Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (10 page)

Feeling sad, Madison jotted down the widow’s name and last
contact information. Her husband might have talked to her about the murder.

And so it went. Madison was only halfway through the Cs when
she realized the basement had grown silent. She glanced at her watch in surprise
to find it was 5:30. Troy was to pick her up in not much over an hour. Time had
flown. Looking down at herself, she made a face. Between the sweat and the dust,
she
so
needed a shower.

The hour before she saw him was enough for her to work up a
case of nerves. Silly, since she’d been seeing him daily, but their meeting that
morning in her office had been a smack of reality for her. Except for that
moment at the end, Troy had been back in his cop persona. The badge glinting at
his waist was enough to remind her what he was, without the unavoidable
additional sight of an alarmingly large black handgun holstered at his side.

She had looked at him and had the shocked thought,
This man is investigating my father.
Wow. He suspected
Dad of murder. She had yet to succeed in wrapping her mind around the bizarre
concept. Maybe that mental resistance explained why she’d been able to keep
falling for Troy even as she accepted that he was determined to do his
job—which, at the moment, involved patiently hunting down a killer who he fully
expected to be her dad.

In the interest of protecting herself, shouldn’t she pull back
a little? Maybe suspend the dating side of this relationship?

Yeah, but if she did that, would he continue being as open with
her?

Maybe not. Probably not.

Her uneasy reflections continued. Did he want to see her daily
because he had the hots for her...or because she was potentially useful? Plus,
oh yeah, it would be a good idea to ensure she didn’t warn her father.

So maybe we’re using each
other.

Great if she could be appropriately cynical and accepting, and
actually believe that, but Madison knew better. Her stomach was full of
sparkling fireflies because Troy would be knocking on her door any minute, then
those gray eyes would survey her, head to foot, after which he’d give a slow
smile, step forward and kiss her, one big hand at her neck or waist, holding her
firm.

She huffed out a breath. Maybe she should have sex with him
now.
All illusions might be ripped from her. Her
knees could quit going weak. He’d be just another guy, crude, over-muscled and
ultimately nobody she’d want to keep around. And
then
she could think with real clarity.

Good plan, but what if he turned out to be a fabulous lover?
What if he made her feel things she never had before?

This is such a mess,
she thought
unhappily. She’d felt...safe—she guessed that was the right word—once Troy had
agreed to keep quiet about what his father had seen. The fact that he was doing
something he considered unethical because she’d asked it of him was amazing
enough that she’d let it obscure the bigger truth. Troy had every intention of
finding the killer, no matter who he was.

The doorbell rang and her heart did a dizzying spin worthy of
an Olympic gymnast.

Madison walked from the kitchen to the front door, disturbed by
the realization that regaining her emotional equilibrium wasn’t actually an
option anymore. She was afraid it hadn’t been since the big man with
sun-streaked brown hair had walked into her office and looked at her with an
arrested expression, as if without so much as moving or speaking she’d shaken
him.

She knew something else, too. If she went to bed with him now,
baring herself physically and emotionally, she’d feel as if she was betraying
her father.

Again.

She was having enough trouble living with herself after making
that phone call. After she’d set Dad up to say things he wouldn’t have if he’d
known a cop was listening in and cold-bloodedly analyzing every word.

As she turned the doorknob, the last thing Madison felt was a
surge of anger, this one directed at her father—who almost had to have done
something wrong.

But not murder. It couldn’t have been murder.

* * *

T
ROY
DIDN
’
T
SEE
Madison
the following night. Dinner for him was grabbed at a restaurant in Walla Walla,
a college town that looked a lot like Frenchman Lake.

He had made a good-sized swing around eastern Washington,
talking to two people in the Yakima area, one up in Moses Lake, another in
Pullman—now teaching at Washington State University, and finally yet another
professor, this one at Whitman College in Walla Walla. He’d leave Spokane for
another day—there was a fair cluster of alumni up there.

Swallowing iced tea while he waited for his entrée, Troy
brooded about his day. He was beginning to think his whole strategy needed
rethinking.

Karen Wardell had laid down the pattern for what he was
hearing. Not a single soul had remembered seeing anyone at the gym that night
they hadn’t mentioned to the investigator in the days following the murder—and
most, like her, didn’t remember everyone they claimed then to have seen.

The one exception was the guy in Moses Lake, who had given a
recitation of what and who he saw that was as methodical as if he’d practiced it
like a speech to his local chamber of commerce. Of course, it happened that he
was a CPA, so maybe methodical was part of his blood makeup.

The WSU professor had been distinctly annoyed to be cornered by
a cop. If he was into social media, he’d probably been tweeting by the time Troy
reached the stairwell twenty feet from his office. If he was too old-fashioned
for social media, he’d likely picked up the phone and placed a call to Wakefield
College president Lars Berglund.

That was something Troy expected to happen sooner or later, but
he’d been hoping for later. Just as he’d been hoping it was a while before
anyone he talked to felt compelled to phone every former classmate to tell them
the investigation had been reopened and some cop would be around to ask
questions. He’d really prefer to catch them by surprise, to watch their faces as
they ground the rusty gears of memory into motion. He especially didn’t want
potential witnesses chatting to each other, embellishing their own memory with
patches and sparkles from someone else’s.

But that’s the way it goes,
he
thought in resignation, nodding his thanks to the waiter who brought him a
sizzling steak and an enormous baked potato. And, damn, was he starving.

If Madison had been here, she’d have ordered one of the more
interesting vegetarian items on the menu, and he might have done the same. But
what the hell.

Damn it, Dad, why didn’t you follow your
conscience?

Had it ever occurred to his father, once Troy came home to
Frenchman Lake, that
he
might be the one who would
have no choice but to investigate—drum roll, please—the grand prize winner of
the Most Shocking Revelation to Come Out of the Time Capsule award?

