The Professor (11 page)

“Huh?”

“The earlier sexual assaults? There have to be some. Maybe we can find one. The victim could identify him.”

“I’ve worked rapes, O’Shaughnessy. You know as well as I do, half the time, they don’t get reported unless the woman’s vindictive or damned sure she can prove it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

The early evening crowd was filling the food court. “Where
is
this guy?”

Robbins shrugged. “The boss said Mahaffey called and traded his morning shift for this evening.”

He restlessly looked at the stores surrounding the food court. “I’m going to talk to a few of the managers while we wait.”

“You’re going to go hang out in the Hallmark shop some more, you mean. If the clerk wasn’t old enough to be my mother, I’d worry about you. Or maybe that should make me worry more.”

Meg walked slowly across campus. She’d avoided the sorority house all weekend. Mick had called the House and left a message, asking her to call. The Chi Zetas had teased her, amazed she wasn’t excited. Of course, they only looked at the external package while she focused on the man inside.

Not returning his call was a separate issue. Actually, it was amazing he’d called at all, given the way she’d acted. Could that whole episode have been any more embarrassing? Why—beyond the obvious that Mick scared her to death—had she run away? How hard would it have been to say, “I’m attracted to you, but…”

Yeah, that was a major understatement when ten seconds earlier he’d had his tongue performing magic in her mouth and she was plastered to his chest, dying to rip his clothes off.

No, no, no. Do not think about that.
She should’ve calmly told him she wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. She didn’t have the time or energy to put into one. And she didn’t have casual sex.

Not that sex with Mick would’ve been casual. The electricity between them could fuel the entire campus network. That plus the promise of his kiss said it would’ve been blow-her-mind-and-her-future-plans-away sex. The sweaty-body, sheets-on-the-floor, last-all-night kind. The kind she wanted with Mick so badly she could tear her hair out.

Absolutely not going to happen
, she thought fiercely as she crossed Bellwood. She’d been down that path—and she knew who got burned in the end. She’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much to throw it away. Mick would eventually get the message. So what if she was taking the coward’s way out?

She mentally cringed. She never backed away from a fight. She stood on her own two feet.

Then why was she afraid to confront Mick? she asked as she turned onto her apartment’s walkway.

Because she wasn’t sure what she wanted, whispered the mutinous little voice in her head. She wasn’t sure she could tell him “no” to his face. The undeniable connection between them scared her—she felt it just as strongly as he said he did. She wanted to know everything about him: what he was like as a little boy; more on his views on the environment; whether he’d stay a cop or go back to law school. None of which meshed with her plans, so really, she had to stop thinking about him.

She stomped up the front stairs and unlocked the outside door. Fear had nothing to do with it. She couldn’t get distracted right now. If things went according to plan, in one and a half semesters, she’d be launched in a new career, finally earning enough to live comfortably. And she’d have done it all by herself. She’d prove to everybody, including her parents, that they were wrong.

She stopped at her mailbox. A square, blue envelope stood out from the bills and junk mail. Her name was neatly printed on the front. An unfamiliar Greenville return address filled the upper corner, but she knew it was from Mick. She slipped the card in her bag and hurried upstairs.

Dropping her messenger bag on her desk, she unpacked her books and opened one. For a full five minutes, she stared at the text, not understanding a word on the page. With an exasperated sigh, she jerked out the envelope and ripped it open. The front of the card read:

Where was this going? Meg wondered. She opened the card.

She groaned. Gotcha, bathroom humor.

Sorry for what? The card? The kiss? For being born?

She tapped the card against her desk, then tossed it in the trash and started her laptop. The Microsoft logo sprang to life and the machine asked itself if it felt okay. While she waited for the startup diagnostics to finish, her gaze dropped to the card. She plucked it from the wastebasket and placed it on the corner of her desk. It was juvenile. In spite of herself, her lips quirked into a smile.

