Final Exam Page 4

  I took the hint and straightened up. “Right. Sure.”

  “Better yet, meet me at my car.”

  We reconnected a few minutes later, after he had finished up with Fred and the uniformed cops. I didn’t know what shape my room would be in when I got back, but from experience, I did know that every square inch of space would be covered with fingerprint powder. Crawford and I went over what we knew about the situation after we were seated at Hop Sing, our favorite Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood.

  Crawford ordered a beer and I asked for a Blazing Dragon. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Blazing Dragon? I’ve never seen you order one of those before.”

  “It’s rum, cranberry, coconut, lighter fluid, and rubbing alcohol,” I said, dipping a cracker into duck sauce. “It comes in a fancy glass with an umbrella and it’s just what the doctor ordered.” I crammed a few more crackers into my mouth. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until we sat down in the restaurant. Almost every table in the cramped space was filled and the din of hungry eaters made it so we had to yell across the table at each other. “I need you to find out if anyone put in a missing persons on Wayne Brookwell.”

  “Whoa!” Crawford called, a little too loudly even for the current noise conditions. A couple of diners looked over at him and he quickly composed himself. “Can you wait until I get my beer before you start hammering me?”

  “Sorry.”

  He looked around and pulled at his collar; he wasn’t wearing a tie so he didn’t have his usual security blanket to tug on. “And I already did,” he said, smiling slyly when he saw my surprised expression. “No missing persons. No forwarding address. No record of him at DMV, except that he’s got a New York State license. The guy’s gone and it’s going to take a miracle for us to find him.”

  I watched as the waiter approached our table carrying a tray with Crawford’s beer and my drink, which was delivered in a bright blue ceramic glass with a dragon’s face protruding from it. I took a long swig; it tasted exactly like what I had described, with a lingering taste of lighter fluid remaining long after my first sip. “What about other Brookwells? Any Mama Brookwells? Daddy Brookwells? Brookwell sibs? Where’s this guy from?”

  Crawford drained almost half of his beer before he answered. “Scarsdale.”

  “Scarsdale? Like in not-quite-fifteen-miles-from-here Scarsdale?” I was surprised. I didn’t expect the Brookwell family manse to be quite so close. That was convenient.

  The waiter returned and we ordered enough food for four people; investigative toilet work apparently makes you hungry. “And another Blazing Dragon!” I called after the waiter, who gave me a knowing smile. The first few sips were deadly, but after that the drink went down rather smoothly. Our waiter seemed to know that.

  “Take it easy,” Crawford said. “You don’t want to drink too much before going on a stakeout.”

  I clapped my hands together excitedly. “We’re staking out? We’re going on a stakeout?” I asked. I had never been on a stakeout and had been envious that Crawford got to do it on a regular basis. It never occurred to me that they were deadly boring and didn’t come with portable johns.

  “I figured we’d take a ride over to Wayne’s family home to see what’s what. I don’t think we’ll stay there all night but we could hang out for a few hours and see if anything comes up.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, finishing off my drink.

  The waiter delivered a few plates of food and we dug in. Crawford speared a dumpling with his chopstick and pointed it at me. “Listen.”

  Whenever he starts a sentence like that, I’m going to get admonished. I made a face. “What?”

  “I know you’re going to ask around campus about this guy, but you need to be inconspicuous.”

  I nearly spat out my pork fried rice. “Inconspicuous?” I’m five feet ten in stocking feet with a mane of frizzy auburn hair. It’s not like I can blend.

  “Yes. Inconspicuous.” He ate his dumpling. “You know, make it so you’re not actually poking around when you really are.”

  I saluted him. “Got it, chief.” I polished off the rice on my plate and helped myself to more. “What are you going to be doing while I’m inconspicuously poking around?”

  “Nothing.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve already done a little poking, but it’s not our case. Narcotics will take over because of the heroin, obviously, but until we find a dead Wayne Brookwell,” he said, “which I’m hoping we don’t, I’m not involved. I got the address, reached out to DMV, but I’m done. There’s nothing more that I can do.”

