Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

"Guess not," said Hexton. "I'll tell the headmaster. Anything else I can do?"

"Find the students who were in Havel's class this morning and bring them to the dining hall," said Danny. "One at a time. And I'd like the files on all of them, as well as on O'Shea."

"Lining up the students, no problem. Files? I'll need the headmaster's okay on that."

"Do what you can," said Danny.

"I'll take the tape," said Lindsay.

Hexton stretched and nodded.

"Where's the headmaster?" asked Danny.

"Damage control," said Hexton. "Students' parents. Alumni. Havel's widow. And reporters, not yet but soon. It's a mess."

"What can you tell us about Havel?"

"I had him for chemistry. Good teacher. Kept it interesting. Students liked him. He liked the students, seemed to be constantly amused by us. With some of the other teachers who were still around from when I was a student, it felt a little funny sort of being one of them, but Alvin made me feel comfortable, not just polite comfortable, but really comfortable from the first day. We had coffee, lunch once in a while. I'll miss him. Not just me. The teachers, staff, everyone liked him."

"Not everyone," said Danny.

In the student dining hall, Danny sat alone at a heavy wooden table, a Wallen School coffee cup in front of him, his tape recorder out, his open kit at his side. The lights were dim. The place reminded him of something out of Harry Potter.

The first student was sent in. Danny motioned for her to sit across from him. Danny wasn't comfortable. He had gone to a public school where there was a cafeteria, not a dining room, and the tables had been metal and benches had been bolted to the floor. At his school, the signs of teenage rage and rebellion had been evident in the obscenities scratched on benches and tabletops. There were no signs of even minor desecration in the Wallen School dining room.

"Annette Heights," Danny said, motioning to the chair across from him. "Mind if I tape our conversation?"

"No," she said.

Danny had turned on the machine the moment she entered the room.

"Good. Then talk to me."

The girl wore a green skirt and white blouse. Her face, round, younger looking than her fifteen years, was tinged with makeup. Her hair was wavy, black, long.

"And say what?" she asked, sitting down across from him. She didn't appear intimidated or nervous.

"Mr. Havel."

"I hear he's dead," she said calmly.

"You were in his AP chemistry class this morning."

"Yes."

"His body was found a few minutes after class let out," said Danny. "Hard to miss a murder taking place inside the classroom."

"Impossible," she said. "He was fine when the chime sounded and when I left the room. I was the first one out."

"Who was behind you?"

"I don't remember."

"Who else was in the class?"

She shrugged.

"Karen Reynolds the Goddess. James Tuvekian."

"The Goddess?"

"Have you met her?" asked the girl.

"Not yet."

"She holds the state record in the one hundred meter."

"Dash?"

"Water," she said. Annette did a mock swimming stroke and then settled back, arms folded.

"How was Mr. Havel?"

"Himself," she said. "No. Come to think of it, he wasn't. Or maybe that's just me exercising my imagination because he's dead."

"How was he?" asked Danny.

"How wasn't he," she said. "No bounce. He was a bouncer. Not today. And he let us out early."

"Why?"

"He didn't say."

Danny nodded.

"What did you think of Mr. Havel?"

"Alvin was much beloved," she said flatly, looking across the dining hall at the rain running down the windows.

"You didn't like him?"

She turned her eyes from the window and focused on Danny. "You're cute."

"Thank you," he said. "You didn't like Mr. Havel?"

"He was all right."

"Would you like to give me your hand?" he said with a smile.

She smiled back and held out one hand. He took it.

"Both of them," he said.

She held out her other hand. Danny removed a sheet of plastic from his kit and a spray can. He sprayed her palms and placed them on the plastic sheet. Then he took out his portable ALS and shield and examined her palms.

The process seemed to amuse her.

"See anything?" she asked.

"I'll let you know," he said.

"I want to know now," she demanded, no longer sounding amused.

"I guess I'm not so cute anymore," he said bagging the plastic sheet.

"None of this is legal," Annette said, folding her arms. "I'm only fifteen. You didn't ask me if I wanted a lawyer."

"You aren't a suspect. You're a possible witness," said Danny. "Maybe next time we talk you'll want your parents or a lawyer."

"Now I'm a suspect?" she snapped, standing.

"A person of interest," he said.

"Do you know who my father is?" she asked.

"No," he said calmly. "Tell me."

"Robert Heights," she said.

"And…?"

"You don't know who my father is?" she said, looking around the room for an unseen someone who could share with her this incredible moment in which she had encountered the one person in the civilized world who didn't know who Robert Heights was.

"Doesn't ring a bell," said Danny.

"This is unbelievable," she said. "My father is one of the ten greatest concert pianists who ever lived."

"That a fact?" said Danny.

"This is…"

"Want to tell me who killed Mr. Havel?"

"I don't know," she shouted.

"Have a nice day," said Danny. "Stay dry."

Annette Heights, cute and petite and used to getting what she wanted when she flashed her father's name, stalked out of the dining room.

Lindsay almost collided with her as she left.

"You didn't make a great impression on the little lady," she said, sitting across from Danny in the seat Annette had vacated.

"The Messer charm failed me," he said. "Girl's father is Robert Heights."

"Really?"

"Absolutely," said Danny. "I saw him in Carnegie Hall last year. I've got two of his CDs if you ever want to come by and listen. Schumann, Beethoven. As good as it gets."

"I'll borrow them," she said.

"They don't leave my apartment. Too precious," he said with a grin.

"The girl?"

"No blood on her hands," he said.

"But?"

"She's still a person of interest."

Stella scratched a bloody three-inch wound on her right ankle as she balanced her way toward the spot where Sheldon Hawkes had disappeared. She ignored the scratch, even though in some recess of her mind she knew she might have lost the ankle bracelet given to her by a friend, a friend she had thought might become more of a friend but hadn't. She had given him up. Maybe it was time to give up the bracelet too.

She was aware of Devlin moving past her.

She was aware of the pain in her ankle.

She was aware of the rain beating against her yellow disposable poncho with CSI FORENSIC LAB printed in black on the back.

A few yards from the spot where she had last seen Hawkes, Devlin's voice exploded, "Stop."

Stella stopped. She could hear fragments of plaster and wood tumbling into the hole she could now make out ahead of her.

"Careful," said Devlin, coming around the hole and touching her arm.

Below them was a pit about the size of a giant truck tire. The hole was dark.

"Hawkes," Stella called.

A light flashed on about ten feet down.

"Here," Hawkes said, his voice a damp echo.

"We'll get you out," said Devlin. "Hang in there."

Devlin had a large flashlight in his hand. He turned it on, knelt, and cast the beam downward. More of what had once been the floor of Doohan's slipped down into the hole.

Devlin's beam found Hawkes about a dozen feet below. The fireman cast the light along the inside of the hole and then back to Hawkes. Then he stood up and said softly to Stella, "He's in a basement. Sides of this thing are loose. Could implode if we touch them and- "