Grey Zone (12 page)

‘Wonderful.' Trista zipped up her own leather jacket. She might not be dressed warmly enough for this weather, but she certainly looked like she could take care of herself. ‘The way things are going, someone's going to get away with murder.'

Dulcie crossed the street, heading toward the office. Lloyd would be halfway to Mather House by now. And while she feared she was too distracted to get any of her own work done, she also knew that student papers didn't grade themselves. Head down against the wind, she realized with a shiver that she was walking through the same gate where she had witnessed the – what? The fight? The confrontation? Pausing, for a moment, she looked at the arching brick, the slate beneath her feet, hoping to see some sign of Monday night's interaction.

‘And I heard that it wasn't suicide at all.' Two women, deep in conversation, pushed by. Dulcie stepped to the side to avoid getting smacked by a navy-blue knapsack. ‘Served him right,' the other said, her voice magnified by the odd acoustics of the brick tunnel.

‘Wait, what do you mean?' Dulcie stepped toward the pair. ‘Hello?' She waved, but the two had moved on, and once out of the arching gate, their voices faded. Dulcie paused. Herschoft – they must have been talking about Herschoft. And it hit her: if another student's coat had been vandalized, then there was no way the late psych professor could have been responsible. Herschoft hadn't been the Harvard Harasser. Those girls must not have heard about the latest attack. Not that it mattered now. Dulcie felt a pang of sympathy for the poor man. Something else had driven him over the edge, but to some students, at least, he was already guilty.

That would change when word got out. Spinning on her heel, she walked back through the arch and into the bustling city sidewalk beyond. She needed to talk to Dimitri. Maybe there were amends to be made, and Dulcie was woman enough to make them. Maybe she'd end up apologizing for her suspicions. And maybe, just maybe, she'd get some answers.

Dimitri, if Dulcie recalled correctly, had a tiny studio on one of the side streets not far from the Square. Its space, or lack thereof, was made up for by its proximity to classes, libraries, and the various bars that all the grad students liked to haunt.

‘Besides,' Dulcie could remember the tall Russian whispering to her one evening, ‘this room is what you would call pretty big by Moscow standards.' She'd smiled back at the time, unsure whether the new transfer was joking or not. He'd come from London most recently, and seemed as assimilated into Western society as any of them, despite a slight discomfort with American colloquialisms. Even his slightly stilted way of speaking probably owed more to hours with Dashiell Hammett than to a real accent. A little odd, maybe, but not criminal.

Dulcie ducked down a side street, past an overpriced pen shop. It was amazing anyone could still live here in the heart of Cambridge. Dimitri was smart. He knew how to take care of himself in a strange city. He'd understand why she had identified his picture, and he'd have a good explanation for why the police were asking about him. Maybe he would even have an idea about who had made that phone call.

Buoyed by the thought, Dulcie nearly skipped the remaining block. Only when she turned on to Dimitri's street did she stop short. Partly, it was the wind, fresh off the river, smacking her in the face. And partly it was the sight of two police cruisers parked in front of the ancient brick building, which housed a used bookstore and an art gallery in its tiny front rooms – and Dimitri's apartment above.

‘What's going on?' A small crowd had gathered, but Dulcie squeezed between the parkas to where a uniformed cop was standing.

‘Miss, please, step back.' The man barely glanced back, simply held out an arm to bar her way.

‘But Dimitri's my friend—' Too late, she realized what she had said. The cop turned to look at her.

‘Miss, would you mind waiting over here, please?' He motioned toward the picture window that fronted the gallery. If she stood there, in front of two expressionist paintings of dubious quality, she'd be separated from the crowd, unable to sneak away. There was still the possibility that the two cruisers were parked here for another reason. A break-in at the gallery, perhaps, though Dulcie couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal anything she could see there. A heart attack in the bookstore was more likely. But the way the cop was staring at her was making that possibility evaporate.

‘I'll just come by later.' She waved her hand as a combination farewell and dismissal and started to back away. Clearly, the cop had been stationed here to hold back bystanders. He couldn't go after her, could he? She stepped back once, and then once more.

