Grey Zone (16 page)

First things first. Using a piece of loose-leaf as a bookmark, she flipped to the front of the book.
The Woman Question: 1793–1803
. This was very promising. Why hadn't she read this before?

Volume 2.
She read on:
Women of the Americas.

Dulcie shut the volume with a thud, her hopes deflating like a balloon. This was the right sentiment and the right language. But it was the wrong continent. What she had thought was special must have been as common as grass. Maybe her heroine hadn't been the groundbreaking thinker she had hoped. Maybe Chelowski was right.

TWENTY-ONE

‘
D
e mortuis nil nisi bonum
.' It always surprised Dulcie when Chris spoke Latin. ‘Speak no ill of the dead. So much for that old chestnut, huh?'

‘But it's more than not saying anything but good.' She'd reached her beau during her walk home. But although she was hoping to talk about them – or about his willowy student – Dulcie couldn't get her mind off that strange conversation with Dimitri. ‘I mean, I didn't really know the guy, but this was something else. Corkie sounded positively dismissive, and she's supposed to be all empathic. And Dimitri looked like he hated the guy. Like he could've pushed him out of a window himself.'

‘You don't think . . . ?' Chris might be more logical than Dulcie, but together they had survived some strange occurrences.

‘Dimitri? No.' Dulcie quickly dismissed the idea. ‘Besides, I'm sure the police checked his whereabouts.' She'd almost said ‘alibi.' ‘Besides, it was suicide.'

‘I'm not so sure, Dulcie. The Harvard cops had a forensic tech guy down at the Science Center. I heard they were checking his passwords, looking for emails and the like.'

‘But they'd do that if it were suicide, wouldn't they?' Something was scratching at the back of her mind. Something disturbing.

To her surprise, her boyfriend chuckled. ‘Are you telling me you aren't campaigning for it to be murder? That would be a change, Dulcie.'

‘Chris.' She knew he was teasing. Right now, she couldn't take it. ‘Please, it's not a story, OK? I was
there
.'

‘Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I sort of forgot.'

‘You forgot because we didn't
talk
. I only left a dozen messages.' She could hear her voice ratcheting up. She wasn't being rational. She didn't feel like being rational. ‘He had clammy hands. That, and the greasy hair. That's all I knew about him. That's all anybody said. And now he's dead. He's
dead
, Chris, and nobody seems to care. And my thesis adviser hates me, and someone has been using my carrel, and now I think maybe he's right to hate me and I've been on the wrong track all along. And yesterday—' She was as close to breaking as she'd ever been. She could hear it, but she couldn't stop. ‘Yesterday, Chris, you didn't call me. After everything that happened, you didn't call me back.'

Luckily, Chris understood. ‘I know, I know, Dulcie, and I'm so sorry. I've taken on too much: these private students expect you to be on call constantly . . . Look, I can get Jerry to cover for me tonight, at least for a few hours. Why don't I come by in an hour? I'll swing by Mary Chung's?'

She sniffed. He was complaining about his private tutoring. The storm passed as quickly as it had sprung. ‘Would you get the dumplings, Chris?' Suze might not approve, but then, Suze was hardly around these days. And Dulcie felt like she deserved something: he hadn't called, and she had kept herself from mentioning that girl, even after he brought up tutoring. ‘And the scallion pancakes, too?'

‘You bet, sweetie. I'll be over there by eight.'

Chris was better than his word, showing up not only with one big white bag from Mary Chung's, but with another from Toscanini's, which held two pints of ice cream. Without even looking, Dulcie knew they'd be his and hers pints: her favorite chocolate brownie mint chip and his mocha peanut butter crunch.

‘Do you think every couple has routines like this?' They were on their dessert by this time, each with a spoon and a pint.

‘Do you mean, do some couples put their ice cream in bowls?' He reached over to dig into her pint. Chris might have his favorites, but all ice cream was good to him.

‘I mean, Chinese food and ice cream after a bad day.' Dulcie took a taste of his. Coffee and peanut butter could almost work, when united by chocolate.

