The Bride Wore Size 12
Page 42Cam’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.
“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.
“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?”
“I’ll be able to tell you the cause of death after five o’clock today,” I say, “but only if you hold the second part of this story until then.” This is a lie. I have no intention of telling him the cause—or manner—of Jasmine’s death. “I can tell you that there was no sign of an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or anything like that. The victim did have asthma, though.”
Cam makes a disappointed face. “She died of asthma?”
“I didn’t say that. I said she had asthma.”
Cameron looks less disappointed, and more like someone who’s stumbled across an exciting mystery. Of course, he didn’t know the victim, so it doesn’t matter to him how Jasmine died. He’s just looking for a story that will bring his blog a lot of hits.
“Well,” I say. “She wasn’t the only RA at Prince Rashid’s party.”
Cameron smirks. “What an ass-kisser. You know the best way not to get caught throwing a rager is to invite the RAs. So what are their names?”
“That’s the part of the story you can’t print until five o’clock.”
Cameron shakes his head, confused. “Why? What happens at five o’clock?”
I lift my purse from the floor and shoulder it. “At five o’clock today, all the RAs from Fischer Hall who were at Prince Rashid’s party are going to receive notices that their employment with the New York College Housing Office has been terminated.”
“What?” Cameron jerks his fingers from his keyboard as if they’ve been singed.
I nod. “You heard me. And don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from all those RAs about the injustice of what’s happening to them as soon as they get their letters. You’ll have their names soon enough. Just keep in mind that they were asked by their employer—my boss—if they’d seen Jasmine the night before she died, and they all said no. They lied to save their own skins, even though if they’d told the truth, it might have helped the investigation into Jasmine’s death. It’s too late now. But you did not hear any of this from me.”