Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (11 page)

The kinds of people who can make you feel that way are dangerous. They hold all of the power.

* * *

W
hen I step
into the room where the journalists meet to work on the newspaper, there are already three people, typing at computers. I’m not sure how they can move around in this room, since the tables are only about six inches away from each other. The body heat in the room from these three already makes it feel several degrees warmer than in the hallway.

A thin man with auburn hair glances up at me. He has his legs propped up on a desk, but as I walk toward him, he swings his legs down and stands up.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Are you the editor of this magazine?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m Dave Barnard,” he says. “Do you have information on the deaths of Victoria Glassman or Everett Pine?”

“That depends,” I say, “on if you have information for me.”

“About what?”

“Drug allegations concerning your newspaper,” I say.

Both his eyebrows shoot up, but a blush spreads across his face. “Are you the police?”

I shake my head. “No. I work with the police, but with this case, I’m just involved for a friend. Unless you killed someone, I won’t hold anything against you. Your newspaper just came up when it came to Everett Pine’s death, so I need some questions answered.”

"How do I know that I can trust you?" he asks. "I've been reading enough underground press to know the police have no problems lying."

"I'm not the police," I remind him. "Look, I don't care what your newspaper is doing—although from your constant evasion of this subject, it sounds like something bad—but I need to know who gave drugs to Everett Pine."

"The person who gave Everett drugs has nothing to do with his death," he says.

"How would you know?"

He grabs my arm and leads me out of the office. He closes the door behind us.

"Let's just say I have a good idea of who gave it to him and I know for a fact that this person did not kill Plaid."

"That's interesting that you suddenly switched to using his nickname," I say. "Before, you were just echoing the name I used, but now you're calling him Plaid...which means you must have been pretty close to him. Can I safely assume that you were his drug dealer?"

He flushes. "You can't assume anything. Don't try to put words in my mouth just because I used someone's nickname."

"You also knew who gave him drugs, which doesn't seem like a thing people would be bragging about," I say. "So let's just say--hypothetically--you were the one who gave him drugs. Hypothetically, did you see him snort the drugs?"

"Hypothetically, no," he says. "I didn't. He bought them and left...hypothetically. And hypothetically, if he had gotten them from me, that same batch was given to a different customer of a smaller size and that person is perfectly fine. The drugs couldn't have killed him."

"Can you tell me anything else?"

"Why would I?"

"Honestly, you want to come up with something better than that because the actual detectives could come around any minute and you want me on your side."

He scuffs the floor with his shoe, his face contorted with discomfort.

"Let's say the newspaper did have a way to communicate with people who wanted to buy drugs. First off, we're not the ones who make them, so if the police wanted to stop this whole thing, it's the chemistry department you want to go after, but secondly, there was something weird a few days ago."

"Keep talking," I prod.

"In the spot where--hypothetically--I usually write our message to our consumers...there was something else typed in right before I was ready to have it all printed," he says. "I don't remember the exact wording, but it accused Plaid of not deserving his poetry award. I don't see how that could have something to do with his murder--I mean, he already won the award, nobody has anything to gain from him dying, and it wasn't a prestigious award--but it was weird. And then he died.”

Interesting. I wondered if it had anything to do with the case. “Anything else?”

He tilts his head. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Why aren’t you asking your brother all of this?” he asks. “I know your brother is Liam, so he seems like the more obvious source of information for you.”

“Why would my brother have information behind this?”

He scrunches up his nose. “Why don’t you ask him?”

* * *

I
find
Liam exactly where I expect to find him—in front of the student union, plotting out a protest with a few other students. I grab his arm and drag him away from the group.

“Are you dealing drugs?” I hiss.

“What?” he asks. “No. Why would you even ask that?”

“Because the editor of the magazine seems to think that you’re involved with drug dealing,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. Well, I may have gotten myself involved with this cult that deals drugs, but that was for investigative purposes. I wanted to see if any professors or school officials were involved, but it doesn’t look like they are.”

“What cult?”

“They call themselves the Eternal Brotherhood. They’re mostly frat boys, but they allowed me to join them after I saw some of them dealing drugs and I didn’t tell anybody.”

“What?” I want to shake him. Idiot.

“I may have also taken some things from the
Magician’s Suitcase
that helped them disguise some parts of their operation,” he says.

He sees the murderous look on my face, so he rushes to say, “But they’re mostly harmless. I mean, if a person is going to do drugs, they’re going to do drugs, and they only target people who are already users.”

“You realize I work for the police, right?” I ask. “Do any of these Brotherhood members belong to Rho Sigma Alpha?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “One of their drug manufacturers does. Alex Shirokov.”

