Grey Zone (30 page)

His tone was, perhaps, understandable. It wasn't yet noon on a Sunday. However, it did get on Dulcie's nerves, prompting her to take a slightly harsher tone herself than she'd originally planned.

‘No, it was not a
hunch
.' She really didn't want to ask what he'd heard. ‘I happened to talk with someone who is working with the missing student. And I found out some things.' She then went on to tell the cop about Herschoft's history. She told him about the professor's habit of serial abuse. Of his pattern of abruptly ending his affairs, whenever they started to get uncomfortable. She told him that she knew of at least one other student who could testify about his awful pattern.

And then she stopped. The more she talked, the more Dulcie understood just how much Corkie had been a victim, too. And how, once she spilled everything to Rogovoy, the undergrad would be seen not as an injured young woman, deserving of sympathy and support. But as a criminal. A potential murderer.

If only she hadn't just called Rogovoy . . . But he was on the line, and she had to make a quick decision.
A teacher has responsibilities beyond the text, Dulcie.
If she could get Corkie to come forward, to give her side of the story, voluntarily, then maybe, just maybe, the police would be more understanding. It wasn't like Corkie was going anywhere.

‘So,' she concluded, after what she hoped was the briefest of pauses. ‘Not that I want to tell you your business. But we've got a student in hiding who was a victim of this man. And a professor who had just been discredited and probably was going to not only not get tenure, but was probably going to also get kicked out of the department.'

‘Are you suggesting Carrie Mines killed Fritz Herschoft?' It was the logical assumption, but Dulcie was forced to explain.

‘No, not at all. Carrie's the victim here. And, besides, she's tiny. It doesn't seem possible.' Thoughts of Corkie – big, strapping Corkie – flooded her brain. Maybe there was a chance . . . ‘Why do you now think it was homicide, anyway? I mean, it sounds like he had every reason to commit suicide.' She didn't mean that, not really. But anything was better than what she was thinking.

‘So you don't know everything, huh, Ms Schwartz?' There was an edge to his voice that Dulcie didn't like.

‘I never said I did.' Dulcie took a deep breath, thought of the kitty. If Esmé could learn to contain herself, so could she. ‘I simply wanted to pass along what I'd discovered. As you asked.' She couldn't resist that last bit.

It worked. ‘You're right, and thank you.' The heavyset cop sounded resigned. ‘We knew there were complaints about his behavior.'

This was a lot to take in. ‘You knew? You mean, from the disciplinary committee?'

A snort. ‘They were the last ones to the party. But sexual abuse is a crime, Ms Schwartz. We were looking into it.'

‘But, doesn't that make his death more likely to be a suicide? I mean, if he was facing charges and all.'

A sound more like a grunt. ‘We weren't that far along, and I like to think we're good enough at our job that he wasn't aware that he was being investigated. No, we started looking at his death for other reasons.'

Dulcie paused, waiting. And was rewarded.

‘All right, Ms Schwartz. I've got a daughter only a little younger than you, and she doesn't give up either. At first, we were curious because there wasn't a note. He might have been in crisis – I like to think he was – but there was none of the usual settling of affairs we tend to see: long-distance phone calls to old friends, giving things away.'

‘And that's what you're going on?' Dulcie was beginning to enjoy this. Detective Rogovoy was a font of information.

‘Well, that and the phone call.' Rogovoy knew something about drama. ‘We got a call, the day after he died. A woman, who managed to find the one pay phone left in the Square. All she said was, “Fritz Herschoft would never have killed himself. It was murder, plain and simple.”'

‘And you believed her?'

‘We told her we wanted to talk with her, to hear her reasons.' He dodged the question. ‘But not all the women in the community are as forthcoming as you are, Ms Schwartz. Now if you don't have any other insights that you want to share, my coffee's getting cold.'

‘
Herschoft would never have killed himself
.' Rogovoy had refused to answer any more questions, leaving Dulcie to fit this new information into what she already knew.

‘
Fritz
Herschoft,' she corrected herself . . . The caller had evidently been someone who knew the man well, someone who had reason to understand what was happening. And, in conjunction with the use of the past unreal conditional, it sounded like an English major.

