Текст книги "Murder 101"

Автор книги: Faye Kellerman

Соавторы: Faye Kellerman,Faye Kellerman
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 10

THE DOOR WAS partially open with no consideration of personal safety. Decker knocked and a female voice told them to come in. The girl was about five ten and a hundred and ten pounds judging from her sticklike arms. Long blond hair, bright blue eyes, a small upturned nose, thick red lips. She wore a wife beater and board shorts and had slippers on her feet. Skimpy dress to meet the police but it was hot inside. She stuck out a hand. “Julia Kramer. You guys must be the police.”

Yes, we guys are the police. Decker shook her hand. “I’m Detective Decker and this is Detective McAdams. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” He turned to McAdams whose mouth was slightly agape. Julia smiled, obviously used to male attention. She plopped down on her bed and sat cross-legged. “You guys can sit down if you want.”

“I’m fine standing, but thank you.” Decker looked around the room. It consisted of two beds that had been lofted on high legs for more space, two desks, two chairs, and two closets. “I’m actually here to talk about Angeline Moreau.”

“Why?” Her blue eyes narrowed. “What’s she done?”

“What makes you think she’s done anything? Has she been in trouble before?”

“Not really. I mean not in serious trouble. I mean we had this anal RA. Not anymore, thank God. We forgot our room cards and, yes, it was late. But so what? I mean it’s an art school, right. And she’s getting all amped because we’re a little tipsy. Yes, we were underage at the time. Not anymore thank you very much. But c’mon. Like the school cares?”

Decker pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed, giving her some breathing room but not much. “Does the school care?”

“As long as it’s in a red cup, everyone’s down with that. But I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about two girls getting wasted, right?”

“Right.”

“So what’s going on with Angeline?” She suddenly gasped. “Is she okay?”

“Let me answer your question with a question.” Decker pulled out a notebook. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh my God! She’s missing?” She covered her mouth with her hands. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Right now we’re trying to get a timeline of her actions. When did you last see her, Julia?”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m actually talking about this!” Her voice was a whisper. “Not Friday . . . maybe Thursday of last week?”

“Morning, evening?”

“Morning, I think. It could have been Wednesday.” She looked up at Decker. “She hardly lives here anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“She rented another place . . . closer to town.”

“So you know about her apartment.”

“Of course. We’re close . . . or we used to be close.” Her eyes formed tears. “Did you guys check her apartment?”

“We’re doing that right now.”

Her eyes went from Decker’s face to McAdams and then back to Decker. “Have you called her cell?”

“It goes straight to voice mail.” That part was true. “Why aren’t you close anymore?”

The girl looked down. “It’s not like we had a fight or anything. We just drifted apart.”

“I know about Lance Terry. What happened between the two of them?”

“That was over a year ago.” Julia sighed. “She broke it off. Lance was very upset, but he’s moved on. He has a new girlfriend.”

“So . . . is she seeing someone else?”

“I’m not sure. We kinda stopped talking. It was gradual. It’s okay. We all have our own lives.” Tears streamed down her cheek.

“So you don’t know if she has a new boyfriend. Because if you have a name, I need it. Time is important.”

“She . . .” Julia stopped herself.

“What?” Decker motioned to McAdams to sit down and returned his attention to Julia. “Tell me, hon. We need all the help we can get.”

“I honestly don’t know about a new boyfriend, but I’ll tell you what I do know.” She bit her lip. “Angeline doesn’t come from money . . . like a lot of people here. I mean it isn’t as obvious at Littleton as it is at Morse McKinley because we’re more socially conscious.”

A pause.

“She suddenly started toting around very expensive designer bags. The kind you can’t even buy here. You’ve got to go to New York or Boston to get Celine or Nancy Rodriguez or Chanel.”

“How expensive is expensive?”

“Over a thousand dollars retail. Not only that, her boots. I mean I didn’t check the label or anything, but when she crossed her legs, I saw the red sole.”

“Christian Louboutin,” Decker said.

