Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

"Did you see -"

"The letters weren't there, no."

"Well, Jesus, Bill." Ribbon chose not to mention the most serious offense, the one that would be filling an uneasy ninety percent of his thoughts – that Corde had destroyed the letters himself. Instead he said, "Anything you'd picked up wouldn't've been admissible. That would've thrown the case all catercorner."

"If I'd found anything I would've phoned in for a warrant then just baby-sat until Lance or T.T. showed up with it. All I was worried about was evidence disappearing."

"Which is just what happened anyway."

"Yes, it did."

Ribbon's eyes swung like slow pendulums from Town Hall to a Chevy pickup and back. "I don't think this's a problem. Not yet. Hammerback's got more important things to worry about and the dean didn't know diddly about warrants or anything. She just had her tit in a wringer 'cause she doesn't like the way we're going after the school and not letting her know what we're about. But for Pete's sake, Bill, there's stuff about this case that could bite us in the ass we aren't careful."

Corde held Ribbon's eye. "I didn't burn those letters, Steve."

"Absolutely. I know you didn't. The thought never crossed my mind. I'm just telling you what some people who don't know you as good as me might think. Just, sort of, be on your guard, you know what I'm saying? Good. Now how 'bout we get back to the salt mines?"

The front door of the Sheriffs Department office swung open and into the office strode Wynton Kresge. Corde had a permanent image of Kresge, walking into a room just this way, swaggering and carrying a manila folder. It was becoming a cliché. Kresge, dropping the envelope on a desk and standing like a proud retriever that'd set a shot quail one inch from a hunter's boot.

"Thankya, Wynton." Corde sat in a chair at an unoccupied desk, opening the envelope. Still stewing about what Ribbon had told him, he added dismissingly, "That's all."

Kresge went from bangtail to a pit bull in less than a second. Ebbans saw it coming and winced. Corde was caught completely off guard.

"I'm just curious 'bout something, Detective," Kresge said loudly in a James Earl Jones baritone.

Corde looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"What would you like me to call myself?"

"How's that?"

"I was just hoping you could provide some enlightenment. Should I call myself Messenger?"

"Oh, boy," Ebbans muttered.

Kresge said, "Maybe Step-'n-fetch-it?"

Ebbans said again, "Oh, boy."

Corde blinked. "What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about I don't work for you. I don't get a damn penny of town money, so everything I do for you's gravy and you treat me like I'm delivering pizza."

Corde looked at Ebbans for help but the county deputy's face was a mask. Corde asked Kresge, "What are -"

"This girl gets herself killed and I say, 'Let me help you interview people.' I say, 'Let me help you look for clues.' I say, 'Let me help you put up fliers.' And you treat me like a busboy. You say -"

"I didn't -"

Kresge shouted, "You say, 'No, Wynton, no thanks, you're a black man! I don't need your help.'"

"Oh, boy," Ebbans said.

"You're crazy!" Corde yelled.

"I don't see so many deputies working for you. I don't see so goddamn many suspects lined up you can cart 'em off in a bus. I offer you some help and what do you say? You say, 'That's all. Run 'long now. I'll call you when I need some im-poh-tant pay-pahs." Menace was deep on his brow.

Work throughout the department had stopped. Even the 911 dispatcher had walked into the doorway of her office, leaning sideways, her head held captive by the plugged-in headset.

Corde stood up, red-faced. "I don't have to listen to this."

"I'm just curious what you've got against me?"

"I don't have anything against you."

"You don't want my help 'cause I'm black."

Corde waved his arm angrily. "I don't want your help 'cause you don't know what you're doing."

"How would you know? You never tried me out."

"You never asked me if you could help."

"Hell I didn't!" Kresge looked at Ebbans. "Did I ask to help? Did I volunteer?"

Ebbans said to Corde, "He did ask, Bill."

Corde glared.

Kresge said, "I wish you lots of luck, detective. You need any more help from the university Security Department, you talk to one of the guards. They wear uniforms. They make seven twenty-five an hour. They'll be happy to pick up things for you. You can even tip, you want."

Ebbans and Corde both squinted, waiting for the rippled glass window in the door to explode inward from the concussion of Kresge's slam. Instead, he closed it delicately and stomped off down the serpentine path to the driveway.

Ebbans started laughing. Corde, his face red with anger, turned on him. "This isn't goddamn funny."

"Sure it is."

"What's with him? What did I do?"

Ebbans said, "Don't they teach community relations in these here parts?"

"That's not funny." They heard a car squeal away from the curb outside. Corde said. " Goddamn! I don't understand what I did."

Ebbans said, "He could be helpful. Why don't you apologize?"

"Apologize?" he roared. "For what?"

"You weren't taking him seriously."

"He's a security guard."

"You still weren't taking him seriously."

Corde said, "I don't care if he's black. Where did he get that idea?"

"Don't get so riled."

"Son of a bitch."

Ebbans said, "He might sue you. Discrimination."

It took Corde a minute to realize that Ebbans was joking. "Go to hell."

"You take everything else seriously. Just not him."

Corde shook his head in anger then stood. He walked to the coffee vending machine and returned a minute later, sipping the burnt-tasting liquid. He grabbed the envelope Kresge had delivered. Without seeing them he looked at the half dozen résumés it contained for a few minutes then said, "I hope he does sue. I'd like the chance to say a few things to him in court."

Ebbans said, "Bill, simmer down."

Corde started reading the résumés. He looked up a moment later, was about to speak, then closed his mouth and went back to reading. A half hour later he'd calmed down. He asked Ebbans, "These things say CV on them. What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Where?"

"At the top. Oh, wait, here's one it's spelled out. Curriculum Vitae. What's that?"

"Maybe it's Greek for résumé."

Corde said, "Professors…" And went back to reading.

After he finished he read them again and then said to Ebbans, "May have something here. Interesting."

"What's that?"

Corde handed Ebbans a copy of Randolph Sayles's CV. "What's this tell you?"

Ebbans read carefully. "Got me."

"He's one of Jennie's professors. Over the last twelve years he's been a visiting professor at three other schools. Two of them were for one-year terms. But at that one, Loyola, in Ohio, he left after three months."

"So?"

"After Loyola, it says, he spent the next nine months researching and writing a book before he came back to Auden. Nine months. That's the rest of the one-year period, after you subtract the three."

Ebbans said, "Well, these professors travel around a lot, don't they? Maybe he took time off."

"But he hasn't published any books since he's been back from Loyola. That was four years ago."

"Maybe it's about to come out."

"Well, let's speculate. Doesn't it seem possible, let's just say, he got dumped from Loyola and didn't want to come back here right away. It would look strange. He'd have to explain why he got kicked out."

"That's a reach, Bill."

Corde picked up the telephone. He dialed long-distance directory assistance, then the number he'd been given. As he did, Ebbans continued, "I don't know. Getting fired's pretty thin grounds to make him a suspect, isn't it?"