  “So you’re prepared to lead the life of a celibate?” I asked, thinking ahead to my many months, and possibly years, of servitude as a dry, chaste resident director. Because if we didn’t find Wayne Brookwell—and entice him to come back to his job—I was stuck there for as long as Etheridge and Merrimack drew out the interviewing process. And with their energies focused on the construction of the new dorm across the campus from Siena, finding a new RD to replace me was not a top priority.

  He looked at me as if to say, “What do you think?” “I told you that I would help you but I deal with dead bodies, not missing ones.”

  “So I’m on my own?”

  “Yes and no.”

  The rest of our food arrived and I helped myself to some General Tso’s chicken. “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll know if you need me. And I’ll help you as long as it’s legal,” he said, giving my arm a little jab with his chopstick. He knew, from experience, that my definition of legal often didn’t jibe with the standard one.

  “Hey!” I said, rubbing my arm. “I get it.” I forked some food into my mouth and chewed quickly, washing down the rest with my Blazing Dragon. “Okay,” I said, wiping my mouth, “let’s go to the Brookwells’.”

  He was still working on his plate of food and second beer. “I’m not done.”

  I was antsy. “I want to start the stakeout.”

  “Let me finish eating. Use the restroom before we go because I don’t want you complaining that you have to pee while we’re sitting there.”

  “I’ll just do what you do if I have to go.”

  “No,” he said, getting up and taking me by the elbow, “you won’t. Trust me.” He pushed me in the direction of the restroom at the back of the restaurant.

  I passed the kitchen and saw a group of white-uniformed cooks flinging ingredients around with abandon, some of them ending up in woks, the others on the floor. My cell phone, in my front jeans pocket, simultaneously trilled and vibrated, startling me. I let out a little cry, attracting the attention of some of the other diners. “Hello?”

  It was Kevin. One advantage to being assigned to Siena dorm was that one of my dorm mates was also one of my best friends; Kevin lived on the top floor in a real suite with a living room, bedroom, and galley kitchen. “It’s me. What’s going on downstairs? I just got back from Jack’s and saw a bunch of police cars.”

  Jack was Kevin’s brother and a former paramour of mine. He was good-looking, smart, and gainfully employed, with the best-looking teeth I had ever seen. But alas, it wasn’t meant to be, despite how hard Kevin had tried to keep the romance alive. “It’s a long story. But suffice it to say, our friend Wayne Brookwell was moonlighting as more than a limousine driver.” I filled Kevin in on the remaining details, such as they were.

  He whistled his disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish, Kevin.” I stood outside of the locked ladies’ room and waited for the occupant to emerge, keeping an eye on the goings-on in the kitchen. I didn’t know what I expected to see, but it was nice to know that one of my favorite restaurants adhered to at least some of the board of health codes. “Crawford and I are out but when I get back we need to talk about what you know about this guy. Maybe we can figure out where he went. And why.”

  “Okay, as long as it’s before ten. I have six A.M. mass tomorrow morning.”

  I didn
’t know if I could accommodate Kevin’s schedule but told him I would respect his bedtime. “If I don’t talk to you tonight, let’s get together tomorrow.”

  He sighed. “Tomorrow might be tough. The kids are coming back from spring break.”

  I heard the occupant of the ladies’ room unlock the door. “Why would that make it tough?”

  “Oh, you know. There’s a lot of sinning that goes on during spring break so I often have a lot of counseling to do.” He paused. “You’re the RD now. You should probably be around to help out, if necessary.”

  With sinners? Not exactly my bailiwick. I live vicariously through sinners, being a repressed, guilt-ridden lapsed Catholic. But I promised him I would be available and asked him to let me know when we could get together.

  The door to the bathroom opened and I came face-to-face with my boss, Sister Mary, who was surrounded by her usual cloud of Jean Naté and hairspray scent.