“Yeah . . . right. Exactly. It’s not that she dressed expensively. Jeans and sweaters like the rest of the campus. But she did accessorize expensively. I finally asked her about them. She smiled and winked and that’s as far as she got to telling me about it. I mean . . . someone had to be paying the rent on her apartment. I know she didn’t have that kind of spending cash.”

“Do you think she might have been doing something illegal to get extra money?”

“Like what? Hooking?”

“I was thinking more about pushing, but do you think she was hooking?”

“No. Who’d she ho with? The guys here get it for free and Greenbury isn’t exactly crawling with sugar daddies.”

“So what about pushing?”

“No way. You can’t get that kind of money selling shit . . . uh, stuff. Most people get it for free at the parties. Besides, Angeline was more of a boozer than a pothead. Not that she binges that much. She’s like all of us here.” She wiped a tear away. “This is really upsetting.”

“I know it is. But we need as much information as you can give us. Could she have found a rich boyfriend?”

“If she did, I don’t know about it.”

“Fair enough. Julia, do you know if Angeline has been having problems with anyone?”

She shook her head no.

“Think about it. A guy? A girl? An RA or even a professor?”

“No stalkers if that’s what you mean.”

“Was there anyone specifically that she complained to you about?”

“She complained about people, sure. Mostly that everyone here was stupid. Angeline was an intellectual snob. She would have rather gone to Brown, but Littleton offered her close to a free ride.”

“So she felt a little out of place?”

“Not really. We had fun. I think at the beginning of the year, she came down with a major case of senioritis. She just kind of withdrew.”

“What’s her major?”

“Art history. Littleton specializes in the arts.”

“Was she doing a thesis?” McAdams asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you know the specific topic?”

“Yeah, actually I do. Asian export textile design in the eighteenth century and its influence on art nouveau. Why do you ask?”

Decker said nothing, but the two men exchanged glances. McAdams jammed his hands in his pockets and looked around. “I don’t see a lot of textbooks here.”

“Try her apartment. Like I said, she was almost never here anymore.”

“I know dorm life pretty well. I just graduated a few years ago. It’s hard to study in your room. Where did Angeline study before she got her own apartment?”

“You mean which library?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Rayfield is our big research library but it isn’t as big as Huntington.”

“Huntington is at Duxbury?”

“Yes.”

“Is that where she did her research?”

“Probably.”

There was a pause. Decker waited for Tyler to finish with his questions. It was good to see the kid finally take initiative. When he remained quiet, Decker said, “Do you know if Angeline does stained glass?”

Julia paused then shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

McAdams was playing with his smartphone. “Uh . . . it’s taught as an elective at Littleton.”

“I . . . don’t know every course at the school so . . . there you go.”

Decker let it ride. “Julia, I don’t have Angeline’s recent cell-phone records. But I do have an old phone bill. Can you help us identify the numbers on it?”

“I can give it a shot.”

McAdams pulled out the bill and handed it to her. Julia looked up and smiled. The kid attempted to smile back but it came out as more of a grimace.

“Um . . . this is me, of course. This is Emily . . . Emily Hall. This is Lance . . . hmm; I didn’t know they were even still in contact. This is take-out pizza. This is take-out Chinese. This is our nail salon . . . appears she was going without me, thank you very much.” She sighed. “I must seem petty.”

“You were hurt,” Decker said.

“I was very hurt. She blew me off and I didn’t know why. And the worst part was, she wouldn’t talk about it.” She looked down. “How long has she been missing?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. Can you tell me when you last spoke to her?”

“I guess it was the last time I saw her.” She looked up. “After she broke up with Lance, she changed . . . we didn’t see that much of each other.”

“Who else should we talk to about Angeline?”

“Maybe Emily Hall although I was closer to her than Emily was . . . I don’t mean it to sound jealous, just the way it was. When she complained to me about Angeline’s disappearance act, I was the one defending her. I suppose you could talk to Lance if they’re still in contact.” She thought a moment. “Maybe she’ll just show up.”