‘Miss!' He raised his hand and began moving toward her. Dulcie froze – and was saved by the crowd. This was Cambridge, and he was blocking one of the narrow brick sidewalks. A large woman in a camel hair coat started to walk by. ‘Wait! Ma'am?' As he turned back to stop the woman – she seemed intent on the art gallery – Dulcie bolted.

‘Miss!'

It was too late. Dulcie had made it to the end of the street, where she ducked around the faded brick of some historic building or other. A school, of course, she read on the blue plaque. The city was lousy with them. But now that she had her breath, and her freedom, Dulcie needed to focus. The way that cop had reacted had confirmed her initial suspicion: they were there for Dimitri. And they were there in force. Two cruisers to bring in one grad student? Even if they suspected him of being the Harvard Harasser, that seemed excessive.

But if they thought Dimitri was actually dangerous, well, that would be a different story. Dulcie thought again of the fight she had witnessed. It had been an argument. Heated, sure, but the only contact she had seen was when the woman – Carrie Mines – had pushed the man away. Had he been brandishing some kind of a weapon? Had she expected violence, perhaps experienced it in the past from that man? Could that man have been Dimitri? She pictured the tall, slim grad student and tried to match up the image in her mind to the shadow in the archway.

As if on cue, she heard a shout from around the corner. She peeked around in time to see Dimitri, hands behind his back, being walked to one of the cruisers. Dulcie saw a pale face above the blue. Dimitri, his glasses askew. He seemed to be looking right at her, but she resisted the urge to wave. That look might have been imaginary, or it might have been full of accusation. Had she helped the police arrest him?

Dulcie was still staring as the second cruiser took off, leaving a void in a crowd that had grown to overflow the sidewalk. As she watched, it closed in, filling the space that had been held by her friend and his entourage. And as the people moved about, she recognized a figure in olive green. Only, this time the hood was thrown back, and she could see the wearer's face. Wild curls. Dark eyes, wide with emotion – fright? Rage? It was Carrie Mines.

SIXTEEN

‘
C
arrie! Carrie!' Dulcie waved as she ran. ‘Yo!' For a moment it seemed the young woman looked at her, and Dulcie waved again frantically. ‘Carrie!' But while Dulcie usually didn't think much about her height, or lack thereof, when she hit the small crowd, she found herself at a distinct disadvantage.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!' She tried to push through the sea of people, most of whom towered above her. ‘Coming through!' With a last shove, she parted a couple deep in conversation to find clear sidewalk in front of her. Carrie Mines was gone.

That, in itself, didn't mean anything, Dulcie kept telling herself as she headed back to her Central Square apartment. The girl might not have seen her. Or not realized that her former, temporary section leader wanted to talk to her. Maybe, Dulcie thought, she had simply become invisible.

Not to everyone, however. Dulcie opened her front door to see Esmé tumbling down the steps to greet her. ‘You OK?' Dulcie scooped up the tuxedoed feline and buried her face in the downy fur. Esmé responded with a resounding purr, but no other comment.

‘Well, I guess that descent didn't do you any harm.' The kitten began kneading as Dulcie held her to her shoulder and ascended to the kitchen. ‘And it is nice to be greeted.'

There was no sign of her human room-mate around. But as she placed Esmé on the floor, Dulcie noticed a green sponge beneath the kitchen table. ‘Is this your work?' The kitten stared up at her, silent. ‘Is this your new toy?' Mr Grey, she remembered, had had a fondness for kitchen sponges. Suze had thought that the food remnants on the squishy plastic had been the lure. Dulcie suspected that her dignified gray cat had toyed with the cleaning supplies just to amuse her.

‘Did Mr Grey suggest this to you?' The kitten kept silent, and Dulcie felt her throat close up with unshed tears. ‘OK, never mind.' She rescued the sponge and replaced it in the sink. ‘How about some tea?'

As Dulcie waited for the water to boil, Esmé chirped – and took off. Esmé, Dulcie had come to realize, was not a quiet cat. Since her earliest days in Dulcie's life, she'd expressed herself by a series of squeaks, mews, and howls that often had Dulcie jumping out of bed at the oddest hours – and left Suze muttering. Mr Grey, in contrast, had been a fairly silent cat in life. But even though Dulcie firmly believed that Esmé, like the spirit of Mr Grey, could speak to her in comprehensible terms, could use the same kind of mental projection her departed pet could, she found the little black and white cat frustratingly uncommunicative. At least, in the manner to which she had become accustomed.

