Golden in Death(83)
Unlike his schoolmate, Whitt had diplomas gracing the wall. On another a screen ran the financial news from around the world, all holding on mute.
“Can we offer you something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Thank you, Ernest. That’s all for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lauder stepped back, closed the door.
“I’m in the dark here,” Whitt began. “You want to talk to me about someone who’s been murdered?”
“Kent Abner. Elise Duran.”
“Still in the dark.”
“Kent Abner was married to Dr. Martin Rufty and Elise Duran to Professor Jay Duran. Maybe that sheds some light.”
“Not really, no.”
“You did attend Theresa A. Gold Academy here in New York, correct?”
“Now, that’s a name from long ago. Yes, I did, but I don’t understand what…” Eyes narrowing, he sat back. “Rufty, yes, of course. He came in as headmaster right before I transferred. I finished my senior year and graduated from Lester Hensen Prep in East Washington, so we barely crossed paths.”
“Our information is crossing paths is the reason you didn’t graduate from Gold.”
“True enough. My parents didn’t like Rufty’s administrative style, and over my considerable objections at the time, enrolled me at Lester Hensen, where Headmaster Grange had also transferred.”
“You objected?”
“Objected, sulked, raged.” He smiled as he said it. “I was seventeen, and considered my life essentially over. All my friends were here, the girl I loved was here. In the pecking order at TAG, I considered myself high up, and now my parents were sending me to another school in another city, where I’d also board? Life.” He waved his hands. “Over.”
“You must have blamed Dr. Rufty.”
“Absolutely. The son of a bitch came in, took over what I considered my turf, threw his weight around, alienated my parents so completely I paid the price. Of course, as is often the case, it turned out to be the best thing for me.”
“How’s that?”
“Without the friends, the girl, the familiar, I focused on my studies to get through. In any case, my life didn’t end. I don’t see how my crisis, as I saw it, at seventeen has anything to do with these murders.”
“Did you also blame Jay Duran for the transfer?” Peabody wondered.
“I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”
“You were in several of his classes when you attended the academy,” Peabody pointed out. “language arts, creative writing, literature.”
“Sorry.” Whitt added a small, dismissive shrug. “I can’t say I remember many of the teachers from back then.”
“This particular one wrote you up multiple times. You and your friends,” Eve added. “The records show he cited you for participating in a cheating ring, for bullying, for physical assault, underage drinking. It’s quite an array. He issued formal complaints about you, about Headmaster Grange among others.”
His eyes stayed even, direct. Empty. “One would assume if any of those accusations were true, Headmaster Grange would have taken appropriate disciplinary action.”
“We don’t assume, Mr. Whitt, as evidence shows Headmaster Grange overlooked accusations, statements, complaints in return for generous monetary donations to the academy.”
“That wouldn’t be on me, would it? Now, will I sit here and claim I never behaved badly as an adolescent or teenager? Of course not. Anyone who does so claim is either a liar or had a very boring childhood. In point of fact, the crowd I ran with while at TAG might have leaned toward the wild side.”
He shrugged that off as well. “But we were harmless, and doing what most of that age do. Exploring boundaries, stretching them, experimenting.”
“Illegals?”
He smiled, slyly. “I’m going to take the Fifth on that. Look, we had parties. A lot of our parents traveled, and we’d have parties. I won’t deny we found ways to get our hands on alcohol. I hope, when and if I have kids of my own, to do a better job of supervising such things, but it’s all really just a rite of passage. And while it’s been amusing to take this little trip back to my youth, I really have work to get to.”
“Then we’ll jump forward to the now. Can you give us your whereabouts on the nights of April twenty-seventh and twenty-ninth, from nine-thirty to eleven?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, Mr. Whitt. We consider murder investigations very serious.”
“You actually consider me a suspect because of some teacher and administrator from high school? You must be really reaching.” Shaking his head, he scrolled through an appointment device.
“April twenty-seventh, I took a client and her husband to dinner at Le Jardin. We had eight o’clock reservations. I’d estimate we left around midnight. I escorted them back to their hotel—they were in New York from Belgium—then had the limo take me home. Again, I can’t tell you precisely, but I should’ve been home before twelve-thirty, and didn’t go out again.”
“We’ll need the names of your clients to verify.”
“No.” His jaw set; his eyes hardened. “I won’t have you contacting important clients and questioning them. If you have to verify, talk to the restaurant. The ma?tre d’ knows me, as I often take clients there. The servers will certainly remember.”