“Did she often take long weekends away?”

“Sometimes. Was she in class today?”

“No, she wasn’t,” Decker said. “Did she have class today?”

“I don’t know her schedule anymore.” She shook her head. “I mean, who reported her missing? Musta been her parents. Have you spoken to her parents?”

“We have.”

“This is just terrible! Do you think she ran away or . . .”

Decker said, “Do you have a water bottle?”

“Sure, in my minifridge. Help yourself. ”

Decker found a bottle, opened it up, and handed it to her. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Julia.” He sat down next to her. “Angeline was found dead in her apartment.”

“Oh! My! God!” The tears were instant. “Oh God! I feel sick . . . oh, God, oh, God!”

McAdams sprung up. “Drink, Julia.”

“I can’t . . . I feel funny . . . real dizzy.”

“Put your head between your knees,” Decker said. “Slow your breathing down.”

But it was too late. Her eyes fluttered and rolled back into her head. She fell backward onto the mattress, dropping the bottle down McAdams’s leg, water spilling inside his boot. The kid jumped up. “Shit!”

Drolly, Decker said, “Well, kid, it looks like you finally got your feet wet.”

“Aren’t you witty.”

“You asked good questions by the way, Harvard. Keep it up.” Decker moistened a tissue with the remaining water in the bottle and ran it over her forehead. Julia stirred and started breathing out loud. “You’re okay, Julia. You’re okay.”

She tried to get up but fell back down.

“Slowly.” He helped her sit back up. “Are you still dizzy?” She shrugged. He said, “Take a few minutes to catch your breath.”

“Why didn’t . . .” She was crying. “You shoulda told me right away.”

“I apologize but I needed to talk to you first. Do you need some water?”

She nodded, downing the water bottle and then wiping her forehead, her face pale and pasty, her lips trying to talk but her throat not getting the words out.

“Her parents know,” Decker said. “They’re coming in from Florida.”

“Oh my God!” The tears wouldn’t stop. “Poor people!”

“Other than her parents and police, you’re the first person we’ve told. We need to talk to Emily and Lance before they find out from someone else. Do they live in Maple Hall as well?”

“Emily is upstairs . . . 8C.”

“What about Lance?”

“Elm Hall. I don’t know his room number.”

“I’ll find it. Julia, I’ll need you to keep this quiet until we’ve had a chance to complete our interviews.”

“Does . . . the school know?”

“Yes. Before we go, we’d like to look around the room.”

“Her stuff? Sure . . . I guess. Is it legal?”

“She’s dead, Julia. These first few hours are crucial.”

“Sure, look around.”

The two detectives began to search: Angeline’s desk, her closet, her bed, her personal life. Within the first few minutes, it was clear to Decker that the young woman had basically moved out of her dorm room. Nothing of interest, not even schoolwork. He smiled at Julia who had regained some of her color but was still in a state of suspended animation. McAdams was checking out the pockets of her clothing.

“Anything?” Decker asked.

“A comb, old lipstick, pens, pencils, squashed candy, loose change.”

“Paper?”

“Store receipts, credit card receipts, and a few scraps of paper with notes written on them . . . mostly to-do lists. I’ll bag them all up.”

Decker turned his attention back to Julia. “Anything else that she might have wanted to hide from prying eyes? What about a diary?”

“I don’t know.”

Decker handed her his card and McAdams did likewise. “If you think of anything else, call anytime.”

She nodded. “Are you going to talk to Emily now?”

“Yes, if she’s in.”

She said, “Once you tell her, can you have her text me or call me? I don’t know if I want to be alone tonight.”

“Lonely, sad, or are you worried about your personal safety?”

She looked down. “Is this something that I need to worry about?”

Decker said, “Honestly, I don’t know. Is there a specific person who you’re worried about, Julia? Someone out there who is giving you the creeps?”

“Not really.” Stated without a lot of conviction.

“What’s on your mind?” Decker asked. “Who are you worried about?”

“No one specific . . . really.”

