Grey Expectations (17 page)

‘I'm sure it wasn't anything you did.' Trista's thesis adviser, on the other hand, was a different matter. ‘She's had her hands full.'

‘Yeah.' Jerry looked sunken into his own misery. ‘And then for the police to hassle her.'

‘But they didn't. Unless—' She stopped short, and Jerry took a step or two more before he turned to face her. ‘Jerry, could it have been the city police who came to talk to Trista? I mean, that doesn't make sense.'

He shook his head. ‘Nah, it doesn't. If there was a murder – especially of a student – you'd think they'd involve the university police. At least they'd let them
know
, you know?'

‘Yeah.' Something buzzed around the edge of Dulcie's consciousness. Trista under pressure. Trista threatened. ‘You know, I could see Trista breaking down and crying. But I can't imagine her hallucinating a visit from the cops, Jerry. You know how Rogovoy was talking about identity theft? About hacking? What if someone is impersonating a police officer for some reason? What if that person wanted to scare Trista?'

Jerry paused, his face momentarily lightened. Then he shook his head, frowning. ‘It's just unlikely, Dulcie. You know, logically, “when you hear hoof beats, think of a horse, not a zebra”.'

Dulcie shrugged. She never understood that computer talk anyway, and they proceeded into the health services.

‘No, I'm sorry. No way.' The receptionist, a young man in button-down shirt, was losing his buttoned-down manner. ‘And if you keep on insisting, I will call security.'

‘All right.' Jerry put his hands up in surrender. ‘No need to get bent out of shape.'

‘We take patient confidentiality very seriously here.' After fifteen minutes of repeating the same line with numerous variations, the receptionist was looking a little crumpled, his pink face growing pinker up to the roots of his cropped blond hair. ‘You have to go.'

‘Gotcha.' Jerry backed up a step, and Dulcie grabbed his arm.

‘Jerry, no,' she whispered up to her friend. They had been standing by the long, white reception area since stepping into the center, but there was really nothing blocking their access to the bank of elevators farther in. Dulcie didn't even see any security guards. The young man had sounded like he was reading a script from the moment they'd asked about Trista, and so he had most likely simply advanced to the next page. Still, Dulcie didn't want Jerry to test that hypothesis.

Her hands firmly wrapped around Jerry's forearm, she pulled him away from the desk, more or less in the direction of the front door. He was too big for her to move by brute force. ‘Besides –' she had to convince him – ‘she probably isn't in here. You said so yourself, right? Trista's not crazy.'

Jerry glared. The receptionist picked up a phone and glared back. More bluff, probably – but Dulcie really didn't want to get into it. ‘Jerry!' She tugged at his arm. ‘Come on. This isn't going to get us anywhere.'

The logic of her words must have sunk in. Jerry snorted – there was no other word for it – and tossed his red bangs in the direction of the starched young man. Then he turned and led Dulcie out.

Once they were back on the plaza Dulcie could see how upset her friend was. ‘If only I knew,' he said, as much to himself as to her. He turned so the shade of the building hid his face. It didn't matter; she could hear the worry in his voice. ‘If only she had told me what was going on.'

Dulcie bit her lip. That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Trista hadn't told anyone what was going on – not really – and now they were left worrying.

As if on cue, Dulcie's phone rang. Jerry turned, his whole face lighting up, and Dulcie had to disappoint him. ‘Chris,' she mouthed to him as she answered.

‘Hey, sweetie,' Chris said. Her boyfriend sounded half asleep. It was a little past eleven and had turned bright and sunny, but he had probably only gotten home a few hours before. ‘What's up?'

Dulcie rolled her eyes and thought about how to respond. ‘Well, I'm here at the university health services with Jerry.' She paused, unsure how to phrase it in a way that wouldn't upset their mutual friend more. ‘Trista has gone missing, and, well, there's a chance that she might have checked herself in. Only, nobody will say anything. Patient confidentiality and all.'

‘Huh.' Her boyfriend was waking up. ‘Put him on, Dulce?'

