Damned optimistic. It pretty much knocked the hell out of the suicide theory. She had dressed carefully and fussed over her makeup — who’d bother with that on her way to a watery grave? “And the clothes, the makeup,” I said. “Those don’t fit, either.”
Bolt looked lost, then nodded. “Shrewd observation. Then there’s her calendar — she has three appointments marked for the next two weeks with someone named John. You see? For this Thursday — ‘John, Elite Lounge, 8 P.M.’ And for next Saturday — ‘John, Fifth Street Grill, 10 P.M.’ And for the following Wednesday — ‘John, airport, 6:45 P.M.’ ”
So Maggie had a new boyfriend. Maybe that’s why she broke up with Fletcher. Maybe John could help us decide if the suicide theory made sense. Naturally, he had to have a common first name, but at a college as small as Culbert, we’d track him down.
“And there’s this.” Bolt held out Maggie’s address book. “Under L — for lawyer, I assume — she has Phillip Easton’s number. Why would a college student carry around the number for a high-powered criminal attorney?”
“I’ll call his office and see,” I said.
The secretary who took the call checked the Rolodex, checked computer files, checked with other secretaries, found no mention of Maggie Warren, no one who’d heard of her before reading this morning’s newspaper.
“Dead end,” I said to Bolt. “Anything else?”
Frowning, he pointed to Maggie’s silver-banded watch. “I am bemused about why the watch was in her purse. It matches her outfit — the silvery top and sweater, the silver ankle straps, the silver necklace and earrings. Why wasn’t she wearing it?”
Well, that goes to show you. Even a smart guy like Bolt can miss obvious things. This was a cheap watch, not waterproof. Naturally, if Maggie was crossing the stepping-stones for an initiation, or just for fun, she’d take her watch off. She wouldn’t worry about drowning — kids always feel immortal — but she’d worry about landing in the water and ruining her watch. This time, I was a step ahead of Bolt.
“It’s easy to miss a step,” I said, worried he’d feel bad about messing up. “Anyone can make a slip.” Eventually, he’d get over feeling dumb — I’ve done it often enough — but how could I assure him of that? “Time,” I said. “That’s real important. Things can be all smashed up, but... oh, damn.” How could I find the perfect word to say that wounded pride gradually gets better. That it, well... what? “Heals,” I said, realizing that was the word. “That’s what you should focus on — heals. Know what I mean?”
“I do!” Bolt leapt up. “Heels! Her black high heels! As you say, it’s easy to miss a step, anyone can make a slip — especially if one is wearing high heels while crossing slimy stepping-stones! If she had the presence of mind to remove her watch because she feared tumbling into the water, why did she lack the presence of mind to remove the shoes that made tumbling far likelier? And, as you say, things can get all smashed up, particularly inexpensive watches that might smash against the rocks, fixing the time of death too precisely to be convenient for the perpetrator. I concur, Lieutenant. The murderer removed her watch to obscure the time of death, but forgot to remove her shoes to support the theory she crossed the stepping-stones voluntarily. Thank goodness for those ankle straps — without them, her shoes might have been dislodged by the current, and we might still be unsure this was indeed a homicide.”
Indeed a homicide. I guess he’d narrowed the possibilities down after all. Or maybe I had. Before I could figure out who’d done the narrowing, the phone rang.
It was Phillip Easton. “My secretary told me you phoned,” he said. “Maggie Warren called recently, asking if she could do an internship in my office. I said no — I’m a busy man, Lieutenant, with no time to supervise interns. And, sadly, no time to chat with you. But that’s why she had my number in her address book. Good luck. I hope you can rid our streets of these perverts who make random attacks on young girls.”
He hung up. “That was Easton,” I told Bolt. “He says Maggie wanted to do an internship in his office.” I shook my head. This guy was a successful lawyer; you’d think he’d be smooth. But he’d sounded abrupt, almost jittery. Charisma? No way. No good at making connections with people, either. “Chemistry?” I said out loud. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Bolt said. “Why would a chemistry major such as Maggie seek an internship in a law office? He’s hiding something. Succinctly put, sir.”
I wasn’t sure of what it was I’d put so succinctly — or of what succinctly means, if you want the truth — but the phone rang again before I had to figure out what to say next. This call was from the owner of a drugstore near Sushi Gardens. He’d seen Maggie’s picture in the paper and thought we should know that shortly after seven on Saturday, she’d stopped by his store with four other young women, all nicely dressed, all carrying long-stemmed blue carnations. They’d all bought copies of the Atlantic, then they hugged each other and took off on foot in different directions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sold so many copies of the Atlantic in one night. Well, that confirmed what the dean said about Pi Alpha girls being exceptional — not many college kids would plan on curling up with such a heavy-duty magazine on a Saturday night.
Before I could comment on that, we got yet another call, from a city councilman holding an emergency hearing on random street crime. Be at City Hall in ten minutes, he said. Hastily, I swept the things from Maggie’s purse and pocket into a manila envelope, intending to drop it off at the evidence lockup on our way out; but a deputy chief collared us in the hall, ranting about how we had to work together to wipe out random street crime, and I forgot to stop at the lockup. Oh, well — it isn’t procedure to take evidence out of the station, but chances were nobody would notice.
As it turned out, I was glad I’d taken the envelope. It kept Bolt occupied during the hearing, which dragged on all day, with lots of speeches from judges and state representatives, but no one ever got around to asking us to report. Fortunately, the councilman had a hefty budget for snacks; aides kept bringing around imported spring water and tidbit-crowded trays, so I nibbled steadily, never having to resort to the Cheez Whiz and anchovy on Wonder bread sandwich Ellen had hurled into my brown bag that morning. As for Bolt, he didn’t eat; just kept pawing through the evidence, squinting and frowning, and knowing him, probably thinking.
“You’re missing something, Bolt,” I whispered — it’s always a mistake to pass up free food. But he just kept frowning, holding the flashlight from Maggie’s coat pocket in one hand, her trinket-laden key ring in the other. I bit into a tiny tortilla roll, then sampled a pastry puff. Both were stuffed with cream cheese mixed with vegetables that were too minced-up to be recognizable; both tasted pretty much the same. “Duplication,” I said, disappointed.
“I realize that, sir,” he said, nodding soberly. “How do you explain it?”
Well, hell. How inventive can you expect civil servant cooks to be? And when snacks are free, why be picky? “It’s a gift,” I said reproachfully. “Why reject a gift?”
“A rejected gift?” His eyes widened. “I see what you mean. And, as you ask, who would reject such a gift, and why? You’ve given me something to think about, sir.”
I didn’t want him to think; I wanted him to eat. But he just kept staring at evidence. I nibbled some more, dozed, woke up, glanced at my watch. Cripes — six forty-five.
I elbowed Bolt. “Time for the memorial service,” I said. “Let’s sneak out.”
He slid the evidence back in the envelope, I took a final swig of water, and we headed for my car. Before we reached it, a tousle-haired TV reporter rushed up, camera crew scampering behind him, and demanded to know what the police intended to do about random street crime. No comment, I said, and drove to the Pi Alpha house. Sure enough, on the lawn stood another TV reporter — slick haired this time — asking Dean Collard about the rising tide of random street crime; but the dean insisted that Maggie died in an accident caused by the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance, that crime was a thing unknown to this city, that parents could feel safe about sending children here to attend Culbert College, which combines a solid liberal arts curriculum with outstanding pre-professional majors. Impatient, the reporter glanced away, spotted me, and charged. Hastily, I hustled Bolt out of camera range, past the potted geraniums, into the house.