McAdams said, “But guys do get drunk and behave badly, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think that’s what might have happened to Angeline?” She shrugged helplessly. Decker said, “In the next few hours, we’ll be talking to a lot of people. Like I said, if anyone makes you feel uneasy, give me a call.”

She let out a gush of air. “I’ll call you, I promise.”

“After I’m done with Emily, I’ll come back to check on you,” Decker said. “In the meantime, it’s always a good idea to lock your doors.”

CHAPTER 11

THE INTERVIEW WITH friend Emily didn’t provide any new insights, just a fresh batch of tears from another vulnerable young woman. Maybe a guy’s perspective would be more enlightening. As they made their way over to Elm Hall, Lance Terry’s dorm, McAdams said, “Looks like Angeline had lost interest in college. Typical for seniors.”

Decker didn’t answer, churning around his own thoughts. The men walked in silence for a few moments.

“Did I piss you off or something?”

“No, I’m not pissed at anyone. Why would you think that?”

“You’re not answering me and I piss people off all the time.”

“Just thinking.” A pause. “Even brain-dead cops do that from time to time.”

“Are we really having this conversation—again?” When Decker didn’t answer, the kid exhaled. “Look. I know I’m an arrogant ass . . . with a weak stomach. But I’m not stupid. I told you I’m in this all the way. So if you deign to share your thoughts, I might deign to add an insight or two.”

“You do have insight. So you tell me what you’re thinking and I can shoot you down.”

McAdams smiled. “Like everyone else.”

“In the biz, we call it a discussion. You go first . . . please.”

“Since you said please.” McAdams collected his ideas. “I don’t think the crime had anything to do with the college per se. Angeline was psychologically gone . . . all but graduated. And when you add the designer purses and shoes, I’m thinking that someone had to be giving her money, right?”

“Makes sense.”

The kid grew animated. “I’m thinking she was making a lot of money on the side and probably doing it illegally. Since both Emily and Julia didn’t like our hooker/pusher theory, and since Angeline was an art history major, and since stained glass is taught at Littleton, it is not inconceivable that Angeline might have had something to do with the forgeries and the thefts in the cemetery. And that may have something to do with the reason behind her excess money and her murder.”

“Go on.”

“So I suppose the next step is to find out if she took a stained-glass course.”

“And if she didn’t?”

“Well, it still doesn’t rule out that she knew how to do stained glass.”

“Now you’re thinking, Harvard. If she was attempting to forge Tiffany, do you think she would be good enough to attempt it with just a single course?”

“No, that’s a very good point. Did we find anything in her apartment to suggest she was doing stained glass?”

“Nothing obvious, but the guys are still looking.”

“Do you think she had anything to do with the forgeries?”

“Actually, I’m thinking that if she attempted forgeries, she was probably doing stained glass for a while. And it is possible that Angeline knew that the police had discovered the forgeries with all the action that’s been going on at the cemetery. She might have dumped all her equipment thinking that even if the police came around, she could deny everything.”

“Okay, right. If she’s been doing stained glass for a while, I bet her parents would know about her hobby. We should ask them.”

“And we will do just that when the time is right. If I come in with accusations, they’ll close up and that won’t do anyone any good.” They walked a few steps in silence. “Angeline was a scholarship student, right?”

“Right.”

“And what do you do to get a scholarship besides get good grades and good test scores—the basic requirements to be accepted in these elite schools. What do you do to impress?”

“Besides the essay?” McAdams asked.

“Yeah,” Decker answered. “You’ve gotten your grades, you’ve gotten good test scores, and you’ve written an amusing essay. You’re applying to a liberal arts college with an emphasis on the arts. What would you do to impress the admission’s committee that you’re unique?”

“I dunno. Maybe make your own artisan cheese from a rare species of yak.”

Decker laughed. “How about this? When my foster son applied to Harvard, he sent them several CDs of his playing. Angeline applied to a school specializing in the arts. I’m sure she sent in some kind of portfolio. We should look up her application. See if she mentioned stained glass.”

