Before She Knew Him(23)

“So why are you just calling me now? Why didn’t you contact me on Monday or immediately after seeing the trophy on Saturday?”

Hen had already decided to not tell the police detective about what she’d seen the night before. She knew it would make her sound crazy, following her neighbor in her car at midnight. She could tell him later, if she had to. “I just didn’t know if I was reading too much into it, but as the week went on I got more convinced. I also looked up some stories about the case and read about how Dustin Miller had been accused of rape when he was in high school. I thought it might all be connected.”

“Uh-huh,” the detective said, then asked, “When did you move from Cambridge to Dartford?”

“West Dartford. Just in July.”

“And what do you do, Henrietta?”

“Hen. You can call me Hen.”

“Okay, Hen. What do you do?”

She explained that she was a children’s book illustrator. She expected some comment or question—That’s interesting, or What books do you illustrate?—but the detective just told her that she’d been very helpful and could he call her back if he thought of more questions.

“Are you going to question him?” she asked.

She thought he might be vague about it, but he said, “I will. I’ll drive out myself. Do you know if he’s around today?”

“As far as I know he is. He teaches during the day, but I think he gets home around four in the afternoon.”

“I’ll come out then. I won’t mention you.”

“Thank you so much.”

After the call ended, Hen stood for a moment, the phone still in her hand, trying to figure out if she’d done the right thing. Her body, relaxing somewhat, told her that she had, and she hung up the phone.





Chapter 12




As Matthew pulled into his driveway at just past four, he noticed the dark blue Ford parked along the street between his house and the new neighbors’ house. Police, he said to himself, just by looking at the vehicle. And as he got out of the Fiat, a man in a suit got out of the parked car and began walking slowly toward him.

Matthew turned, and the policeman, tall and angular, said, “Matthew Dolamore?”

“Uh-huh,” Matthew said, and let a quizzical expression pass over his face.

“I’m Detective Martinez, Cambridge Police.” He flipped open a badge, and Matthew looked at it.

“Cambridge Police?” Matthew said.

“I’m on a wild-goose chase,” he said, smiling. “Do you have a moment to answer a few questions?”

“Uh, sure. What about?”

“Do you mind if we go inside?”

Detective Martinez followed Matthew inside the house.

“I’ve never been out here to Dartford. It’s nice,” he said. “Cheaper than living in the city, I’d think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Matthew said. “Do you want to sit? Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m good.”

Matthew put his leather briefcase down by the coffee table and sat on the edge of one of the chairs while Detective Martinez settled into the sofa, his legs so long that his knees were higher than his lap. He pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and said, “This shouldn’t take long, Mr. Dolamore, but your name has come up in an investigation, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What investigation?”

“You teach at Sussex Hall, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember a student of yours named Dustin Miller. He graduated seven years ago.”

“He was murdered,” Matthew said.

The detective nodded. “Right. So you do remember him?”

“Not well. He took one class with me. I don’t think I would have remembered him if he hadn’t . . . if he hadn’t been in the news. Are you still investigating his murder?”

“It’s unsolved, so, yes, we are. Some new information led us to believe his death might have had something to do with the time he spent at Sussex Hall, and that’s why I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on to that time of his life.”

“I really . . . I barely knew him, to tell the truth. He was not a memorable student.”

“Why wasn’t he memorable, Mr. Dolamore?”

“You can call me Matthew.”

“Okay. I will. And you can call me Iggy.”

Matthew, besides being bothered by the detective’s presence, was also bothered by the detective’s face. He was neither a fox nor a pig. He was something new, with his round cranium and sunken eyes, his small chin. Was he an owl?

“What was the question?” Matthew asked.

“You said that Dustin Miller wasn’t memorable. I was wondering why that was. Why wasn’t he memorable?”

“Well,” Matthew began, somehow unnerved by the question, “you remember your best students and you remember your worst. He was neither. Not particularly bright, but not a problem.”

“What about friends? Do you remember what type of friends he had?”

Matthew frowned as he shook his head. “No.”

“Did he play sports?”

“Most of the kids at Sussex Hall play sports. I don’t pay that much attention, to tell the truth.”