‘Mrrup!' From the third floor, a small thud, followed by the rapid patter of fleeing paws, announced another of the kitten's misadventures. Minor, Dulcie hoped. There had been no sound of shattering, and Dulcie decided to ignore it. Whatever had fallen, if it was breakable it was already too late. Besides, there was little left to break. Although Dulcie despaired of training the kitten, Esmé's accident-prone antics had succeeded in training her and Suze. Dulcie looked at her mug: she'd automatically slid it toward the center of the table, where it was unlikely to be knocked off. Likewise, in the living room, the only surviving potted plant had been set as far back on the window sill as possible, a brick from the stoop set in front for the inevitable times that Esmé decided that she had to squeeze herself into just that one puddle of sun that the poor begonia occupied. That thud couldn't have been from Suze's room, could it? Dulcie realized that, in truth, she simply didn't want to know what fresh damage the kitten had wrought.

Mr Grey had never acted like that. Suddenly, the weight of the day seemed too much to bear, and Dulcie sunk into a kitchen chair. ‘Mr Grey, I miss you so much. It's not that I don't love Esmé, I do, but she's not you.' Dulcie closed her eyes and leaned over her mug. The warm steam felt soft, like the touch of fur. Almost, she could imagine her beloved cat. But more and more, she was coming to believe that he was gone. Gone for good. Perhaps, she thought, one tear escaping to roll down her cheek, he had never really come back. Maybe it had all been her fancy, finding a lost friend in the comforts of home, in the warmth of a teacup. In her dreams.

‘
Dreams are all well and good, Dulcie. But you can't live in them.
'

‘Mr Grey!' Dulcie sat upright as her heart leaped.

‘
You can't live in them. But you can learn from them – and move on.
'

‘Mr Grey?' Like that, she knew the presence was gone. Dulcie slumped back in her seat. It was so unfair. She missed him so much, and it seemed like he could come and go at will. Unless . . . She paused, the thought sending a cold shiver down her spine. Was it possible? Was Mr Grey fading? Could the presence of Esmé in her life have chased him away?

‘No, that can't be,' she said aloud. Mr Grey had approved of the kitten, had encouraged Dulcie to adopt the little foster as her own. Perhaps he was trying to warn her. Perhaps
he
was the one who was ready to move on.

Of course, Esmé wasn't the only new development in Dulcie's life. Since the winter break, she and Chris had grown more serious, as well. At least, she thought they had. Chris had even started talking about the two of them living together. Suze would be graduating from law school this spring, and it seemed likely that she and Ariano would move in together. They were even talking about moving: New York, Washington, San Francisco. The timing would be right, Chris had pointed out. But Dulcie had hesitated. Chris didn't know how hard it had been for her mom after her father had left.

Also, although she didn't dare admit it, she wondered about Mr Grey. He had been saying something about connections the other day, before Lloyd had come in. He might have been talking about Chris, but he also might have been about to tell her something about the special bond they had shared. Damn, Lloyd! She wished she could summon her spectral pet now, at least for clarification.

It was time to acknowledge the truth. It wasn't only his voice coming more infrequently. The physical manifestations – when she could feel the brush of his proud flag of a tail or the weight of his body as he jumped up to the bed – had become even rarer. And they only came when she was alone, here, in the house that she had shared with Mr Grey. If she moved, would she lose that? If she lived with Chris, even here in the apartment Mr Grey had lived in, would she be shutting out the comforting spirit?

Was that what Mr Grey had meant? It was true that she and Chris loved each other. They had something beyond shared grad school angst. Her brief encounter with her boyfriend suddenly came back to her. The student. The cool kiss goodbye. Perhaps she had waited too long. Perhaps Chris had had enough. Her stomach knotted, and the smell of the mint tea suddenly seemed noisome.

Another thud distracted her. Something heavy; probably a book. She looked up. Or maybe Mr Grey's message meant something else entirely. Maybe Mr Grey was helping her with another problem: the mystery of the missing author.