The Select (18 page)

Harrison stood statue-still for an
instant, as if not quite sure that he had heard correctly and
listening carefully in case it might be repeated. Then his smirk
curved into a reluctant but genuine smile.

"One for you, Brown." He turned to
Quinn. "By the way, Cleary. Dr. Emerson asked me to tell you to
stop by his office in the faculty building after lab."

The words startled Quinn. "Me? Did he
say why?"

"Something about a job."

Harrison strolled away toward another
table.

"There he goes," Tim said in a low
voice, "leaving a trail of slime as he—"

"He almost seemed human there for a
moment," Quinn said.

"Almost. What do you think Emerson
wants with you?"

"I haven't the faintest."

"Got to watch out for these old
guys."

"What do you mean?"

Tim winked. "Wear an extra pair of
pantyhose."

Quinn almost threw her scalpel at
him.

*

Walter Emerson sat in his oak-paneled
faculty building office, poring over the latest print-outs on 9574.
The new data were good, better than he'd hoped for. This compound
was going to revolutionize—

"You wanted to see me, Dr.
Emerson?"

He glanced up and saw the slim young
strawberry blonde standing in his doorway, exactly as she had last
December when she'd arrived for her interview. And looking no less
apprehensive now, as well might any first-year student who'd been
summoned to the office of one of the professors.

A sight for sore eyes, he thought.
That is, if you don't mind cliches and have a weakness for slim
young strawberry blondes.

"Miss Cleary. Yes. Yes, I did. Come
in. Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?"

She shook her head as she seated
herself in the leather chair opposite his desk. "No
thanks."

"Just as well," he said. "By this time
of day, the coffee's not fit for human consumption. Even the lab
rats won't touch it."

She was gracious enough to smile
politely at his weak attempt at humor.

"Harrison mentioned something about a
job," she said.

"Yes. I need a research assistant. The
pay is modest, to say the least, but it's respectable."

"Really?" she said, her already large
blue eyes widening further. "You want me?"

"That is, after all, why I asked you
to come here."

"But what about my
studies?"

"It's a part-time job and the work is
easy. Actually, you'll soon find out that research assistant is a
euphemism for dishwasher and all-purpose gofer. But you'll be
working on the sacrosanct fifth floor of the Science Center, and
between bouts of scut work you'll get a first-hand look at
neuropharmacological research that I promise will prove useful
later on in your schooling here. And we can arrange your hours
around your class and lab schedule."

Walter watched her chew her lower lip,
weighing the pros and cons. The student who had been his assistant
last year had moved on to his clinical duties and was now spending
his afternoons learning from the patients in the medical center.
Walter needed an extra hand around here and he knew she needed the
money.

"How much...?"

"Ten dollars an hour."

"Can I give it a trial run?" she said
after another, briefer pause. "I'd really like to do it but I don't
want to commit to the job and then find out it's eating into my
study time too much."

"That would be fine," Walter said.
"We'll give you three or four weeks—till the first of November,
say. At that point you can either sign on for the year or send me
looking for someone else."

She smiled. The room brightened.
"Okay. Great."

"Wonderful. Tomorrow's your early
afternoon. Come up to Fifth Science and I'll show you around. You
can officially start then."

"I'll be there," she said, rising. She
turned at the door, her expression troubled, hesitant. "But...why
me?"

"Pardon?" He wasn't prepared for that
question.

"There are forty-nine other students
in the class. Why'd you ask me?"

"Because..."

How could he put this? He didn't want
her to think he looked on her as a charity case. Of course he'd
checked out her parents' financial statement and it was obvious she
could use the income. But that wasn't the prime criterion. Walter
had watched her in the An Lab, spoken to her, eavesdropped on her
interaction with her fellow students, and he'd come to realize that
his first impression had been correct: Quinn Cleary was one of the
good ones, one of the rare birds that came along only once in a
great while. She was going places. And once she got out of here and
into the real world she was going to buff the shine on The
Ingraham's already bright name. Walter didn't want anything—
especially the shortage of a few dollars—to get between Quinn
Cleary and her medical degree.

And of course it didn't hurt that she
reminded him so much of Clarice.

"Because I think that not only can you
do the job, but perhaps you can make a contribution as
well."

That smile again. "Okay. I'll sure
try."

And then she was gone, and Walter
Emerson's office descended into relative gloom.

*

"So it's legit?" Tim said. "He's not
just some dirty old man?"

He had stopped by Quinn's room to see
what Dr. Emerson had wanted and was stretched out on the extra bed,
hands behind his head.

"Actually, he's a rather clean old
man," Quinn said. She swiveled quickly in her desk chair and
pointed to him. "Source?"

"Easy:
A Hard Day's Night.
I think
McCartney said it first, but each of them used the line
eventually."

Quinn shrugged resignedly.
She should have known. If Tim could spot a line
from A Thousand Clowns
, a Beatles
movie would be easy pickings.

Tim sat up on the edge of the bed. He
worked a folded envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans and
held it up.

"And now
my
news. My folks sent
down a bunch of my mail from home and guess what? The Taj comped me
a room."

"What language are you
speaking?"

He smiled. "English. The Taj
Mahal—that's Trump's big casino in A.C.—has offered me a free room
any night I want between November first and February
28th."