  “Dear!” she said, surprised to see me. Her angular Irish face was its usual ruddy hue. She was close enough for me to kiss her cheek but I didn’t want to do that, for obvious reasons.

  “Sister?”

  “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed behind her round glasses. “And were those police cars I saw in front of Siena Hall?”

  I let out a strangled laugh. Busted. “Yes, they were.”

  “Visitors? Or trouble?”

  Visitors? Would six cops be visiting me in my new home twenty minutes after I moved in? It seemed a little unorthodox but Mary was at a point, I was sure, where nothing I did would surprise her. Visitors or trouble? A little of both, I thought, but I went with the truth. I had worked for Mary for the last nine years, and she had been my professor when I was a student, but she still scared the bejesus out of me. “I found something in my room and—” I started, but stopped when I felt Crawford’s strong arms around my shoulders, crushing me against his torso and indicating that I should shut up right this very second.

  “Sister, hi!” he said brightly. We were jammed together in the narrow corridor leading to the restrooms, two laypeople and a suspicious nun. “Are you ready, hon?” he said. He never calls me “hon,” so I knew this was a rescue mission. He was behind me and had me in what Mary would think was a romantic embrace but which I knew was one that was subliminally telling me to “be quiet.”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  Mary grabbed my arm. “Your room? What did you find? Was it something to do with Wayne?” I noticed that her Irish brogue got stronger the more excited she became; right now, I could barely understand her.

  Crawford dragged me away from her and toward the front door. Our table was on the way, and I picked up my Blazing Dragon and drank the last of it as we exited the restaurant. I dropped it on the table where another couple was eating just before Crawford pulled me onto the sidewalk. I turned back toward the restaurant and saw Mary picking her white cardigan sweater from the back of her chair and grabbing her purse, purposeful in her actions. The other nun seated at the table seemed perplexed. “She’s coming this way,” I said.

  Crawford perp-walked me to his Passat, his arm still around me. He beeped the car key and the doors unlocked. “Get in.”

  We were in the car and out of the spot in seconds. I turned around and saw Mary staring after the car, her face a mask of consternation. I turned back around and put on my seat belt. “That was a close one.”

  Crawford maneuvered through the traffic and onto the highway going north.

  “To Scarsdale, James.”

  “Who’s James?” he asked.

  Literal as always. “Never mind. Just drive.”

  Six

  “So what do you do when you have to pee during a stakeout?” I asked, squirming around in my seat, trying to get comfortable.

  “I told you to go the bathroom before we left the restaurant,” Crawford said.

  That wasn’t an answer.

  Under normal circumstances, this would have been a very romantic scenario: a dusky sunset on a cool spring night, a handsome guy sitting next to me, a tree-lined street, no one else in sight. But my engorged bladder, protesting after two huge Blazing Dragons, and the fact that we were looking for a wayward resident director broke the mood. I shifted again, crossing one leg over the other. We had been sitting there for about an hour and hadn’t observed anyone coming in or out of the Brookwell house.

  “What do you usually do? Go in a bottle? An empty coffee cup?” I asked, knowing that neither of those options were available to me. I’m pretty limber, but not that much.

  “You could go outside,” he suggested. He reached into the glove compartment and handed me a stack of yellow napkins from Wendy’s, the top one stained with burger grease.

  “Gee, thanks.” I looked around. We were on a pretty suburban street, big, old Tudor mansions on either side, some surrounded by stone walls. I didn’t see a tree that afforded enough privacy to allow me to relieve myself and I couldn’t envision myself hopping over one of the stone walls. Who knew what was on the other side? Might be rabid guard dogs, for all I knew. And with my luck, that was the best-case scenario.

