Fatal Connections

Chapter 14

Amy Harcourt lived on campus. I knew the name of the dorm, but not much else. So I checked in with Nick and got a few more details. Her major was English and one of her favorite places to hang out was the McKeldin Library. I also got her cell phone number, but I would use that only if I couldn't contact her otherwise. I hate giving up the element of surprise. I also got the name of the most recent nanny—Astrid Gunderson. Nick had interviewed her, but because of the article's slant, he had steered clear of the most sensitive issues.

I always wondered what a person would do with a degree in English. Perhaps Amy wanted to be an English teacher. That alone made her a worthy person in my view. Really good teachers were scarce, and these days, they're paid small money to put up with big problems. With my curiosity piqued, I figured I would ask Amy how she planned to use her degree, assuming there was a plan.

I could only hope that Amy was staying in her dorm instead of with a relative or friend. But since I was in the area anyhow, I figured a visit was worth a try. Free street parking in College Park is tough to come by, even on a Sunday. I squeezed the Fiesta into a small, curbside space that two other drivers had barely allowed me. After another glance at my flowchart and notes, I grabbed the book I brought and headed for the dorm.

After a short walk across campus, I spotted Amy's dorm and was struck by its resemblance to a middle-class apartment building. I had been expecting something a bit more, I don't know, ivy-covered? As I approached the dorm, I was surprised to see actual bay windows.

I walked into a shadowy canyon between two buildings and continued toward the sunlight that warmed the entrances. I turned left, climbed a short set of stairs, and tried the door. Locked. Naturally. A sign near an intercom informed me that all visitors required escorts. I scanned the area. A few students wandered through it.

Among the intermittent stream of students who trickled by me, one or two entered the other building. I considered simply following a student into Amy's dorm but dismissed that idea because it was likely to raise questions about why I was there. It's a dangerous world nowadays, even on a semi-sheltered college campus. So I pressed the intercom button. A young woman's voice crackled a greeting.

I smiled as hard as I could—because when you smile, it makes you sound all happy—and announced myself as an acquaintance of Amy Harcourt's parents. Which was true. I knew them. Once.

"I'm here to see Amy," I added, which seemed obvious. I hesitated to say more, because God only knew how privy Amy's cohorts were to her exact situation.

There was a long pause before the intercom crackled to life again. "I'll see if she's in her room," the tinny, but cheery, voice responded.

A longer silence followed. People of all ages walked up and down the sidewalks. A group of young people had gathered across the street. The vibe I got suggested that the gathering was impromptu. Their expressions varied from intensely serious to joyful. I heard enough laughter to confirm that it wasn't a fight about to break out. And why would I even think that? For all I knew, they could be discussing a test or working on a group project, planning a night out, or planning a revolution.

A bicycle or two whizzed by. I was about to give the intercom another go, when the tinny voice returned. "Are you a friend of the family?"

I suspected Amy was feeding lines to the owner of the voice. "I worked for them," I said very briefly. And I found their bleeding bodies! Which I left unsaid. A few seconds later, the door opened.

The young woman who peered out looked barely old enough to be in college—her features had an almost babyish quality, and her light brown hair and hazel eyes accentuated her youthful appearance. She was a couple of inches shorter than me and was wearing an oversized hoodie that nearly swallowed her petite frame, making her look beyond shy. I started to explain why I was there and was shocked when she blurted out "Did you really know my parents?"

She didn't sound angry, but I'll admit I was mildly surprised at her bluntness. And she was clearly being cautious. Who could blame her?

In fact, it finally hit me that it was only yesterday morning that her parents had been murdered. My anxiety over police suspicions and badly timed phone calls had overridden any thoughts of waiting a few days, enough of an interval to satisfy common sense and decency.

"Yes, I did know them," I said. "I assume the police have spoken to you?"

She nodded. Her eyebrows drew together as if she were doing division in her head.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I said. God, I'm terrible at this stuff. I plunged on, feeling like I was jumping into the deepest part of the ocean. "For personal reasons, it's really important for me to understand more about what happened to your parents."

"You aren't with the press then, are you."

She said it like a statement, but I knew it was actually a question.

"No," I replied, handing her a business card. "But I do have an interest in finding out who murdered them."

She flinched. Goddammit. I wanted to punch myself for my lack of manners.

"I've . . . I've told the police all I know," she said. Her gaze pivoted toward a point beyond me, as if seeking a teleprompter.

"Amy." Saying her name earned me brief eye contact. "I could really use your help. Because I want to make sure they find the right person."