Murder at the B-School Read online

  Which didn’t take long.

  Libby had warned him to be careful, and now she was dead. This constituted a triple, or a quadruple, whammy: She was a sweet kid, who had lost the chance to live out her life. And from a selfish perspective, Libby was someone who could have verified the existence of some kind of plot against him, or at least confirmed some unspecified dangers out there, and now she was gone. In addition, he was now a prime suspect in her death, meaning that Brouillard and her gang hoped to nail his hide to the wall. And finally, his access to the MacInnes family, including the powerful William, was almost certainly gone. Disgraced, suspended, suspected—he was in the deepest of trouble. And who knew what tomorrow’s headlines would bring?

  What were his options?

  One was to do nothing. He could sit back, stop shaving, put his feet up, and wait for the wheels of justice to turn. That would probably require a temporary relocation, as Brouillard had suggested. But where was he supposed to go? He didn’t want to impose his growing notoriety on a friend. Plus, he wasn’t exactly sure what Beyer’s assault represented. Was Beyer a lone nut case? Or was he only the first in a series of paid assassins that the MacInnes family planned to send his way? Vermeer had gotten lucky once. Maybe he wouldn’t get lucky next time.

  Maybe Brouillard wouldn’t be there next time. Or maybe she’d decide not to step in so quickly next time. Maybe the wheels of justice were now working to grind him down, rather than the bad guys, whoever they were.

  The other choice was to try and help his own cause. And there was only one way he knew of to do that.

  He picked up the Boston phone book. There were no listings for “MacInnes, James” in Cambridge. Pawing through an eight-inch pile of unwanted and pristine phone books—business-to-business Yellow Pages, South Shore white pages, and the like—he found what he was looking for: the Harvard Business School student directory. Every year there was a debate about whether to keep printing the directory in hard copy. So far, the older generation—the senior faculty members and administrators who refused to look up phone numbers on the Web—had carried the day. Vermeer had brought it home and never opened it. But he remembered that the book included the phone numbers of all students, listed and unlisted alike. And now, of course, there was a new attraction: It kept working even after one’s Internet access had been shut off. God bless the older generation. There: “MacInnes, James and Elaine. Peabody Terrace.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. Is this James MacInnes?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Hi, James. It’s Wim Vermeer.”

  There was a long silence. Then: “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve, Professor Vermeer. Calling me, at home, at a time like this.”

  “James, I need to talk with you. It’s urgent. Can we meet for coffee?”

  “No way I’d meet with you. Under any circumstances. And I’m going to tell you now not to call here again.”

  “Wait. Please.” Vermeer saw—heard—his last lifeline fraying in front of his eyes. “James, I don’t know what you think I’ve done. But whatever you’re thinking, I guarantee it’s not true. Any of it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard about this big plot against you. Sorry. I’m not buying. You’re responsible for your own mess. We have nothing to talk about, Professor Vermeer.”

  Vermeer knew he was sinking. If James MacInnes hung up, there was nowhere else to go. And then the next call to Vermeer would be from University counsel John Eustis, informing Vermeer that he had violated the terms of his paid leave—now about five hours old—by contacting a student. Unlike most of his colleagues, Vermeer actually needed that paycheck. He paid his bills after it cleared.

  “James, listen to me.” He tried to keep any hint of desperation out of his voice. “I’ve done nothing to harm anyone in your family. Ever. You may not believe it, but someone has gone way out of his way to hang a whole lot of shit around my neck. Ask your father. He’ll confirm some version of that. He told me that himself.”

  “Professor Vermeer, I may be the most conservative member of my family. So if you’re looking for forgiveness, go have another conversation with my father. He’s a lot more tolerant than I am. Maybe he’ll cut you some slack.”

  Vermeer knew that despite his mounting panic, he had to listen very carefully. The fact that MacInnes was still referring to him as “Professor” was a good sign: The fraying lifeline still had some life in it. And this issue of “conservative” and “tolerant”—what did that mean? Suddenly, the answer dawned on him.

