Better Off Undead - Cynthia Eden Page 0,23
everything.
Now it was all gone.
“Why did he pick you?” Jane whispered. The guy had a New Orleans Saints shirt on his bed. Game tickets were in the garbage can.
She raked a hand through her hair. A knock sounded at the dorm room door and she stiffened—
“Hey, Thatch! You in there?” A loud male voice called.
Before Jane could answer, the door swung open. A tall, dark-haired guy stood there, looked to be around twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. He blinked in surprise when he saw her.
“Oh, didn’t realize Thatch had…company.” He flashed her a broad smile, one that showed a dimple in his left cheek. “I’ll come back. I can talk to him later.”
“No¸ you can’t.” Dammit, she hated this part. Jane pulled out her ID. “I’m Detective Jane Hart.”
The guy hesitated in the doorway. “Is Thatch in some kind of trouble?” His pale green eyes were worried. “He’s a good dude, I swear. Smart, you know. Wicked smart. He helps me with my math when I need it and, sure he likes to party a little hard, but who doesn’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Jane cut in. “But Thatch is…he’s dead.”
The fellow’s expression didn’t alter.
Shock? Another reaction that she’d seen all too often.
Jane stepped toward him.
He stepped back, shaking his head. “What? What is that? No. Not Thatch. No!” He covered his face. “Thatch!”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. The grief was kicking in for him, and it was a terrible thing to do, but she wanted to question him before he gave in to the pain he felt. “Alan Thatcher was killed last night.”
The guy’s hands slid away from his face. “He was…he was heading out to party last night.” His voice was so rough now. Gravelly.
“Where did he go to party?” That would be a lead she could use. She’d retrace Alan Thatcher’s footsteps and figure out just how his night had gone so terribly wrong.
The fellow’s smile was bitter. “Where does everyone go these days?”
She had no clue. Jane wasn’t exactly big on trending party scenes.
“The hottest club in town. Hell.”
She sucked in a quick breath.
“Hell’s Gate,” the guy continued as he blinked quickly. His eyes had filled with tears. “I was supposed to go, too, but I got slammed working on my research paper. Never made it there. Shit. Shit.”
“What’s your name?” Jane asked him carefully. She wished she was better at handling the victims. They just made her feel bad because she hurt for them. It was too easy for her to understand their pain and their rage. Easy, but she had no words to comfort them. I give them comfort when I lock up the bastards who hurt their loved ones.
“Quint. Quint Laurel.” He shook his head. “Does his family know? Thatch was always so close to his family. Especially his mom.”
“They know. She knows.”
His eyes closed. Then, hoarsely, Quint said, “What…what was done to him?”
“I don’t think you really want to know that.” Her gaze slid over to the cork board on the wall. A picture of Alan Thatcher was up there, with his arm around his pretty ex-girlfriend. A big smile was on his face. “Better for you to just remember him this way.”
“Jesus…that means it was bad, right? So bad you don’t want to tell me.”
She didn’t respond.
“Jesus.” He said again. “Thatch.”
She had to ask her next question. “Did Thatch have trouble with anyone on campus? Any enemies?”
“Nah…nah. I mean, he and Gena had broken up, because she’d been caught hooking up with that jerk Beau, but it wasn’t a thing.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t…I don’t think it was a thing. Thatch was pissed at Beau, and I think Beau felt the same way, especially when Gena started calling Thatch again but…” He rolled back his shoulders. “That’s just stupid drama. Not the kind of thing a guy would get killed for.”
You’d be surprised why people get killed. But a college romance gone wrong? That hardly connected with the slashed remains she’d found. Still… “Does Beau have a last name?”
“Yeah. Beau Phillips. Doesn’t live on campus. Think he has some place in the Quarter.”
She’d find him. Jane offered Quint her card. “If you think of anything else about Alan Thatcher that you feel I should know, call me.”
He stared down at her card, his expression fierce. “You a good detective?”
Her brows climbed. “I like to think so.”
He grunted. “You’ll…catch the guy?”
“That’s the plan.”
His stare rose, lingering on her face. “You look young.”
“Not as young as you.” And appearances can be deceiving. “I know how to do