She handed the phone to Jerry, who listened for a few moments and then turned away. Dulcie leaned against the wall and tried not to feel insulted. Jerry and Chris had been friends since freshman year. Plus, they were guys. In fact, if Chris took over, he'd be doing Dulcie a favor. It wasn't like her own life hadn't become more complicated recently. Besides, she did need to finish that essay. Now that her morning had been eaten up, she regretted not diving in when she'd had the chance. In fact  . . .

Dulcie was mulling over possibilities – OK, she was fantasizing about the reception her groundbreaking thesis would receive – when Jerry turned and held the phone out to her. ‘He wants to speak with you.'

It was in a much better mood that she took it. ‘So, you guys have a plan?'

‘Something like. He and I are going to hack her emails.' He must have heard her gasp. ‘I know, Dulcie. But, well, he's worried.'

Dulcie swallowed the comment she'd been about to make. In truth, she simply shouldn't have asked. Chris's confession had brought up a thought, though.

‘Chris, the police told me that there's been some identity theft – they think
I
might have been hacked.' She didn't want to ask. In truth, she wasn't sure what she would ask for.

Luckily, he did. ‘Do you want me to check your systems, sweetie? I could do that.'

‘Thanks, Chris.' She paused, not sure she wanted to know. ‘You know all my passwords, right?'

‘I'm not sure, but I'm willing to bet they all refer to a certain silver-hued feline.' She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Besides, Dulcie, I set up your security and, well, I'm guessing you haven't changed your passwords.'

‘I haven't,' she confessed. Typing in ‘MRGREY' each morning started her day off on such a good note. ‘I guess I was supposed to.'

‘Want me to do that for you, while I'm fooling around? We could update everything. Make them all “Esmé” or “Ms Esmé”.'

It was a reasonable suggestion. A smart one, even, but it hit Dulcie like a slap. ‘Oh, I don't know, Chris. I don't know if I'll be able to remember I changed them, and then it'll slow me down and I'll get all sorts of error messages.'

‘OK, sweetie. I'll leave them.' He knew she was lying. The nice part was he didn't seem to care. ‘Dinner tonight?'

‘I'll even cook.' They both knew that meant pasta, but that was OK. If Dulcie had learned anything from her friends' relationship, it was that sometimes predictability was a good thing.

TWENTY-FIVE

J
erry had the grace to look slightly abashed as he made his farewell.

‘Chris is going to help me,' he said with a shrug. They had moved into the sunny part of the plaza, and he shaded his eyes with his hand.

‘I hope it all works out.' She was happy enough not to be able to look him in the eyes. Hacking Trista's accounts was a major breach of her privacy, and she couldn't condone it. Then again, she did understand it – a little. Jerry was honestly worried. And Trista had been asking a lot of all her friends. Dulcie just didn't want to know any more than she had to. ‘Good luck.'

Watching him lope off toward the computer lab, Dulcie realized she hadn't yet decided how to order her day. That essay – that was key – and Dulcie could feel the weight of the blue-bound volume in her bag, its presence summoning her to read. She turned to follow Jerry into the Yard, enjoying the shade of an ancient beech tree. She slowed, watching the play of dappled shadow on the lawn. The day was turning hot, and it was pleasant to think how cool the depths of Widener would be. How inviting.

Rather like Trista's secret hideaway. The thought came unbidden, and for once Dulcie didn't think Mr Grey had any part in it. Her spectral pet would want her to get back to work, wouldn't he? Then again, he might want her to remove any unnecessary distractions first. Distractions that could seriously derail her career. Dulcie looked again at the lacing of shadows. There was little breeze, and the slight movement of their edges only rippled slightly against the grass. A shape appeared and faded. A passing cloud, most likely.

It was pointless. Dulcie knew from experience that even if Mr Grey appeared directly, he would be unlikely to advise her one way or another. He was always urging her to make her own decisions. To learn to cope on her own. The pang she had felt earlier returned, this time congealing in her throat like a stale dumpling. She swallowed and stepped out into the sun.

The blue ticket was the more pressing issue, she told herself. She needed to settle its mystery first, if she could. The decision calmed her, and she glanced back at the shadow with a warm glow of gratitude. Maybe she was learning, but it never hurt to have a little feline comfort.

That didn't help her with the next step, though. Without Trista around, where exactly could she turn for help uncovering the truth of the blue ticket?