  “James, do you think I killed either your brother or your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I didn’t. Do you think that I was Eric’s lover?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind. Eric was weak and vulnerable, and you abused your position of authority to take advantage of him. And if you try to deny it now, that’s even more disgusting to me, in some ways.” MacInnes’s voice was rising. Keep him on the phone.

  “James, I have to ask you something. Did Eric tell you himself that we were involved? Did you hear it directly from Eric?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because if Eric told you himself, then that’s the end of the story. If it’s my word against his, then you’ll take his, right? But if someone else told you, then I have to know who. So maybe I can figure out what the hell is happening to me. Please, James.”

  “No. I don’t owe you anything.”

  “Would it make any difference to you if I told you that I had this same conversation with Libby—almost exactly the same—on the night she died? And that she also told me that Eric himself had never mentioned me to her? That she got this whole idea from somebody else? Somebody that I hoped she would name for me. But she didn’t. And now she can’t. Only you can.”

  There was a long silence. Vermeer listened for the click that most likely would seal his fate. Instead, he heard some rustling and throat-clearing. “Okay,” MacInnes finally said. “I’ll tell you this much. Eric did not talk to me directly. That wouldn’t have been comfortable for either of us. He knew I disapproved of his . . . lifestyle. He talked to someone else. That person talked to me.”

  “Someone you trust? Someone close to Eric?”

  “Yes. Close enough.”

  “James, listen to me. I have nowhere else to go. I swear to you that I’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, I haven’t done anything at all, including having any kind of a relationship with your brother. My relationship with Eric was exactly the same as my relationship with you. Nothing more serious, nothing less serious. I’m not a homosexual and I never have been, although under normal circumstances I wouldn’t give a shit if someone else thought that. What I do give a shit about is getting out from under all the other stuff that comes along with that lie. You have to give me the chance to confront the person who’s spreading that story, so I can find out why. So I can stop it, and fix it.”

  Silence.

  “James, I’m pretty sure that I just lost my job. Calling you probably seals it. I’m about to get blamed for Libby’s death, which I also had nothing to do with. In fact, she asked to meet with me, to tell me that I was in some kind of danger. That’s what the dinner was about. She wrote me a note to that effect. The people at your family’s country house can confirm that she wrote it. Mr. Ralph can confirm that. I can show it to you, if you want.”

  Assuming, of course, that he could retrieve it from Brouillard, which at this point seemed unlikely. It was probably exhibit one in the case she was building against him. He wondered if he had blundered by invoking Libby’s name, by shooting in eight directions at once, by allowing some of his mounting panic to leak through. By sounding weak.

  Silence.

  Then: “Okay, Professor Vermeer. Fair is fair.” James’s voice sounded pained and tentative, as if there was a lot at stake. “I guess you deserve the opportunity to hear the same story I heard, from the horse’s mouth. It was Marc Pirle. Professor Pirle. He told me that he and Eric talked about
Eric’s relationship with you a number of times. Pirle told me that he was thinking of having you brought up on sexual harassment charges, but that Eric had persuaded him to drop the whole thing.”

  32

  SEETHING, VERMEER FLEW ALONG THE BACK ROADS TO HAR-vard. Driving down the Jamaicaway, with its late-nineteenth- century scenic twists and turns and the occasional ancient and battered tree trunk shouldering its way out into the road, would give him a little more time to cool down. To plan his next move.

  His ID still opened the parking lot gate. The oldest corporation in the Western Hemisphere moved slowly. And a good thing, too, since he probably would have had a hard time talking his way past the guard booth. If there was a list of personae non gratae, his name probably was penciled in at the top.

  Pirle. It made no sense. To Pirle, Vermeer was less than an insect—not worth slowing down for, not even worth squashing underfoot on the sidewalk and getting the bottom of your shoes dirty. Why would Pirle spin yarns about him and set traps for him? Unless, of course, someone else was feeding Pirle the big lie, and Pirle was merely repeating it. But who the hell would that be? Maybe Eric himself, in some sort of confused mental state? But in that case, why wouldn’t Pirle talk to him directly about it, rather than talking to the brother—and the sister?—of the alleged victim of the alleged harassment?

