Meg Cabot - Big Boned

“We’ll call his parents,” I say, in what I hope is a soothing voice. I try to push some of the tendrils back from her forehead, but it’s no use. She’s so sweaty, they’re stuck there, like glue. “I’m sure he’ll call them himself, though.”

“Right,” Magda says. “Don’t prisoners get one phone call?”

This question starts a fresh wave of weeping. I give Magda a dirty look over the top of Sarah’s head.

“What?” Magda demands, defensively. “They do. When my cousin Tito—”

“No one wants to hear about your cousin Tito right now, Magda,” Pete says. From his tone, I kind of get the feeling Magda might be right: Pete doesn’t like her—not that way. On the other hand, maybe he has other things on his mind. He’s looking down at Sarah, clearly concerned for her. “The question is, why did they arrest him? What kind of proof do they have?”

“No proof,” Sarah wails, into her arms, which are folded on the tabletop. “They don’t have any proof, because he didn’t do it! Sebastian is a pacifist! He wouldn’t hurt a fly! He’s getting his master’s in religious studies… he keeps kosher, for Christ’s sake!”

Pete and I look at each over her shaking shoulders. “They have to have something,” he says quietly. “Something good, too. Or they wouldn’t have arrested him. A case like this, so much publicity… They’d never have made a move like this without something solid. They wouldn’t want to make a mistake, risk any bad press.”

I pull out the chair beside Sarah’s and slide into it. “Sarah,” I say to her. I’m trying to ignore her tears. Now is not the time for weeping. Not if she wants to spare her friend life in prison. Or worse. New York’s got the death penalty. “Think. What could they have on Sebastian that would make them think he did it? Does he own a gun?”

“God, no,” Sarah says, with a shudder. “I told you, he’s a pacifist.”

She’d also told me he was very adversarial. But I let that one slide. Besides, anyone can get a gun. This is New York City, after all.

“Well, where was he this morning when Dr. Veatch died? Do you know? Does he have an alibi?”

Sarah raises her head. Her face glistens with tears. “H-how should I know?” she asks. “I’m not exactly his girlfriend. How would I know where he was at eight this morning?”

It is obvious this admission pains her more than she wants us to know.

Pete licks his lips. Then he says, “This is bad.”

Sarah wails, “But he didn’t do it! I know he didn’t!”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “Funny how juries and judges usually want something called proof, and you saying you know he didn’t do it? That is not considered proof. I gotta get back to my desk. You girls be all right?”

We nod, and Pete leaves… shaking his head as he goes. Sarah watches him until the cafeteria doors ease shut behind him, then looks at Magda and me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Okay. So what are we going to do?”

Magda glances at her genuine zirconium-encrusted watch. “I don’t know about you, but I have an appointment for an important eyebrow waxing after work.”

Sarah sighs. “That’s not what I meant. I meant about Sebastian.”

“I don’t see what we can do, Sarah,” I say. “I mean, the police—”

“—have arrested the wrong man.” Sarah’s stopped crying, but her eyes haven’t lost the feverish glitter they seem to have taken on from the moment the cops slipped the cuffs over Sebastian’s wrists… and her scream ripped through the corridors of Fischer Hall. I’m surprised she didn’t burst any blood vessels, that shriek was so loud. “Obviously, they’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Sarah.” I hesitate. Still, it has to be said. “I know you really, um, like this guy. But how can you be so sure that he didn’t do it?”

Sarah just stares at me.

“I mean, the GSC does stand to gain from having Dr. Veatch out of the way—”

Sarah continues to stare.

“Look, I know,” I go on. “I was there this morning. And, yeah, he seemed as surprised as anyone to hear that Owen was dead. But we both know that sociopaths are good actors. Maybe… ”

Sarah blinks. I sigh.

“Okay,” I say. “Fine. He didn’t do it.”

“Finally,” she grumbles. “You know, sometimes you seem to have difficulty processing information. You might look into a temporal lobe disturbance. Just a slight one. Did you ever suffer a concussion as a child? Because that might explain it. Anyway. I guess what we need to do is concentrate on finding the person who really did shoot Dr. Veatch.”

I swallow. “Uh, Sarah? Cooper and I already had this conversation earlier. And he seemed to think that would be a really bad idea.”

“Yeah?” Sarah sounds completely disinterested. “Well, things are a little bit different now, aren’t they? An innocent man has been wrongly jailed for a crime he did not commit. Now, who else can you think of who might have had motive to do this? Anyone? Magda? Any ideas?”

Magda looks at her watch again. “I’ve got to go.”

Sarah’s face crumples. “Really, Magda. Is it too much to ask that just this once you think of something besides your personal grooming? Like the life of a young man who is so forward thinking and self-sacrificing, he could conceivably one day be president of the United States?”

Magda looks dubious. “I don’t know,” she says. “I got some pretty funky stuff starting to grow where no hairs should be… ”

The cafeteria doors open, and Gavin comes striding in.

“Hey,” Magda yells at him. “We’re closed till five—”

“Duh,” Gavin says. “Heather, we’re too late. I just called up to Jamie’s room. Her roommate says she just left for home—”

I swear beneath my breath, and Sarah glances at me sharply. “Jamie who?” she wants to know.

“Jamie Price,” I say. “She had a meeting—”

“With Owen this morning,” Sarah finishes for me. “I remember, I scheduled it for her. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about. Why does Gavin know about it, though? And what does it matter that she’s gone home? What’s this about?”

