Grey Expectations (27 page)

She stood up. Rogovoy hadn't said much, but she trusted him. He knew about those horrible men now, and he'd be on their trail. But he was wrong when he had said there was nothing else she could do. Trista was her friend, and Dulcie still possessed some specialized knowledge that the large detective had lacked. Dulcie wasn't getting anything done in the library. That didn't mean she couldn't try to track down her friend.

After being extra courteous to the guard, Dulcie retraced her own steps out the back entrance. She'd been heading to the right – after the blonde girl – when Rogovoy had grabbed her. The elusive undergraduate still seemed like her best shot at figuring what was going on. Rollie knew her, clearly, and Dulcie was pretty sure that the girl had recognized Dulcie, too. Else why did she leave so precipitously? And the resemblance between her and Dulcie's missing friend was uncanny.

It wasn't much, but it was the best she could think of. At least it was better than beating herself up about another lost woman, two hundred years' gone.

Dulcie started walking, trying to figure out where the girl could have been heading. At the same time, she pulled out her phone. Trista's voicemail was now full, no surprise considering the number of messages Dulcie figured she and Jerry had put on it. And when she tried Jerry's cell that answered with a message also.

Maybe the universe was trying to tell her something. She clicked through to her own unplayed voicemail. Sure enough, multiple messages from Chris and from Detective Rogovoy confirmed their concern – and her own inattentiveness – and Dulcie silently promised to make up for her carelessness toward her boyfriend. He had been truly scared. Besides, she wasn't sure he had been right, that Mr Grey would have appeared to warn him, had she been in real danger. She thought of the vision she had been given of the great grey cat and the squirrel – a warning disguised as a memory. Her spectral pet had been there for her then, showing her how she could save herself. In the past, he had even intervened directly, throwing his ethereal self into the mix. Why would he have gotten Chris involved at all?

Silly question, she realized.
She
had brought the lanky young man into their lives. She should be happy the feline spirit connected with him. After all, she didn't mind sharing Esmé.

Esmé. That kitten was a handful, but Dulcie had begun to recognize the inevitable. The little cat had her own personality. She had such personality, in fact, that when Dulcie heard a young woman's voice, she started. Esmé had never sounded quite like that.

But, no, the voice was coming from her phone. A more recent message, from – she checked – an unknown number. Quickly, Dulcie hit ‘replay' and, this time, paid attention.

‘Hi, I'm sorry,' the message began, with no preamble. ‘I shouldn't have run, but the library and everything – it's just gotten so complicated. Look, I'm walking toward the Commons now. You know that statue of Lincoln? I'll go there. I'll hang out as long as I can. Just don't bring that cop, OK?'

That was it. Not that Dulcie needed any more. The voice was female, and it sounded scared.

FORTY-FOUR

T
he Cambridge Common used to be the grazing ground for the city's first inhabitants. Back when the settlement was called ‘New Town', the common must have been all grass, Dulcie figured. Now, a scattering of trees shaded one end of what had become a city park. At the far end, a baseball diamond and an open field hosted what seemed to be overlapping games. But the bronze and marble edifice she was heading for stood somewhere in between, half in the lengthening shadows of the trees, but far enough back from the street to have a sense of privacy.

Dulcie hadn't paused once she'd heard the call. It had come in more than ten minutes earlier, and if the blonde – and it had to be her – lost her nerve, Dulcie didn't know if she'd get another chance.

Phone in hand, she half walked, half trotted back across the Yard, pausing only to dial Chris's number. ‘Hi, sweetie. Guess what?' She tried for nonchalance, even as her breathing became ragged. ‘That girl – the Trista lookalike? – she called,' Dulcie said to his voicemail. ‘I'm meeting her on the Common.' She owed him that much.

Rogovoy would probably want a call, too, she figured. But by the time she hung up from Chris, she was at Mass Ave, and the light was blinking. Racing across, she had no time to look at her phone. Besides, she told herself, it would probably all amount to nothing. She was meeting a young student, another woman, in a public place. If she got something from it, well, maybe it would help repair her reputation. Dulcie didn't like the idea that she wanted to impress Rogovoy. Still, the idea was poking around her consciousness as she race-walked into the park.

