Grey Zone (10 page)

She started to talk, but he was already walking. Although portly, his pants tight around his waist and hips, he moved fast, and Dulcie struggled to keep up. At the end of a long hall, he opened a door. Dulcie looked in and saw a battered table and four chairs. There was no window, and the harsh lighting made the room look a little like a cell. Maybe her initial fantasy hadn't been that far off. Ogre or man? She hesitated as he held the door for her. The detective waved her in with the folder, his voice still soft. ‘Miss?'

She went in and watched as he put a leatherette folder on the table and then took a seat. With a slight shudder of trepidation, she sat in the chair opposite.

‘So, you think you saw something?' Now that they were away from the bustle of the reception area, she heard the Boston accent in his voice, a brassiness that accented the first verb so strongly that Dulcie knew he doubted her.

‘Well, I'm not sure. I've been doing research into another disappearance, and my boyfriend tells me I've got murder on my mind.' She was going on, she knew it. The cop – and this room – had flustered her. She should never have allowed herself that fantasy.

‘Murder? You have something to tell me? There's been another disappearance?'

‘No, no, nothing new.' He was looking at her, waiting. ‘I mean, the disappearance that I was studying happened about two hundred years ago. If it happened at all.'

‘All right, then.' The detective slid back his chair as if he were going to get up.

‘But, no, I do have something current. I saw Carrie Mines. I saw a fight.' That got his attention. ‘I mean, I think what I saw was a fight. An argument, really.'

‘You saw the missing woman fighting with someone?'

She nodded.

‘All right, let's start at the beginning.'

And so she did, explaining her distracted state as she left Widener and her initial reluctance to interrupt what she'd first thought was a romantic interlude. Only when the portly detective waved his hand did she realize that, once again, she was embellishing a story.

‘It was probably around four, maybe a little later. It was getting dark.' She mentally kicked herself. Specifics were key. She was a scholar; she knew that. She should stick with what she knew for a fact. ‘I didn't get a long or a close look at her, but I am pretty sure Carrie was who I saw.' On point at last, she ran through what she had seen the night before. ‘And she yelled something. “No” or “I won't do it,” or something. And she shoved him off her and ran away.'

‘And you didn't get a look at the man?'

‘No.' She shook her head, and another thought hit her. ‘But this was just Monday, late afternoon. I didn't even know she was missing till Tuesday, till yesterday. And, well, this morning I found out she's fine.'

‘Oh?' From the look he gave her, Dulcie realized she should have started with her latest news.

‘Yes, well, I think she is.' Quickly, Dulcie explained about emailing the student. ‘And her response said she was fine, but that she was having “boyfriend trouble.”' She paused. ‘So, well, I guess maybe that was her boyfriend I saw her with. And maybe it's nothing serious. But, well, have you tried to email her?'

He ignored her question. ‘You've been in contact with a missing student, and you didn't think to let us know until now? You wouldn't happen to have that email with you, would you?'

A bit taken aback, Dulcie pulled her laptop from her bag. She hadn't thought of showing it to the police, but then, she hadn't thought she'd have to defend her actions either. While the computer started up, she kept talking. ‘I only just saw that she'd gotten back to me this morning.' The program opened, and she clicked over to email. Detective Rogovoy didn't have to see her latest collection of cat picture screen-savers. ‘Here.' She turned the laptop toward the burly man. He reached for the keyboard, and she winced. That got her a look, and she bit her lip until he stopped typing and reached for a pen and pad instead.

‘Isn't this good news?' she asked. ‘I mean, she must have had a fight with her boyfriend and taken off. That's what you're concerned about, right?'

‘Not necessarily, Ms Schwartz.' The detective leaned forward again and tapped a few more keys. ‘For example, did you notice the date of this response? It's from yesterday. Less than an hour after your initial email.' More key strokes. ‘But she's not on the university grid, that's for sure.'

‘She's probably over at a friend's house or something.'

He looked up. ‘Look, Ms Schwartz, since you do seem to be in touch with her – or with someone using her log on – why don't you help us out here? Why don't you type her another message, asking her to get in touch with me, at this number?' He wrote down ten digits in a blocky hand.