“Nothing,” I say. I don’t want to give her false hope. “Just something she said—”

Gavin’s already approached our table. “We should go after ’er. Rent a car, or whatever. Go to her place and find out what’s going on.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, flattening my hands against the slightly sticky tabletop. “What?No.”

“We could take the train, I guess,” Gavin goes on. “But, like, how are we going to get from the train station to her house? It’s quicker to rent a car.”

“Not at rush hour, it isn’t,” Sarah says. “And it’s almost four. Why, exactly, are you doing this?”

“’Cause she knows why Dr. Veatch got iced,” Gavin explains, with a shrug.

Sarah’s whole demeanor changes. Her spine stiffens, and her rounded shoulders go back. She turns her suddenly laser-sharp gaze upon me. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she demands.

“Sarah,” I say, already reading the writing on the wall—and not happy about it. “It’s just—we don’t even know what Jamie’s talking about. It could be nothing.”

“But it could be something,” Sarah says breathlessly. “Have you told Detective Canavan?”

“Sarah—no. It just happened. We—”

But Sarah is already up and heading for the cafeteria doors. I throw Gavin a tired look. “Thanks.”

He shows me both his palms in a what’d-I-do? gesture.

“Let’s go,” I say to him. To Magda, I say, “See you later. Good luck with your waxing.”

She glares at me as I hurry after Sarah, Gavin hot on my heels. “Not everyone is naturally fair like you, Heather, you know,” Magda calls after us hotly. “Some of us need a little extra help!”

Out in the front lobby, we find that Sarah has already thrust herself in the middle of the tight circle of college administrators that’s formed around Detective Canavan, and is insisting, “… so you just need to get in touch with her at her parents’ house as soon as possible. We can of course give you that information if it will help at all with your investigation—”

Detective Canavan, seeing me approaching, gives me a help-me look over the top of Sarah’s head. “Right,” he says, to Sarah. “We’ll get right on that.”

“Sarah,” I say, gently.

“Here, why don’t I just go get it for you right now.” Sarah turns around and starts heading back for the residence hall director’s office. “I assume it’s all right for us to go back into our office now, right?”

“Uh,” Detective Canavan says. “Yes. The crime scene is clear.”

“The crime scene.” Sarah laughs. There’s nothing humorous in the sound, however. “Right. I’ll just go get you Jamie’s home address and be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

She hurries away, her long hair flying behind her. Dr. Jessup, still standing in front of Detective Canavan, gives me a look. “What’s this about a resident knowing something about Dr. Veatch’s murder, Heather?” he wants to know.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just something another resident overheard. It could be nothing… just a rumor.”

“Hey,” Gavin says indignantly. I elbow him, and he quiets down.

“I’ll have someone get in touch with this, er, Price girl,” Detective Canavan says. “But the evidence against Blumenthal is pretty convincing.”

“And may I ask what that evidence is?” I want to know.

“You may,” Detective Canavan replies, with a smile, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you.”

Dr. Jessup, overhearing this conversation, laughs heartily. But there’s nothing sincerely humorous in the sound.

“I guess Heather’s been working here for so long she’s starting to consider herself an expert in homicide,” he says loudly—but not loudly enough to be overheard by any of the students who might be milling around.

“Yes, well,” Detective Canavan says, “this building does seem to see more than its fair share of manslaughters.”

Dr. Jessup looks slightly queasy upon hearing this, as if regretting having brought up the subject in the first place.

“Here.” Sarah comes running back, out of breath, a slip of paper in her hand. “Here it is, Detective. Jamie Price’s home address and phone number. This is where she is. Or where she will be. So you’ll go question her?”

“Sure thing,” Detective Canavan says, taking the slip of paper, folding it in half, and putting it in his pocket. “Now, if you people don’t mind, I have places to be, things to do… ”

“Of course, of course,” Dr. Jessup says, laying a hand on the detective’s back. “Just one more thing… ”

The two men step from the lobby, followed by the rest of the housing administrators, as well as Reverend Mark and, of course, Muffy Fowler.

Sarah looks at me. She’s still panting.

“He’s not going to ask Jamie what she knows, is he?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Sarah,” I say. “Maybe. Probably not right away. He says whatever evidence they have against Sebastian is pretty convincing.”

Sarah’s eyes are wet again. “Then Gavin’s right,” she says. “We’ve just got to go and ask her ourselves.”

“Sarah,” I say. “I really don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“A man’s life is at stake,” Sarah insists.

“I’m with Sarah,” Gavin says. “Plus, I think Jamie needs us.”

“Sebastian needs us,” Sarah corrects him.

I look at the ceiling. “This is not happening.”

“And,” Sarah goes on, “there’s no need to rent a car. I know someone who has one… someone I’m sure will be happy to help us.”

I look at her curiously. “You do? Who?”

“No,” Cooper says.

I’m not surprised. They’ve ambushed him, following me home and—despite my assurances that it’s going to go down this way—insisting he’ll let them borrow his precious and tenderly restored BMW ’74 2002.

Yeah. Because that’s about as likely to happen as my getting up every morning to run a 5K. For the fun of it.

Still. They’re standing in his second floor office, where he has the window wide open to let in the late-afternoon breeze, stray random bullet from the park be damned.

“Cooper,” Sarah says. “You don’t understand. This is an emergency. A young man’s life may be at stake.”

“Take the train,” Cooper says. He’s sitting with his feet on his stupendously messy desk, going through his mail in a bored sort of way. Cooper is usually very tidy in his personal life—he keeps the public areas of his house and even his bedroom almost obsessively neat most of the time.