“Who’s Wendy Stroman?” Lonergan asked.
The petite brunette in the T-shirt with Mozart’s image on the front raised her hand, her brown eyes peeking out from behind severe horn-rimmed glasses. By contrast, the woman next to her, Stella Dean, was blonde and less birdlike, dressed in a white T-shirt and scarlet sweatpants with the school’s name down the leg.
Wendy concentrated on her hands, which lay in her lap as she picked nervously at the dry cuticles on her right thumb. Stella sniffled in a ragged breath and covered her eyes, grinding her fingertips into the sockets as though trying to erase an unpleasant image. Two different reactions to tragic news. Their body language alone, Foster thought, was a lot to think about.
She glanced over at Lonergan, but it didn’t look like he was going to start. He appeared more than willing to let her deal with the emotional women, like her sergeant long ago. She turned one of the chairs around to sit facing them.
“I know how hard this is, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about Peggy.” Her eyes met Wendy’s. “You were her roommate?”
Wendy nodded, then looked at Stella, who now had her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “How did they? Kill her, I mean.”
It wasn’t information Foster would share, though she could see how not knowing pained Peggy’s friend. Besides, everyone would know soon enough once the media had its way. “Let’s focus on helping her now, all right? When’s the last time you saw Peggy?”
“Early yesterday.” Wendy flicked her head up and let her mangled cuticles go. “She was going to the march. A lot of kids were. It was a big thing. I couldn’t go. I spend Sundays with the family. My mom expects it.”
“If you’re local,” Lonergan asked, “why’re you livin’ here?”
“I wanted to be on my own. Sundays are a lot better than twenty-four seven at home.”
“Why’s any of this important?” Stella barked. “Some nut out there just killed Peg. What does it matter that she went home for mostaccioli night?”
“We didn’t have mostaccioli,” Wendy shot back. “It was pot roast.”
Stella threw her hands up dramatically. “Thanks for the much-needed clarification, Wendy.”
Foster turned to Stella. She knew nothing about her but didn’t appreciate the overbearing vibe she gave off or the insensitivity. “Stop the nonsense.” The look she gave Stella told her that she meant it. “What about you?”
“I saw her before she left,” Stella said. “Around ten, maybe?”
“You askin’ or tellin’？” Lonergan said.
Stella looked over at Lonergan like she’d just noticed he was there as a person and not as furniture. “It was around ten.”
“So yesterday Peggy left for the march,” Foster said. “Wendy didn’t go. Did you go, Stella?”
“I was supposed to,” she said, “but I’m seriously in the hole in econ. I had to study, so I begged off, told her to go ahead. She took the bus down with some other kids going. If I’d gone with her, maybe . . .” She began to sob. Foster could sense Lonergan fidgeting at the window.
“Peggy have a problem with anybody here?” he asked. “Dorm rivals. Mashers?”
Both women looked up at him, the confused looks on their faces indicating that they didn’t understand the term. Foster clarified. “Anyone harassing or pressuring her,” she said. “Paying her unwanted attention.”
Stella wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “No way. Peg was cool with everybody.”
Wendy glanced over at Stella, the flick out of the corner of her eye unfriendly, which Foster caught. Whatever the look meant, it was there only for a second, then gone, but she was sure it was significant. “Wendy? That true?”
Wendy startled, seemingly uncomfortable with the direct question or the solo attention. “Yeah. Peg was so great.”
“Anybody she might have met off campus, online?” Foster asked.
Both shook their heads. Foster opened her file and slid out a photo array with Keith Ainsley’s driver’s license photo included. “Have you ever seen any of these young men with Peggy?”
Both stared down at the images and shook their heads again. Foster tucked the sheet away, relieved that they hadn’t pointed out Keith Ainsley. No ID, then. It was one more element in the young man’s favor. “So to be clear, the last time either of you saw Peggy, she was heading out for the march on Sunday. Wendy, you were with your parents. Stella, you were studying. You never heard from her during the day?”
“Nothing,” Wendy said. Stella nodded in agreement.
“When’d you get back from your parents’？” Lonergan asked.
“Around seven,” Wendy said. “My dad drove me back. I studied until about ten, then went to bed. I didn’t even know Peg’s bed hadn’t been slept in until I woke up this morning, but I wasn’t worried. I figured she maybe spent the night at her house with her folks. Sometimes she did that.”
Lonergan turned to Stella. “What time were you done studyin’？ And who saw you doin’ it?”
“Five, maybe? I studied with Ashley. Ashley Tighe. When we were done, I ordered a pizza, then went to bed early. I was fried. Econ’s not my thing.”
Foster jotted the name down in her book, then waited for Lonergan to continue.
“Pizza from where?” he asked.
Stella hesitated. “Zippy’s.”
“Got a receipt?” he asked.
Foster knew Lonergan was looking for Stella’s tells to see if she was lying. She was doing the same with both girls. She had to remember they were kids, despite Stella’s forcefulness, so a certain amount of care and handling needed to be taken. Foster couldn’t overlook how intimidating her and Lonergan’s badges could be or how guarded people became when they spoke to the police.
“I never keep them,” Stella said.
“How early did you go to bed?” Foster asked.
“About nine. A little after.”
A college kid in bed at nine. Foster narrowed her eyes but let it go. For now.
“And this Ashley?” Lonergan asked. “She wasn’t in on the pizza?”
“I didn’t ask her,” Stella said. “I just wanted to kick back alone.”
Foster had been a cop a long time. She knew when someone was lying to her, and Stella was lying. She glanced over at Wendy, who sat perfectly still, her face showing no emotion. Foster was sure she knew Stella was lying too.
Birch had likely been killed, according to Rosales, around midnight. Wendy was claiming to have been in bed by ten, Stella by nine. Of the two, Foster thought, Stella seemed less truthful. “In bed by nine. Here? In the dorm?” she pressed. “And before you answer, know that we will check.”
Stella slid back on the couch. She tried doing it subtly, like she wasn’t uncomfortable with the pointed questions, but Foster hadn’t missed the slide. Stella played with the hem of her shirt, twisting it, picking at it. “I was asleep in my room.”
Foster gave Stella one last long, unwavering look, then let up and made a note in her book. “Joe Rimmer.” She said his name and then let it sit there for a moment. “Let’s talk about him.”