Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (26 page)

“Eighteen.” Her smile twisted. “I graduated high school a year
early.”

“Do you have children? A daughter?”

“Two, in their twenties.”

“What if you’d found out one of them was sleeping with a
professor?”

Her mouth tightened. “I’d cut off his balls.”

Troy grinned at her. “I repeat—not your fault. It was his, and
to some extent it was Mitch King’s, because he was a predator, too.”

He watched as she processed his words and accepted them.
Finally, she nodded. When he asked whether she would testify if it became
necessary, Margaret Bergonieri Chaffee, now older and wiser, said, “Yes.”

* * *

T
ROY
CALLED
C
HIEF
Helmer from the
airport and told him what he’d learned.

“Well, damn.” There was a pause. “Proving it...” the chief said
thoughtfully, “that’s another story.”

“There might be traces in the soil where he burned the clothes
and the ledger.”

They both knew how unlikely that was.

“You’ll go talk to him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Troy said grimly. “Tomorrow.”

“This was a very cold case. I didn’t really think you could do
it,” Helmer told him. “You’ve done a hell of a job, Troyer.”

Troy hardly noticed the turbulence on the flight to
Portland.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“T
ROY
?” M
ADISON
’
S
VOICE
was dignified but somehow...diminished. “Will
you tell me what’s wrong?” That was all she said. Her message was the only one
in Troy’s voice mail, which he checked as he walked from the gate to the board
that listed Portland hotels.

He knew he should call her, but he was weary to the bone. It
was lucky he’d brought a duffel bag with a change of clothes in case he had to
overnight in Boise. As it was, he’d stay at an airport hotel in Portland, then
catch the first morning flight to Medford. He hoped like hell Coleman hadn’t
suddenly jumped ship, but he was still listed among the faculty of the two-year
Rogue Community College.

After checking into the closest hotel, Troy ate a late dinner
at a chain restaurant, then returned to his room to shower and lay in bed with
the intention of plotting his strategy for breaking Coleman once they were
face-to-face. Usually, at this point in a case, he would be consumed by a fierce
sense of satisfaction that the pieces were all coming together.

Instead, all he could think about was Madison.

He knew he’d overreacted to being sidelined by her, but he
couldn’t seem to get past the hurt. At the same time, he was ashamed to know he
was responsible for whatever she’d been feeling earlier when she left that
message. The longer he thought about it, the more ashamed he was. What was he,
one of those possessive jerks who was jealous of his woman’s friends and family
because she was supposed to be entirely focused on
him?

God, he hoped not. He didn’t think he’d ever felt jealous in
his life before. And yes, he thought, he would like to believe that he could
heal some of her insecurities. Love her enough she’d
know
she was lovable. But he’d been a fool.

He loved his mother. There were times she’d have to come first,
and he knew Madison would understand. So why hadn’t
he
understood that this was one of those times she had needed to
treasure the rare experience of a weekend with her father?

He groaned, punched the pillow and wadded it up under his
head.

Because, where she was concerned,
he
was insecure. He really didn’t know whether she felt as much for
him as he did for her. The answer was that simple. If they’d both said “I love
you” and he believed her, Troy wouldn’t have had any problem with a single
distracted phone call or a few days of silence when she had family visiting.
There wouldn’t have been any trouble understanding why, under the circumstances,
she wanted to avoid the awkwardness of talking to him while her father was
there.

As he lay looking at the streetlights leaking in around the
drapes, a lot of things came together in his head. He’d been telling himself
jealousy was a foreign emotion to him, but he remembered the time Madison had
suggested he
was
jealous because his mother was so
utterly focused on her loss, she seemed to have forgotten her son. He’d known
then she was right, and had let her prod him into moving past that
unacknowledged resentment to be the son his mother needed.

What he hadn’t done was understand that, maybe, he’d always
felt a little excluded by his parents’ intense love for each other.

Troy groaned again and laid a forearm over his face. Was that
why he and Dad so often saw each other during the day, separate from Mom? Had he
suggested lunch so often, not because it was simply convenient, but because he
was hungry to have his father all to himself?

His chest filled with a whole lot of complicated and not very
comfortable feelings. How could something so obvious have passed under his
radar?
Because I didn’t want to know?
Yeah, had to
be. Because now he was smacked in the face by the truth. While he’d felt loved
and supported by his parents, he’d also known he wasn’t essential to either of
them, not in the way they were to each other.