He grimaced as he cut a piece of the tender meat. No, Dad had
still been relaxed, because the thing wasn’t supposed to be opened for another
fifteen years.

Troy had to come to terms with the fact that, if Dad had been
there to accept the envelope with his name on it, he most likely
would
have taken it home and shredded or burned it. If
guilt or twinges on his conscience had any impact on him in the intervening
years, nothing would have stopped him from walking into the downtown police
station and saying, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Why, Dad? Goddamn it,
why
?

Knowing he’d never get an answer felt a lot like the acid,
gnawing beginning of an ulcer in his belly.

* * *

W
HEN
HER
PHONE
rang midevening,
Madison pounced, thinking Troy had called. Seeing her father’s number on the
screen took her aback.

“Dad?” she said cautiously.

“Madison.” He started most calls that way, with her name
gravely spoken. “How are you?”

Um...not any different than I was three
days ago?

“I’m good,” she said. “Busy.” She started chatting about a
couple of new alumni networking groups, one all women, one gay/lesbian, and of
the eagerness to participate that had really pleased her. Her father listened in
silence, which inexplicably drove her to keep talking. All the while, she knew
she was really trying to keep him from telling her why he’d phoned her. Finally,
however, she ran out of things to say. “Sorry,” she said, abashed. “I don’t
suppose you are that interested.”

“I’m always interested in your accomplishments.”

Just not in her failures or doubts or the impulses he
considered silly. This resentment was new to her, even as she knew she wasn’t
being entirely fair. In his own way, he’d been an attentive parent, certainly
not neglectful. What she was really having trouble with was the knowledge that
he’d cared more about whether she measured up to his expectations than he did
about
her
. Did he even know who she was aside from
those accomplishments?

Probably not, but some of that was her own fault, she admitted
privately. Feeling abandoned by her mother, she had been so insecure,
she
was as focused as he was on achieving successes
that would please him. That would earn her one of his rare genuine smiles. She’d
never had the nerve to lift her chin and say, “Dad, I had a great day without
getting an A or being told I was being moved to an accelerated class. In fact, I
got a B on a quiz in algebra, but who cares? I don’t like math, anyway. What
really
matters is, this guy who is
so
cute stopped at my locker and talked to me, and I
like him, Dad, I really do.” Or, “Oh, and it felt so good to dive into the pool
today, like I was weightless and free! That’s why it was a good day.” Nope,
she’d never said anything like that to her father.

“So what’s up, Dad?” she made herself say now.

“I can’t call you without a reason?”

You never do
. But that was another
of the things she didn’t say to him.

Feeling stubborn, instead she said nothing.

He cleared his throat, a rare indication of discomfiture.

“I admit, I keep thinking about you overhearing someone claim
he saw me at the gym the night King was killed.” He paused. “Or was it a she?
You didn’t say.”

Oh, boy. Madison thought frantically before deciding to go with
some semblance of truth. “It was a man.”

“What the hell would get into someone to say that now? He sure
didn’t thirty-five years ago when the police were asking questions.”

“Maybe...could it have been a friend of yours who didn’t want
to get you in trouble?” Breathless, she waited.

The silence was just a little too long. “Some friend,” her
father muttered at last.

“Well...he might have been trying to be.”

“I could have cleared it up then.”

“You could talk to the police now.”

“For God’s sake, none of this has anything to do with me,” he
snapped.

“It does if somebody saw you there.” Her voice shook slightly
at her audacity. Usually she would have backed down by now.

I’m acting like I’m afraid of
him.

Of course she wasn’t, she told herself hastily, and knew that
what she feared wasn’t her father, it was the possibility of losing him. No
matter how judgmental he was, he had always been her security.

“I could sue whatever idiot claims he saw me there,” he
grumbled.

Madison kept her mouth shut.

“Mitch King made plenty of enemies,” her father said in a hard
voice. He either hadn’t noticed her lack of comment, or he’d fallen into the
trap of needing to fill a silence. “The police won’t have any problem finding
people who hated his guts.”

Oh, dear God, she thought in horror. Would she have to tell
Troy what her father told her? She closed her eyes.

“Dad, I don’t understand. He was a college student. A kid! I
mean, being unpopular is one thing, but what could he have done to make people
actually hate him? That’s a really strong word.” Madison realized she was all
but begging.
Tell me
you
weren’t one of the people who hated Mitchell King’s guts, rather than merely
disliking him.

“Other students’ screwups were his wine and song.” There was a
startling knife-edge of bitterness in her father’s voice Madison had never heard
before.

“Dad?”

“Enough about him,” he said brusquely. “Hell, I hadn’t so much
as thought his name in twenty-five, thirty years. I’m sorry to have to remember
him now. Don’t let yourself get sucked into this, Madison. He’s not part of your
job.”

She made a noncommittal sound that seemed to satisfy her
father, because after a few general remarks he ended the call. It was strange,
though, because inside a part of her was protesting that last statement.
Whatever else could be said about him, Mitchell King had been a Wakefield
college student, and barely a semester from being an alumnus. Didn’t that make
him, in a way, legitimately her responsibility?

Thinking about the conversation with her father, Madison stared
down at the now blank screen on her phone. Suddenly she felt as if the air was
being squeezed from her lungs, and, afraid her phone would ring, she turned it
off in a rush. She couldn’t talk to Troy now. She needed time to decide whether
she would even tell him she’d talked to Dad, and if so what she would say. She
wasn’t a very good liar.

Anguish filled her. What could Mitchell King have done to her
father? Madison desperately wanted to believe it was something relatively normal
and innocent. They’d fought over a girl, maybe. Or Mitch had bad-mouthed Dad
around campus. Dad had told Madison on more than one occasion that he considered
his reputation to be all-important.