The Bride Wore Size 12 (15 page)

“I’ll be able to tell you the cause of death after five o’clock today,” I say, “but only if you hold the second part of this story until then.” This is a lie. I have no intention of telling him the cause—or manner—of Jasmine’s death. “I can tell you that there was no sign of an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or anything like that. The victim did have asthma, though.”

Cam makes a disappointed face. “She died of
asthma
?”

“I didn’t say that. I said she
had
asthma.”

Cameron looks less disappointed, and more like someone who’s stumbled across an exciting mystery. Of course, he didn’t know the victim, so it doesn’t matter to him how Jasmine died. He’s just looking for a story that will bring his blog a lot of hits.

“Okay, so she had asthma, but didn’t die from it.” He keeps typing. “What’s the deal with the five o’clock thing?”

“Well,” I say. “She wasn’t the only RA at Prince Rashid’s party.”

Cameron smirks. “What an ass-kisser. You know the best way not to get caught throwing a rager is to invite the RAs. So what are their names?”

“That’s the part of the story you can’t print until five o’clock.”

Cameron shakes his head, confused. “Why? What happens at five o’clock?”

I lift my purse from the floor and shoulder it. “At five o’clock today, all the RAs from Fischer Hall who were at Prince Rashid’s party are going to receive notices that their employment with the New York College Housing Office has been terminated.”

“What?”
Cameron jerks his fingers from his keyboard as if they’ve been singed.

I nod. “You heard me. And don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from all those RAs about the injustice of what’s happening to them as soon as they get their letters. You’ll have their names soon enough. Just keep in mind that they were asked by their employer—my boss—if they’d seen Jasmine the night before she died, and they all said no. They lied to save their own skins, even though if they’d told the truth, it might have helped the investigation into Jasmine’s death. It’s too late now. But you did
not
hear any of this from me.”

“No worries.” Cameron shakes his head in disbelief as he turns back to his keyboard. “Heather, do you even realize how huge this is? Not only is a girl dead, and a bunch of RAs are getting fired, but it all happened because of a party being given by the heir to the throne of Qalif, whose father donated
five hundred million dollars
to New York College. This story could get picked up by the print media.” His tone has turned reverential. “It could make CNN.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I remark drily. “You know what I would do if I were you? Not that I’m telling you how to do your job.”

He shakes his head again, this time in answer to my question. “No, what?”

“I’d try to get in touch with ResLifeGirl. Maybe she could tell you more about what happened at that party.”

“Hey,” he says, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

So he hasn’t yet figured out that ResLifeGirl was Jasmine.

“Also, you should ask the facilities office of this building for a live trap,” I say as I open the office door. “Then you can catch Algernon and let him go out in the park. I know it’s nice to have a friend in real life and everything,” I add, “but he’ll be happier there, and then you’ll have a slimmer chance of catching the hantavirus, which is spread by mouse droppings. It can make people really sick. People even die from it.”

Cam looks up from his keyboard.

“Is that what killed Jasmine Albright?” he asks excitedly. “Hantavirus? I know Death Dorm—I mean Fischer Hall—is an old building. Are you stating there’s a mouse infestation in it, causing people to die? Because that would make insanely good copy.”

I roll my eyes. “No, Cam,” I say. “And if I were saying that,
I
wouldn’t be stating anything, remember? Because this is all coming from an ‘inside source.’ ”

“Right, right,” he says, putting his earbuds back in. “Don’t worry, I got you covered. No names.” Then he begins typing away, lost in his cyberlife.

I pull the door closed behind me on my way out, deciding that maybe it’s better Cameron keeps Algernon around after all. He seems to need the company, even if the company is only a baby rat.

18

Y
ou did
what?
” Cooper’s voice cracks on the word “what.”

“Well,
I
knew the leak wasn’t Sarah, but how else was I going to prove it to everyone in the president’s office?”

I’m walking swiftly across the park toward Fischer Hall, anxious to get back to work, my cell phone pressed to my ear. I’m late for Lisa’s interview with the new RA candidate. Not that she needs my help, necessarily, but she wasn’t in the best condition when I last saw her.

“It’s not your job to prove Sarah isn’t the leak,” Cooper says. “Sarah’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“Of course she can. But they already fired more than half the staff,” I say. “I couldn’t let Sarah be next. I had to find out who the leak really was. I figured if I offered to swap intel with the editor of the
Express
—”

“Swap intel with the editor of the
Express
?” Cooper interrupts, sounding weirdly echo-y, as if he’s in a tunnel or something. But I can still hear the incredulity in his voice. “Heather, are you listening to yourself?”

“Whatever, it worked. And now we know the reason Jasmine was killed was because she had information that someone didn’t want her spreading, probably on her phone that you kept pointing out was missing.”