“Right.” McAdams nodded. “I’ll check with the administration when it opens tomorrow morning. Unless you want to do it.”

“You can do it, Tyler.” A pause. “Just . . . use a little finesse, okay? Cops have different styles. But I’ve always caught most of my flies with honey rather than vinegar. And even when I use vinegar, it’s sparingly.”

McAdams rolled his eyes. “I know you can’t be an asshole if you’re pumping someone for information.”

“See, that’s it, Tyler. You’re not pumping, you’re asking . . . can you help me, please. Try to be disarming. The conversation shouldn’t be adversarial even when you’re trying to get a psycho to confess. When you point out how your suspect has just screwed himself, you may talk emphatically and with confidence, but seasoned detectives talk in a conversational tone.”

“I get it, okay?”

“Fine.” Decker threw up his hands. “You get it. End of discussion.”

Tyler rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a long night. And it looks like it’s only going to get longer.”

“If you want to turn in, I can handle it from here.”

“It wasn’t a hint. For the last time, I’m here for the long run, okay?”

“You’re right. I’ll stop needling you at least for the rest of the night.”

The kid stopped walking and turned to him. “All I’m saying is try . . . just try to give me a little credit. I’ve been with upper-crust Manhattanites all my life. I know how to suck it up and how to suck up. I just choose not to do it anymore.”

When the pair arrived at Elm Hall dormitory, Decker stopped in front of the secured door. “Go talk to the administration in the morning. If you have any questions, just give me a call. With Lance Terry, I’ll do most of the talking but feel free to chime in. Like I said, your insights are pretty much on the money.”

“Thank you.” The kid started to talk but stopped himself. “Let’s go.”

Decker put a hand on his shoulder. “The image is going to bother you for a while—”

“It’s not the image, it’s the smell . . . God, I can’t get it out of my nose. It comes in waves. Truthfully, I’m still a little . . . queasy.”

“In the beginning—when I started working homicides—I carried Vicks VapoRub because it helps dilute the smell. Later on I stopped because it blocked out a very important sense, and smelling something putrid is better than not being able to smell at all. But I know what you’re saying. It takes time for the stink to exit the olfactory nerves. To this day, every time I go to the morgue, I can’t eat meat for a few days.”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal.” He bit his lip. “I know you think I’m a pussy—”

“No, that’s not what I think. You’re just trying to figure it out.” Decker smiled. “Like all of your pussy generation.”

McAdams laughed. “You got that right, Old Man.” A pause. “Did your foster son get into Harvard by the way?”

“Yes, he did, but he wound up at Juilliard. He could have gotten in anywhere. He’s exceptional but that’s not what makes him a great kid.” Decker pointed to his chest. “He’s got heart.”

“Yeah, I’m not known for my warm and fuzzy cardiac muscle, but that’s to be expected. Genes are genes. And if you ever meet my father, you’ll know what I mean.”

THERE WAS A wall of sound in all directions, so when Decker knocked on the door, he didn’t hear anything until a voice was shouting at him.

“Fuck off!”

“That’s code for I’m fucking right now so fuck off,” McAdams said.

“Even an old guy like me can figure that out.” He knocked harder. “Police! Open up, Terry.”

“Je-zuz!” Stomping. Then the door flew open. The guy who answered wore boxers but nothing else. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man was tall and built: football player but more a quarterback or a running back than defense. His hair was one step longer than a buzz cut. He had dark eyes, a big brow, and a jutting chin. Decker showed him his badge and brushed against him as he walked inside. McAdams followed. The girl in the bed had pulled the sheet covers to her chin.

The guy said, “You can’t come in without a warrant!”

“You know that because you’ve seen it on TV?” No answer. Decker saw a pile of feminine clothes on the floor. He picked them up and laid them on the bed. “Get dressed under the covers.” Decker turned to the young man. “I need to ask you some questions, Lance, like in right now. Something has happened.”

“What’s going on?” the guy asked. Quieter this time.

