The maid, who apparently hadn’t had the volume on her Walkman turned up very high, looks at us and says, “You know those guys are gonna back him up whatever he says. They’re his fraternity brothers. They have to.”
Cooper and I exchange glances.
“She has a point,” I say. “I mean, if he didn’t talk when you had him in that hand lock, or whatever it was…”
Cooper nods. “The Greek Association really is a marvelous institution,” he remarks.
“Yes, it is,” the maid says, just as gravely. Then she bursts out laughing and goes back to scrubbing the F.
“About what happened back there,” Cooper says to me, in a different tone of voice, as we stand waiting for the elevator. “That kid…he just…the way he treated that girl…I just…”
“Now who’s got the Superman complex?” I want to know.
Cooper smiles down at me.
And I realize I love him more than ever. I should probably just tell him that, and get it out in the open so we can stop playing these games (well, okay, maybe he’s not playing games, but Lord knows I am). At least that way I’ll know, once and for all, if I have a chance.
I’m opening my mouth to do just that—tell him how I really feel about him—when I notice he’s opening his mouth, too. My heart begins to thump—what if he’s about to tell me that he loves me? Stranger things have happened.
And he did ask me to move in with him, pretty much out of the blue. And okay, maybe it was because he felt bad about the fact that I’d just walked in on my fiancé, who happens to be his brother, getting a blow job from another woman.
But still. He could have done it because he’s secretly always been in love with me….
His smile has vanished. This is it! He’s going to tell me!
“You’d better call your office and tell them you’re going to be late getting back,” he says.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly, hoping against hope that he’s going to say, Because I plan on taking you back to my place and ravishing you for the rest of the day.
“Because I’m taking you over to the Sixth Precinct, where you’re going to tell Detective Canavan everything you know about this case.” The elevator doors slide open, and Cooper unceremoniously propels me into the car. “And then you’re going to keep out of it, like I told you.”
“Oh,” I say.
Well, okay. It isn’t a declaration of love, exactly. But at least it proves he cares.
12
The “rat” in “unreliable narrator”
The “lie” in “silliest”
The “end’ in “narcissistic tendencies”
The “us” in “total disgust.”
“Rejection Song”
Written by Heather Wells
“What do you mean, we have to go to tonight’s game?”
“Departmental memo,” Tom says, flicking it onto my desk. Or should I say his desk, since he’s apparently taking it over for the duration of Gillian Kilgore’s stay? “Mandatory attendance. To show our Pansy Spirit.”
“I don’t have any Pansy Spirit,” I say.
“Well, you better get some,” Tom says. “Especially since we’re having dinner beforehand with President Allington and Coach Andrews here in the caf.”
My jaw drops. “WHAT?”
“He thinks it’s just the ticket,” Tom says, in a pleasant voice I happen to know is solely for the benefit of Dr. Kilgore, behind the grate next door, “to show the public that the Fischer Hall cafeteria is safe to eat—and live—in. He’s upset about everybody calling this place Death Dorm.”
I stare at him. “Tom, I’m upset about that, too. But I don’t see how eating warmed-over beef stroganoff and watching a basketball game is going to help.”
“Neither do I,” Tom says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “That’s why I’m taking a little peppermint schnapps with me in a flask. We can share, if you want.”
Generous as this offer is, it doesn’t quite make the evening sound more palatable. I’d had big plans for tonight: I was going to go home and make Cooper’s favorite dinner—marinated steak from Jefferson Market, with a salad and roasted new potatoes—in the hope of buttering him up enough to ask how he’d feel about my dad moving in for a bit.
And Cooper needed major buttering up, if I was going to get him to quit being so mad at me over the Doug Winer thing. After his initial chagrin over the way he’d manhandled the kid (or over me witnessing the way he’d manhandled the kid) had worn off—about midway through our meeting with Detective Canavan—Cooper had been quite vocal in his disapproval over my involving myself in the investigation into Lindsay’s death at all. I believe the words “damned stupid” were mentioned.
Which did not bode well for my plan of bearing Cooper’s children, much less asking him if my dad could move in.
Sadly, Detective Canavan was not in the least bit interested in any of the information I was able to impart pertaining to Lindsay’s complicated love life. Or at least, if he was, he didn’t act like it. He sat at his desk with a bored expression on his face through my entire recitation, then, when I was done, all he said was, “Ms. Wells, leave the Winer boy alone. Do you have any idea what his father could do to you?”
“Chop me up into little pieces and bury them in cement beneath the concrete foundation of one of the buildings he’s constructing?” I asked.
Detective Canavan rolled his eyes. “No. Sue you for harassment. That guy’s got more lawyers than Trump.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated.
“Was the Winer boy signed in the night Lindsay was killed?” the detective asked, though he clearly already knew the answer. He just wanted me to say it. “Not just by Lindsay, but by anyone else? Anyone at all?”
“No,” I was forced to admit. “But like I was telling Cooper, there are tons of ways people can sneak into the building if they really want—”
“You think whoever killed that girl acted alone?” the detective wanted to know. “You think the murderer and his accomplices all snuck in past a guard who is paid to keep people from sneaking in?”
“Some of his accomplices could live in the building,” I pointed out. “That could be how they got the key….”