Consider the Crows (6 page)

“Maybe running away from something.”

“Uh-huh.” Susan knelt, unzipped the sleeping bag, turned it inside out, checked beneath it. “This isn't right. She's got a phone.” Susan lifted the receiver and listened to the dial tone. “Where are the phone bills? Gas bills? She had gas, electricity.” Susan switched on the lamp, then rose, took two steps to the corner by the small window and looked out.

A red squirrel skittered along the tree branches outside. “She had a job, that means a paycheck. No checking account? And if she used cash, where is it? She had $9.47 in her wallet. No credit cards. Okay, she might not have any credit cards, but where's all this other stuff?”

“McKinnon, maybe?” Parkhurst rocked forward, got to his feet and handed her a hardbound book, cover open. “Julie Kalazar” was written on the flyleaf.

“Ah, our vice-chancellor's daughter.” Susan closed the cover and read the title.
Theory of Probability.

“Egersund teaches the class, if that means anything,” Parkhurst said.

In the living room, he studied the brightly colored posters thumbtacked to walls splotched with damp spots. Behind the shabby gold chair, a coffee can brimmed with rainwater from a leak in the roof.

Susan couldn't see anything liveable about this house; even a working furnace, welcome as that would be, wouldn't do a whole lot. A guitar case lay by the Franklin stove and she knelt to open it. Guitar inside. Big surprise. She lifted it out and found a snapshot, facedown. She flipped the snapshot, then picked it up. “Well.”

“What?”

She handed it to him. “Somebody we know?”

He grinned. “I do believe we have here a picture of Dr. Carena Egersund. Didn't she tell us she barely knew Lynnelle Hames?” He tapped the photo gently with a fingernail. “Taken some years back. I wonder who the kid is.”

“Why would Lynnelle have a cozy picture of Egersund and kid tucked in with her guitar?”

Parkhurst looked at the snapshot like a hawk thoughtfully taking notice of a chicken wandering into view. “I will ask.”

“Rouse somebody in personnel at Emerson and look at Lynnelle's file. Damn, it's Sunday. That's going to slow everything down. We've got nowhere to go here.”

Irritated, she picked up the full coffee can, dumped it in the kitchen sink and set it back in its original place. “What have we got? Driver's license issued in Oklahoma. License plates on the car, ditto.”

With both hands, she brushed hair back from her face. “Nothing we can do with that until tomorrow. First thing in the morning get a registration check from Department of Motor Vehicles and put through an inquiry to Department of Licensing. In the meantime, check Missing Persons. Maybe something will turn up there. And get started on the paperwork. We'll need to see phone company records, Kansas Power and Light, talk to somebody at the post office and find out if she's got a bank account.”

He waited impassively. She didn't need to tell him all this; he knew it.

“I'll look at her personnel files right away,” he said.

“You'll need a subpoena.” That required a signature from the county district attorney. And that took time.

Parkhurst shook his head. “Oh, I don't think so. I'll get along to Mildred Makem. She's worked personnel at Emerson since the first brick was laid. She'll be delighted.”

Susan stared at him. Once again, she was learning small towns were different. In San Francisco, she'd be cooling her heels until all the right papers, duly signed, were in her hands. She'd known cops who did a search first, and if they found anything, then applied for a search warrant and went through it all again. She liked to keep investigations clean; it avoided problems when it came to arrest and trial.

“It ought to show next of kin,” he said. “Previous employment. And social security number.”

“Yeah,” she said. Although Social Security was notoriously slow and difficult to get information from. All those privacy laws. “Let me know what you find.” She stuck the math textbook in her shoulder bag and set off for the Kalazar residence.

And it was a residence, as opposed to simply a house.

She knew Audrey Kalazar only in the way a good police chief knows the important people in town, and the vice-chancellor was never a woman to underestimate her importance. In other words, a certain amount of kowtowing was necessary. Keith Kalazar, a writer of some note, received celebrity status. Hampstead didn't have many celebrities. His books were of the life-is-grim, human-relationships-are-destructive variety; quite good books, actually.