From where she was standing, Dulcie could see the Widener steps. The sensible thing would be to go in – and go directly to the Mildon collection. After all, the blue tag in her bag was only the carbon. The rare book depository would undoubtedly have the original on file.

Then again, what if she ran into Coffin? The man scared her. Plus, he was looking for someone to blame. Dulcie liked to think of herself as a rational person, but every instinct in her body warned her off making herself vulnerable to the Mildon curator.

Thorpe! While physically less imposing than the large, mustachioed Coffin (physically less imposing than Esmé, Dulcie couldn't help adding), Martin Thorpe was her thesis adviser. He might not be able to protect her, but it was his job to advise her. And he probably knew more about the university bureaucracy than anyone else she could easily call.

If only he would step up for her  . . . but Gustav Coffin had clearly gotten to the balding scholar. ‘I'm sorry, Miss Schwartz. I really have no special insight into this matter.' She had reached him as she crossed the Yard, but when she explained her predicament, he had started stammering into the phone. ‘If you have – if you
think
you have – something that, uh, might put you in the Mildon, well, um  . . . ah  . . .'

‘I should go check the main register, right?' His fear should have been contagious. After all, he was faculty. Tenure track, even, with a departmental position. Strangely, it had the opposite effect. Maybe it was because a breeze had picked up, blowing Dulcie's hair into her face as she listened to his excuses and ruffling against her skin like cat fur brushing by. Maybe it was because she was already so close to the library – and so eager to just get this over with. Whatever the reason, as he dithered, she gained resolve. ‘Never mind, Mr Thorpe. I've got it.'

Flashing her ID to the guard, she stopped herself from taking her usual path – into the stacks, three floors down – and pressed the elevator button marked with an ‘M'. The Mildon was reachable through the stacks – its caged-off south-west corner could be seen from the more plebeian side of the underground labyrinth. But because of its rarities – or because of the VIP nature of its donors – it had its own entrance as well, one floor further down, and Dulcie stepped out of the car to see a gleaming white counter top, framed by an equally white and shining doorway.

‘Poseurs,' Dulcie muttered under her breath. She was overreacting, she knew that. The white surface was a lot prettier than the workaday metal grating and shelves that made up the majority of the stacks, but then, the Mildon collection probably garnered a larger share of donations than anything else here as well. Inside these walls was a ‘bad quarto', one of the earliest copies of Shakespeare's
Macbeth
; a fragment of papyrus, even if it only listed the contents of a shipment of grain; and, until recently, the Dunster Codex. That it also held
The
Wetherly Ghost
was probably of less importance to those big shots who usually used this pristine entrance. That thought gave Dulcie a little more courage as she walked up to the open counter, cleared her throat, and called loudly. ‘Hello?' She licked her lips. It was the air conditioning, certainly, that had made her mouth suddenly so dry. ‘Anyone?'

‘Coming!' A rustle from somewhere inside the brightly lit collection followed the voice. ‘One moment!'

She waited, curious as to what kind of dragon would be guarding this hoard of treasures, and was surprised to see a little man, barely her height, with glasses as large as his face. ‘May I help you?' The little mouse spoke with a voice both soft and warm.

‘Oh, thank you!' Dulcie jumped a bit in surprise. ‘I was thinking, maybe Professor Coffin would be here.'

‘Did you have an appointment?' The eyes, unnaturally large behind those huge lenses, scrunched up in concern.

‘No, I just thought  . . .' Dulcie felt herself smiling. This gatekeeper was much less threatening than she'd expected. ‘I was afraid I'd have to speak to him.'

‘Not here much.' The oversized glasses turned away, toward a pile of papers that evidently required neatening. ‘Only for appointments. And to escort visiting dignitaries, donors, and the like, of course.'

‘Of course.' Dulcie found herself agreeing. This was going to be so much easier than she had feared. ‘Perhaps you can help me, though?'

The glasses turned back. The eyes, Dulcie noticed, were brown. They blinked, and she realized they were waiting.

‘I found a blue tag, and I—' She paused. She hadn't really thought how to present all of this. ‘I don't have any recollection of when I was last here. I was wondering  . . .'