Killing Me Softly (11 page)

“Nice change of subject,” Bryan said, and then he walked away from her, right up to the directory that was mounted on the wall across from the entry doors, in between two elevators. He ran his finger along the first row, stopping at the name, reading aloud. “‘Professor Olivia Dupree—Room 317.'”

“I wasn't changing the subject.”

“Did you think I was going to be a monk while you were on the other side of the country? Did you think I'd just put life on hold and wait to see if you ever came back?”

“Of course not.” But she had done just that. And she was only now beginning to realize why. She'd been saving herself—for him. He was the only man she had ever wanted. And maybe she'd been punishing herself a little, too, for hurting him the way she had. And all the while, he'd been having sex with women he didn't even care for all that much.

She pressed the button on one of the elevators.

“Every time you mention Bette, you sound…pissed about it,” Bryan said softly.

The elevator doors slid open. “Maybe I am, a little.”
She stepped inside, turned and waited for him to join her.

He stared at her until the doors started to close, then stopped them with a foot and joined her. She hit the button, and they rode up to the third floor. “So
why
are you pissed?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe that's why she won't talk to you, Dawn. You ever think of that?”

She gazed up into his eyes, mulling that over as the elevator stopped and the doors trundled open. “No, it can't be that. It's not just her, it's all of them. I haven't seen a ghost since I've been back.”

A throat cleared, and they both turned, stunned. A woman stood just outside the elevator doors, apparently waiting for them to exit so she could board.

“Oh! Sorry.” Dawn grabbed Bryan's arm and hurried out of the elevator.

“No problem.”

The woman started to board, even as Dawn nodded toward the door on the opposite side of the hall. “Looks like she's not here.” The door bore the gold digits 317, and underneath them, a name plaque. But the door was closed and the glass pane dark.

“That's because she's there,” Bryan said, nodding toward the elevator.

The woman in the elevator stuck out a hand, holding the doors open. “You're looking for me?” she asked.

Dawn looked at her. “If you're Professor Dupree.”

“I am.” Sighing and glancing at her watch, she stepped out of the elevator, joining them in the hallway again. “I can give you ten minutes, assuming I can even help you at all. What's this about?”

“Bettina Wright,” Bryan said.

The woman's face went slack. It bore no expression, just stillness. As if she were a photograph. She was a brown-eyed brunette, her hair in a tight bun, with a hint of Latina in her blood, Dawn thought. She didn't look her age, not if she'd been a grad student sixteen years ago, when the original murders had taken place. She didn't look a day over thirty.

She seemed to reboot herself then, giving a jerky nod and moving to her office door, fumbling with her keys and finally opening it. She flicked on the lights and motioned them inside.

It was an office, but it smelled like a classroom. Ink and paper and chalk dust. There were faint traces of coffee scenting the air, as well. She moved behind her giant desk, pulled out the worn leather chair and sat down. Dawn thought that was a little formal. She would have just sat on the edge. They were only talking ten minutes, after all.

Bryan and Dawn sat in the comfy chairs that faced the desk. Bookshelves lined the office, all of them filled. Dawn scanned them, seeing several volumes in a row by the same author, a famous recluse named Aaron Westhaven. She'd heard of him but had never read him herself. She continued scanning, her eyes stopping on
a familiar title. Nick's book. Olivia had bought it in hardcover.

“So you're with the police?” the professor asked.

“He is. I'm just helping out.”

Professor Dupree met Dawn's eyes. “I heard they'd brought in a psychic. Didn't believe it until now.”

Dawn blinked. “I'm not a—”

“You read the article in the
Burlington Gazette?
” Bryan asked.

“I get my news from my iPhone. No time to read papers. No, this was just campus gossip. And then I overheard what you said about not seeing any ghosts.” She shrugged. “So are you two supposed to be undercover or what? Because really, those are terrible disguises.”

“We just need to ask you a few questions, and it won't take long,” Bryan said. “Did you know Bettina Wright?”