Maybe there was another explanation: maybe Corkie had arrived after Herschoft had gone out the window. Maybe she had grabbed the letter, the one that might have implicated Carrie, and left. It was cold in the shadow of the health services, but Dulcie needed to think this through. Corkie was a good person.

But Dulcie could not ignore the very real possibility that Corkie had done something. Perhaps the professor had laughed at Corkie, or dismissed her concerns as those of a hysterical girl. Even worse, perhaps he had attributed Corkie's visit to jealousy, a rivalry over a newer, younger – and here Dulcie winced – more petite version of herself. Corkie was hefty; Fritz Herschoft had an oversized personality, but everyone commented on his lack of height, his almost prissy manner. Could Corkie have pushed him – perhaps without meaning to? Could she have pushed too hard?

As much as she wanted to come up with an alternative, Dulcie kept returning to two incontrovertible facts: Corkie had not followed through on her threat to give the letter to the disciplinary committee, as she would have done had nothing untoward happened during that visit. And Corkie had admitted going to see Professor Herschoft, only moments before he'd plunged to his death.

But, if Corkie had been responsible, would she have called the cops? Yes, that was exactly what Corkie would have done. If she had bolted in a panic, rushing down the back stairs in a futile effort to stop Herschoft's fall – or to escape – she would have wandered around for a while, probably. And then she would have wanted the police to know.

Cold without her coat, Dulcie shivered. ‘Maybe the EMT was right,' she said to herself. Food and sunlight, not to mention the company of her boyfriend, would set her right again. She would talk it over with Chris. Then she would either go back to speak with Corkie, urge her student to give herself up. Or, with Chris's support, tell Rogovoy the whole story.

Dulcie arrived at the Greenhouse faster than she'd expected. Chris wasn't there yet, but she let the hostess seat her, her mind still racing. Corkie, Carrie . . . How had this all gone so wrong?

The only thing she knew for sure was that Corkie had wanted to protect Carrie, and with that in mind, she hauled her laptop out of her bag. Carrie had still not responded to her earlier email, but maybe, Dulcie thought, she now knew why.

Carrie
, she typed.
I know what happened with Fritz Herschoft
. She paused. She was taking a risk, but she had to find a way to reach the young woman, to let her know she wasn't alone.
You weren't the only one, I swear. Please, call or come by. We need to talk
.

It was the best she could do, and to distract herself, she picked up a menu. The mushroom omelette was her staple, but maybe it was time for a change. Steak and eggs, perhaps? Wasn't that supposed to be good for someone who had lost blood recently?

Blood. Her appetite swept away in a wave of nausea, Dulcie put down the menu and closed her eyes. But when she did, her imagination immediately conjured up that horrible sight once again. The pale hand. Herschoft, lying on the pale stone. His dark blood. How little blood, really, there had been. How little . . .

Jerking herself upright, she grabbed for her phone and hit redial.

‘Yeah?' Rogovoy did not sound pleased.

‘Professor Herschoft.' Dulcie wasn't sure how to even ask the question that had formed in her mind. ‘There was something else about his death, wasn't there? Some other reason you thought it wasn't suicide?'

Silence.

‘Please, Detective. I need to know.'

‘No.'

This was getting ridiculous. Dulcie took a deep breath and began talking. ‘Look, Detective Rogovoy, I need to know because I think I know who was in the professor's office right before he – before he went out that window. I saw someone go up there only a few minutes before. And, well, I don't want to think this person did anything. I don't think she could have, but—'

‘She didn't.' Rogovoy's interruption stopped Dulcie short. ‘Couldn't have.'

‘What?' This wasn't making sense.

‘You said this friend – excuse me, this
somebody
– went up to see the late professor a few minutes before he went out the window?'

‘Yeah.' So far, he had it right.

‘Well, then she didn't kill him.'

‘Excuse me?' The wave of relief that washed over her was matched only by her confusion. ‘But I saw her go up, and then he fell.'

