“Okay,” I say. “Well, good, I look forward to meeting Dave something or other.”
“Ha,” Lisa says. “You’re funny. He’s coming at two. Jasmine’s parents will be meeting with us—and Dr. Jessup and Dr. Flynn—a little later. Maybe by then the coroner’s office will know how Jasmine died.”
The phone on her desk begins to ring.
“And so it begins,” she says, and lifts the receiver. “Hello, Fischer Hall director’s office, Lisa Wu speaking.”
I finish my bagel while I listen to her say “Uh-huh” and “Yes, I understand” to whoever is on the other end of the phone, probably not even conscious the whole time that she keeps tugging at her bra like it isn’t fitting correctly.
Do I need therapy? I wonder. Maybe what I need is some time off. Not for my honeymoon—I’m already getting that. Cooper and I are going to Italy—but now, right now, so I can deal with all this wedding crap and maybe my mom. (Not that Lisa’s right. My issues with my mom aren’t psychological. They’re purely practical.)
I suspect Cooper might be right, and that whatever has brought Mom back to the United States has nothing to do with me, despite her claim that she’s here to help with my wedding. It’s probably a good idea for him to find out why she’s really here, before the actual reason blows up in my face, as things concerning my mother have a tendency to do.
Patty’s right, too. This place should give me an honorary degree. I’ve already mastered the art of critical thinking. And what about all the criminals I’ve caught on campus?
This reminds me of Prince Rashid’s extracurricular activities, so after I’ve finished my bagel and returned the plate to the dining hall, I stop by the security desk on my way back to my office.
“Hey, Pete,” I say casually. “Looking forward to seeing you out of that uniform and in a suit at my wedding, Magda looking hot on your arm.”
Pete doesn’t fall for it.
“Whaddaya want, Heather?” he asks. He’s gotten portlier than he’d like to be since he started dating Magda, and his daughter, Nancy, who is something of a math and science prodigy though she’s still only in junior high, had explained to him that if his LDL cholesterol got any “lousier,” he’d probably have a heart attack. He needed to up his HDL, or “happy” cholesterol, she’d explained, and stop eating all the free donuts Magda kept sneaking him from the caf.
So lately Magda has been bringing him free carrot sticks.
This has not put him in a very good mood.
“I want to see the sign-in logs for the past few nights,” I say.
All residents are required to sign in each of their guests, who are supposed to show picture ID before entering the building, ID they then leave with the security guard during their stay.
“Particularly for Prince Rashid,” I go on. “Also, can you roll back any video you have on the hallway outside his room during the evening?”
“Can I roll back any video I have on the hallway outside his room during the evening?” Pete echoes, in a rude imitation of my voice. He makes it much higher-pitched and Valley Girlish than I believe I sound. “Why should I? Do you know how hard it is to work these fricking things?”
He gestures at the stack of video monitors in front of him, which has grown much larger since Prince Rashid moved into the building.
“I barely know how to work my kid’s Xbox,” Pete complains, “and you’re asking me to play back something—”
“I’ll buy you lunch,” I say. “Not from the caf. From wherever you want. A sandwich from Murray’s. Dumplings from Suzie’s. A slice from Joe’s Pizza . . .”
His gaze flicks toward the cafeteria doors. This early in the morning, the week before classes have begun, there’s no one but us two in the lobby, and the student worker behind the desk, who happens to be Gavin, dressed in his pajamas and dozing. He’s desperate to earn as much money as he can before school starts so he can buy, he explained to me in excruciatingly boring detail, some kind of camera, with which he intends to film the greatest American horror story ever told.
It was at that point that I’d stopped listening and gave him all the hours at the desk that he wanted. No one else had volunteered, so it worked out great for both of us.
“Choza Taqueria?” Pete asks. “And you won’t tell Magda? Because she’s been ratting me out to my kid every time I eat anything over four hundred calories.”
“Of course I won’t tell Magda,” I say. “Choza Taqueria it is.”
Pete hands me the sign-in logs and begins to fiddle with the monitors. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find anything,” he says. “I think these things record back over themselves after twenty-four hours.”
“Just do your best,” I say.
I don’t know what I expected to find in the sign-in logs, but certainly not what I end up finding: a big fat zero. Prince Rashid’s signature is nowhere. I wonder if the prince is even required to sign in his guests, or if he has some kind of special privileges we don’t know about, passed down to him from the president’s office. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Kaileigh Harris, on the other hand, seems to have had numerous guests: she’s signed in her mother and father three to four times a day, poor thing. Other residents have signed in their parents multiple times a day as well.