Caught. Part 39

Wendy nodded as though this offered her some great insight. It didn't. "Who were his close friends?"

"You mentioned two already, so I a.s.sume you already know that answer."

"His roommates?"

"Yes."

"Do you know them all?"

"In pa.s.sing perhaps. Phil Turnball and I were in glee club together freshman year. It is interesting. As you probably know, freshman roommates are a.s.signed by the school. That could lead to disaster, of course. My freshman roommate was an idiot savant who smoked dope all day. I moved out within the month. But these five all got along for years."

"Is there anything you can tell me about their time here?"

"Like what?"

"Were they weird? Were they outcasts? Did they have any enemies? Were they involved in any strange activities?"

Lawrence Cherston put down the sandwich. "Why would you ask something like that?"

Wendy aimed for vague. "It's part of the story."

"I can't see how. I understand why you'd inquire about Dan Mercer. But if your goal here is to somehow link his college roommates with whatever demons plagued him--"

"That's not my goal."

"Then what is?"

She didn't really want to say much more. To stall for time she picked up the graduation program, started paging through it. She felt his eyes upon her. She flipped more pages and found a photograph of Dan with Kelvin and Farley. Dan stood between them. All three had big smiles on their faces. Graduation. They had made it.

Lawrence Cherston was still looking at her. What's the harm, she thought.

"All of them--his roommates--have had trouble recently."

He said nothing.

"Farley Parks had to drop out of his congressional race," she said.

"I am aware of that."

"Steve Miciano was arrested on drug charges. Phil Turnball lost his job. And you know about Dan."

"I do."

"You don't find that odd?"

"Not particularly." He loosened his tie as though it had suddenly become a noose. "So is that the angle you're taking on this story? Roommates from Princeton all having troubles?"

She didn't really want to answer that one, so she shifted gears. "Dan Mercer used to come down here a lot. To Princeton, I mean."

"I know. I used to see him in town."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

"He would visit the dean's house."

"I had no idea."

It was then, glancing at the program, at the list of students, that Wendy noticed something odd. She had gotten used to searching for the five names--or maybe that picture had set her off. The list was in alphabetical order. And under the T Ts, the last name on the list was Francis Tottendam.

"Where's Phil Turnball?" she asked.

"Pardon?"

"Phil Turnball's name isn't on this list."

"Phil didn't graduate with our cla.s.s."

Wendy felt a strange tick in her veins. "He took a semester off?"

"Uh, no. He was forced to leave school early."

"Wait. Are you saying that Phil Turnball didn't graduate?"

"To the best of my knowledge, well, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

Wendy felt her mouth go dry. "Why not?"

"I don't know for sure. There were rumors, of course. The whole deal was kept hush-hush."

She stayed very still, very calm. "Could you tell me about it?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"It could be very important."

"How? It was years ago--and really, I think the school probably overreacted."

"I won't report it. This is off the record."

"I don't know."

This was no time for subtlety. She had offered the carrot. Time to bring out the stick. "Look, I already said it's off the record, but if you don't come clean, I will go back on it. And I will dig. I will dig up every skeleton I can find to learn the truth. And then it will all be on the record."

"I hate being threatened."

"And I hate being stalled."

He sighed. "Like I said, it wasn't a big deal. And I don't really know for sure."

"But?"

"But, okay, it sounds worse than it is, but the rumor is Phil got caught off-hours in a building where he didn't belong. In short, a campus breaking-and-entering."

"He was stealing?"

"Heavens no," he said, as if that was the most ridiculous thing he ever heard. "It was for fun."

"You guys break into buildings for fun?"

"I have a friend who went to Hampshire College. Do you know it? Anyway, he got fifty points for stealing a campus bus. Some professors wanted to expel him, but like with Phil, it was all part of a game. He just got a two-week suspension. I confess that I partic.i.p.ated too. My team spray-painted a professor's car. Thirty points. A friend of mine stole a pen off the desk of a visiting poet laureate. The game ran campus-wide. I mean, all the dorms competed."

"Competed in what?" she asked.

Lawrence Cherston smiled. "The hunt, of course," he said. "The scavenger hunt."

CHAPTER 32.

"WE SHOULDN'T HUNT no more. . . ."

That was what Kelvin Tilfer had told her.