‘Maybe.' They hadn't spoken about the events of the last few days – about Herschoft or even about his student – instead settling into a companionable silence as they ate. Chris had the sports section unfolded in front of him. Dulcie found herself staring into space. Somewhere, Esmé was probably brewing up trouble, but for now the apartment was free of thuds, squeals, or crashes.

‘Do you think that's a bad thing?'

Chris looked up. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm not sure.' Dulcie took another spoonful, letting the sweetness melt on her tongue. ‘I guess I'm just wondering if we should talk more.'

Chris raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this about Dimitri?'

‘Not entirely.' Dulcie sucked on her spoon. Now that Chris was here, her fears had faded. Still, Chris's student had taken up an awful lot of his day. Rusti. That was her name. Tall, slim,
pretty
Rusti. ‘I guess I was just thinking about relationships.'

‘But didn't you say that Dimitri wasn't involved with, what's her name, Carrie Mines?'

‘That's what he said. He says he's got some girlfriend from the School of Public Health, but nobody's ever seen her – and I did see Carrie at his place. She was in the crowd when the police took him in for questioning. And she wasn't just passing by. She looked intent. Involved, somehow, and she made a point of disappearing before they brought him out.' She spoke quickly, before Chris could interrupt. ‘There's something going on, Chris. I know you think I create fictions, but there was a look on her face. Like, she was waiting. She expected it. It was all very intense.'

‘So you think she called them?'

‘Maybe.' Dulcie tried to put it together. ‘But I'm not sure. I mean, supposedly she's missing. Nobody can locate her. But there she is, out in public. So is she hiding from something – or someone – in particular? Is she in some kind of trouble? And if she is, why show up in a crowd in the Square?'

‘Maybe it's all a big mistake. You know, like someone reported her missing because she blew off a deadline.'

Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, the cops are taking it seriously, and when I called to her, she took off.'

‘And you don't think that was because she dropped your class?' He caught Dulcie's look. ‘OK, forget that. Maybe it is something with Dimitri. Do you think he was the one you saw arguing with her? Maybe he hurt her in some way.'

‘No.' Dulcie rejected the idea with a quick shake of her head. ‘Dimitri's not like that. He's—' She paused, searching for the right words. ‘He's a nice guy. Civilized. But there was something going on – more than he told me, anyway.'

Chris shrugged. ‘So maybe they are involved, despite the regulations. Wouldn't be the first time. Not even for your department.' He ate more quickly than Dulcie, and his spoon was scraping against the bottom of the pint.

‘You don't seem that upset about it.'

He shrugged again. ‘Relationships happen. People aren't set in stone.'

Thinking of Trista and Jerry, Dulcie found herself nodding. Whatever was going on with those two, something was certainly changing. They'd been together forever. Longer even than she and Chris, but if Trista could meet someone new, even while she was supposedly deeply involved with Jerry, then . . . Suddenly, the ice cream was too much. Dulcie put the pint down. ‘What do you mean, relationships happen?'

‘Well, you always talk about how good a couple Lloyd and Raleigh are.'

‘Yeah?' She was waiting.

‘That's all.' He looked at her quizzically. She waited. ‘You going to finish that?'

‘It's all yours.' She smiled, her face stiff with the effort.

TWENTY-TWO

D
ulcie woke the next morning to a scream.

‘Suze? You OK?' Suze was not normally a screamer, but as Dulcie threw off the covers and made her way to her room-mate's bedroom, the voice was unmistakable. Chris had left around midnight for the rest of his shift, and Dulcie wondered, for an awful moment, if he'd left the door unlocked. Perhaps let someone in. One more yell, though, and Dulcie registered that Suze was more angry than scared.

Dulcie stood in the hall. From the grumbling that had followed the initial shout, it seemed neither life nor limb were in danger. ‘What's happening?'

‘That – that
cat
!'

Dulcie turned to see Esmé sitting on the top of the landing. The small cat only blinked once, but when Suze flung her bedroom door open, she turned and quickly trotted down the stairs. Dulcie swallowed. ‘What did she do?'

‘Come here.'

Dulcie took a careful step into Suze's bedroom. Suze was pointing to her desk. Dulcie could see the leather accessories, the scissors and letter opener, where she had replaced them. But across the top, over the tan leather case and the desk's blotter, were perfect little paw prints, black with greasy soot.

