Page 59 of Love Always

Nic says nothing but smiles benignly. I figure he’s letting me lead on this to see how I interview. So far, he hasn’t had much of a chance to see me question a subject.

“We believe these are singular hits of heroin prepackaged in a syringe.” It’s almost like dealing with Cory—trying to frame a question without making it a question.

Cruz looks adequately repulsed and alarmed. “You mean here, on campus? The café?” He sits down again. “The Student Union building?”

“This campus is an excellent vector for drugs, with interstate highways running northeast and southwest, non-residential students who come and go, access to Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York and the major airports and bus routes. And,” I say glancing around to infer the entire college, “this is a physically large campus with many labs, a large library, and other communal meeting places.”

Cruz’s head swivels from me to Nic. “Do they think it was a drug deal gone bad?”

Nic flashes a glance to me and I shut my mouth. “We can’t talk about specifics, but drugs are involved.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his hand shakes as he grips his chipped coffee mug. “Am I in any kind of danger?”

This time Nic leans forward and offers an incredibly warm gaze that matches his voice which oozes a kind of monied, educated assurance I will never have. “I don’t think you’re in any real danger. There’s been a sting operation on this campus for a long time.”

“There has?”

Nic glances to me. “I think we can read the professor in.” He looks to me to continue the charade.

I’m not good at fabrication, but I think I know where Nic is heading with this. “It often takes months or years to build a case and the police have been operating here undercover for a while. It may be why Colleen was killed.”

His eyes grow wide. “Was she an informer?”

Nic smiles and says, “You’ve watched a lot of television cop shows.”

Cruz looks confused and I take advantage of the moment.

“You don’t have anything to add about Colleen? You don’t know anything about these little packages? You’ve never found one? Given one to a student yourself?”

“Are you accusing me—”

I raise a hand. “No, of course not. We’re not cops,” I remind him. “We represent a client, a victim of one of these packages, and are trying to find the source.”

This seems to calm him down. I pick up the thread again. “You’ve never seen or distributed these boxes?”

Rubbing his bald spot again, he shakes his head, “No. I mean, should I?”

Nic seemingly agrees. “No, of course not. I think we’re done here,” he says and nods to me. Just as I rise he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, didn’t you want to ask him about that one other girl?” His eyes are Navy blue and they look right at me.

Sometimes security work is like being in a piece of music or a dance. We’re working as part of a team, parts moving seamlessly from one person to another, with understanding and rhythm established without speaking. This is one of those moments.

“Oh, yeah,” I say trying to sound quite casual, “can you explain this photo then?”

I hand my phone to Cruz and watch his face. There’s a micro expression of anger, a fleeting snarl of the upper lip anyone would miss. It takes place in half the time of an eyeblink. To the naked eye, Cruz shows no surprise for a few seconds and then his eyebrows shoot up.

“Where did you get this?”

I take my phone back before he tries to ID Chris.

“We’re just wondering why you’re handing that student one of those boxes.”

Now, he looks genuinely shaken. “The student who sat in her chair during the previous section left it, and I knew that student worked in the cafeteria. I wasn’t heading in the direction, so I just asked her to take it.” He looked sheepish. “I don’t like going to Lost and Found—there’s always paperwork.”

“And who’s that student? The one who delivered it?”

“Ah,” he scratches his head for a moment. “Hang on one minute,” he checks a tattered green grade book. “That’s Laurel Russo.” Then his eyes widen. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Isn’t that the person who found the body? Do you think they’re connected? Do the police think she did it?”

“We’re just trying to figure out how our client fits in,” offers Nic.