  He walked as quickly as he could across the campus without drawing too much attention to himself. It was possible that James thought Vermeer actually was a crazed murderer. Maybe he had dialed 911 immediately after getting off the phone with him. Officer! I’ve just sent a madman to the office of an unsuspecting professor! You have to intercept him!

  But there was no sign of heightened security around Morgan Hall. He climbed the stairs two at a time, then slowed to catch his breath as he approached Pirle’s lair. No point in looking deranged under the circumstances.

  “Hi, Professor Vermeer! Long time no see!” Pirle’s secretary, Delores Adams, gave him a broad smile. He smiled back, relieved. Adams was not complicated. If the cops were waiting in Pirle’s office to pounce on him, it would be written all over her face.

  “I’ve been busy as hell, Delores,” he said, which was true enough. “And then on top of all the normal stuff, Dean Bishop put me on a special assignment—kind of a hush-hush thing.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Adams said, nodding her head seriously. “I heard something about that. That’s why the Finance group had to cover your classes. How’s it going? The assignment, I mean?”

  “Delores, I wish I could tell you, but it’s still under wraps.” Disappointment swept across her face. “I’ll tell you what, though. When it’s all over, I promise that we’ll have coffee and I’ll give you a firsthand account of the whole thing.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  “But meanwhile, Delores, I need about ten minutes with Professor Pirle as soon as possible. Is he teaching this morning?”

  “Oh, no, Professor Vermeer. He actually took a long weekend to finish up an article he’s working on. Actually, closer to a week. He didn’t have any classes today or tomorrow, and Professor Mindich said he could cover his Thursday seminar. So I don’t expect him in until the end of the week at the earliest.”

  “Oh, darn,” he said, avoiding profanity. “That’s a big problem.” He crossed his arms, stroked his chin, and furrowed his brow. The very picture of the distracted professor, deep in thought. “A big problem. I really need his signature on something.”

  “Something related to your special assignment?”

  “Well, actually, yeah, Delores, but I really shouldn’t say any more than that.” He put his index finger to his lips, swearing her to secrecy. “So where is he? Working at home?”

  “Not up here, no. He’s at his villa. In Puerto Rico. Have you ever been down there? It’s a beautiful place, judging from the pictures.” She reached up to the cluttered bulletin board on the wall next to her desk and pulled down a snapshot. She handed it to him, a blue pushpin still sticking out of it. It showed a large, blunt beige building, mostly obscured by palm trees, set against a stunning backdrop of blue sky and azure water.

  “Yes,” he lied easily. “I was down there a couple of years ago. Some Finance-area function. A little piece of heaven, as I recall.” He put the picture down on her desk. “Listen, if you give me the street address of the place, I’ll see if I can get the document FedEx’d to him down there. It’s really a rush. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bug him.”

  She looked uneasy. “I don’t know, Professor Vermeer. He really doesn’t like me giving out this address.” But she was already flipping through her well-worn Rolodex. She found the card she was looking for, stuck her thumb in the card file, and looked up at him, still hesitant.

  “Delores, I know I’ve got the address at home somewhere, from the last time I was down there, but I’m not sure I can lay my hands on it in a hurry. And this is an urgent matter. Otherwise, I really wouldn’t impose on you and him.”

  She made up her mind. “Well, okay.” She started to copy down the address by hand on a yellow legal pad. He had one eye on the snapshot.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that,” he said, extending his hand across the desk, pointing at the Rolodex card. “Let me photocopy it and save you the trouble.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. You probably don’t know how to run the machine, anyway.” She got up and moved slowly in the direction of the copying machine, fifteen feet away.

