FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (9 page)

One thing Dean Regina Russell knew for sure.

Jake Scarne would not waste his time looking for a girl who ran away with her boyfriend.

CHAPTER 11 - BLUEBERRY PIE

Scarne headed over to the Columbia campus to speak to Joshua Swartzberg, the dean of the university’s Department of English and Comparative Literature. Colombia was a much larger operation than Barnard but thanks to Regina Russell’s directions, he found Philosophy Hall quickly enough. When he got to Swartzberg’s office, just about every chair in the waiting room was filled by students.

Scarne walked over to the woman at the desk. Her nameplate said:
Ms. Mary Mulgready
. He gave her his best smile.

“I’d like to see Dr. Swartzberg.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then, it’s impossible. Dr. Swartzberg has a busy schedule. You will have to come back.” She looked at a calendar on her desk. “I may be able to fit you in next Wednesday at 11 A.M. What did you say your name was?”

She poised a pen above the calendar.

Scarne stopped smiling. He must have misheard her.

“Next Wednesday?”

Mulgready looked at him.

“Do you have a hearing problem?”

A student in a nearby chair laughed. Scarne, who had a low tolerance for academics, bureaucracy and rude people, took a deep breath.

“My hearing is fine,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’m busy next Wednesday. I’m having my nails done. The only time I can fit Swartzy in is now.”

She grew cautious.

“Do you know
Dr. Swartzberg
?”

“We have a mutual friend. Dean Regina Russell, over at Barnard. She suggested I come over here.”

At the mention of Russell’s name, Mulgready’s mouth turned down. It was an ugly mouth to start with, with a red hash of lipstick above a not-so-faint mustache. The scowl made it uglier.

“Russell works at Barnard,” the woman said. “I work at Colombia. Next Wednesday is the best I can do. Do you want the appointment or not. I’m very busy.”

It was the tone of a woman who despises any other woman who is more attractive than she was. Which, Scarne knew from looking at Mulcready, took in most of the planet. The beautiful Regina Russell was probably a particular thorn in Mulcready’s side, especially since she probably knew her boss liked the other woman. Scarne realized that the only way he’d get to see Swartzberg would be to barge into his office. And from the look on Mulgready’s face, he might have to shoot his way in. That gave him an idea.

“Well, I think I’ll just sit and wait. Maybe something will open up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Scarne smiled and took an open chair. He took off his suit coat and draped it on the back, pulling out his cell phone. Every eye in the room took in his shoulder holster and the gun it contained. He dialed a number, pretended to wait for someone to answer, and started speaking.

“Did Rocky get out of the hospital? No. Jeez. I only winged him. No kidding? The bullet broke a bone? I bet he’s pissed. Well, that will teach him to give me lip. Tell you what. Send him some flowers for me. He’s lucky they’re not lilies.”

Scarne closed the phone. Now he waited. It didn’t take long. The students sitting on each side of him got up and left. Slowly, one by one, they all did. Soon he was the only one in the waiting room other than Mulgready, who was staring at him with an open mouth. Scarne put on his jacket. The door to Swartzberg’s office opened and the Dean ushered a young woman out. She walked past Scarne with a quizzical look at all the empty chairs. She glanced at Scarne.

“Yanks won 5-2,” he said. “Tanaka went six and struck out 7.”

Scarne had called a Major League hotline and listened to the previous night’s ball scores. The girl hurried out.

“Where is everyone, Mary?” It was Dean Swartzberg. He sounded annoyed. “You said I had a full schedule.”

Before she could answer, Scarne walked over to him and held out his hand.

“Dr. Swartzberg,” he said. “Jake Scarne. Regina Russell sends her best. She suggested that you might be able to help me.”

At the mention of Russell’s name, Swartzberg brightened. He looked around.

“Come on in.” He shot a look at his sputtering assistant before going into his office. “I seem to have plenty of time.”

Scarne turned to Mulgready.

“Josh and I don’t want to be disturbed,” he said, and shut the door in her face, which was a mottled shade of red.

Swartzberg waved Scarne to a seat by his desk.

“How do you know Regina, Mr. Scarne?”

“She is helping on a matter concerning one of her students. Alana Dallas. I understand the girl takes some classes here at Columbia.”

Swartzberg tented his fingers.

“Dallas. Alana Dallas. Why is the name familiar? Wait, I know. She’s the student who became ill. One of my adjuncts was in here about her recently. He was worried about her missing exams. I presume she is still out. Are you family? Or a friend?”

  Scarne took out his credentials and passed them to Swartzberg.

“No. I’m a private investigator hired by the family to locate her.”

Swartzberg looked at the license and passed it back.

“I don’t understand. I thought she was sick.”

“Oh, she was,” Scarne lied. “But she recovered and then took off. Naturally, her family is concerned. She is still supposed to be on medication. They thought she might have come back to New York.  It’s a long shot, but I wondered if she might have been in touch with someone at Columbia.”

“I did not know the Dallas girl personally,” Swartzberg said, “and I don’t know what I can do, legally. We have so many rules about student confidentiality. I probably can’t give you a class list without some sort of court order and it doesn’t sound as if this situation warrants one. I mean, is the girl in danger, or anything?”

Scarne sensed that Swartzberg was a decent guy and was trying to be helpful. He had to lie, again. It was becoming a habit.

“No.”

“I don’t know what good a class list would be to you, anyway. If I recall, Dallas was taking Mr. Willet’s English Literature courses.” Swartzberg looked slightly abashed. “While we here at Columbia pride ourselves at keeping class sizes small, averaging 20 students per instructor, that particular course does not help the ratio. It’s taught in a lecture hall. Must have 70 students.”

“Willet must be a hell of a teacher.”

Now Swartzberg did look embarrassed.