  The Brookwell house was one of the smaller houses on the street, and newer by about fifty years. It was a tidy, classic Colonial, white with black shutters, columns flanking the front door, and a long driveway running along the side to a detached garage. Very southern Westchester County, very old money. “I’ll be right back,” I said, hopping out of the car before Crawford could ask where I was going. The situation had become dire and I never would have considered this normally, but desperate times and all. I crossed the quiet street and walked up to the Brookwells’ door, lifting the heavy knocker, a brass Claddagh ring. So, someone in there was Irish, apparently. I knocked a few times before I heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

  An older gentleman, probably in his late sixties, answered the door. He was wearing khakis with a neat crease down the front, a blue oxford with some kind of insignia on the breast pocket, and penny loafers without socks. He was the epitome of Scarsdale preppy, right down to his round, tortoiseshell glasses, which perched on the end of his nose. “Can I help you?” he asked, more pleasantly than I would have if a strange woman appeared on my doorstep. But this being Scarsdale and all, good manners were de rigueur and who was I to complain?

  “Oh, hi,” I said, not realizing until that very moment that I had no idea what to say. I turned and looked at Crawford, who was slumped down in the front seat of the Passat, trying to become invisible. He was no help. I decided to put him in the role of directionally challenged spouse. “My husband and I are looking at houses in the area and we were driving around looking for the Coldwell Banker office and got turned around. Could you point me in the right direction?” I took a chance that there was a Coldwell Banker realty office in the area; my experience was that every Westchester town had one and I hoped that Scarsdale was typical in that regard.

  He smiled. “Are you sure it’s Coldwell?”

  I laughed. “I thought it was . . .”

  “Was it Houlihan-Lawrence, maybe?”

  I hit my forehead with my palm. “Of course! Coldwell is the realtor selling our house,” I said. “Can you tell me where Houlihan is?”

  “Of course. It can get a little confusing around here,” he said. He was so charming that I felt bad lying to him. Where’s your kid? I wanted to ask him, but I refrained, watching while he stretched out his arm and made some gestures trying to describe exactly where I was supposed to go. I made some mouth noises that conveyed my understanding of where he was talking about, even though I was just as clueless as when I had begun this charade. “So, that’s it,” he said. “You’re really close. No more than three minutes away.”

  “Great!” I said. “Now here’s the really embarrassing part,” I started, taking in his kind expression. I shifted from one foot to the other to demonstrate my discomfort.

  He stepped aside, sweeping an arm into the foyer. “No need to explain. Powder room is jus
t beyond the staircase there, right before you get to the kitchen. On the right-hand side.”

  I turned and looked at Crawford, my eyebrows raised to convey my surprise at my quick entry. He slumped farther down in the seat, shielding the side of his face with his hand. I went into the house and ran down the hall to the well-appointed powder room, but took a minute to look at a few pictures that hung on the wall across from it. There were a few little Brookwells, it appeared: Wayne, an older sister, and two older boys. At one time, they had had a West Highland terrier, who posed with them in a few formal holiday pictures where the little Brookwell boys wore short pants and vests while the sister wore an explosion of organza that made it appear that she had no legs. I pulled my eyes away and went into the powder room where I took care of business, and helped myself to a little of the Jo Malone grapefruit hand lotion that was perched on the glass shelf over the sink. I smelled my hands and decided that I would definitely put this on my Christmas list. I heard voices outside of the bathroom, one of them female with an Irish brogue, the other belonging to Mr. Brookwell. Aha, I thought. The purveyor of all things Claddagh. She was probably wondering what the heck had led her husband to allow a stranger into their home. I dillydallied a few more seconds hoping that I wouldn’t have to run the Mrs. Brookwell gauntlet just yet; I was enjoying Mr. Brookwell so much that I figured I could chat with him for a few more seconds, ostensibly about Scarsdale but mainly about his kids. Or, more specifically, one kid. Wayne. The butthole.

  I pumped a little more lotion onto my hand and rubbed it in before opening the powder room door. I went back out into the hallway and saw Mr. Brookwell still standing by the open front door, waiting for me to return.