Ria looks at them with a sheepish grin, like a game-show hostess about to unveil the grand prize. With a flourish, she lifts the wood table straight up, revealing what was lying below it, nearly flush against the wall.
“A phone,” Jane mumbles.
A hot pink phone.
“Andy, call the number for Lauren’s cell phone again,” Jane says. “The one registered with the Village.”
They hear a buzzing coming from the evidence bag holding the cell phone registered to Lauren Betancourt, one they found on the kitchen counter.
“So what is this phone?” Jane mumbles.
“That’s a burner if I’ve ever seen one,” says Andy. “That’s no fancy iPhone or Samsung that a rich woman like Lauren Betancourt would carry around. That, my friend, is a love phone.”
18
Simon
“You wanted to see me, Dean?” I say.
“Oh, Simon, good. Come, sit.” Today, Dean Comstock is wearing a purple bow tie, matching the law school’s color. I’ve never worn a bow tie in my life. I hate bow ties.
He could come to my office. It wouldn’t kill him. But it would alter the dynamic. As if he doesn’t already hold enough power over me.
“I hope you’ve had a chance to think about what we discussed.”
Yeah, we discussed that you wanted me to go away quietly and let your benefactor’s son, Reid Southern, waltz into the full professor slot without opposition.
“I promised you I’d consider it carefully,” I say. “I am.”
And yet, I still haven’t withdrawn my name for full professor. I haven’t completed my application, haven’t submitted my materials, but I still could. I still have a few weeks left before the deadline.
Why, exactly, I have not officially pulled the plug is anyone’s guess. Maybe it’s my passive-aggressive protest against the dean strong-arming me, making him wait to wonder whether I will submit my materials at the last minute and defy him.
Or maybe I really am going to submit my materials. Vicky has made her opinion clear, and she has a way of moving the needle with me.
The dean apparently had something different in mind. He figured I would formally withdraw my name immediately after our talk before summer break. Who knows, maybe he promised as much to Reid Southern’s daddy, Mr. Big Bucks. Which means I am making him look bad. Can’t have that, can we?
“I hope you understand that I had your best interests in mind, truly,” says he.
I nod my head, because if I tried to give a socially acceptable response, I’d probably vomit.
“Simon.” With that, he leans back in his big leather chair. “I’m sure you can understand that these days, the law school has to be exceptionally careful about questions of character among its faculty.”
Then why are you here, Dean?
“Of course,” I say.
“These days, as you know, we have to be exceptionally careful not only about a candidate’s character but about his . . . his past.”
I blink.
Then I do a slow burn, as he watches me.
“Why, we’ve all seen examples of people losing their positions of prominence these days for things that happened as long as . . . twelve, even fifteen years ago.”
Twelve years ago. Fifteen years ago. He didn’t pick those numbers at random.
You’ve been busy, Dean.
“Particularly when the choice of candidates is so close, such as between you and Reid,” he says. “The smallest thing could make the difference.”
He’s smiling. He’s actually enjoying himself.
“Of course, if the choice were obvious, as it might be if you were to apply next time,” he says, with that condescending ponderous look, “it might not be necessary to dig so deeply. Why, I doubt anyone would so much as inquire what a young fellow was doing with himself some twelve years ago.”
Some twelve years ago. Some twelve years ago.
“But in a close competition like this one . . .” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He opens his hand. “People naturally look for tiebreakers, for a slight edge to one side. They dig more deeply. They look into the candidate’s entire history. Even things that the candidate forgot to mention back when he first applied to the school.”
My jaw clenched so tight it hurts. My teeth grinding together. Black spots clouding my vision.
“I was under no obligation to disclose that,” I whisper.
“Understood, Simon, understood,” he says. “And the presumption of innocence, as well. Nothing was ever proven, obviously. I just wonder . . . how things will go for you if that were to be publicly disclosed? The whole court fight and everything.”