“I’m Detective Decker and this is Detective McAdams. We’re from Greenbury Police—”

“Greenbury Police?”

“Yes, Greenbury PD. We’re not from the school so you don’t have to start flushing your joints down the crapper. But we’d like to ask you a few questions about your girlfriend, Angeline Mo—”

“That would be my ex-girlfriend.”

“Right. Ex-girlfriend.” Decker took out a notebook. “Julia Kramer told me that you’ve moved on. Would that be the young lady you’re with?”

A voice peeped out of the sheets. “Yes.” She emerged from the covers like a butterfly shedding a cocoon. She was diminutive in size, dark in hair and eye color. She bounded out of the bed and offered a firm handshake. “Lucy Ramon. What did Angeline do?”

“Do you know her?” Decker asked.

“It’s a small school with an even smaller senior class.”

“What’s going on?” Terry asked. “Did something happen to her?”

Decker nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. She was murdered.”

Lucy gasped. Terry turned ashen. He took a few steps and stumbled. He managed to find the chair and hold on to the splat for support, but he didn’t sit down. “That’s . . .” He shook his head. “It’s that guy she’d been seeing, right? Are you looking into that freak?”

“What do you know about the freak?”

“Not much . . . not much at all.”

“Do you have a name for the freak?”

“John something.”

“C’mon. You know his last name.”

“I can’t think right now.”

“Well, if you think it’s him, I need more of a name than just John.”

“If you lay off, it’ll come to me. Can I get dressed?”

“Fine with us,” McAdams said. “I’m sure you can talk and get dressed at the same time.”

Decker said, “So why do you think John’s a freak and that he did it?”

“I mean . . . who else?”

“What did Angeline tell you about him?”

“Can I go?” Lucy asked.

“Not yet,” Decker said. “This is a murder investigation. Would you two be willing to come down to the station and talk to us there? No sense making everyone in the dorm curious.”

“Of course I’ll go down,” Terry said. “This is horrible!”

Lucy was biting her thumb. “I barely knew her.”

“But I’m sure you want to help.” Decker’s eyes were on her face. “Right?”

“I’ve got a midterm.”

“It’s two weeks into the semester,” McAdams said.

“Fine!” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll go!”

“Don’t do that,” Decker scolded her. “Angeline was murdered. It was a brutal killing. This isn’t a joke.”

The girl had paled. Tears burst from her eyes. “Sorry.”

“No problem. Thank you both for your cooperation.” Decker said to McAdams, “Call up Captain Radar and tell him we have a couple of people who knew Angeline and are willing to help us out. I’ll get us a car. In the meantime, can you please escort Ms. Ramon back to her room? She’ll need a coat.”

McAdams took out his phone and punched in Radar’s cell number. “Where do you live, Lucy?”

“I go to Morse McKinley, about a ten-minute walk past Kneed Loft.” She teared up. “Let’s just get this over with.” She stomped out of the room. McAdams had to do a two-step to keep up with her.

Decker turned to Terry who had sunk into the chair. It seemed to sag under all his muscle. “You went with Angeline for a while.”

“Two years.” He slipped on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans with Uggs on his feet. “The breakup was mutual.”

Decker wasn’t sure about that. “What happened?”

“Different interests.” His eyes seemed far away. “We drifted apart.”

“What was she like? Angeline.”

His eyes focused on Decker’s face. “How can you sum up a person in a few lines?”

“Tell me why you liked her.”

“She was very sexy . . . she loved sex. She was adventurous . . . try just about anything once.” A pause. “She was really smart . . . funny . . . sometimes over-the-top sarcastic. She could cut you with a few chosen words.”

Decker’s phone beeped. He read the text. “Our car will be here in a minute. We should wait downstairs.”

Terry looked at his watch. “How long do you think this is going to take?”

“I don’t know. Grab a coat. It’s cold outside.”

DECKER SPLIT THE kids up, choosing to interview the girl first, making the guy wait and more anxious. Nervous people talk even more freely. He told Tyler to take copious notes, then he opened the door to the first of two interview rooms that the station had. There were no other places for private conversation other than the jail.