An hour later, she eased out of the economic theories underlying interbank rate swaps. Rubbing her hands against the small of her back, she stretched and rotated her neck. Her eyes inevitably landed on the card. She reached for it automatically. It
was
funny, the humor offbeat enough to appeal to her.

Lucky guess on his part.

Monday evening

“Where
is
this kid?” Robbins had grown impatient as the time for Mahaffey’s shift to begin came and went. He bounced on the balls of his feet, restlessly peering around the bookstore.

“He’ll turn up,” Mick said. “Patrol’s looking for him. His boss says he’s on the schedule. The only thing we can do is wait.”

“You must think he’s coming in, since we’re still here.” Robbins’s fingers crept toward a nonexistent pack of cigarettes.

Mick wondered when the guy quit smoking. “I’ve been trying to put myself in his place,” he said. “He thought his world sucked, then he met a girl. They hit it off. Life was looking up. Now, she’s dead. His parents and buddies don’t seem to know about her. My guess is he’s been drowning his sorrow in a bar or he’s off somewhere by himself, licking his wounds.”

“Makes sense. Getting to work on time isn’t going to be his highest priority.”

Robbins wandered down the aisle, cataloguing the other patrons rather than the books. Five minutes later, he returned.

“You want to go back to the station, see if the manufacturers have sent the VIN details?”

Mick shook his head. “Let’s give him a few more minutes.”

Robbins twisted his wrist, checking the time. “Aren’t we supposed to talk to Dr. Mathews about those e-mails?”

He shrugged. “I rescheduled. The computer guys are still sourcing them.”

The detective sighed and trailed a finger along the books in front of him. “What is it with women and self-help books? They’re always trying to fix something—themselves, us, the dog.”

“And we’re usually happy with things the way they are. You ever look at any of those?” He gestured at the books.

“Who, me?” Robbins looked appalled.

“Maybe our jobs wouldn’t be so tough if more men did.”

“Getting in touch with your softer side?” Robbins laughed. “Hell, there’s always gonna be assholes.”

“And we’re always going to watch football.”

“And hockey and the fights.”

“With a few friends.”

“And pizza and beer. What’s wrong with any of that?”

A patrolman’s distorted voice sounding from the radio at Robbins’s hip interrupted them. “Subject’s on his way in.”

Robbins immediately returned to cop mode. “We’ll take it from here.”

“You need backup?” the voice asked.

Robbins glanced at Mick, who shook his head. “Negative. Tell Dispatch you’re clear.” He tucked away the radio.

The policemen watched a slender young man enter the store. Robbins adjusted his holster. “Come on. It’s showtime. I love being the bad cop.”

They intercepted the young man at the door to the employees’ lounge. “Mr. Mahaffey?”

“Who wants to know?” Mahaffey had closely trimmed hair, suspiciously red eyes and a major attitude.

Both men opened badge cases. “We’d like to talk to you about Emily Geiger.”

“I got nothing to say.”

He tried to brush past, but Robbins cut him off. “I think you have plenty to say. We can do this nice, right here, or we can do it at the station.”

Mahaffey’s hands tightened into fists. “Why you come down here for? You dis’in’ me, making me look bad.”

“Drop the ‘brother’ speak,” Robbins said. “I’ve seen your class schedule and your grades. You aren’t any more of a gangbanger than I am.”

“Then why are you here harassing me?” He thrust forward aggressively.

“Why didn’t you come forward on your own?” Robbins got right back in Mahaffey’s face. “You knew we’d want to talk to you.”

“Talk,” he sneered. “Yeah, right. That’s why we’re
talking
out here in the middle of the store where everybody can see.”

“Why don’t we sit down,” Mick said. “The coffee shop, the employee lounge. Wherever you’d feel comfortable.”

“I don’t feel comfortable talking to you, period. Especially not that cracker.” He jerked a thumb at Robbins. “Whatever you want to
talk
about,
he
already thinks I’m guilty.”

“I thought you and Ms. Geiger were friends. I don’t understand why you don’t want to find out what happened to her. Everybody else volunteered to talk to us,” he said.