‘Oh, that's from yesterday.' Dulcie had feared more breakages, or something worse.

‘Oh?' Suze turned to Dulcie, fixing her room-mate with what Dulcie privately called her prosecutorial stare. ‘You knew about this?'

‘Yeah, it was later, during the night, so after you'd come home to change—' They both turned in unison to where Suze had thrown her winter-heavy clothes on her bed. Without a word, Suze picked up the discarded sweater to reveal more paw prints. Esmé had apparently made herself at home on it, after circling several times.

‘Well, if you weren't going to wear it.' As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Dulcie bit her lip. The old Suze, the friend she'd come to love, would understand. But this new work-obsessed Suze? The cat had walked over all three of her pillows as well.

‘That cat . . .'

Dulcie waited, not daring to breathe. They'd been friends for years. ‘I could . . .' She tried to think of appropriate compensation. She couldn't get rid of Esmé. The little cat might not be Mr Grey, but she had made a commitment.

And then Suze started laughing, and Dulcie collapsed into Suze's desk chair.

‘Watch out, Dulce! I don't think I looked there!'

Now they were both laughing.

‘I'm sorry, Suze. Really.' Confession was good for the soul. ‘I thought I cleaned everything up. I didn't know she got into your room, too.'

‘She takes after you, I guess. Into everything.' Suze shed her clothes and reached for her bathrobe, giving it a good once-over first.

Dulcie watched her friend, relieved to see her still smiling. ‘Well, she's usually a little better about marking her progress.'

‘Uh oh, what's up?' Suze belted her bathrobe and nodded toward the door. ‘Tell me over coffee?'

‘It's Chelowski. Though, with everything else going on, it almost seems minor. You really want to hear it?' Dulcie didn't even wait for an answer as she followed her friend down to the kitchen. Esmé was amusing company, but it was nice to have breakfast with someone human for a change.

‘So, he thinks I'm just avoiding writing. But, Suze, I know something happened to her. I just know it.' By the time Suze had scooped up their scrambled eggs, Dulcie had filled her room-mate in on her latest thesis woes.

‘Hot sauce?' Suze took her seat as Dulcie passed the bottle. ‘It sounds doable.'

Dulcie considered her room-mate. ‘I think you're the only person I've talked to who has said that.'

Her friend smiled. ‘Maybe I know you better than some other people. Maybe you just need time. I mean, you've had some other things on your mind recently.'

‘No kidding.'

Suze paused and examined her room-mate. ‘Has something else happened?'

‘Not really.' Dulcie thought back over the odd exchanges with Corkie and Dimitri. ‘It's just that nobody is reacting like I expect them to. And, well, I'm getting the feeling that maybe, somehow, that missing girl is linked to the professor who killed himself. There's the timing, and I feel like everyone who talks about her has something to say about him, too.' Even to Suze, she didn't want to mention Mr Grey.

Suze raised her eyebrows. ‘Interesting. Of course, that could be said of you, too, Dulcie.'

That prompted an answering glance from Dulcie, which set Suze off laughing again. ‘Oh, hey, I almost forgot. There's a message for you on our answering machine,' she said when they'd both caught their breath. ‘A detective from the Harvard police wants you to call.'

The smile disappeared. ‘Great.'

‘Maybe they just want your help. I mean, Dulcie, you are good at finding things out.'

‘In the library.' The memory of her last few hours in Widener surfaced. ‘And maybe not even then.'

‘Come on, Dulce. You know you can do it. As a certain small being just proved, everyone leaves some kind of tracks.'

Suze took the first shower while Dulcie plopped on to the sofa and, with an air of resignation, dialed the number for the Harvard police. The message had been from Detective Rogovoy, and she was put through immediately.

‘We'd like you to come in again,' said the voice on the line. It wasn't even ten, but the voice sounded tired. ‘We need to ask you a few more questions.'

Dulcie didn't mean for her sigh to be quite so dramatic. ‘Today? I'm sorry, I can't.' She leaned back against the old pillows, thoughts of the day ahead already weighing on her. ‘I want to help. Really. But I've got work to do.' The image of all those ungraded papers loomed. ‘A lot of work. We just had midterms, you know.'