“Thanks again for coming down.” He handed Lucy a bottle of water.

“Do you have hot water?” she asked. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I’ll get it,” McAdams said.

The kid was learning. Decker said, “I know it’s late. I’ll try to make this quick. What did you know about Angeline Moreau?”

She shrugged. “Like I said, I barely knew her.”

“I’m sure Lance told you things about her.”

She tried to cross her arms. Awkward because she still had her bulky coat on. “If you want to know about what Lance thought of her, ask him.”

“Right now I’m asking you.” Decker pulled his chair closer to her. “This is just fact finding, Lucy. I’m not trying to box anyone into a corner. And whatever you thought about Angeline, no one deserves to be snuffed out like that. Help me out.”

Her eyes watered again. “Honestly, she was full of herself. She was pretentious . . . an artsy, fartsy opinion on everything. I don’t know how Lance put up with it for so long. He’s kinda . . . basic.”

“Why do you think he liked her?”

“Probably the sex was hot.” She shrugged. “Isn’t that usually the reason guys put up with crazy girls?”

McAdams came in with the hot water for her and two cups of coffee for them. “I don’t know how you take it so I put in some sugar and milk.”

“Thanks, it’s fine.” Decker took a sip. He wasn’t used to the watered-down stuff. He liked his mud without any accoutrements. “We were just talking a little bit about Lance, Terry.” He turned his eyes back to Lucy. “What do you mean when you say Lance is basic?”

“Well . . .” She sipped hot water, which must have warmed her up. She took off her jacket. “Lance plays football for Littleton . . . that’s kinda like saying you’re a caddy for Tiger Woods’s caddy. Our sports teams aren’t in competitive divisions other than tennis and maybe water polo. The football teams play small liberal arts colleges in the area as well as each other.”

“Did Lance come here on a football scholarship?”

“No, his family has money.”

“Where is his family from?” McAdams asked.

“Manhattan. The Upper East Side.”

“Groton?”

“Horace Mann. I’m from Groton. Were you in Groton?”

“Phillips Exeter,” McAdams said. “What’s Lance’s major?”

“Performing arts, acting. That’s where we met.”

“You’re an actress?” Decker asked.

“Actor.”

“Right.” Decker smiled. “Is that how you met Angeline?”

“No, she’s an art history major. I’m an econ major actually. Why else would I be at Morse McKinley. But I find that marketing and acting have a big area of intersection. Anyway, Lance used to bring Angeline to the theater parties. It’s probably how we met, although I don’t remember the specifics.”

McAdams asked, “What was Angeline’s substance of choice?”

“She liked whiskey and bourbon. Jack Daniel’s. I don’t do booze . . . too many calories.”

Decker said, “What else did Lance tell you about Angeline?”

“Just that she was nuts. He didn’t elaborate.” She started chewing on her thumb again. “I know they still talked. Every time she’d call, he’d, like, turn around and talk quietly into the phone, protecting the call like I’d listen in. Finally I told him, ‘Look, if you want a girlfriend, you’ve got to stop behaving stupid. Just cut her out of your life!’ ”

“Did he?”

She blew out air. “I don’t think so.”

McAdams said, “Booty calls?”

“If anyone did the booty calling, it would be her. According to Lance, they used to fuck all the time.” She rolled her eyes. “God, as I’m talking about him, I don’t know why I put up with it.” She shrugged. “I guess I don’t care all that much. I mean, it’s a college fling. And he takes me out to nice dinners when we go into the city.” She checked her watch. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. I need to get some rest.”

Decker said, “Just a couple more questions. Lance mentioned another guy. Someone he called a freak named John. What do you know about that?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon. Lance must have mentioned him when he was pissed at Angeline.”

“All he said is that she’s seeing some freak.”

“How did he know?”

“Beats me. When he went on his tirades, I barely listened.”

“Did he give the freak a name other than John?”