“But she would be an adult, not a student,” Roarke pointed out, “and there the difference widens a great deal.”
“Won’t argue with true.”
“You ran her?”
“I did. He sponsored her, brought her over three years ago, so well after the divorce. I gave her an out, told her I could help her. She said she was very content—and she meant it. That he was kind to her, didn’t hurt her. And she knew what it was like to be hurt by someone in power. So … their business.”
“An unsavory gray area, but—not a minor, not a student. If Grange did indeed go there, she’d not only lose her position, and any remote chance of landing another, but face criminal charges.”
“Yeah, she would. I’m thinking of mentioning that to her when I take a trip down to East Washington.”
“You’d go to her?”
“I could start the process of having her come here for interview, but she could stall, and the first two kills were within two days. I’d rather not risk it.”
“I’ll arrange a shuttle. And if that’s something you get used to,” he said before she spoke, “it’s to save time and frustration—potentially lives—in the work. So it’s all to the good.”
“The public shuttle’s not that bad,” she began, and tolerated his bland stare. “But yeah, it would save time. I’m figuring to go down after Kent Abner’s memorial in the morning.
“Second question. What do you know about Miguel Rodriges?”
“I’m not entirely sure I know anything. Who is he?”
“I’ll make it easier, since you basically employ the population of Uruguay. It happens he’s an old pal of Callendar’s, so she gave me the first tip. When I got the second from a teacher at Gold, I got his name from her to take a look.
“He went to Gold on scholarship,” she continued as she wound more pasta around her fork, “got a full ride to MIT, and now works as a game programmer in one of your R&D departments.”
“What is the population of Uruguay?”
“I don’t know, but you probably employ it, so you don’t know everyone who draws a paycheck.”
“Not offhand, but everyone who does is thoroughly screened. Is he a suspect?”
“No. Callendar said how Rodriges got bullied, and beat up on when at Gold. I had a talk with the head chemistry teacher—who’s worked at Gold for decades, so through Grange. Among other things he told me this Rodriges was a target of some of the troublemaking rich kids, got beat up when he couldn’t avoid them—and wouldn’t cheat so they could get decent grades. His parents met with Grange, who fluffed them off.”
She ate, grabbed her water glass. “But then they came back when Rufty took over, and he not only didn’t fluff, suspensions happened.”
“A different kettle,” Roarke commented.
“Opposites, really, so whatever the opposite of a kettle is. The chem teacher gave me a name, and I’ve got more from Rufty’s notes. I’m going to check them out. I want to talk to Rodriges, too, get a picture.”
“Easy enough to arrange. I’d like to refresh myself on him.”
“The chem teacher, who struck me as solid, liked him. That came across. A serious brain, apparently, and since he got tuned up rather than cheat, I’d say that adds ethics and guts. Figures you’d snap him up.”
“Only the best,” he said as he reached across for her hand. “I’ll look him up, talk to his supervisor. I can have him come to you whenever you like.”
“Save me time. The memorial’s at eight. They wanted to have it on his favorite running route. I can grab the shuttle by nine. Why don’t I tag you when we’re heading back? It might take a push to box Grange into an interview.”
“I’d say having Whitney contact the board of trustees or the school’s president—however it works—would cement that very well.”
“Huh. I bet it would. Kind of a hard-ass way in, but…”
“Play to your strengths, darling.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” She studied the very last bite of the very last meatball. “I wonder what genius came up with the concept of a ball of meat. There should be statues honoring him.”
“I think there’s likely more than meat in the ball.”
“Don’t tell me that.” She ate the last bite. “I don’t want to know that. Besides, you don’t know any more about what goes into cooking stuff than I do. So we’re sticking with a ball of meat.”
“Probably best all around. And since you got dinner, I suppose I deal with the dishes.”
As she went back to her command center, with coffee, it occurred to her that nobody who didn’t actually know Roarke—who cut paychecks to the population of Uruguay—would ever imagine him hauling dishes into the kitchen.
You didn’t know somebody until you knew them, she thought. Which made her consider Lotte Grange. Her impressions included cold, sexual, ambitious, possibly greedy. But there had to be a solid brain and some definite skills in there, too. Nobody got to the headmaster position in tony schools by sexing their way up the chain. At least not for long.
Since Roarke’s idea—he usually had good ones—of using Whitney’s clout to secure the interview made sense, she sent him a request.
Then she did a run on Kendel Hayward—cheater, bully, high school bad girl. Eve knew her type—it wasn’t exclusive to fancy private academies. It ran rough in public and state schools, too.
It seemed Hayward graduated, did a couple years, general studies, at the University of Maryland, dropped out to work with her mother in event planning.
And now lived and worked in—happy coincidence—East Washington. Her engagement to a congressional aide, who appeared to have money, a family name, and aspirations, had been announced the previous summer.
She’d plan on a twofer, Eve thought, and make the trip down even more worthwhile.
And she culled through Rufty’s notes from back in the day, scanned troublesome students who’d been suspended or been pulled by parents.
She paused at one, as Rufty mentioned a friendship with Hayward. Marshall Cosner. Transferred from Gold to complete his last semester at Bridgeport Academy in Vermont—where his maternal grandparents lived. He’d gone on to study law, making him the fourth generation in his family to do so. But he hadn’t, as his ancestors had, gotten into Harvard.
Cosner currently clerked at his family’s law firm—in New York—and had not yet completed his law degree.
From the looks of it, he had a ways to go. Part of the problem, she thought, might be time off for rehab in a very pricey and exclusive facility. After two illegals busts, with no time served.
Another stint in rehab, physical this time, after he busted himself and his vehicle up while under the influence.
Some addicts liked to cook their own, she considered. Maybe Cosner had learned more chemistry on the street than in the classroom.
She studied a handful of names, paused again on Rufty’s personal notes.
She took a hard look at Stephen Whitt. Hayward’s high school boyfriend, Cosner’s good pal, and according to Rufty, a ringleader of troublemakers.