Or maybe it’s because of Cooper’s soothing presence. Love does funny things to you, I guess.
Speaking of love…
My cell phone chirps, and when I take it out of my pocket, I see that Jordan is calling me. Again. I hastily shove the phone back into the recesses of my coat.
Not quickly enough, though.
“He must really need to talk to you about something,” Cooper says mildly. “He left a message at home, too.”
“I know,” I say sheepishly. “I heard it.”
“I see.” Cooper looks amused about something…at least by the way the corners of his mouth curl up beneath the quarter inch of dark fuzz growing around them. “And you aren’t calling him back because…?”
“Whatever,” I say, annoyed. But not with Cooper. I’m annoyed with his brother, who refuses to realize that a breakup is just that: a breakup. You don’t keep on calling your ex, especially when you’re engaged to someone else, after you’ve broken up. I mean, it’s common courtesy.
I guess it doesn’t help that I keep sleeping with him. Jordan, I mean.
But seriously, it was just that one time on Cooper’s hallway runner, and in a moment of total weakness.
It’s not like it’s ever going to happen again.
I don’t think.
I guess you could also say I’m a little annoyed with myself.
“So did you know her?” Cooper asks, artfully changing the subject, most likely because he can tell it’s not one I’m relishing.
“Who? The dead girl?” I take a slug of Yoo-Hoo. “Yeah. Everyone did. She was popular. A cheerleader.”
Cooper looks shocked. “They have cheerleaders in college?”
“Sure,” I say. “New York College’s team made it to the finals last year.”
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“The finals of what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But they’re proud of it. Lindsay—that’s the dead girl—was especially proud of it. She was studying to be an accountant. But she had tons of school spirit. She—” I break off. Even Yoo-Hoo doesn’t help this time. “Cooper. Who woulddo something like that to someone? Andwhy ?”
“Well, what do you know about this girl?” he asks. “I mean, besides that she was a cheerleader studying to be an accountant?”
I think about it. “She was dating one of the basketball players,” I say, after a while. “In fact, I think he might be a suspect. Detective Canavan seems to think so, anyway. But he didn’t do it. Iknow he didn’t.
Mark’s a nice kid. He’d never kill anyone. And certainly not his girlfriend. And not thatway .”
“It’s theway that strikes me as…” Cooper shrugs beneath his anorak. “Well, the wordoverkill comes to mind. It’s almost as if the killer left her that way as a warning.”
“A warning to who?” I ask. “Jimmy the line cook?”
“Well, if we knew that,” Cooper says, “we’d have a good idea who did it, wouldn’t we? And why.
Canavan’s right to start with the boyfriend. He any good? As a ballplayer, I mean?”
I look at him blankly. “Coop. We’re Division Three. How good can he be?”
“But the Pansies have been playing a lot better since they got that new coach, this Andrews guy,”
Cooper says, with a slight smile…I guess at my sports ignorance. “They’ve even started broadcasting the games. Locally only, I know. But still. I take it tomorrow night’s game will be canceled, in light of all this?”
I snort. “Are you kidding? We’re playing the New Jersey East Devils at home. Don’t you know we’re eight-and-oh?”
Cooper’s smile broadens, but his voice is tinged with frost. “The head of one of the cheerleaders was found in her dorm cafeteria, but they aren’t canceling tomorrow night’s ball game?”
“Residence hall,” I correct him.
“Heather Wells?” A doctor has come out of the ER, holding a clipboard.
“Excuse me,” I say to Cooper, and hurry over to the ER doc, who informs me that Gavin is recovering nicely and that she’s releasing him. He’ll be out as soon as he’s signed the appropriate forms. I thank the doctor and return to Cooper’s side, only to find he’s already on his feet, scooping up the debris from our picnic and stuffing it into a nearby trash can.
“Gavin’s ready to go,” I say to him.
“So I gathered.” Cooper pulls his gloves back on, readying himself for the plunge back into the arctic weather. “You guys need a lift back?”
“I doubt Gavin’s up to walking,” I say. “But we’ll grab a cab. I’m not running the risk of him barfing in your car.”