The house was a two-story red brick with a row of white columns across the front, terraced grounds and flower beds waiting for spring flowers. She trudged up steps lined with cement urns and poked the doorbell. Chimes echoed away inside.

Keith Kalazar answered the door; a man straight out of central casting. Send us a writer. Late forties, brown hair and well-trimmed beard with a tasteful touch of gray, fawn jacket with leather elbow patches, pipe in hand. He looked distracted, as though she'd interrupted him in the midst of creation; maybe writers—like cops—worked on Sundays.

“Chief Wren. Is something wrong?”

She was a little surprised he knew her. She'd met him once or twice at town functions where Audrey was involved and he was always in the background; soft-spoken, rather vague and seemed a spectator in life rather than a participant. He must be more observant than she thought. “I'm sorry to interrupt you. I won't take long.”

“When it's not going right, writers seize any chance at interruption.” He led her into a large living room so immaculate it was intimidating; dark walnut floors, walnut tables, ivory rugs with beige borders. She perched on an ivory couch and hoped she wouldn't leave a crease, or, God forbid, a smudge.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“If you've come to see Audrey, you're out of luck, I'm afraid. She's off to some conference.” He stood with his back to French doors that opened onto a wide porch and an expanse of winter-brown grass with a pedestal birdbath in the exact center.

“It's Julie I need to see.”

“Why?” His attention sharpened.

“A young woman has been killed—”

“Who?” He left his spot by the door and dropped into a wingbacked chair.

“Lynnelle Hames. Did you know her?”

He shook his head as he searched through pockets, found a book of matches, struck one and took a long time puffing on the pipe with the lit match held over the bowl. “What happened to her?”

“We don't know yet. Where can I find Julie?”

“Why Julie?” The words were heavy with worry.

“Just a few questions,” she said calmly. “Lynnelle was a friend. I'm surprised you didn't know her.”

“I may have met her. Kids seem to be in and out all the time. Sometimes I lose track.”

Susan, nodding understandingly, wondered why he was reluctant to tell her where his daughter was. Parental protectiveness or something more? “Where is Julie?” she repeated smoothly, as if she were prepared to go on asking, all day if that's what it took. She watched him hesitate.

He puffed on the pipe, then said, “On campus. Studying. At the library.”

As she opened the door of the pickup, she glanced up at the house and saw a curtain flick in a second-floor window. Making sure she left? She dropped down to Ridgefield and set off for campus. As she drove past Erle's Market, she spotted Sophie nipping inside. Susan made a left, parked the pickup in the lot and entered the store from the rear, wandered up and down aisles looking for Sophie.

“Chief Wren.” The mayor's wife pinched an anemic-looking tomato and put it back. “We're not at all pleased.”

I'm not at all surprised. Murder usually doesn't please anyone. Except the perpetrator.

Mrs. Bakover, a thin woman with artfully applied makeup and a sculptured hairdo that looked ten minutes old, waited for a reply. Susan complied. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Those college girls came to see me yesterday with another application.”

Oh. That. Mrs. Mayor obviously hadn't been listening to the local radio station.

“They claimed you told them they were entitled to a booth at the fair.”

“It's to raise money for the Helping Hand Fund, right? They simply want to help.”

“They'd better have something
hand
made, I can tell you that.” Mrs. Bakover fingered the strand of pearls resting on her beige sweater. “I hope you're prepared for trouble because trouble there's bound to be.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You mark my words. Information on AIDS.” She looked highly indignant. “At the fair!”

“It could prevent someone from contracting the disease and the Helping Hand could then help someone else.”

Mrs. Bakover sniffed and went back to selecting tomatoes. Not finding Sophie anywhere, Susan bought two slightly green bananas—not because ripe ones weren't available but because she only liked them green—and ate them while she drove to the campus.