‘Fell is right, Ms Schwartz. And I really do wish you'd stay out of police matters. But since you've been so kind as to call me back about a potential witness, I guess I may as well tell you. The fall didn't kill Fritz Herschoft. He'd been stabbed with something small, something sharp, maybe an hour before. He bled out internally: probably lying on the floor of his own office, from what we can tell. I don't know what your friend was doing on the scene, and I would sure like to know what she saw. But if she really only arrived a few minutes before, she didn't kill him. He was dead long before he hit the ground.'

FORTY-FOUR

‘
D
ead before he hit the ground.' That sentence was ringing in Dulcie's head, like a line from one of Dimitri's novels, keeping her from thinking of much else. She had resorted to the old saw of bad phone service, hanging up when Detective Rogovoy began asking about her friend – and insisting that she come in.

The phone kept ringing until she turned it off, but even the relative silence didn't help the din in her head. An hour? But she'd seen Corkie run into the building only moments before. Could her student have stabbed the man, left and then returned? It made no sense. But neither did her throwing a dead body out of a building.

Dulcie put the menu down and stared out the front window. Chris would be able to make sense of everything. At the very least, he'd be a good sounding board.

If she leaned to the left, she could see the Harvard Square T stop, from which Chris would probably emerge. She strained for a sight of his blue parka. Or maybe, given the weather, he'd be in that long, gray sweater. The soft, cable-knit one that she'd gotten for him for his birthday in November. She leaned to see further, and suddenly it hit her – a searing pain like a claw slashed across her face.

‘
Dulcie, now! You've got to go!
'

‘Ow.' She couldn't help but cry out loud. The waitress turned to look. ‘Sorry.' She forced a smile and reached up to touch her cheek. No blood, no soreness. Could this be an after-effect of shock, or a delayed reaction from her own head wound?

‘
Dulcie! Now!
'

She jerked her hand back and shook it. The skin appeared intact, but if she hadn't looked, she'd have sworn that sharp teeth had bitten into her.

‘
Dulcie!
'

Another swipe. What was going on? Just when Esmé had started to act like a mature, rational cat, was the ghost of Mr Grey going to begin acting out? Something was wrong, very, very wrong.

‘
Now! Leave now!
'

‘All right, all right.' Grabbing her bag, Dulcie pushed her chair back and stood. ‘I'm sorry,' she said in a slightly louder tone of voice. ‘There's something – ow! – I've got to do.' She smiled, but the waitress only nodded and turned away. Harvard Square. She was used to all types.

‘What?' Dulcie hissed into the air as she stepped out of the diner. ‘Is this for real, Mr Grey? Because I don't remember you ever acting like this in your life.'

‘
This isn't my life that's at stake right now.
' The reply came in an answering hiss. ‘
You have no time to waste, Dulcie. Hurry!
'

A nip on the back of her calf caused her to start forward, and a second nip kept her going. ‘Ow, stop it!' A woman turned and stared, but Dulcie was too preoccupied to care. Something was wrong, horribly wrong.

‘
Dulcie, now!
' The light changed, and Dulcie crossed, weaving through the crowd as she hastened toward the T. Another nip stopped her. Yes, he was right. If she hurried, she could walk home faster than the T would take her, particularly on a Sunday. Another bite, sharper still.

‘OK! OK!' Swinging her bag around her shoulder, Dulcie took off, jogging along the sidewalk. ‘But I better get an explanation.' People were getting out of her way now, and she started running for real.

‘
You will, Dulcie. But now, please, hurry.
'

She turned on the speed, running for real. So determined that she didn't even hear Chris calling her name as he emerged from the subway and waved, confused and alone.

FORTY-FIVE

D
ulcie was winded by the time she turned the corner of her own street and was almost disappointed to find everything as quiet and peaceful as she could have expected. With the weather this nice, the few neighbors who would ordinarily be out on their stoops had probably headed for the river.

Taking a deep breath to still her racing heart, Dulcie headed for her own stoop and reached for her keys. Which was when she remembered her morning rush. She'd left her coat with Helene, downstairs. Well, that would be no matter. Except that as she gazed longingly at her own kitchen window, she saw a wisp of smoke.