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“For which I thank you,” Cooper says gravely. “Well, see you at home, then. And, Heather…about Lindsay—”
“Don’t worry,” I interrupt. “In no way am I going to interfere with the investigation into her death. I totally learned my lesson last time. The NYPD is on their own with this one.”
Cooper looks serious. “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” he informs me. “It never occurred to me that you would even consider getting involved in what happened at Fischer Hall today. Especially not after what happened last time.”
It’s ridiculous. And yet, I feel stung.
“You mean last time, when I figured out who the killer was before anybody else did?” I demand.
“Before anyone else even realized those girls werebeing killed, and not dying of their own recklessness?”
“Whoa,” Cooper says. “Slow down, slugger. I just meant—”
“Because you do realize that whoever did this to Lindsay had to have access to the keys to the caf, right?” I don’t care that the homeless guy with the bottle-in-the-bag is now giving ME the wary eye he’d given Cooper just minutes before. What I lack in shoulder breadth, I make up for with hip girth. Oh, and pure shrillness.
“Because there was no sign of forced entry,” I go on. “Whoever put Lindsay’s head in there had to have had access to a master key. We’re talking about three or four individual locks. No one could’ve picked three or four different locks, not in one night, not without somebody noticing. So ithad to be somebody who works for the school. Somebody with access to the keys. Somebody I KNOW.”
“Okay,” Cooper says, in a soothing voice…probably the same voice he uses on his clients, hysterical wives who are convinced their husbands are cheating on them, and need to hire him to prove it in order to get custody of the Hamptons beach house. “Calm down. Detective Canavan is on it, right?”
“Right,” I say. I don’t add that my faith in Detective Canavan’s investigative skills is not high. I mean, I did almost die once because of them.
“So don’t worry about it,” Cooper says. He’s laid a hand on my shoulder. Too bad I’m wearing so much—coat, sweater, turtleneck, undershirt, bra—I can barely even feel it. “Whoever it was, Canavan’ll catch him. This isn’t like last time, Heather. Last time, no one but you was even sure there’d been a crime. This time…well, it’s pretty obvious. The police will take care of it, Heather.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder. His gaze is intent on mine. I feel like I could dive into those blue eyes of his and just start swimming, and go on and on and never reach the horizon.
“Yo, Wells.”
Trust Gavin McGoren to pickthat moment to come limping out of the ER.
“This guy bothering you, Wells?” Gavin wants to know, thrusting his wispily goateed chin in Cooper’s direction.
I restrain myself—barely—from hitting him. College staff is forbidden from striking students, no matter how sorely tempted we might be. Interestingly, we aren’t allowed to kiss them, either. Not that I’ve ever wanted to, at least where Gavin is concerned.
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“No, he isn’tbothering me,” I say. “This is my friend Cooper. Cooper, this is Gavin.”
“Hey,” Cooper says, holding out his right hand.
But Gavin just ignores the hand.
“This guy yourboyfriend ?” he demands of me, rudely.
“Gavin,” I say, mortified. I can’t look anywhere in the vicinity of Cooper’s face. “No. You know perfectly well he’s not my boyfriend.”
Gavin seems to relax a little. “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You like those pretty-boy types. Jordan Cartwright. Mr. Easy Street.”
Cooper has dropped his hand. He is staring at Gavin with an expression of mingled amusement and derision. “Well, Heather,” he says. “Delightful as it’s been meeting one of your infant charges, I think I’ll be going now.”
“Hey!” Gavin looks insulted. “Who you calling an infant?”
Cooper barely acknowledges Gavin’s presence, saying only, “I’ll see you at home,” to me, with a wink, then turning to leave.
“‘See you at home’?” Gavin is staring daggers at Cooper’s departing back. “You guys live together? I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend!”
“He’s my landlord,” I say. “And he’s right. Youare an infant. Ready to go? Or do you want to stop by the liquor store on the way back to the hall so you can buy a bottle of Jäger-meister and finish off the job?”
“Woman,” Gavin says, shaking his head, “why you gots to be that way? Always up in my business?”
“Gavin.” I’m rolling my eyes. “Seriously. I’ll call your parents….”
He drops the gangbanger act at once.
“Don’t,” he says, the goatee drooping. “My mom’ll kill me.”