“That has little to do with it. He’s an adjunct. Now, that doesn’t mean he is not a fine teacher. But a lot of students, both at Colombia and Barnard, need that course to fill out their majors. So, it is very popular. Your best bet would be to talk to Willet. He might know if she was close to anyone in his class. If he was willing, and I don’t see why he wouldn’t be, he might talk to them on your behalf and set something up.”

“Where do I find him?” 

The Dean pressed a button on his phone and picked up the receiver.

“Mary, will you see if Mr. Willet has a class today, or is proctoring an exam? Willet. Luke Willet. The adjunct who teaches English Lit. He was here recently inquiring about one of his students who went ill. Alana Dallas. A Barnard girl. Thank you.”

Swartzberg smiled.

“Mary tends to look down on adjuncts,” he explained. “It is a common prejudice around here. Probably at all universities. It’s unfair, really. Some of them are quite good, and they do a lot of the heavy lifting. Some full professors think that teaching a class is beneath them. Luke is talented. Nice guy. I hardly recognized him when he was in here. He’d shaved his mustache and beard.”

Scarne decided that his first impression was correct. Dean Swartzberg was one of the good ones. He took out one of his cards and passed it over to him.

“If anything comes up, Doctor, or if you hear something, especially if it strikes you as out of the ordinary, I’d appreciate a call.”

“Of course.”

The phone buzzed and the Dean picked it up.

“Really. That’s too bad. Thank you.” He started to put the phone down, then stopped. “Wait. Do we have his contact information? Phone number, address? Write it down and give it to Mr. Scarne when he leaves.” He listened to something Mulcready said. “Yes. I know. But I want to make an exception in this case.”

He hung up.

“You were almost in luck, Mr. Scarne. Willet was supposed to proctor a class today, but apparently he called in sick.”

“I’m going to get my shots up to date,” Scarne commented. “Lots of illness going around here.”

Swartzberg laughed.

“Well, you heard me. I told Mary  to give you his contact info. I don’t see what harm that can do. You can probably do an Internet search and get it.”

They shook and Scarne left. When he got to Mulcready’s desk she handed him a slip of paper.

“Thank you, Mary,” he said. “By the way, I love what you do with your hair.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

***

The coffee shop where Scarne was to meet Alana Dallas’s two roommates, Neeja Ranganathaw and Mayleen Hau, was on Broadway two blocks from Barnard. He arrived early, grabbed a table in a room already crowded with chattering students, and was looking at a menu when the two girls walked in. They went straight to his table. He stood.

“Hello, Mr. Scarne,” one of the girls, a lithe and brown-skinned beauty with jet-black hair, said.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Look around,” she said, smiling. “Does the phrase ‘sore thumb’ mean anything to you? I’m Neeja. This is Mayleen.”

They shook hands all around and sat.

“I hope you ladies are hungry,” Scarne said.

“I don’t know about May, but I could eat a cow,” Neeja said, “even if it was sacred.”

Scarne laughed. He signaled a waitress and they all ordered cheeseburgers, cokes and French fries. They chatted while they waited for their lunch. Neeja was from Bihar, a province in eastern India that borders Nepal. Mayleen was from Shanghai. She had a plain face but a nice figure, and Scarne suspected that with the right makeup and clothes she would be quite attractive. Both girls were dressed in college dishabille, jeans with ripped knees, sweaters and boots, but everything looked fresh and pressed. Both loved Barnard and New York, and said they should have listened to Alana Dallas when she told them not to go on Spring Break in Florida. They wanted a real “American” experience. What they got was a bacchanal. Rather than hang around the pool and beach parties to be pawed by drunken college boys who wanted them to take their bikini tops off, they found some family beaches, where they swam and lay in the sun. At their own hotel, which catered to Spring Breakers, they prevailed upon a sympathetic manager who moved them to a more isolated wing of the hotel at no extra charge. He also recommended some quiet restaurants in town.

“So it was not a total disaster,” Mayleen said.

“And as long as our parents don’t find out,” Neeja said, laughing, “we can chalk it up as a learning experience.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Scarne said.

Their burgers came and the girls dug in ravenously.

“Exams must be hard work,” Scarne observed.

“We don’t eat when we study,” Mayleen said through a mouthful of fries.

After they finished, Neeja said, “The blueberry pie here is to die for. They make it themselves.”

Scarne laughed and ordered three pieces and three coffees.

“A la mode?” the waitress asked.

The girls’ smiles told Scarne all he needed to know. Vanilla was the universal choice.

Over dessert, which was excellent, though Scarne couldn’t remember a blueberry pie that wasn’t, Neeja asked, “Do you know when Alana is coming back? I guess not this term. We spoke to her uncle. He told us to plan on her being our roommate next year. Even wanted to know if we needed Alana’s share of the rent to lock up the apartment.”

“Scary-looking man,” Mayleen said. “But he was nice.”

Scarne presumed that the “uncle” was Anastasia.

“I think that you should assume Alana will be back for senior year,” he said, cautiously. “But there has been a development.”

Both girls looked concerned.

“Has she had a relapse?” Neeja asked.

Scarne decided on partial truth.

“Look, when I called I said I was a friend of the family, with some questions about Alana. I am acting on behalf of Alana’s mother. She hired me. I’m a private investigator.” Scarne took out his identification and both girls looked at it. “After Alana recovered, she ran off and I’m one of several people looking for her. We thought she might have come back East. I presume she has not contacted either of you since you spoke to her uncle.”

They were interrupted when several students stopped by their table to say hello. One asked after Alana, but most of the conversation centered around exams and one particular “jerkoff” professor. The girls did not introduce Scarne. Finally, the visitors left. Both girls now looked anxiously at Scarne, who was now more than just a “sore thumb”.

“Why did you not tell us who you were right from the start?” Mayleen demanded.