“
We
know no such thing,” Cooper says. “And don’t sound so proud of yourself, because if it
is
true, you just put yourself—not to mention the staff of the
Express
—in serious danger.”

“Aw,” I say, my ponytail swinging behind me as I hurry through the crowded park. “Are you worried about me? That’s so sweet. I know I should be offended, because I’m a feminist, and the whole overprotective boyfriend thing is so
Twilight,
but whatever, I love it, keep it coming.”

“Heather, I’m not joking.” He sounds irritated. “Whatever it was Jasmine found out, recorded on her phone, and was apparently ready to Tweet to the world was worth killing her for. And that means it will be worth killing whoever uncovers the truth about it.”

“But I didn’t tell the
Express
about it. How could I? I don’t know what it is that Jasmine found out. Whoever killed her did it before she got a chance to spill the beans. They have no idea we know Jasmine’s the leak, or even that there was anything
to
leak. So why would I, or anyone who works for the
Express,
be in danger?”

“Because we’re not talking about a girl killed in a lovers’ quarrel. We’re talking about a young woman who was murdered because of something to do with the heir to the throne of one of the richest countries in the world. Are you sure no one you know saw you come out of the student center? There’s no one following you?”

“No one even follows the drag queen version of me on Twitter.” I oblige him, however, by looking around. It’s still a gorgeous day. The sun is brightly shining, and I’ve had to lower my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glare. “Why would anyone bother to follow me in real life?”

My voice dries up in my throat as I see one of Prince Rashid’s bodyguards—the one he calls Hamad—strolling along, eating a soft pretzel he evidently purchased from a street vendor, not five yards behind me. Like me, he’s wearing sunglasses, but it’s unmistakably him. No one else in the park is wearing a dark business suit with a matching dark shirt, tie, and earpiece.

“Heather?” Cooper asks. “Can you hear me?”

His voice startles me. I jump and turn quickly back around, hoping Hamad hasn’t noticed that I’ve seen him.

“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. Bad connection.” No way am I telling him that he’s right, and I am being followed . . . if that’s actually what’s happening. Maybe Hamad simply enjoys New York street vendor pretzels and ran out for a quick snack on his break from bodyguard duties. Pretzels are delicious, after all. “Where are you, anyway? You’re not tailing my mother, are you?”

“Of course not,” Cooper says. “You asked me not to. And I’d never do anything you asked me not to do. ”

I snort sarcastically at this. “Right.” Fischer Hall is straight ahead. I can see the large blue-and-gold New York College flag hanging above the front door, snapping in the fresh breeze. Home will always be where Cooper is, but Fischer Hall is a close second. I increase my pace. “Just wondering, you sound a little far away.”

“Only physically, baby,” he says. “My heart’s always with you. I’ll be home in time for dinner . . . which I assume will be finger sandwiches.”

I try to summon up a laugh at his joke, but I’m feeling a little dispirited because Hamad truly does appear to be following me.

Of course he is. He works in Fischer Hall too. I’m overreacting.

“Ha,” I say. “Okay, great. See you then.”

“Heather,” Cooper says. “Call Canavan over at the Sixth Precinct. Tell him everything you just told me. He may have his hands tied because of the State Department, but I think you should keep him in the loop.”

“Right,” I say. I’ve begun to walk so rapidly, anxious to get away from my shadow, that I’ve reached Washington Square West—at the exact same time, I notice, as Hamad. He’s finished his pretzel and has raised his sunglasses so he can glare at me, much like the way he’d glared at Sarah the other day in the office . . . like he’d very much like to draw his sidearm and shoot.

We both stand at the edge of the park. There’s a line of taxicabs and buses that we must allow to go roaring past before we can cross the street to Fischer Hall. While we wait, Hamad stares at me in a manner I can only describe as extremely hostile, his dark eyes like twin black bullet holes.

“So I’ll see you when you get home,” I say into the phone to Cooper, my gaze still on Hamad.

“Wait,” Cooper says. “You’re calling Canavan now, right?”

“I sure am. Just like you’re not tailing my mom. Bye now.” I turn off my phone before Cooper can say another word. I don’t need to be distracted by my boyfriend’s sexy voice as I’m about to be killed on the street by the bodyguard of the son of a foreign dictator.

“Hello,” I say pleasantly to Hamad as I slip my phone back into my purse. “Have a nice lunch?”

Hamad doesn’t respond, except to continue to glare at me.

“I saw that you were enjoying a pretzel,” I say. “Those are a New York City specialty. We’re quite well known for our soft pretzels. Did you have mustard on yours? I find the mustard really brings out the salt in a pleasantly tangy way.”

Hamad doesn’t say anything. He merely crumples up the napkin the pretzel vendor had given him with his lunch and tosses it without a word into my face. My
face.