Now, maybe, that made some sense. She asked Lawrence Cherston some more about it, about scar face and all the rest, but there was nothing more to learn here. Phil Turnball had been caught where he wasn't supposed to be during a scavenger hunt. He had been expelled for it. The end.

When Wendy got back to her car, she took out her phone to call Phil.

There were sixteen messages.

Her first thought made her heart slam into her throat: Something happened to Charlie. Something happened to Charlie.

She quickly pressed down on the V V to get her voice mail. As soon as she heard the first message, the grip of fear slackened. A different sort of sick feeling washed over her. It wasn't Charlie. But it wasn't good either. to get her voice mail. As soon as she heard the first message, the grip of fear slackened. A different sort of sick feeling washed over her. It wasn't Charlie. But it wasn't good either.

"Hi, Wendy, this is Bill Giuliano from ABC News. We would like to talk to you about accusations of inappropriate behavior on your part. . . ." BEEP.

"We're writing a story about your affair with your boss and we'd love to hear your side of the story. . . ." BEEP.

"One of the alleged pedophiles you exposed on your show is using the recent reports on your s.e.xually aggressive behavior to ask for a new trial. He now claims you were a scorned lover and set him up. . . ." BEEP.

She hit the cancel b.u.t.ton and stared at her phone. d.a.m.n. She wanted to rise above it, dismiss the whole thing.

But oh man. She was so screwed.

Maybe she should have listened to Phil and stayed out of it. Now there was no way--no matter what she did--that she'd escape these allegations unscathed. No friggin' way. She could catch the a.s.swipe who posted all this c.r.a.p, have him (or her) admit during live coverage of the Super Bowl that it was all a pack of lies, and it still wouldn't scrub her clean. Unfair or not, the stink would linger, probably forever.

So no use crying over spilled milk, right?

Another thought hit her: Couldn't the same be said about the men she nailed on her show?

Even if these guys were ultimately proven innocent, would the stink of being a televised predator ever wash off them? Maybe this was all some kind of cosmic payback. Maybe this was karma being a total b.i.t.c.h.

No time to worry about it now. Or maybe it was all one and the same. Somehow it all seemed connected--what she'd done, what happened to the men she exposed, what happened to these guys at Princeton. Solve one and the rest would fall into place.

Like it or not, her life was enmeshed in this mess. She couldn't walk away.

Phil Turnball had been expelled for partic.i.p.ating in a scavenger hunt.

That meant, at best, he lied to her when she told him about Kelvin ranting about the hunt. At worst . . . well, she wasn't sure yet what the worst was. She dialed Phil's mobile. No answer. She dialed the house. No answer. She called Phil's cell again, this time leaving a message: "I know about the scavenger hunt. Call me."

Five minutes later, she pounded on the dean's door. No answer. She pounded some more. Still no answer. Oh no. No way. She circled the house, peering in windows. The lights were out. She pressed her face to the window, trying to get a better look. If campus police came by, she'd try not to quake in fear.

Movement.

"Hey!"

No reply. She looked again. Nothing. She knocked on the window. No one came to it. She went back to the front door, started pounding again. From behind her a man said, "May I help you?"

She turned toward the voice. When she saw who had spoken, the first word that came to mind was "fop." The man's wavy hair was a tad too long. He wore a tweed jacket with patched sleeves and a bow tie--a look that could only thrive or even exist in the rarified air of upscale educational inst.i.tutions.

"I'm looking for the dean," Wendy said.

"I'm Dean Lewis," he said. "What can I do for you?"

No time for games or subtlety, she thought. "Do you know Dan Mercer?"

He hesitated as though thinking about it. "The name rings a bell," the dean said. "But . . ." He spread his hands and shrugged. "Should I?"

"I would think so," Wendy said. "For the past twenty years, he's visited your house every other Sat.u.r.day."

"Ah." He smiled. "I've only lived here for four years. My predecessor Dean Pashaian was here before then. But I think I know who you mean."

"Why did he visit you?"

"He didn't. I mean, yes, he came to this house. But it wasn't to see me. Or Dean Pashaian for that matter."

"Why then?"

He stepped past her and unlocked the door with the key. He pushed the door open. It actually creaked. He leaned his head in. "Christa?"

The house was dark. He waved for her to follow him inside. She did so. She stood in the foyer.