And saw  . . . nobody. ‘Just as well I didn't call,' said Dulcie, as much to herself as to the bronze Lincoln. ‘That would have made me really seem like an amateur.'

She looked over at the statue, standing in the middle of the ungainly marble edifice. Was this really the best the city could do? Dulcie was hit by the suspicion that the memorialized president was supposed to be bigger. Only after this life-size statue was delivered, she decided, had the city fathers decided to make a grander showing, surrounding the figure with all these marble pillars. City mothers would have left well enough alone.

Considering his dour expression, Lincoln seemed to agree. For a split second, she thought he was turning toward her. Then she realized, no, she was seeing through the memorial's central arch. Someone was on the other side, almost hidden by the statue. Dulcie shook her head at her own foolishness. She'd forgotten how ornate the ridiculous monument was. As the shadows lengthened, it was easy to miss one slight figure on the other side.

‘Halloo!' she shouted once and started to wave. She caught herself in time. This woman was scared; she would want Dulcie to be discreet. Luckily, Dulcie was still too near the busy street for her call to have been out of place. For all anyone knew, she was hailing a bus. Chastened, Dulcie started toward her at a quick but careful pace. Just another commuter cutting through the Common on her way home.

The statue, she realized, was larger than it looked, and it took her a good thirty seconds to get around to its other side. When she did, she was alone. Had her eyes played tricks on her? She peered back across the wrought-iron fence and through the encircling marble pillars. Lincoln was still there, but no slight female figure. Perhaps the girl had assumed Dulcie wasn't coming. Maybe she'd simply had a change of heart.

‘Great,' Dulcie said to no one but the sparrows. ‘She was the one lead I had.'

The sparrows didn't answer, but just as Dulcie was about to give up, she heard a soft flutter. Two mourning doves, spooked by something, had begun their whirring ascent. Dulcie turned to watch, wondering what had caused them to take flight, when she saw it – another movement, back in a thicket of maples. Their wide leaves had shadowed the little copse, a precursor of the dusk to come. Only yards from the road – maybe twenty feet from the statue – it was an oasis of darkness.

So the girl had stayed, retreating into the shadows. Did she not trust Dulcie? Or was someone else waiting for her, too? Slowly, all senses on alert, Dulcie walked toward the trees.

‘Hello?' she called, more softly this time. In response, the slight figure stepped forward. It was the blonde, and she raised one hand in a tentative greeting as she took a step out of the shadows.

But before she could proceed further, another figure appeared, cutting her off. As Dulcie watched, the second person – a man – threw the slight girl against a tree. Dulcie froze, aghast, and reached for her phone.

‘I don't
have
it,' the girl shouted, while Dulcie punched in numbers. ‘I never did.'

Dulcie looked up to see the girl being grabbed, being shaken.

‘Rogovoy.' The detective sounded tired, but Dulcie had no time to explain.

‘Detective, it's Dulcie. I'm in the Common. There's something happening. Please come quickly.' She snapped the phone shut before the cop could tell her to leave it to him and crept forward, determined to intercede if she could.

‘—don't know what you're talking about.' The man was going on about something. ‘You're talking nonsense.'

Could this be a domestic dispute? A private matter? Dulcie toyed with the phone, and with the idea of calling Rogovoy back, then decided against it. Whatever was going on, it didn't call for a large man to grab a woman by the arm and shake her.

‘Hey, stop it!' Dulcie stepped forward. Rogovoy had to be on his way, but she couldn't just stand here and watch this. ‘You – over there – cut it out!'

The girl turned, pulling away from the man, and stepped into a gap between the trees. Her face, suddenly in the sunlight, looked so much like Trista's that Dulcie gasped. Her gasp turned to a small cry as the man reached forward to grab his victim – and Dulcie recognized him as one of the two who had interrogated her. Harris. The bigger one.

‘Dulcinea Schwartz.' The sound of her name made her jump, but the voice was coming from deep in the copse. As she watched, Harris and the girl turned. It was Read, coming forward with an evil smirk that made Dulcie remember those oversized, fang-like teeth. And what he said made Dulcie's head spin.

