The Bride Wore Size 12 (14 page)

“Okay. Anyway, they looked a little closer at your vic during the postmortem because of your info and also, I’ll be honest, because of all the pressure they were getting from upstairs. And guess what they found.”

I’ve pressed the up button for the elevator. “I have no idea.”

“Nothing. No sign of sexual assault, no sign of overdose, no sign of obvious trauma. The vic was in perfect health . . . except for one thing, which the chief wouldn’t even really have looked for if you hadn’t said anything.”

“Really? What?”

“Teeth imprints. And you’ll never guess where.
Inside the victim’s upper lip
.”

I stand in front of the elevator bank, pressing my smartphone as hard as I can to my ear, since it’s difficult to hear with all the noise from the students. The Gottlieb Student Center, in addition to being an architectural blight on the south side of Washington Square, houses many of New York College’s student clubs, the student government, and a dining center that offers selections from such culinary luminaries as Pizza Hut and Burger King, making it one of the campus’s most popular eateries. This is why the student center is always packed and why the wait for an elevator can sometimes be as long as the wait for an elevator in Fischer Hall.

I can tell that Eva is expecting some kind of reaction from me, but I have no idea what, since I don’t understand what she’s talking about. Tooth imprints inside the victim’s upper lip? How could someone die from that?

“I don’t understand,” I finally admit.

“Heather,” Eva says, in a tone that suggests she believes I’m a little slow. “Jasmine didn’t die of an asthma attack. Well, the asthma certainly helped speed things up, but we’re listing the manner of death as homicide.”

“Wait,” I say. A group of musical theater students nearby me have burst into a chorus of “Magic to Do” from
Pippin,
which I’m sure they find charming but I’m finding extremely annoying since I can barely hear Eva. I stick a finger in my nonphone ear.
“What?”

“We see this kind of thing a lot, almost exclusively in women and children. Someone of superior strength holds a hand over the victim’s lips and nose until she stops breathing. If they hold it there hard enough, it can cause lacerations inside the victim’s mouth. The teeth imprints were Jasmine’s own as she struggled to open her mouth, trying to breathe.”

The elevator doors slide open in front of me, and a flood of students comes pouring out. I’m buffeted by the tide, but can’t move out of the way because I’m too stunned by what I’ve just heard. Behind me, the musical theater majors are still insisting that they’ve got magic to do.

“You mean—”

“That’s right,” Eva says. “Jasmine was suffocated to death.”

17

I
knock on the open door beside the sign that reads
nyc express.
It’s a single office in a hallway on the fourth floor of the Gottlieb Student Center. Unlike the lobby of the building, the fourth floor, which is carpeted in New York College blue and gold, is not at all crowded.

I used to do a lot of media and press tours back in my “Sugar Rush” days. As far as press rooms go, the one for the
New York College Express
is not very impressive, housing only four desks containing a few computers and a single phone.

Then again, as the sign says, they’re a poor, student-run organization.

There is only one person inside the office, a boy wearing jeans and a blue New York College hoodie. He’s typing on a laptop in front of one of the building’s massive floor-to-ceiling windows, which is covered in crooked blinds that have seen better days.

The boy doesn’t answer my knock. I soon see that that’s because he’s wearing earbuds. I enter the office—which is mostly devoid of human activity, but filled with empty pizza boxes and soda containers—and tap his shoulder.

The boy jumps, startled, and pulls out the earbuds, allowing them to dangle from a thin white cord down his chest.

“Oh, shit, you scared me,” he says, leaping from his chair. His smile is crooked and charming. He’s a white boy with adorably mussed dark hair. He clearly belongs to the Gavin McGoren why-bother-showering-before-work? school of thought. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I think you can,” I say, looking around for a place to sit. It’s impossible to find one that isn’t covered in empty food containers. “You know if you don’t take the trash out once in a while, you’ll get mice in here, right?”

“Oh, we already have one,” the boy says, hastily pulling some pizza boxes off a chair for me. “Well, it could be a baby rat. I can’t really tell which it is. Anyway, I named him Algernon. He’s supercute. I don’t have the heart to let them set up traps for him. He’s the only other living being I see in here most days, since the rest of the staff hasn’t come back to the city from break yet. Al’s my only IRL friend until classes start.”

“IRL?” I use a clean napkin to carefully brush crumbs from the seat of the chair he’s offered me. Mice—or baby rats—mean droppings, and no matter how cute Algernon might be, droppings mean disease, which means hospitalization, which means my wedding will be even more of a disaster than it already is.

