Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(97)

“I don’t know how to justify it. I’m the one who’s going to have to answer for it.”

“How about if you just tell everybody to kiss your rosy red ass.”

“You have no idea what color my ass is. Don’t pretend you do.”

“I want this, Kyle. I fucking need this.”

Bowen thought about it for thirty seconds. He peeled the lid off the coffee. A thin layer of foam still floated atop the liquid. The rising steam was sweet and heavy. He said, “Your presence is sure to rattle him. There’s some value in that.”

“You better believe there is.”

“Or we could just bring him in for questioning. Let you stand in the corner and watch.”

“You don’t know this guy. He feels safe in his little cubicle. It’s his fucking cave. We need to do it there.”

“I could get my rosy red ass in a sling over this.”

DeMarco smiled. “Trooper Morgan can do it all. I’ll just be a spectator.”

Bowen raised the paper cup to his lips. He allowed the foam to touch the tip of his tongue. The smoky caramel warmth filled his mouth. Then he said, “Yeah. Like that’s really going to happen.”





Sixty-Nine


DeMarco and Trooper Morgan strode softly down the corridor of Campbell Hall. At the appropriate door, DeMarco inserted the floor key he had persuaded the department secretary to lend him, then put his hand to the knob, turned it, swung the door open, and strode inside. Morgan followed but stayed hidden behind the row of filing cabinets.

Conescu jerked his head around. For just an instant, his eyes were bright with anger, his mouth coming open to castigate the interloper. Instead, he went motionless but for a tiny snort of air. “Good morning, Professor,” DeMarco said.

Conescu told him, “I am making revisions to my book,” and swept a hand toward the computer monitor. “I have no time for you.”

DeMarco crossed behind him and stood just off Conescu’s left shoulder, which required that the professor swivel to his left. Now he glared up at DeMarco, but the brightness in his eyes was no longer due to anger.

DeMarco continued to smile. “I take it you found Carl Inman to be an apt student?”

Conescu blinked. “I do not recognize that name. I have no such student.”

“Is that why you withdrew five thousand dollars from your account at Citizens Bank, sir? Five thousand just four days ago, plus another five thousand two weeks ago.”

Now DeMarco could hear the man’s breathing, the shallow, quick breaths, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I sent that money to family. My uncle and aunt in Romania.”

“Why didn’t you send them a check? Or make a wire transfer? Instead you withdrew it in cash. Because you gave it to Carl Inman. Most of it was found in his vehicle, still in the dated bank wrappers.”

Conescu stared at DeMarco for another ten seconds. Then he closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell through a dozen short breaths. Eventually his shoulders sagged. He opened his eyes and turned slightly to his right, gazed past DeMarco to the window, and there, fixed his gaze on the four inches of dirty glass visible beneath the faded canvas blind.

“He was not supposed to kill anyone,” Conescu said. “To discredit him only. As he deserved to be discredited.”

“Except that Professor Huston didn’t deserve discrediting, did he? Because he never touched any of the dancers. All he did was talk to them.”

Conescu said nothing.

“How did you find out he was visiting Whispers? Did Inman contact you?”

“I only wanted to be left alone. He would never leave me alone to do my work.”

Because he hated frauds, DeMarco thought. “So you cooked up this plan to have him videotaped at Whispers. You get tenure, promotion, whatever it was you wanted. Except that Professor Huston fooled you, didn’t he? He was a better man than either of you.”

“What that man did… Inman. What he did to that family. I had no part in any of it.”

“How about the money you paid him to take care of me? Did you have any part in that?”

When Conescu failed to respond, DeMarco crossed to the window and raised the blind, filled the room with bright morning light. Conescu blinked and squinted, lowered his gaze to the floor.

“It was only for him to go away,” he said. “He threatened me.”

“You didn’t pay him to get rid of me? Because maybe I had you worried?”

“I did not know the things he would do. He was…not a civilized man.”

“I guess maybe you bit off a little more than you could chew, didn’t you?”

Conescu slowly rotated his chair until he faced the computer screen again. He saved the document he had been working on, then closed it. He then shut down the computer. When the screen was black, he said, “My mother had a saying. If you lie down in shit, don’t complain about the stink.”

“Smart woman,” DeMarco said. Ten seconds later, he cleared his throat, his signal to Trooper Morgan. The trooper came into the room and unsnapped the handcuffs from his belt. To Conescu he said, “You need to stand up now.”

But Conescu did not move. He seemed about to slump forward in his chair. DeMarco put both hands on the back of the chair and slowly rotated it a half turn. Conescu looked up at him. “He did not like you,” Conescu said.