Eight Perfect Murders(45)
“There are procedures that we have to follow in the course of an investigation, and Agent Mulvey didn’t comply with those procedures. That’s all I can really say.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Before you go, I should ask you if you feel the need for police protection for yourself?” She twisted what looked like a wedding band.
“No, I guess I don’t,” I said, pretending like I was thinking about it. “But I will be careful.”
“One last thing before I let you go,” she said. “I know that you provided an alibi to Gwen Mulvey for the date of the death of Elaine Johnson, but I was hoping you could do the same, or attempt to do the same, for the other murders.”
“I can try,” I said.
She sent me home with a list of exact dates for the murders of Robin Callahan, Jay Bradshaw, Ethan Byrd, and Bill Manso. I went onto my computer to look at my calendar but was suddenly exhausted, unable to deal with it at that moment. I stood up, was instantly light-headed, and realized that the only thing I’d eaten all day had been a plastic-wrapped raspberry Danish during my morning interview. I went to my kitchen and made myself two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, ate them both with two large glasses of milk. It was one thirty. The good news was that I was getting a drink with Marty Kingship at Jack Crow’s Tavern at six that evening. I knew he’d have more information for me on Norman Chaney’s death, probably more information on Nicholas Pruitt. In the meantime, I needed to figure out what to do between now and that meeting at six. It wasn’t worth contacting Pruitt myself. Not yet, anyway. Then I remembered the dedication in his book of short stories: To Jillian. I got online and looked some more at Jillian Nguyen, the possible dedicatee. She’d been an adjunct professor at New Essex, primarily teaching survey courses for incoming freshmen; at Emerson College, where she was now, she was teaching some literature classes, but was also teaching poetry in the creative writing department. I googled some of her poetry. As was often the case with contemporary poets, I barely understood what I was reading, although there was one poem, published in a journal called Undivider, titled “Sunday Afternoon at the PEM.” The PEM was the Peabody Essex Museum, located in Salem, Massachusetts, a town adjacent to New Essex. The poem itself was largely about an exhibit related to Vietnamese folk art, although there was a “he” in the poem, a companion of the speaker, who “only saw the negative space, the bent flesh.” I wondered if the companion was Nicholas Pruitt, and if he was, then I doubted Pruitt and Jillian Nguyen were still together. Even I could decipher the line from the poem as being critical.
There was a phone number listed for Professor Nguyen on the Emerson faculty page, and I called it, not really expecting her to pick up, but she did, after two rings.
“Hello?”
“Is this Professor Nguyen?” I asked, hoping I was pronouncing it correctly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Hi, this is John Haley,” I said, spontaneously using the name of the previous owner of Old Devils. “I was wondering if I could speak with you about Nicholas Pruitt.”
There was a pause, and for a moment I thought she might have hung up the phone, but then she said, “How’d you get my name?”
“I’m afraid that I can’t be overly specific about my reasons for wanting to speak with you, except to say that Mr. Pruitt is being considered for a prestigious job, and it’s very important that we fully vet him.” Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t entirely convincing.
“Fully vet him for what?”
“Look, I’m right here in Boston, and time is of the essence. Is there any possible way that I could meet with you this afternoon? Either in your office or maybe we could meet for coffee.”
“Did Nick list me as a reference?” she said.
“I believe he mentioned you, but you wouldn’t be giving an official reference. Anything you told me about him would be in total confidence.”
She laughed a little. “I’d be very surprised if I were asked to give some kind of reference. Well, you’ve piqued my interest.”
“You’d be doing me a huge favor if you’d meet with me.”
“Okay,” she said. “I can meet you this afternoon if you don’t mind coming to me.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“There’s a coffee shop in Downtown Crossing. Ladder Café. Do you know it?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“I have office hours until three. Will three thirty work?”
Chapter 19
The section of Boston known as Downtown Crossing is on the other side of the Boston Common. It used to be anchored by the large department stores, notably Filene’s and Macy’s, although both those buildings are currently empty. What remains is a mishmash of sneaker stores and hot dog vendors, plus a few hip bars and restaurants hoping that the city will successfully be able to rebrand the area as the Ladder District, something they’d been trying to do for a few years now.
Clearly, the Ladder Café was on board with the rebranding. Sandwiched between a fabric shop and a sports bar, the Ladder was a narrow, high-ceilinged room with tattooed baristas and minimalist art on the walls. I got there early, procured a large café au lait, and sat with a view toward the front doors. I suspected that Jillian Nguyen, when she arrived, would have many questions about why I was asking her about her former boyfriend. I decided that I would tell her as little as possible, except that he was being considered as the editor for a forthcoming anthology from a major publisher, and that there’d been some questions about his personal life. If pressed, I’d tell her I was working for a private detective firm doing a background check. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me for my card.