* * *

W
hen I show
up at the fraternity, Brian opens the door. After I tell him why I'm there, he leads me up to Alex's room. He walks back down to the kitchen as I knock on the door.

"I'm busy!" Alex shouts.

"It's Mira," I say. "I...need to see you."

I stare at his door for a few seconds before he jerks it open. He's wearing sweatpants and nothing else. I didn't picture this conversation occurring while he's half-dressed.

"Hey," I say. "Um, could we talk privately? Maybe in your room?"

"Of course, baby." He gestures inside. "Why don't you sit down on my bed? It's old, but it's still...useful."

I stride in, trying to keep as calm as possible. I need this to look natural.

I sit down on his bed, tucking my legs underneath me. I smile at him as he closes the door.

"What's up, sweetie?" He picks up a small toy basketball and throws it into a hoop on his wall. He makes it look effortless.

"So...I've noticed you noticing me and I was thinking...maybe we could get to know each other."

"How do you mean?" he asks, taking a few steps closer.

"I mean, I'm not getting any younger," I say. "And you're legal age."

"I am." He takes another step until his legs are almost touching his bed. He touches the bottom of my hair. "But don't you have a case to worry about? I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be getting involved with me if you're investigating Victoria’s and...that other guy's deaths."

"Oh, I'm not worried about it." I take his hand and pull him closer. He falls forward against me, his hand resting on my hip for a second before he stands up straight again. “I just need to relax right now and you seem like the perfect way for me to get comfortable.”

"Yeah, I'm actually busy right now," he says. "But maybe some other time. You can come around, and I can get you some beer. You can tell me all about your job. I’m actually really interested in it. You guys use luminol, right? But doesn’t it glow if it hits copper? I suppose when it causes an unstable organic peroxide, it’s bound to be imperfect.”

"Come on, Alex," I say. I get onto my knees--the bed bending under my shifting weight--and wrap my arms around his neck. "You've been flirting this whole time. Show me that you really mean it. You're not a tease, are you?"

I kiss his cheek, starting as slow as possible. His reaction unnerves me a bit--he's been coming onto me this whole time, but as soon as I show interest, he's backed off. Was it all an act in front of his frat brothers?

He doesn't react to the kiss, so I turn my head, so our cheeks are touching.

"I'm sure you need to relax, too," I whisper. I can almost feel the heat rush into his face. I settle back onto the bed, pulling myself farther onto it. "At least come here and lie down beside me. Maybe you'll decide you're not so busy."

"I really can't." He flushes. "I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? A girlfriend? And you're just making her up now?"

"No," he says. "I really do have a girlfriend. I just like to flirt and she doesn't mind. But I'm two hundred percent faithful. I would never cheat on her. I love her."

His words seem genuine, but that means my whole plan is out the window.

"Well," I say, jumping off the bed. "Maybe we can just jump straight to the point. I've heard there's a more exclusive group within all of the fraternities, and you're in it."

He blinks several times. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the fact that I found a hair that belongs to you at this gathering for the Eternal Brotherhood,” I lie. I’m not going to rat out my brother to people who could be homicidal maniacs. “You realize how pretentious of a name that is, right? Eternal. It's like you guys think you're God."

"There's no way you could have known that's my hair."

"I grabbed some DNA from a glass you were using here," I bluff. "It's a match. It was you and I'm absolutely certain of it. If we find out that this cartel of yours is doing something wrong--like, I don't know, making and selling drugs--a jury will be very interested to see that you're the one person we can absolutely say was involved."

He clenches his teeth and turns away from me. I hear him take several deep breaths. He turns back around to face me.

"You wouldn't be the one coming here if you actually wanted to hurt the Brotherhood, so what do you want?" he asks. "Money?"

I shake my head. "That's tempting, but no. I want to know about Everett Pine, who you pretended to not know. He had been taking drugs that you sold. Could somebody--maybe even you--have put something in the drugs he was taking?"

"No," he says. "And that part has nothing to do with me. You should ask the editor of
The Noise
, Dave Barnard--"

"I already have," I say. "Now, I want you to tell me things. There has to be something you know, Alex, or else you wouldn't have pretended that you didn't know he was the one who died."

"I didn't want you to know that I knew who he was because I didn't know him," he says. "I barely do anything within the Brotherhood--I occasionally help out making the drugs, but I have a busy schedule. The only reason I'm part of the Brotherhood is because my father is a lawyer. There were fears early in the year that someone could find out about us, so they picked a few people who had powerful parents. Someone else’s father is the police union chief."