled as she made two right turns. As she drove past Goddard Library, her gaze checked for an instant on the police crime van parked in front.

I knew Chief Cobb had dispatched the unit for intense scrutiny of what was now a murder scene

Did she know Ben Douglas had died? Possibly she'd heard on the news, but that didn't concern her. She could feel confident he had not seen her clearly enough to offer any identification. Not only had she moved fast in her all-black costume, the shots had caught him by surprise and he likely had only a confused glimpse of his attacker. Eleanor abruptly smiled a cold, satisfied smile. She didn't think of the library as the place where she had shot a man to escape. She saw it as a monument to her cleverness, all the incidents leading up to the theft of the rare book to implicate Michelle Hoyt.

Two more blocks and the Administration Building was directly ahead. Two police cars and an unmarked cruiser were parked in front. She glanced at her watch. A few minutes before nine. But the early arrival of the police caused her no alarm.

She parked in the slot marked
Dean of Students
. As she turned off the motor, a blue Lincoln slid into the next slot, marked
Provost
. Eleanor was unhurried, gathering up her purse, strolling to the sidewalk, then turning to wait for the other driver.

Tall, thin, and lanky with short white hair and a thin white mustache, he joined her on the sidewalk. “Good morning, Eleanor. How are you?”

She touched the scarf at her throat. “Couldn't be better. And you, Reggie?” Her voice was clear, relaxed, good humored.

“Excellent, excellent.” He clapped well-manicured hands together. “Looks hopeful about our rank in the next college ratings. I don't mind saying I put in a good effort there. The regents should be well pleased.” The clear implication was that his good offices had made a substantial difference. Then his narrow chiseled face drooped. “But”—he leaned forward, his voice confidential—“I may have to put out some fires if what I hear is true.”

They were at the steep steps to the back entrance. Eleanor looked at him inquiringly. “What have you heard?”

“That dreadful crime.”

“Crime?”

“The night watchman at the library. Campus Security called me. Well, awful to have a crime on campus, and I understand the fellow was a good chap. Hard for the family, but”—he spread slender fingers in dismay—“ghastly if it involves anyone on campus. They said in the next breath there was a search on for a student. Hoyt, I think that was the name. Can't imagine the circumstances. Why would a student shoot a night watchman? Have to wonder if it was—”

They were at the top of the stairs now and he held the door for Eleanor.

“—a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Such a shame,” she murmured.

His face drew down in a petulant frown. “If all my good work goes for nothing . . .” He gave a vexed sigh.

I thought about Ben Douglas and priorities.

He continued his complaint as they curved around the back of the stairs, started up old worn treads. At the top of the stairs, Reggie smoothed his mustache. “No point in borrowing trouble, but it does seem hard to have some scandal drag us down when we're set to go up five spots.”

“I'm sure everything will work out.” Her tone was soothing. As he turned to his left, Eleanor strolled toward the end of the hall and into the Dean of Students Office.

Her stride didn't check as she walked into the space fronting the counter even though Detectives Smith and Weitz stood waiting. Smith was long and lean in a blue blazer and gray slacks. Weitz—if only I could take her under my fashion wing—looked dumpy in a tight red jacket and tan slacks. Her poofy brownish blond hair would have looked inviting to starlings seeking a nest.

It was rather like seeing a still shot from an action scene. At one desk, a woman with an intense expression clutched a cell phone in a heavily veined hand and watched the officers with unblinking intensity. At the other, a white-haired woman with a high forehead, strong jaw, and blunt chin held a coffee mug halfway to her mouth. The twenty-something receptionist moved from foot to foot, obviously excited at the prospect of a police procedural show unfolding in real time. A skinny student in a pink top and red leggings pretended to sort incoming mail but her eyes jerked toward the police every few seconds. The other student worker stroked a barely discernible mustache, uneasy and tense.

Detective Weitz, her face bland and unrevealing, stepped forward. “Dean Sheridan? I have a warrant here for a search of your office.”

Smith stood to one side, his expression pleasant. He softly jangled coins in one pocket. He held a video camera under the other arm.

Sam Cobb was a foot behind Weitz. He was as big and burly as always. He'd found time to go home, change into his familiar brown suit. As usual it was wrinkled and a little tight across his chest.

Eleanor took the sheet of paper, glanced down. “It seems in order.” She lifted her eyes, her face pleasant. “The college always hopes to be helpful to the authorities, though I'm puzzled at the cause for this. However, please feel free to look wherever you wish.” Her tone was utterly relaxed.

Jeanne Bracewell came through her office door, a tight frown on her face. “Eleanor, glad you're here. I told them there has to be a mistake. They said they're looking for evidence of blackmail. And a murder weapon.”

Eleanor's cool blue eyes sharpened. She looked toward Weitz, who was plunging the fingers of one hand into a plastic glove, drawing it tight, then doing the same with the other hand. For an instant, uneasiness glimmered in Eleanor's gaze. Her lips parted. Was she going to ask about a murder weapon? The call yesterday had said nothing about a weapon. She apparently decided not to speak, but her face looked sharper, more intent.