Yes, he wanted a marriage as committed as theirs, as
passionate, as happy—but he was going to be damn sure his kids never felt left
out.

There was a real irony in discovering that he was as screwed up
about his parents as Madison was about hers, and her excuse was a hell of a lot
better.

Man, he wished he was home. That he could drop by her office
tomorrow morning to persuade her to take a break and go for a walk with him or
out for a coffee. He wanted in the worst way to say, “I’m sorry.” To ask what
her father had told her, whether she’d resolved any of her issues with him.

He grunted aloud. He wanted to give her what she needed from
him, which right now might simply be understanding. So why had he been thinking
only about himself and what
he
needed from her? Why
hadn’t he’d learned his lesson when he had discovered his mother did need him
and that he’d been letting her down?

I’m better than that,
he thought,
and hoped it was true.

* * *

I
N
PERSON
, S
TEPHEN
C
OLEMAN
didn’t look anything like the photo Troy had seen
of him in a Wakefield College alumni magazine published back when he’d taught
there. A weight lifter then, he’d let his muscles go to fat. He had to be
carrying an extra hundred pounds or more on a large frame. Drooping bags under
his eyes changed the contours of his face. The beard was familiar but graying,
and Troy suspected it now was grown to hide the jowls.

After calling, “Come in,” Coleman half stood from his chair
behind the desk in his faculty office, but when he realized Troy was a stranger
he froze halfway. “I was expecting a student.” The chair creaked as it accepted
his weight when he sank back down. “What can I do for you?”

Remaining on his feet, Troy took his badge from his belt and
held it out. He watched as a flush crept up Coleman’s neck to his cheeks.

“Frenchman Lake P.D.” Coleman sounded hoarse. “Why would you
want to talk to me?”

“We’ve reopened the investigation into the murder of Mitchell
King.” Troy paused. “You do remember Mr. King?”

Coleman seemed unaware of the beads of sweat that had popped
out on his forehead. “No one who was there then could forget.” His eyes met
Troy’s with clear reluctance. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here. I never
even had him in a class, as I’m sure you can verify.”

Troy had decided to apply pressure early and hard. Seeing the
physical manifestations of fear confirmed his instinct.

“I have reason to believe King was blackmailing you, Mr.
Coleman. And you had reason to pay him—until you could think of another way to
get him off your back.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Coleman shoved his
chair back and lumbered to his feet. “Why would I pay him a penny?”

“Because you believed his threat. If you hadn’t paid him, you
would have lost your job and you knew it. What’s more, it would have been hard
to get hired anywhere else, wouldn’t it, Mr. Coleman?”

“I don’t know what you’re accusing me of....”

“Colleges take it quite seriously when professors abuse a
position of power to have sexual relations with their students.” Troy kept his
voice hard and didn’t try to hide his contempt. “I have spoken with two of those
students, Sally Yee and Margaret Berlongieri. Both were frank about their
relationships with you.”

Sweat trickled down Coleman’s face. It must have burned his
eyes, because he swiped his forearm across his forehead. “You’re crazy.”

“No. And I’ll tell you why I’m here, Mr. Coleman. I came all
this way so that you could tell me what you were burning in your backyard the
morning after Mitch King was bludgeoned to death. So brutally his killer must
have been splashed with blood. And let’s not forget about the ledger he carried
everywhere. That was probably soaked in blood, but the writing still would have
been legible. I think police would have been able to read the names of his
victims, don’t you?”

“Jesus, Jesus.” Coleman stumbled backward, striking a shoulder
against a bookcase, staggering so that he had to reach out to steady
himself.

Troy took a couple of steps around the desk, just enough to be
intimidating. “I suspect the killer’s shoes were splattered with blood, too.” He
gave that a minute to sink in. “I believe Ms. Berlongieri described them as
‘rusty splotches.’”

The big man had begun to shake. He backed toward the window.
“She didn’t see anything. She was a stupid little bitch who imagined she was in
love with me. I was burning trash, that’s all. Trash!” he howled.

The door opened behind Troy. “Mr. Coleman?”

Troy half turned, not taking his eyes off Coleman, who was big
enough to be dangerous if he went on the offensive.

“This is a private meeting,” he said coolly.

“Oh,” the timid voice said. “I’m sorry, I, well, I thought...”
The door clicked shut. Footsteps rapidly receded.

