kidding?” Champy asked. “She loves jewelry.”
“Then that’s a step in the right direction,” he said.
Champy walked over to Crawford’s desk and leaned down on it, hovering over Crawford. He dropped his voice to an almost-whisper, despite the fact that they were the only two people present in the squad. “Tell me. How do you get some?”
Crawford wiped his hands over his face and let out a loud sigh. “Some what?”
Champy shrugged. “You know.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down, signaling that the carnal conversation was still in full swing.
“I don’t get a lot, Champy, so I’m probably not the right person to ask.”
“You? I can’t believe that.” Champy snorted. “You’re a big, good-looking guy…what’s the problem?” He paused for a moment and narrowed his eyes. “You’re not…you’re…” he started, dropping his hand at the wrist.
“Gay, Arthur? Am I gay? No, I’m not gay,” he said.
“I’m just saying…”
“Yeah, well, go say it somewhere else,” Crawford said, riffling through the old file, hoping Champy would get the hint and return to work. Crawford kept his eyes on the file, hoping to see something that would pique his interest about Julie Anne. There really wasn’t anything there; all they had was a scared twenty-year-old girl who thought her parents would find out that she had slept with a professor if she didn’t come to the police first to give a statement.
Poor kid. She was scared to death. And she was under the mistaken impression that whatever she said to the police was kept in the strictest confidence, much like a confession to a priest. Champy had disabused her of that notion, making her the most frightened girl on the St. Thomas campus now. Crawford was sure of that.
Crawford’s phone rang. “Crawford. Fiftieth Precinct.”
Champy’s voice came over the line, still in a whisper. “Because you know, you could tell me if—”
Crawford slammed the phone down with so much force that a piece of plastic flew from the receiver and onto the radiator cover next to his desk. The phone began ringing again immediately, and although he was happy to hear Alison’s voice, he wasn’t so happy to hear what she had to say.
Chapter 21
I went back into the house and called the Fiftieth Precinct. My plan was to leave a message with one of Crawford’s colleagues; I was surprised to hear his voice, sounding cranky, tired, and exasperated. I hoped that my propensity for being involved in murder investigations wasn’t taking a toll on our budding relationship, but it had to be getting old.
“Crawford! Fiftieth Precinct!” he screamed into the phone.
“Crawford?”
“Oh, hi. I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s early. Is everything okay?”
I described my early-morning walk with Trixie, the cop next door, and the 911 calls. “Is it strange to you that the cop just left?”
“That’s a career-ending move if I ever heard one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in a couple of days, say you smell a suspicious odor coming from the house and the cops go in, only to find a decomposing body with a finger on the phone keypad?” he asked. “Trust me. The captain would fire that cop’s ass for not following up on a mysterious 911.”
“Gross.”
“That’s the sort of thing you don’t blame on a screwy 911 system. That’s the sort of thing you break doors down for.” He looked at his watch and then at the stack of files on his desk. “Listen. Don’t do anything. I can’t come over until late tomorrow. I’ve got to pick up my girls tonight and I don’t want to be late.” He let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Please don’t do anything. Please.”
“Okay,” I said, hesitantly.
“Promise me,” he said.
I waited a few beats. “Fine. I’ll wait for you.”
I am a lousy liar.
I stood in the kitchen, still pajama-clad, considering my options. I could wait for Crawford, but his estimated arrival time was two days from now. I could focus my attention elsewhere—like the junk drawer in my bathroom vanity—but that would only occupy an hour or two after I threw out all of the old hair twisties and unused mascara samples. The choice seemed simple. I would go and look around the house now, before the sun came up and Bagpipe Kid, faithful practitioner of all things requiring hot air and bellows, began his morning vespers.
I looked at Trixie. “Not one word of this when Crawford comes over.”
She looked at me in adoration.
“Yes, I’m pretty amazing, Trixie, my girl, but you have to promise me. We must make a solemn vow.”
She barked enthusiastically