"Why would they want to do
that?"

"I used to be a regular winner there
last winter and spring, right after I turned 21. But I haven't been
back for some time. They probably think I'm gambling at that new
place the Indians opened in Connecticut and they want me
back."

"Why would they want you back if you
won money from them? I'd think they'd be glad you went somewhere
else."

"Because the odds are in their favor.
They don't care if I've won in the past. All they want is my
action."

"Action?"

"Yeah. My play. They
figure if I play there long enough, they'll get their money back.
What they don't like is my taking the money I won from them and
losing it at a competitor's tables. They want me to lose it
at
their
tables."

"Are you going?"

"Of course. And you're
invited."

Quinn laughed. "To spend
the night with you in an Atlantic City hotel room?
Now
who's the dirty old
man?"

"I'm not old. And besides, the room'll
have two double beds. You could have your own."

"That's good of you."

"Of course, if you got lonely during
the night and wanted me to—"

"Dream on, Brown."

"Okay, but seriously, I'd like to show
you how I work these places. It'll be fun."

"And what'll I be? Your good luck
charm?"

"Quinn, babes, if I had to depend on
luck I wouldn't get within ten miles of a casino. Luck is a sucker
bet. What do you say?"

She looked at his eager face and
wondered. She'd turn down a similar proposition from anyone else
she'd known for so brief a time. Turn it down flat. But
Tim...somehow she trusted Tim.

"I'll give you a definite maybe. Let's
think about it."

"Great. I was looking at the second
weekend in November, right after the big anatomy midterm. We'll
need a break then. How's that sound?"

"We'll see."

He waved and headed for the door.
"Okay. It's a deal. Second weekend in November. Don't
forget."

"Tim—"

But he was already out in the
hall.

Quinn couldn't help smiling as she
swiveled back and forth in her desk chair. A weekend in Atlantic
City with Tim. That could be fun. She'd never been to a casino in
her life.

But sharing a room...

What am I afraid of?
Tim?

No. That wasn't it. She liked
Tim—found herself liking him more each passing day. Liked him too
much, maybe. Sometimes, when he was sitting near her, she had this
urge to reach over and stroke his cheek, or the nape of his
neck.

Maybe she was afraid of getting
carried away. Maybe it went further than that. Maybe it was
involvement she was afraid of. Hadn't George Washington told the
country to avoid foreign entanglements? That was what she'd managed
to do through her four years at U. Conn. She'd dated plenty—sweet
guys, determined gropers, and the whole spectrum between—but
through it all she'd kept her emotional distance. No foreign
entanglements.

And frankly, no one had really moved
her.

The last time she had been
involved—really
involved
—had been in high school,
and that had been a disaster. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it
all went back to Bobby Roca.

She turned back to her
desk and cleared thoughts of men and hotel rooms and November from
her head and concentrated on her pathology notes.
Tomorrow
was the
immediate concern. She had to do some extra booking tonight to make
up for the loss of study time tomorrow afternoon when she'd be
starting in Dr. Emerson's lab.

MONITORING

Louis Verran cursed around his cigar
as he adjusted the volume from room 252. It didn't help, just made
the static louder. He'd heard Atlantic City mentioned and that was
about it.

Alston wanted a close watch on those
two first-year kids, Brown and Cleary. They were being nice and
cooperative about it by spending lots of time together in either
Cleary's room or Brown's. Verran appreciated the two-fer. Too bad
they weren't boffing each other. That would have made the
surveillance a little more interesting.

And now the pick-up in 252 was so full
of static, he probably couldn't even tell if they were screwing.
Electret mikes were just about the hardiest on the market. Weren't
supposed to go bad early in the first semester.

Damn
. He resisted the impulse to bang on the control panel—the
problem wasn't here, it was in the dorm—and turned to
Kurt.

"The audio from 252 is for shit. When
was the last time it was replaced?"

"I'll check." He tapped his keyboard a
few times, then looked up at Verran. "Two years come December.
What's up? It checked out fine during the summer."

"It's dying."

"I'll put it down for replacement over
Thanksgiving break."

"Can't wait till then," Verran said.
"I'll do it myself tomorrow."

"Elliot can stay late and—"

"I'll handle it."

Kurt and Elliot were capable, but
Verran believed in keeping their exposure to the student body at a
minimum. Especially Kurt. He was good looking and all the more
memorable for his shaggy blonde hair. Someone would remember him
wandering through the dorms. And if challenged, Kurt could be
trouble. He had a mean streak.

But as Chief of Security, Verran had
the entire campus as his stomping grounds. And sometime tomorrow
morning he'd be stomping through Ms. Cleary's room while she was
out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The beige brick front of the Science
Center loomed over Quinn as she hurried up the slope. The
double-wide glass doors slid open at her approach. She hurried
through the high-ceilinged, marbled-floored lobby and headed
directly for the elevators. Usually her energy was scraping bottom
by this time in the afternoon, but today she was up and excited.
Today she started her new job.

"Excuse me," said a woman's voice to
her right.

Quinn turned and saw a heavy-set black
woman looking at her from behind the circular counter of the
security desk.

"Me?"

"Can I help you, Miss?"