Sighing, she leaned back in her seat. “Of course I did. She was a student of mine.” She licked her lips. “Look, I've discussed this at length with Nick Di Marco. You
do
know who he is, right?”

“Of course we do,” Bryan said. “And I was aware he'd questioned you extensively about the original string of murders, but these new ones—”

“These?”
She rose from her desk chair, moving as if it wasn't entirely her own idea. “You mean there's more than just Bette?”

Bryan and Dawn exchanged a quick glance. “I'm
sorry. There was another, night before last. Nadine Burmeister.”

The professor lifted her hands to cover her mouth, almost as if an unwanted sound would have escaped if she hadn't. Dawn got up and went around the desk to put a hand on her shoulder. “I'm so sorry. We wouldn't have come if we knew you hadn't heard.”

“I took a sick day yesterday, and I only came in today to collect a few papers. I haven't paid any attention to the news. I just—I can't believe this is happening again.”

“So did you know Nadine, too?” Dawn asked.

Professor Dupree nodded hard. There were real tears brimming in her eyes. One even spilled over, and she dabbed it away. “She took one of my classes last semester. God, why didn't Nick tell me about this?”

From his chair, Bryan said, “You and Nick are…close?”

“Not like that.” She licked her lips, opened a desk drawer and pulled out a whiskey bottle. Without explanation or apology, she poured some into a tiny shot glass, then picked it up and downed it as Dawn and Bryan gaped.

“I teach psychology as well as English. He teaches criminology and criminal profiling,” Olivia Dupree said. “There's a lot of overlap. Especially in his class on serial killers, which is hugely popular here. We do a lot of lectures and workshops together. It's nothing more than that, but he would know I'd want to hear about this. He knew her, too.”

She blinked and looked at them. They were both still staring at the now-empty shot glass in her hand. “What?” she asked.

“Where did you get that shot glass?” Bryan asked. Dawn could hear the change in his voice.

“I don't know. I've had it for years. Honestly, I don't remember—why are you so…?” She looked at the glass, and her eyes widened as she saw the scythe and the bleeding rose that were painted on its side. Her hand went lax, and the glass fell. “No, no, no, this isn't mine,” she said, even as the glass hit the floor. It didn't break, just thudded on the carpet. The professor backed up a step, staring at it. “Mine's got a cactus and a roadrunner on it.” She stared at the glass, her eyes seeming haunted. “He's been here. He's been in my office, hasn't he?”

Bryan got to his feet, grabbed a pencil from a cup on her desk, then crouched down and used the pencil to pick up the shot glass. “Have you got a Baggie or—”

“Yes, yes.” She yanked open one drawer after an other, finally locating a large envelope and holding it open for him. He dropped the shot glass inside. “What does this mean?”

“I don't know,” Bryan said.

“Do you think I'm in danger? Do you think I could be next on this maniac's list? Do you—”

“I don't know,” Bryan said again. “But I'm curious to know how you knew about Nightcap leaving glasses like that behind as a calling card. The book intentionally kept that quiet.”

She met his eyes, her own stony. Then they shifted to something behind them.

All three of them snapped their heads toward the door, where Nick Di Marco had entered quietly and now stood there shaking his head. “Bryan, Dawn, good to see you again.”

Dawn was so tense she thought her jaw might snap. “Nick. What are you doing here?”

“Came to tell Olivia about Nadine.” He held out a hand. “Mind if I take that?”

The professor came around the desk, wobbly in her pumps, and handed him the envelope with the shot glass inside. “Nick, I swear to God, I never saw that before. The last time I used my shot glass, it
was
my shot glass. I don't know how that got into my desk.”

Nick nodded as if he'd never once suspected otherwise. “When
was
the last time you used your shot glass, Olivia?” he asked.

“The day I found out Bette had been killed—and that it looked like Nightcap, even though he's dead. He
is
dead, isn't he, Nick?”

“Yeah. This is probably a copycat.”