Mahaffey jammed a card through the reader and pushed open a door marked Employees Only. Mick and Robbins caught the door before it slammed shut and followed him past a pile of boxes to a small, locker-lined area. Mahaffey stuffed his wet jacket into a locker, then turned and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

All the men remained on their feet, ignoring the plastic chairs surrounding the
break table. “Let’s start with where you’ve been for the past few days,” he said.

“Camping. Is that a crime?”

The friends his mother said he’d camped with had denied going. “Where? With who?”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

“This would go a lot smoother if you’d cooperate.”

Mahaffey heaved a gigantic sigh, as if the burden of the world lay beside the huge chip on his shoulder. He spun a story about camping in the mountains, detailing his adventures.

Mick listened to the lies and let them go, letting Mahaffey get them all out there. The guy had a story—he’d probably thought it up over his long, lonely weekend. Along with Robbins, he’d whittle away at it. Once that first story crumbled, the kid would have another version, and they’d go to work on it.

“You were at Pisgah?”

Mahaffey nodded. His shoulders straightened with renewed confidence.

He shook his head sadly. “You sure you got the right place? Pisgah’s campground was closed this weekend. Water main’s busted.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

He waited for the next story.

“We
planned
to go there, but it was closed. It was that other one, um, Table Rock.”

“I don’t think so. It’s a fall weekend. Table Rock’s been full all month.”

“We didn’t have like one of those parking places. We went up the trail and found a spot.”

He stroked his chin, considering. “By the river? Or up nearer the lake?”

Mahaffey hesitated, as if unsure whether the question was a trick. His eyes wandered toward the door, as if he were considering bolting.

“You headed up to the mountains alone after the funeral?” he asked.

Off guard, Mahaffey was slow on the uptake. “Emily’s?” Realizing he’d slipped, he added, “I was camping with friends, not at some funeral.”

“We know you were at Ms. Geiger’s funeral. We’ve got you recorded.”

“So what? It doesn’t mean I killed her.” His hands balled into fists.

“Did anybody say you did?”

“Then why are you here? You’re trying to hang it on me, aren’t you?”

“Did you spend the weekend thinking about her?”

Pain flared across the young man’s face. Mick knew he’d scored a direct hit. “You were with her last Monday.”

Mahaffey tightened his lips and again looked past Mick toward the door.

“Tell me about your relationship with Ms. Geiger.”

“I barely knew her.” Back in control, Mahaffey glared at him with cold eyes. Getting no response, the kid looked at Robbins, who’d jammed his hands in his pants pockets. In the process, the detective had pushed back his jacket, revealing his pistol. Robbins apparently ignored Mahaffey, his eyes busy examining the break room and the inventory visible beyond the open doorway.

“But you went to her funeral.” Mick reclaimed Mahaffey’s attention.

“Well, yeah.” The kid was scrambling again, trying to invent a reason. “She was
my age. It sucks when someone your age dies.”

“So you showed up out of respect,” he said slowly, as if he believed Mahaffey’s statements.

“That’s it. Respect.” He drew his head and shoulders back, looking down his nose at the detectives.

“What were you talking to her about on Monday?”

“I wasn’t talking to her. I told you, I barely knew her.”

“We have witnesses who put you together in the food court that morning.”

Mahaffey pushed past him. “I have to go to work. You’re making me late.”

“We know you were involved with her,” Mick told his departing back. He shot Robbins a look:
Your turn
.

Mahaffey stopped, apparently unsure how much they knew and how much they were guessing. “I knew who she was. We talked a few times.”

Robbins leaned on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, blocking Mahaffey’s path. “What happened?” he asked. “Did she lead you on? Pretty girl like that, what was she doing? Taking a walk on the wild side? Flaunting Mommy and Daddy’s rules?”

The kid bristled, but kept his mouth shut.

Robbins’s voice was low and taunting. “Rich white girl going slumming? What’d she do that morning, Robbie? Break up with you? Laugh when you said you loved her? Did you smack her around when she didn’t come through?”