Then he steps into the middle of Washington Square West, though the traffic there is still flowing steadily. A taxicab comes screeching to a halt barely a foot before striking him, and the New York cabby—who happens to be Punjabi—leans out his window to scream at Hamad, “Hey! What’s the matter with you? You want to get yourself killed? Wait for the light, you idiot!”

Hamad continues haughtily the rest of the way across the street, not seeming to care that he’s become the focus of attention of so many people, including a number of blue-and-gold-shirted orientation leaders outside of Fischer Hall, attempting to gather their flocks of first-year students in order to take them to various afternoon outings.

I lean down to lift the crumpled napkin he’s thrown in my face.

“Hey,” I call to him, dangling the napkin between my index finger and thumb. “Littering is prohibited in New York City. It’s punishable by a fine of up to two hundred and fifty dollars! So please use a trash receptacle next time.” I walk a few steps to a nearby metal trash can and toss the napkin inside it. “See? It’s not that difficult.”

Before entering Fischer Hall, Hamad hurls me a look of such pure and utter contempt that, for a moment, it’s as if the sun has gone behind the clouds.

A chill goes down my spine that’s not unlike the one I felt in Cam Ripley’s office. Maybe I
did
make a mistake going to the student union after all.

“Heather?” one of the orientation leaders asks me with concern when the traffic slows down enough for me to cross the street. “Are you all right? Was something going on between you and that guy?”

“Oh, no,” I say breezily. Though truthfully, I don’t feel particularly breezy inside. “We were just fooling around.”

“It didn’t look like he was fooling,” she says.

I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner and go inside, where there is no sign of Hamad. He probably already took an elevator to the fifteenth floor.

Hamad is from another country that has very different customs than ours, I tell myself. Maybe in Qalif it’s an insult for a woman to comment on a man’s condiment preferences.

Or maybe Hamad is a cold-blooded killer and wanted to let me know in no uncertain terms that I’m his next victim.

Either way, it probably isn’t such a bad idea to make that call to Detective Canavan, like Cooper suggested, and mention the incident.

It’s busy in the lobby, as it always is after lunch. The residents who’ve slept in are finally up and around, and their more ambitious peers are on to their afternoon activities, as are (unfortunately) their parents.

“Everything okay?” I ask Pete as I approach the security desk.

“Depends on who you ask,” he answers with a shrug.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” he says, and smirks as he bites into the tacos I bought for him (well, I paid for, he ordered) from Choza Taqueria on MacDougal.

My heart sinks. “I’m going to find something waiting for me in my office that I’m not going to like, aren’t I?”

He stops smirking and looks surprised. “No, you’re gonna like it. Almost as much as I like these tacos—which is a lot.”

I’m not certain I believe him. Pete might think I’d like finding my mother in my office, but he’d be very wrong.

“Great,” I say.

But when I walk into my office, what I find
is
a pleasant surprise. There’s an enormous floral arrangement sitting in a crystal vase on my desk, and it’s not one of those chintzy FTD ones either, all carnations and baby’s breath, but gorgeous hydrangeas, hyacinths, roses, and some blooms I can’t even identify, they’re so foreign and rare. Every single bloom is pure white, the bouquet perfectly arranged to fit the expensive square-shaped vase it’s been delivered in. The flowers fill the office with their exotic scent.

Sarah is sitting at her desk, flowerless. The door to Lisa’s office is closed.

“Nice, right?” Sarah says, when she sees my face light up at the sight of the overflowing vase of blossoms. “Guess you’ve got a fan.”

Cooper! I think immediately. He’s the only person I know who would do something so thoughtful—and classy. He knows how much it hurt, having my mother show up like she did last night. That, plus having a student death in the building—when I’d sworn to myself that this year was going to be different—has really thrown me for a loop.

This is exactly the kind of thing he’d do to cheer me up . . . especially after upsetting me by saying all that nonsense about how he was going to tail her.

“Oh,” I say softly, reaching out to gently touch one delicate, ivory petal. “He didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“He really didn’t,” Sarah says, taking a big bite of the burger she’s grabbed from the caf and is eating at her desk. “But then,” she adds, with her mouth full, “that’s the kind of guy he is, isn’t he?”

I lean forward to sniff a rose. Heaven, especially after experiencing so much dark unpleasantness outside the building just now with Prince Rashid’s bodyguard. “I’m so lucky.”

“You are,” Sarah agrees. “We all are, really. So, so lucky to have him in our lives.”

There’s something slightly off about her tone.

“Wait,” I say, lifting my nose from the flowers and stiffening. “These are from Cooper, right?”

“Ha.” Sarah cackles. “You wish. Open the card.”

There’s an ivory note card tucked amid the dark green leaves. I reach for it.