  Vermeer waited until her back was fully turned. Then he reached across the desk and palmed the snapshot. He heard the copy machine fire up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the white light flaring. Letting the pushpin fall to the floor, he slipped the photo into his coat pocket, then nosed the pushpin out of sight with his toe.

  “Here you go, Professor,” Adams said, walking back toward him and holding out the copy. “Now, you’re gonna keep me out of trouble on this, right?”

  “You bet. Thanks. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

  33

  THE BIG NEWS AT DISTRICT 11 WAS THAT DETECTIVE BUZZY Silver was “back in the saddle” again—coming back from his medical leave, although not saddling up any too fast. A huge two-sided poster, which looked a lot like a recycled bedsheet, hung over his desk, suspended from the ancient sprinkler system far up in the rafters. It depicted Silver on horseback, wearing a ten-gallon hat. Light brown animals that appeared to be deer were around the edges of the scene, pointing at the mounted figure and laughing. The other side of the poster was more or less the same, except that it featured dark brown animals—perhaps bears. No one knew for sure. And the artists, whoever they were, weren’t talking.

  Given the nature of the injuries Silver had sustained on his fall hunting trip—that .22 slug to the groin—it was unlikely that he would be on horseback anytime soon. The guys on the night shift had gone to some lengths to hang the poster well out of Silver’s reach. Brouillard vaguely remembered a thirty-foot stepladder that the custodial staff used to change lightbulbs high up in the dark recesses of the ceiling. Unless Silver found that ladder, unless he also found someone who was willing to help him—both unlikely—the welcome-back poster would hang above his head forever.

  Silver had yet to make his first appearance. It was still early. The room was surprisingly well populated for this time of morning. No one, not even Brouillard, wanted to miss the show.

  Her phone rang. “District 11. Captain Brouillard.”

  “Hello, Captain. This is Dean Bishop.”

  “Hello, Dean Bishop. Back from your trip so soon?”

  “Actually, no,” he said. “I’m calling from a hotel room in Chicago. I’m just about to go into a meeting downstairs. But I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as possible about your request for a meeting.”

  Request for a meeting. That didn’t sound right. “You mean the meeting that Alonzo Rodriguez is setting up for tomorrow morning? I hope you can join us.”

  “Well, that’s not the problem,” he replied. �
��Of course I’ll make myself available.”

  “Glad to hear it. The mayor will be glad to hear it.”

  “Yes. I have a call in to the mayor. But listen, Detective, there is a problem. Mr. Rodriguez had to leave town unexpectedly. Apparently, there is some sort of medical emergency involving his father. He had to take a two-week leave, starting today. Under the circumstances, I’ve asked the assistant head of Buildings and Grounds, Bill Weiskopf, to take over. Al tried to do what he could before he left, but Bill tells me that he really doesn’t think having a meeting tomorrow is realistic. For one thing, he says that he hasn’t even been able to get return calls from some of the people you want to talk to.”

  Brouillard reflected on the odd timing of the senior Rodriguez’s unexpected illness. She had fully expected Rodriguez to ask for a postponement. She would have given it to him, after making him sweat for a while. She had not expected him to leave town.

  “Has Rodriguez done this before? Taken leaves on short notice?”

  “No. At least not that I know of.”

  “And his father is where? Back home on the little island off the coast of Puerto Rico?”

  “Uh, well, yes, that’s my understanding. Yes.” Bishop sounded surprised that Brouillard could make that leap. “I’m not sure whether he’s trying to solve the problem down there or bring his father up here to get looked at in Boston. In any case, it’s likely to be a few days before we know much more. Meanwhile, as I started to say, Bill Weiskopf—”

  “Dean Bishop,” she interrupted, “I have to say that I’m very disappointed. In Harvard. In Al Rodriguez. And in you, frankly.”

  “Some things aren’t in our control, try as we will to control some things.”

  “I know, I know. We can’t control when our aged parents are going to become ill. And when that happens, we have to drop everything and respond. I know that. I’ve been there myself.”

  “Then you can understand—”