John Lutz - Pulse

“My question,” Quinn said, “is why did you lie to us?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“There are lies of omission.”

“I don’t believe that’s a legal term.”

“ ‘Accessory after the fact’ is. So is ‘accomplice. ’ ”

“We both know we’re not nearly at that point, Detective. I was afraid you’d misinterpret information any of us volunteered. As it turns out, I was right.”

“I won’t mind putting that to the test.”

“You really had no reason to question anyone here, so let’s hypothesize that we made an agreement simply as a precaution. In case you suspected anyone at Waycliffe we knew was innocent. We were actually facilitating your investigation without you knowing it.”

Hoo, boy! Quinn thought. “Who are these people you trust so implicitly?”

“Those whom I and the others know well enough to be sure they aren’t torturers and killers.”

“You don’t think you might misjudge people?”

“Not the faculty I know at Waycliffe. Anyway, the odds of the killer having anything to do with this institution are so long that all of us are aware that by covering for each other, we’re not taking any substantial risk. That’s if we had such a pact, if we were covering each other-which we’re not doing. I’m simply working with your hypothesis.”

“I thought it was yours.”

“Let’s say it’s ours.”

Quinn sighed and stood up behind his desk. “Information feeds on itself and creates a larger and more dangerous beast. That’s the phase of the investigation we’re in now. When the beast grows large enough, I’m going to turn it loose on you. It goes for the throat.”

“You certainly make a colorful case for citizen cooperation,” Schueller said. “But it’s only an ominously phrased excuse for harassment that you regard as admirable conduct. I’ll contact our legal counsel and see what they think about illegally obtained information and witness intimidation.” He was lying with practiced ease. “That unfettered beast you refer to might leap in any direction.”

“That’s true,” Quinn said. “The only sure thing is that it will draw blood.”

“You do have a way with words, Detective.”

“If you think I’m good, you should read the New York Times.”

“Another thinly veiled threat?” Schueller asked.

“Not so thin,” Quinn said. “We’ll see what you think in another few days.”

He hung up.

The office was quiet for about ten seconds. Then Quinn related the other end of his conversation with Chancellor Schueller.

He looked at his detectives. “Schueller was waiting to be contacted. He had his response rehearsed.”

Everyone agreed with him.

“He’s gonna get in his airplane and fly away,” Pearl said.

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “He’s assessing the situation.”

“Think we should call Renz on this?” Fedderman asked.

“We don’t want to spook them with a light show,” Quinn said. “We want to get what we need so we can roll them up tight.”

That was when Jody entered the office. She stopped cold, sensing that something was going on.

Quinn looked at Pearl. This was going to be her call.

“I want her with us,” Pearl said.

Quinn nodded.

“Now what?” Fedderman asked.

Quinn looked at his watch. Said, “We ride.”

Quinn’s phone conversation with Schueller had convinced Quinn that the chancellor must be the killer. Pieces had to be found and fitted to the picture before the entire image became clear, but Schueller knew too much-and not enough.

Sal and Harold drove to Waycliffe College in the NYPD unmarked, while Quinn, Pearl, Fedderman, and Jody went in Quinn’s Lincoln. Jody had strict orders to observe only.

Sal and Harold were assigned to watch Schueller’s office, and to contact Quinn if Schueller or anyone else involved in the investigation might come or go.

It would be best if they could nail the suspects at the same time in the same place, preferably the same room, to tie them together in the collective mind of a future jury. Co-conspirators. Accessories after the fact. The entire nest of snakes.

Quinn, thinking like a cop.

They parked the Lincoln well off campus property and told Jody to stay locked in it, then entered the woods. Quinn knew they’d soon be clear of the trees. There would be a wide stretch of ground, then more woods, then Schueller’s house, facing away from the main campus. It was on the edge of campus property, but still secluded and a long way from the road where the Lincoln was parked.

Darkness was closing in fast, and cicadas were screaming their grating, shrill mating call. Quinn was glad for the continuous racket; it would help to cover any noise he and the others might make.

As they broke from the first stretch of woods into the wide clearing, Fedderman squeezed Quinn’s shoulder and pointed.

There near the trees was Schueller’s small twin-engine plane, staked down with cable, and with a blue tarpaulin lashed over the glass of its cockpit.

“Makes you think the feds should be in on this,” Pearl said.

“ They’d think so, anyway,” Quinn said. “But it’s not so unusual for a college to own an airplane.” He had no idea whether that was true, but it sounded logical.

“I see those Harvard jetliners at LaGuardia all the time,” Fedderman said.

They were into the woods again, but not for long. Ahead of them in the moonlight was Schueller’s home, a decorator’s brick and ivy dream. Beyond the low stone wall around the veranda were padded lounge chairs and a round table with an umbrella. Though it was almost completely dark, the house showed no lights.

Fedderman worked his way around front and returned five minutes later.

“Lights on in two of the windows in front,” he said. “But there’s no sign of anyone moving around in there.”

Someone was moving through the brush.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Jody approached.

“It was damned creepy alone in that car,” she said. She looked at Quinn. “You pissed off because I’m here?”

“What I am is damned-”

Quinn’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Sal Vitali’s number.

As soon as Quinn pressed TALK, he heard Vitali’s raspy whisper. “Schueller left his office. He’s coming in your direction, driving some kind of customized golf cart. He’s alone.”

Jody couldn’t possibly hear Sal’s voice or follow the conversation, but she had her head cocked to the side as if listening. A mosquito droned close to Quinn’s ear. He slapped at it and missed.

“You and Harold stay put for a while,” he said to Vitali. “See if anyone turns up at his office.”

Quinn stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “Schueller’s on his way, alone and driving a converted golf cart.”

“He drives that thing around all the time,” Jody said. “It’s got a special parking space near the administration building.”

They didn’t hear Schueller arrive, but saw light play over the trees up front. Within a few minutes more lights came on inside the house. The den or library on the other side of the French doors was illuminated, making it all the more difficult for anyone inside to see out.

Quinn signaled everyone to move closer.

Suddenly Jody whispered, “ There’s Sarah! ”

Everyone stood still and watched a woman walk across the veranda to one of the French doors. She rapped once lightly on the glass, pushed the door open, and entered.

“I thought she might be dead,” Jody said in a relieved voice, still somewhat under the woman’s spell.

Quinn had other ideas about Sarah Benham.

He saw that the French doors farther down the veranda were dark. He suspected they’d be unlocked, like the doors Sarah Benham had used to gain entrance to the house.