“In real life.” The boy sits back down in his chair and studies me. “I’m sorry, have we met? You look familiar.”

“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. In real life? This boy’s “real life” seems to consist of sitting by himself in an untidy office, churning out copy for a student news blog, with only a mouse—or baby rat—as a companion. I feel sorry for him, but he seems completely cheerful about it. “Do you ever eat in any of the dining halls?”

He points at me, then snaps his fingers. “That’s it! You’re Heather Wells! You’re totally famous. I knew I’d seen you before.” He lifts his laptop and begins to type. “You interested in doing an interview? Our readers would totally love it. I could set you up with one of our entertainment bloggers when they get back to campus. I know just the one, she’s a
huge
fan of old crappy pop music—”

“Uh, maybe,” I say, trying not to feel offended. Old crappy pop music? The pop music I performed wasn’t that crappy. And thirty isn’t that old . . . although maybe it is to a twenty-year-old. “I’m actually here to talk to you about something school-related. What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Cam. Cameron Ripley. I’m the editor in chief.” He narrows his hazel eyes at me. “Hey, you work in Death Dorm—I mean, Fischer Hall—now, don’t you? This isn’t about the piece I ran this morning, is it? The one about the prince? I’m sorry, but I know that story was solid. I have confirmation that he lives in your building. The admin’s been all over me about my source for that piece, which is
not
cool. We may be student run and online only, but we’re still journalists and we do not have to tell them shit about our—”

“It’s not about that,” I interrupt. “Well, it’s peripherally about that. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in a swap.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “What kind of swap?”

“Of information.” I cross my legs—which isn’t as sexy as it sounds since I’m wearing cords, but a girl does what she can. “I have information you might be interested in. And you have information I might be interested in. Maybe we could work something out.”

“I don’t know,” Cam says. He continues to eye me like I’m the enemy. The cords are definitely working against me. Also, I might be a little too old for him, despite the whole cougar thing I’ve apparently got going with Gavin. “We don’t usually work that way. And while a piece on you would be interesting, it wouldn’t be
that
interesting. No offense, but most of my readers have probably never heard of you. Britney Spears, yeah, but you? You haven’t put out an album in a really—”

“The information isn’t about me,” I interrupt, beginning to feel annoyed with this kid. Despite the fact that he’s nice to mice, he’s kind of a pill.

I’m not even really sure why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I know I could get in big trouble—lose my job, even—for doing it.

But something’s been bothering me ever since I heard Charlie in President Allington’s office say that “the leak” had been traced back to an IP address in Fischer Hall. It isn’t only that I want to prove who the leak
isn’t
—Sarah.

I need to find out who it
is
. Although ever since Eva’s phone call, I have a sneaking suspicion that I already know.

“It’s about Fischer Hall,” I explain. “You know there was a student death there yesterday.”

He nearly drops his laptop.
“What?”

I shrug and uncross my legs, beginning to get up from my chair. “But since you’re not interested in making a deal—”

“No, wait.” Cam leans forward to block my exit from the office. “I’m interested! I’m totally interested. Who died?”

I sink back into my chair, recrossing my legs. “I’m risking my job just being here. Why should I tell you what I know without getting something in return?”

“I totally understand,” Cam says. He leaps up to close the door to the office. The minute he does so, the smell of stale pizza and other, less pleasant odors begin to become much more noticeable. “Look, I can’t promise anything, but—”

“I can’t promise anything either,” I say. “Except another exclusive about the prince.”

He grabs his laptop, his gaze blazing eagerly. “You’re kidding me. Something else, in addition to info about the kid who croaked?”

Shame surges over me. I have a sudden urge to throw open the door and flee the room, to get as far as possible from Cameron Ripley and his smelly office and pet baby rat.

But then I remind myself that he’s a journalist. It’s his responsibility to report the news, no matter how heartbreaking, in as much detail as possible (while hopefully leaving the victim with some dignity) so that the public can be alerted to the danger and the perpetrator hopefully brought to justice.

He’s only doing his job, exactly like I’m only doing mine. Maybe we’ve gotten a little hardened by some of the things we’ve seen IRL.

“Yes, both,” I say, after swallowing. “A girl was found dead in her room in Fischer Hall yesterday morning. The night before, she was seen at a party on the floor above, in Prince Rashid’s room.”