“Is he targeting me?”

“No, he's targeting her,” he said with a nod toward Dawn. “And trying to frame him,” he added, with an identical nod toward Bryan. “Which is why these two are wearing those lame-ass getups. You, Olivia, are not in any danger.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You don't have the look. You used to, when your
hair was lighter, the first time around, but you've let your hair go back to its natural color now. None of the victims have been olive-skinned, not even a little. And they've all been in their early to mid-twenties. Frankly, you're too old, Liv.”

“Never thought I'd be glad to hear a man tell me that,” she said softly. “But the girls had both taken one of my classes. Nick, this killer is targeting girls I know.”

“Girls
I
know,” Nick said. “You just happen to know them, too.”

“I knew them all the first time, too, though,” she said. “You didn't even work here then. You didn't teach here then. Nick, why is he going after girls I know?”

“The first time he went after students here. You were a student here.”

“I know.”

“The first victim was—”

“I
know.
” She held up a hand to make him stop talking. “Please.”

“Look, Liv, if it's a new guy, a copycat, he'll stick to the M.O. of the original Nightcap Strangler, so you're safe. And if it's the same guy—”

“Or the same guy's ghost,” she whispered with an odd look at Dawn.

Nick made a “that's ridiculous” face and went on. “If it's the same guy—which I don't see how it can be—he would've killed you a long time ago if he'd wanted to. He didn't. So again, you're safe.”

“Then why did he leave the shot glass?”

“I don't know. I'll turn it in, we'll see if there are prints or anything and I'll let you know if—”

He was interrupted by a tap on the open office door. “Olivia, I—oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt,” said the short, round man with the bald head and wire-rimmed bifocals. “Hello, Nick.”

“Hey, Jim.” Nick glanced at Bryan and Dawn but apparently decided to skip the introductions. “Olivia needs a ride home,” he said to the newcomer. “Why don't you take her in that monstrosity you call an SUV? Liv, I'm gonna send an officer over to check on you tonight, okay? I'll have them keep an eye on your place, and on you, until this animal is off the streets. But in the meantime, I need your office key, and, uh, you probably won't be able to use it for a few days. We'll need to get a team in here, go over things. You know the drill.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Nick. Just let me gather up a few things.” She took a canvas bag from the coat-rack just inside her office door and gathered up folders, books, papers. She vanished into a room off to one side that might have been a closet or storage area, and finally returned, apparently ready to go. She stretched out a hand to shake Dawn's. “I'm sorry I couldn't be more help.”

Dawn took her hand to shake it and felt the little scrap of paper in Olivia's palm. She slid her palm over the other woman's, taking it and closing her fist around it so no one else would see. “I'm sorry we brought you such bad news.”

“Be safe,” Olivia said, and then she took her brief case and left the office with Jim.

Nick waited until Olivia and Jim were on the elevator, then faced the two fugitives. “I knew you'd show up here to question Liv.”

“How?” Bryan asked.

Nick tipped his head to one side. “It's what I would've done. You're a good cop. You're looking to solve this thing. You found a common denominator—Olivia. And so you came to talk to her.”

“So why didn't the rest of the department figure that out?” Bryan asked.

Nick lowered his eyes. “The rest of the department are operating under the assumption that you're a suspect evading arrest. To me, you're a cop trying to solve a case. Big difference.”

“Nick, we can't go back,” Dawn said. “They'll arrest Bryan.”

“Even more so now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Nick shrugged. “Bryan's here and the killer's calling card shows up at the same time. It doesn't look good.”

“Do you have to tell them that?”

Nick grimaced, looked away, then faced them again. “
She's
gonna tell 'em. And if they ask her, she'll ID you, Bryan.” He slanted a look at Dawn. “And
you.
Why don't you just paint a big bull's-eye on your forehead?”

She lowered her head, feeling guilty as hell.

Bryan wasn't so easily distracted. “Nick, how sure are you about this Olivia Dupree?”