Dulcie looked at the number and at her laptop, which Rogovoy had turned back to her. ‘Tell her to call the police?'

‘Tell her we want to talk with her. That's all.'

‘But she's OK, and—' Dulcie wasn't sure what she'd been about to say. That she wasn't a stool pigeon. That she didn't work for the police. But one look from the hefty detective stopped her.

‘Your friend was “OK” yesterday, Ms Schwartz, but now it is today. Please, you have to take me serious here. I'm not at liberty to discuss the circumstances around Ms Mines' disappearance. Let's just say that we are concerned. But the policy with missing adults, and Ms Mines is of legal age, is that we do not investigate unless a family member files a report, which they haven't, or we have reason to believe she is at risk.'

‘At risk, like, she might hurt herself?' Dulcie thought of that little smiley face, and of the failings of email.

He nodded.

‘But if you thought she'd been . . .' She paused.
Boyfriend trouble
? ‘Hurt, or something, then the city police would be involved, too. Right?' Dulcie scanned his face, looking for clues.

‘Look, Ms Schwartz.' He leaned in, and she did, too, hoping for a confidence. ‘Your name was familiar, so I did some asking around. I know you're a smart girl, and I heard about what happened last summer with your room-mate . . .'

She caught herself nodding and stopped, waiting. She really didn't want to get into those horrible memories. Never again would she rush into a summer sublet.

‘So, what part of “I'm not at liberty to discuss the circumstances” don't you understand?' He sat back, and Dulcie made the effort to close her mouth. The heat in her face let her know that she was blushing again, with a vengeance. Her initial impression was correct: the man was an ogre.

But once again, his voice turned soft. ‘Miss, I'm sorry, but this really is confidential. And we'd really appreciate you doing us this favor.'

She nodded, appalled at the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes.

‘Look, it's OK. I mean, it's probably nothing.' He had dropped his voice. ‘This isn't even about her any more, OK?' She nodded. ‘There's been another incident, and we just have some questions for her. And even that might not be anything more than what it seems. An accident, maybe. Or a suicide.'

Dulcie swallowed, the tears gone. ‘I know about—' She couldn't bring herself to say ‘incident.' Such a cold little word. ‘About what happened at the Poche Building. I was there. There, too.'

That got the officer's attention. ‘You weren't by chance with the recently deceased?'

She shook her head, hoping to shake loose the image. ‘No, no. Not at all.' She paused and remembered the guard. Her ID. ‘I was in the lobby, looking for one of my students, when, well . . .'

‘Did you give a statement to the officer on the scene?'

‘No,' she told the floor. ‘I needed to leave.' He had to understand, didn't he? After a moment of silence, she looked up. He was still staring at her, his face unreadable. ‘But, I'm here now.' She heard the quaver in her voice. ‘And I'll do what I can.'

‘Thank you, Ms Schwartz. If we can find this girl, she's – well, let's just say we need to talk to her.' He waited, and with a nod, Dulcie reached for the laptop.

Glad 2 hear it!
That sounded casual, didn't it?
But folks are worried. Call?
She typed in the number, took a deep breath, and hit send.

When she looked up, Detective Rogovoy was nodding. He was also holding an oversized Manila envelope. Dulcie could have sworn that hadn't been on the desk a minute before. ‘Thank you very much, Ms Schwartz. And one more thing.' He pulled a white sheet out of the envelope. ‘That man with the girl? The one you didn't see?'

He leaned in as he slid the sheet toward her on the table. It was slick and shiny. ‘It wouldn't be this guy, maybe, would it?'

He flipped the sheet over to reveal a glossy photo. A man's face, close up. Dimitri.

THIRTEEN

‘
I
don't know if he was actually an ogre, Dulcie, but I'd say your initial instincts were right on. You were played.' Dulcie had called Suze as soon as she'd left the police station. What her friend was saying did not make her feel any better. ‘That cop sounds awfully good at his job.'

‘But Suze, I was trying to help. I mean, I told him about the email. So we know she's alive. And maybe what I saw did mean something. You were the one who said I should go down there.' She looked around. The tall red-haired stranger was nowhere to be seen, and Dulcie realized she was a little disappointed. She could have used a knight.