*   *   *

Emerson College, with its mixture of modern glass and steel and old creamy limestone buildings, sprawled over and around small hills thick with trees and crisscrossed with pathways. On a knoll overlooking Pauffer Lake, a bronze statue of Josiah Hampstead gazed benignly into the distance. He'd come here in 1856 when Kansas was still a territory, laid claim to all the land he could see and built the gristmills that made him wealthy; mills famous for their ability to grind fifteen bushels of corn per hour. A free-stater, he was engaged in the bloody conflicts with pro-slavery men. The town was named after him, and he'd donated the land for the college.

She parked in the faculty lot, almost empty on Sunday afternoon. Heavy black clouds roiled overhead and one or two fat raindrops splotched across the windshield. The campanile bells chimed the hour and then struck four times. No wonder she was starving.

Turning up the collar of her trenchcoat, she strode along a path in the direction of the library. A student, huddled inside a hooded blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the glittery snarling wildcat, came toward her, muttering grimly to himself. “A equals F over M equals Wt minus R over M.
Remember
if R equals Wt then A equals O.”

Right. I'll try to remember that. For all she knew he might be reciting the formula for a bomb. She trotted up the black marble steps of Keller Library, entered the hushed atmosphere of higher learning and scouted around for Julie. The long wooden tables were clotted with students, heads bent over books, scribbling away in notebooks. One young man lifted his head, stared at her, then darted a guilty look at his backpack. Oh ho, carrying around an illegal substance? It wasn't until she reached the top floor that she spotted Julie in the stacks.

“We can't,” Julie, in blue jeans and a man's white shirt with the shirttail hanging almost to her knees, was whispering fiercely to a young Hispanic male in an Emerson sweatshirt.

“Why?” He had his hands in his back pockets and a scowl on his handsome face.

“Because.” She put an imploring hand on his wrist.

He shrugged it off and brushed past her, stalking around Susan without a glance.

“Nick—” Julie turned and spotted Susan. “Oh— Chief Wren—” Surprise and dismay flickered in her hazel eyes.

“I'd like to speak with you for a few minutes, Julie.”

“Oh. Well.” She looked at Susan a shade frantically. “Sure. I guess.” She shoved hair behind one ear, rapidly blinking back tears.

“Let's go across to the student union. I'll buy you some coffee.”

Sprinkles of rain fell as they headed up the path to the union, one of the newer buildings, a row of glass doors along the front. They went down a flight of stairs to the coffee shop, rather cutely called the Cat's Cradle, in the basement. A snarling gold-painted cat, two feet high, crouched just inside the door.

The place was crowded with students; the babble of voices and clatter of crockery made the noise level just beyond bearable. This may not have been the best choice, Susan thought. Blue banners picturing the snarling cat hung on the red brick walls. The air felt steamy with the odor of brewed coffee and damp wool and frying grease. The almost palpable energy emanating from all these kids made her want to sigh. Had she ever been this young and fresh-faced? She bought coffee for herself, cinnamon tea for Julie, and they worked around to a far corner where they managed to snag a table.

“Who were you talking to?” She asked Julie when they were seated.

“Nick. Nick Salvatierra. A friend.”

Uh-huh, Susan thought.

Julie hunched her shoulders and busied herself dunking the tea bag in the mug of hot water. “He's in my calculus class.”

Susan took a sip of bitter coffee and studied the girl's bent head. She was attractive, with a wholesome, scrubbed appearance, and at the moment very worried about something.

Julie glanced up, caught Susan's gaze and sat straight. “So. What did you want to ask me?”

Susan pulled the textbook from her bag and slid it across the table.

Julie grabbed it and dropped it in her lap. “Where'd you find it?”

“Lynnelle's house.”

A deep flush spread across Julie's cheeks, tears welled in her eyes. “I heard about that. What happened?”

“I don't know yet. How did your textbook get out there?”

Julie rubbed the back of a finger across her eyes, then fiddled with the spoon, smoothing the ball of her thumb in the bowl. “We were friends.”

“She wasn't a student.”

“That doesn't mean we couldn't be friends,” Julie retorted.

“Of course not.” Nevertheless, it was unusual. Students made friendships among themselves and seldom went outside their own circle. “Has somebody suggested otherwise? Nick maybe?”