‘When will you quit talking nonsense and save yourself? We don't care about some old rag. We want our money, Schwartz. And we know where you live.'

Dulcie stood frozen to the spot. Read wasn't talking to her. He was talking to the blonde girl, and Dulcie watched, mouth gaping, as he advanced toward her, a large knife in his hand.

FORTY-FIVE

‘
A
t least you helped her get away.' Chris was trying to cheer her up, Dulcie knew that. But all she could conjure was a faint smile as she squeezed his hand. They were sitting in the back of a university police cruiser, one of two that had shown up, sirens wailing, causing the two men to flee in one direction – and the young blonde in another. ‘You might have saved her life.'

‘Maybe.' Dulcie couldn't get that last scene out of her mind. She had been so sure she was about to witness something horrible. Something that somehow or other involved her. ‘I just don't understand it, any of it,' she said as she kept replaying it. ‘He called her by my name, and I don't even know who she is.'

‘Jessica Wachovsky.' Rogovoy climbed into the front seat. ‘She's a junior. I've sent someone to her room, though who knows if she'll be going back there.' He looked up from his notes. ‘I have been looking into this, you know.'

‘And I appreciate it.' Dulcie tried to summon more enthusiasm. ‘If your guys hadn't shown up then  . . .'

‘You could have called earlier, you know. Like when she first got in touch.' Rogovoy had already taken her statement, but had asked her to stay while he spoke with the two uniformed cops who had been first on that scene. He'd already sent one car racing up Garden Street, following the direction the two men had taken. The other cop was now talking to some passers-by, probably trying to pick up a trail. ‘Lucky for us, you found time to call your boyfriend and he had the common sense to contact us.'

‘It wasn't luck.' She ducked her head. ‘I just didn't want to be crying wolf.'

‘Huh.' The detective had a laugh that sounded like a cough. ‘Ms Schwartz, I don't think Little Red Riding Hood had anything on you.'

Beside her, Chris opened his mouth to complain, but Dulcie squeezed his hand. The detective might have his parables confused, but he did have a point.

‘OK, then.' The detective closed his pad. ‘I'm going to ask Officer Denny to drive you two home. Where I hope you will have a very quiet evening.' From the emphasis he put on the last three words, Dulcie knew this was more than a suggestion.

‘It has been a day, Dulce.' Chris pulled her close, and she allowed herself to collapse against him.

‘Were you able to get any work done?' She looked up at him.

He shrugged. ‘I was kind of useless during the tutorial and then, well, my concentration hasn't been the best.' He touched her cheek. ‘You've kind of shaken me up, you know?'

‘I know. I'm sorry.' She leaned against his hand, thinking. When she looked up again, she sounded determined. ‘You should go back to work tonight.'

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

‘You took last night off. Jerry is probably a wreck, right? And I'll be home. I'll be OK. In fact, I'll feel better about everything if I know that I'm not destroying your entire schedule.'

‘If you're sure  . . .'

‘I am.' She settled into his arms. ‘But you can go out for dumplings first. I think this week merits another round.'

During the ride home, Chris filled her in on Jerry's dilemma. Thanks to Rogovoy's urging, he said, the police had been willing finally to take a report about Trista's disappearance. But because Trista was an adult, it didn't sound like they could
do
anything, besides keep an eye out.

‘One more day,' Chris told her. ‘So, yeah, he is climbing the walls.'

She digested this in silence and found her eyes closing.

‘Come on, dream girl,' she heard Chris say and realized the cruiser had pulled up in front of the apartment. ‘I'd carry you if I could.'

‘I'm awake.' Dulcie sat up with a start, in time to hear the cop in the front seat chuckle. She thanked him anyway and let Chris help her out.

‘I can't believe I conked out like that,' she said as they climbed the stairs.

He gave her a look. ‘Dulcie, if this wasn't the longest day of your life, I wouldn't want to see what is.'

She nodded. ‘That reminds me, I should call Lucy. She was hoping we'd be out for the solstice.'

‘Maybe you should give yourself the night off?' He unlocked the door. ‘Deal with your mother tomorrow?'