‘No, that was the right thing to do. I should've gone with you, though.' Suze was at work, and Dulcie could hear a baby crying in the background. ‘I'm not at all sure about him asking you to email that poor girl. The legalities of that are iffy.'

‘You've got your hands full, Suze. I thought I could handle it. But, Suze? The officer said something about Carrie that really worried me. I mean, he said they want her for questioning. But I think she's in trouble, like somebody is after her. You don't think it's Dimitri, do you?'

‘Hang on.' The line went dead.

‘Suze?'

Her friend came back, talking fast. ‘I wouldn't worry about Dimitri, Dulce. I mean, you recognized him, but you didn't see him with that girl. You didn't see them fighting. Maybe there's some connection. She did say “boyfriend trouble,” right? But maybe they're asking about him for something entirely different.'

That thought didn't make Dulcie feel any better. She knew she had blanched at the sight of Dimitri's pale and smiling face. After that, she'd had to identify her colleague, and even though she swore up and down that she didn't think he'd been the one in the passageway, she didn't know if Rogovoy believed her.

Meanwhile, Suze was still talking. ‘Maybe it's simply that they're worried about her. You know, these things can be contagious.'

‘What things? I'm sorry, Suze. I was distracted.'

‘Suicide. You know. One person does it, and the idea goes around. Especially on a college campus.'

‘
What
?' It was too late. Dulcie heard the phone clatter on to a desk and waited. She was standing outside the police headquarters, leaning into a cornice to hear. ‘Suze! What do you mean?'

‘Sorry. Crazy as usual.' Suze was back. Dulcie tried to interrupt, but her friend kept talking. ‘Hey, I'm probably not coming home tonight. Let me make some calls, see what I can find out.'

‘Wait, Suze. Suicide?' It was too late. The line was dead, and Dulcie didn't even know if her friend had heard her. Suicide was contagious, like a cold? And Carrie? No, it didn't make sense. That email had sounded so chipper, and, more to the point, the detective had said that they hadn't thought Carrie Mines was ‘at risk.' Still, she wondered as she made her way across the Yard, could you really tell someone's mood from an emoticon?

And what role, if any, did Dimitri play in all of this? Walking down the Memorial Hall steps to the tiny office she shared with Lloyd, Dulcie thought about their absent colleague. Dimitri Popolov might sound like the name of a Russian gangster, but the quiet scholar Dulcie knew was anything but. Slim, pale, and soft spoken, Dimitri looked more likely to be a victim of violence than its perpetrator. True, his area of expertise – Raymond Chandler and his ilk – was bloody. But that kind of dichotomy wasn't that uncommon. After all, she – Dulcie – considered herself an extremely rational person, a fan of detailed proofs and abstruse arguments. And here she was, studying highly emotional Gothic fiction.

‘
And talking to ghosts.
'

Dulcie started. ‘Mr Grey?' The basement room was always dim, but today less light than usual came from the high-set window.

‘
Yes, kitten?
' A swirl of dust, a slight movement in the shadows, drew her eye, and Dulcie realized she was holding her breath. Recently, it had seemed that her late cat had manifested only in the apartment, and even then, only to instruct Esmé. It wasn't that she was jealous of her own kitten, or not exactly. But if she was going to have a conversation, she wanted to make sure of whom she was talking with.

‘That is you, isn't it?' She couldn't help the peevish note creeping into her voice, even as she reached toward the corner with the darkest shadow. ‘It's been so long. And, well, you never come to the office any more.'

‘
Dulcie!
' She wasn't the only one who could sound annoyed. And if there was any question of who the shadowy presence was, a sharp scrape – like a slap with unsheathed claws – caused her to pull back her hand.

‘Sorry.' She slumped into her desk chair, head in hands. ‘It's just been horrible, Mr Grey. Professor Herschoft. The police. The missing student.' She didn't know how much he knew, but as a living cat, he'd always been able to pick up on her moods. Surely, he would now. She waited, but when the only response was a little chirp – part purr, part inquisitive – she went on: ‘I thought everything was going to be fine, but now, I don't know. Suze was telling me about how the idea of suicide can spread, and, well, maybe that's happening here.'