Sam Cobb took a step forward. “We appreciate your cooperation, Dean. I'm Sam Cobb, chief of Adelaide police.” His face was genial. He gestured toward the nameplate to his right. “We'll start in your office.”

Eleanor frowned. “Why my office?”

His heavy face was stolid, almost bovine. “Information received.”

Eleanor flicked a glance toward her door, and it was almost as if she reminded herself that she had no reason to worry. The flash drive was far from here. She gave a dismissive shrug, “Of course. Search where you please.”

He moved his big head toward the door, but his eyes never left her face. “You'll come with us.” It was a statement, not a request.

Her thin lips quirked in a cool smile. “You want me to be present?” Her tone was amused.

“Protocol.”

Eleanor again shrugged. She walked to her office door, used her key. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Sam was right behind her, almost a little too close. Smith and Weitz followed. Smith held the video camera in his hands.

Eleanor walked past her massive desk and dropped onto a brown leather sofa, glanced at her watch. “Perhaps you can expedite this. I have an important meeting at nine thirty.”

Sam nodded. “We'll do our best. Detective Weitz will conduct the search. Detective Smith will film the investigation.” Sam gestured at Smith and Weitz.

The office was perhaps twenty feet deep and thirty feet in length. Above paneled wainscoting behind the desk, two upper bookshelves held an assortment of history books, primarily of the Old West, and a collection of what might be original publications of Louis L'Amour titles. The lower bookshelf was filled with an assortment of antique American millefiori paperweights, each an object of beauty.

Eleanor leaned back against the cushion, watched with a half smile. Heavy purplish red drapes framed the two windows in the wall behind the couch.

Smith stationed himself in the center of the room opposite the desk. He lifted the video camera, filmed Weitz as she stepped behind the desk, her face intent. She moved the chair aside and pulled out the top left drawer. She took her time, lifting out files, checking them. There was an air of certainty in her movements, as if she had a clear idea of what she sought.

Sam stood to the right of the door with his back to the wall. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of Eleanor on the leather couch, Smith facing the desk, and Weitz methodically thumbing through the contents of each drawer. She finished the top drawer, began on the lower left.

Eleanor ignored Chief Cobb and the detectives. She appeared comfortable on the couch, hands loose in her lap, legs crossed, purse on the cushion beside her.

Officer Weitz reached for the center drawer.

Eleanor looked amused. “I keep a very tidy desk. You said you were looking for blackmail material. I'd be interested to know what blackmail material consists of. I believe I have a student directory and—oh, yes—some throat lozenges. I had a little trouble with allergies—”

Weitz stood stiff and still, looking down into the drawer. “Chief.” Weitz's tone was steely. “Looks like the tip was right.”

Eleanor broke off. Her face was abruptly empty, her eyes alert.

Sam walked toward the desk, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. The lens of the video camera followed him.

Using the tips of her gloved fingers, Weitz lifted out a small wrinkled manila envelope, held it out for him to see.

Cobb craned his head. “The envelope was once sealed with packaging tape. It has been torn open, then crumpled.”

Eleanor must have felt as if she were caught in a nightmare. She recognized that envelope. She herself had ripped it open last night, dumped out the flash drive. Then she had crumpled the envelope into a ball and thrown it into a wastebasket in the secretarial area. How could it be in her desk? Who had found it? Who knew? How much did they know?

It was a testament to her control, to her iron will, that, though she was silent for too long, she finally raised one black eyebrow, inquired, “I can't quite see what you have there. But”—now her voice was stronger—“I can tell you that envelope wasn't in my desk when I left on Friday.” She took a deep breath. “If someone put the envelope in my desk, perhaps taking an envelope I'd used at some time, certainly its presence there now has nothing to do with me.”

Sam's brown eyes studied her as if she were a beetle discovered in his soup.

He jerked his head at Weitz.

The detective lifted the flap, held the envelope at an angle. A flash drive slid into Weitz's gloved palm. “A flash drive, Chief.”

Eleanor's face revealed nothing. She'd put the incriminating flash drive in her desk at home. How could it possibly have reached her office? But she couldn't claim the flash drive shouldn't be here. She could only, her mind darting and twisting, brazen her way out of what she now realized was a prearranged trap. Her fingerprints were on the flash drive, but she could claim someone had taken a drive she'd previously used, deleted files, added files of which she knew nothing. Was she flipping through images in her mind? She had to know the police would contact the people in the pictures. Would any of the students dare expose her? As for the victims, were they unaware of the identity of their blackmailer? Perhaps she was nothing more than a voice on a telephone, describing in detail compromising photos. She was a clever woman. Had she arranged for money to be dropped at certain sites and always been sure she was unobserved when she arrived to retrieve the payments? The police would make every effort to try and unearth undisclosed sums not accounted for by her income. But the chicanery possible with figures is truly remarkable.

Eleanor managed to affect a puzzled, but pleasant expression. Her blonde hair shone in the light from the window behind her. Her posture was that of a woman at ease on a sumptuously comfortable leather sofa. The only indication of stress was the finger that flicked against a silver bracelet on her left wrist, turning it, turning it.