“Trash,” Troy said softly to the bastard who’d murdered
Mitchell King to hide his own unforgivable transgressions. “Trash that smelled
really bad when it was burning. Bad enough to make that young woman gag. Acrid,
maybe, the way bloody clothing would smell when it was on fire.”

“Her word doesn’t mean anything.” The defiance in his voice was
a spark, nothing more. Easily stamped out.

Or drowned. Troy had never seen anyone sweat that much.
Coleman’s beefy face was shining with it. He’d need a towel to mop it up.

“Oh, it’s plenty adequate to justify a warrant. She recalls
exactly where that fire burned in your backyard, Mr. Coleman. We’ll have our own
little archaeological dig. Any scraps of the clothing—assuming it was
cotton—will probably have decomposed, but leather endures surprisingly well. The
soles of those athletic shoes will definitely have survived.” He shook his head.
“The metal rings holding the pages of the ledger together. I think it’s real
likely we’ll find all kinds of bits and pieces once we start digging. You really
should have burned that bloody clothing somewhere else, Mr. Coleman.”

He turned and punched the wall, once, twice, three times. Going
right through the wallboard, slamming knuckles against a stud, seemingly unaware
of the pain. And then he swung around, fixing eyes that burned with soul-deep
despair and fury on Troy.

The next second, Coleman charged, those raw knuckles flying. He
was howling again, this time wordlessly.

Even though Troy dodged, a fist struck his shoulder and he
lurched into the wall. Coleman had crashed into the door, turning with shocking
speed to come at Troy again.

Troy leaped behind the desk. “Goddamn it,
think!
I’m a police officer!”

The desk shuddered and the huge man came around it.
I’m going to get the shit beaten out of me,
Troy
thought incredulously. The quarters were too close for him to risk pulling his
gun.

Troy spun away, knocking the chair to one side, then went on
the offensive. Using his shoulder to slam into his oncoming opponent came
naturally, even though he hadn’t played football in years.

The force of his hit made Coleman expel all his air in a long
“oof.” He was still on his feet, though, coming at Troy again. This time Troy
deliberately let one of those fists connect so he could get his own forearm up
and into the other man’s throat. Hard. He slammed Coleman backward into the
wall. Books fell from shelves and a picture frame shattered on the floor. Troy
stared into the beet-red face now wet with tears and snot as well as the
copiously running sweat.

“You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer, Mr.
Coleman. Not smart. Not smart at all.”

Stephen Coleman folded in on himself. That was the only way to
describe it. One minute he was staring, vibrating with fury and fear, the next
bewilderment overtook him. His legs gave way. Troy had to step back and let him
fall. He landed heavily on his knees.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered.

Troy used his forearm to wipe blood off his face. “What don’t I
understand?”

“He wanted more money. He laughed at me and said, ‘You’ll give
me whatever I want, won’t you,
Stephen?
’” Even now,
the mimicry of the way Mitch King had said his name was stunningly nasty. It
said,
I’ve got you, a high-and-mighty professor, right in
my hand, and I can squeeze if I want.

Mitch King had finally miscalculated how much pressure he could
apply. In his pleasure at humiliating a professor, he had underestimated the man
and how much he had at stake.

None of which justified what Coleman had done to him.

“Were you carrying a weapon when you went to talk to him in the
sauna that night?”

Swaying, Coleman shook his head. “I brought my payment. He
wouldn’t take it. That’s when he said he was doubling his charge. He was still
laughing when I turned and walked out. I knew where the rack of equipment was.
The student who should have been behind the counter wasn’t there. I grabbed a
bat and went back. He looked so surprised when I opened the door and started
swinging.”

The last thing Troy wanted to do was interrupt this, but he
felt compelled to say, “You do know you have the right to remain silent. You
have the right to an attorney. We can stop this conversation until you have
one.”

“What difference does it make?” he said dully. Still on his
knees, he swayed as if barely able to hold himself upright. “Look what he did to
my life. I was brilliant, you know. I could have been at Harvard by now, instead
of this. Every single night, I dream about him. He haunts me. Forget Mitchell
King?” Coleman began to laugh, and it was a long time before he began choking
and quit. “I haven’t been able to forget him for a single minute. I would have
kept paying him, you know.” Coleman had been brought down, shattered. His
expression pleaded for understanding. “If only he hadn’t asked for more.”