I sigh and take his arm. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home, before it starts snowing. Did you get a note from the doctor, to excuse you from class?”
He scowls. “They won’t give notes for alcohol poisoning.”
“Poor baby,” I say cheerfully. “Maybe this will teach you a lesson.”
“Woman,” Gavin explodes again, “I don’t need you to tell me how to act!”
And we walk out into the cold together, bickering like a brother and sister. At least,I think that’s how we sound.
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Little do I know Gavin thinks something entirely different.
5
My poor heart cracks
Like broken glass
Breathing’s hard
Starting to cough
This must end
It’s got to stop
Does anyone know how
To turn this Stairmaster off?
“At the Gym”
Written by Heather Wells
The rest of the day does not exactly fly by. It’s amazing, in fact, how slowly time can pass when all you want to do is go home.
At least, when I get back to Fischer Hall from the hospital, the deed has been done—Lindsay’s family has been notified of her death…which means it’s okay for us to start telling the building staff and residents about what happened to her.
But this, as I’d suspected, does not exactly make things any better. Reactions upon being told the truth—that the cafeteria is closed because of the discovery of a cheerleader’s severed head there, and not a gas leak—vary from stunned astonishment to giggling, crying, and even some gagging.
But it isn’t like we can keep the truth from them…especially when it hits the local all-news television station, New York One, which Tina, the student desk worker, very conscientiously runs to come tell us when she sees it on the television set in the lobby, then turns up as high as she can when we hurry to join her:
“The New York College campus was shocked today by a gruesome discovery at one of their dormitories, Fischer Residence Hall,” the news anchorperson says, in an urgent voice, as behind him flashes a shot of the exterior of Fischer Hall, New York College banners fluttering in the wind from twin poles over the front door—at which we’ve posted extra security, to keep out thrill-seekers and the press, who are all clustered in the chess circle across the street, annoying the die-hard chess fans who’ve braved the cold to come out and play.
“Some may recall last fall’s slayings of two young women in this very same dormitory,” the reporter intones, “a tragedy that has led some on campus to refer to the building as Death Dorm.”
I glance at Tom when the announcer says this. He presses his lips together, but otherwise says nothing.
Poor guy. His first professional gig out of grad school, and it has to be at Death Dorm. I mean, residence
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hall.
“This morning, Fischer Hall cafeteria workers arrived at work to make another grisly discovery: a human head in a pot on the school stove.”
This is met by a collective “EW!” by Tina and most of the rest of the students—not to mention a few administrators—gathered in the lobby to watch the broadcast. Tom actually groans and drops his face in his hands in anguish. Pete, the security officer, doesn’t look too happy, either.
“The head has been positively identified by grieving family members as belonging to New York College sophomore and varsity cheerleader Lindsay Combs,” the reporter goes on, as a photo of Lindsay fills the screen. It’s the photo that was taken the night she was crowned Homecoming Queen. Her smile is as dazzling as the tiara in her honey-colored hair. She’s dressed in white satin and holding a dozen red roses in her arms. Someone outside the frame of the photo had flung an arm around her shoulders and the tiara had tipped rakishly over one of Lindsay’s unnaturally green eyes. I seriously don’t understand why she thought this was a good look.
“According to witnesses, Lindsay was last seen yesterday evening. She left her room at approximately seven o’clock in the evening, telling her roommate she was going to a party. She never returned.”
This much we already knew. Cheryl had come by the office in tears earlier, heartbroken over what had befallen her friend—and roommate…a roommate she’d never even gotten a chance to swap midnight giggles or shots of Southern Comfort with, since Lindsay had been dead before Cheryl ever even moved in.
Lindsay’s original roommate, Ann, had taken the news a little less hysterically, and had been able to give the police their only lead…the one about the party. Of course, relations between Ann and Lindsay apparently not having been the best, the girl hadn’t been able to tell Detective Canavan WHICH party Lindsay had been going to…and Cheryl, incoherent with sobs, hadn’t been much help in that department, either. In fact, Tom had had one of the RAs escort Cheryl to Counseling Services, where she’s hopefully getting the help she needs to cope with her grief…and the fact that she’s pretty much guaranteed a single room for the rest of the year.