Cam is typing so quickly his fingers appear to be flying over his keyboard. “Holy shit,” he says, grinning, his gaze on his screen. “This is amazing. This is the best scoop we’ve gotten in ages. Names, though. I need names!”

“Not until you give
me
a name.”

He glances up from the screen, confused. “What? How can I give you a name? This is the first I’m hearing about any of this. You’re telling
me
about it.”

“I want the name of your source on the Prince Rashid stories you’ve been printing,” I say. “Then I’ll give you the name of the dead girl, and anything else you want, including a story so explosive, it’s going to rock this campus to its core. But the people it concerns most directly aren’t going know about it until five o’clock today. So you’ll have to hold off posting it until then.”

Cam’s face goes slack with astonishment—then tightens with excitement. “Five o’clock today? What is it? Does it have to do with the faculty’s vote of no confidence on the president? That’s it, isn’t it?”

I wag a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. I’m not telling you until you tell me. And remember—you’re not using my name in any of this. I’m an ‘inside source.’ ”

“Of course,” Cam says. He’s so anxious for the story, he’s abandoned all journalistic integrity, rushing back to his desk to hit the keyboard on the desktop computer. “I have it right here . . . uh . . . someplace. But I’m just warning you, those tips were always sent via direct message from a Twitter account, I think. Yeah. Here it is.” He reads from screen. “ResLifeGirl. Sorry, no name. Will that work? Is it enough?”

“Yes,” I say grimly. “It’s enough.”

It’s exactly what I suspected. I don’t need a name. I have all the information I need.

Twitter,
Cooper had said in disgust when he’d opened Jasmine’s laptop the day we’d found her dead, because Cooper can’t stand social media.

But it turns out to have its uses. Like sending anonymous tips to student news blogs.

ResLife is probably short for “residence life,” which is the programming and counseling aspect of the Housing Office that Lisa, Sarah, and resident assistants specialize and train in (as opposed to the administrative and facility side, which is more my line of work: room assignments and flooded bathrooms).

Often people don’t know it, but when they look back at the experiences they enjoyed in their dorm during their college years, those were their “res life” experiences.

Only a female RA (or someone working in a hall director’s office) would choose ResLifeGirl as a screen name.

“When’s the last time ResLifeGirl contacted you?” I ask.

Cam studies the screen. “Uh . . . hmm. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“She’s been in contact daily this last week, but since the day before yesterday . . . nothing.”

This actually makes perfect sense. Last week all the RAs were required to move in to help with preparation for freshman check-in. We’d obviously filled them in at that time about our incoming VIR. And ResLifeGirl wouldn’t have had time to log in with her screen name the night of Prince Rashid’s party, because she’d been busy.

Busy getting murdered.

That was when the communications major—who’d admired female news journalists like Katie Couric and Diane Sawyer, and so would have gotten a certain thrill out of leaking secrets to the college’s student-run news blog—had her smartphone stolen, and her voice physically stifled by a hand that had ended up robbing her of her breath as well.

Despite the fact that the closed door to the office has made it warm and stuffy, I feel a chill.

Jasmine had been ResLifeGirl, the
New York College Express
tipster. It seemed reasonable to believe she’d gotten killed for it.

Only by whom? And for what? Had she seen something at Rashid’s party? Had it been something she’d been about to share with the world via Twitter, something someone didn’t want shared, so they’d silenced her . . . permanently?

The penalty for premarital sex in Qalif is beheading,
I remembered Special Agent Lancaster saying.
So the lash is quite mild in comparison.

Oh, come on. This isn’t Qalif. It’s Greenwich Village, for God’s sake.

“Did ResLifeGirl ever do any writing for you?” I ask Cameron.

“No,” Cam says, scooting his chair away from the desk. “No way. I’m not answering any more questions. I gave you what you wanted; now it’s my turn. Who died? And how? And what’s happening at five o’clock?”

“Okay,” I say. “The dead girl is Jasmine Albright. She was twenty, a junior, and an RA in Fischer Hall, fourteenth floor.”

He’s on his laptop again, and never stops typing the entire time I’m speaking. It’s clear that he didn’t know Jasmine. I’m not sure if this is a relief to me, or worse, somehow.

“An RA? Fourteenth floor—that’s one floor below Rascally Rashid’s!”

There’s no moss gathering on Cameron. “Right. I told you the victim went to a party in his room the night she died.”

Now he stops typing and stares at me. “You’re telling me an
RA
died after a party in the prince’s room? What killed her?”