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  “You never saw him again after the class?”

  “I’d see him walking around campus.”

  “One more person I’d like you to look up,” Decker said. “Yvette Jones.”

  “Wow. I haven’t heard that name in a while. When did she disappear?”

  “About seven years ago.”

  Carter said. “Don’t tell me. She was in one of my classes as well.”

  Roiters said, “Also Intro to Economics.”

  “She was last seen attending one of your lectures,” Decker said. “Investment for the Socially Conscious.”

  “That would be me,” Carter said. “Obviously, then, you know where I was when she disappeared. I was at my talk.” He laughed. “Look, gentlemen. After my talks, I am always deluged with people. It usually takes me at least a half hour to clear the auditorium.”

  “She could have waited around for you,” Roiters said.

  “It’s just for process of elimination, Dr. Carter,” Decker said. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Detective, I wouldn’t know Yvette Jones if I met her face-to-face.” A pause. “By your questions, you obviously think that all three cases are related.”

  “We’re exploring all the possibilities.”

  Carter tented his hands. “Am I the only one on your list who had all three students in their classes?”

  “No, not at all,” Decker said. “There are others, but we have to start somewhere.”

  “Why all the questions now? Why not when Delia disappeared?”

  “Delilah,” Decker corrected. “We found evidence to reexamine all three cases.”

  “So you found more than one body at Bogat.” A pause . . . almost an afterthought. “Terrible business you’re involved in.”

  “Someone has to do it,” Roiters said.

  “Well, I hope you get somewhere this time. It must be frustrating for you to have open cases that go nowhere.” Decker felt the dig, but Carter was just winding up. “Furthermore, it must be hell on the parents . . . not knowing about their children. You must get blamed for things beyond your control.”

  Decker said, “Most people recognize that we’re doing all we can.”

  “Too bad that sometimes it’s not enough.”

  “You’re right,” Decker said evenly. “It sucks to fail.”

  The statement took Carter by surprise. He switched gears and shook his head somberly. “Is there something else I can do for you? As I said, I don’t remember the girls, but I do remember the young man.”

  “That’s why we’re here, talking to you. Trying to jog your memory.”

  “Wish I could help, but . . .”

  The man had tuned out. Decker gave him his card and Roiters followed suit. “If you think of anything at all, no matter how trivial, give us a call.”

  “I will.” Carter laid the cards on his desk. “I wish you luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two men walked out of the office and through Barrett Hall, thin with students because it was Sunday. The boys they spotted were tall and patrician. Morse McKinley was noted for having a good-looking male population. They aspired to be future bankers, venture capitalists, and hedge-fund directors. A few of them would end up as fraudsters and felons. Whenever big money is involved, the two things go hand in hand.

  “What did you think?” Roiters asked Decker.

  “I think the cards will end up in the trash. I didn’t like his little gibes at me or police work. Plus, he didn’t seem nervous.”

  “Maybe there’s no reason for him to be nervous. On the surface, it doesn’t look like he had much contact with them.”

  “He called Delilah ‘Delia.’”

  “I noticed,” Roiters said. “A simple mistake?”

  “Doubt it. I mentioned her name at least twice.”

  “I think it was three times.”

  “Why use the wrong name unless you want to distance yourself from the victim?” Decker exhaled. “Not many suspects, Ben. I’m not saying that Carter is up there with Snowe, but his smugness has put him on my radar.”

  McAdams said, “Snowe has been in his dorm for over an hour. Do you want me to sit here all night?”

  Decker spoke into his cell. “Where are you?”

  “I’m under an outside gazebo on my third cup of tea trying to look busy. But I’m the only one out here.”

  “Where did Cameron go when he left the station house?”

  “Hold on . . . lemme . . . okay. First he went to the dining hall to grab dinner. He joined a table of four guys. They had lunch together and he seemed to be doing most of the talking, or rather ranting—probably the prick police and the interview. But I wasn’t close enough to hear.”

  “Do you know who the guys were?”

  “No, but I took pictures. I had to sneak in there, you know. I guess I looked like I belonged. Anyway, an hour later, three of the four guys left, and it was just Snowe and another dude. I took more pictures. They talked for about twenty minutes, and then I followed Snowe to his dorm, which has three entrances. I parked myself to guard the main one, but so far nothing. I can’t guarantee you that my eyes have been glued to the door the past two hours. I left for the facilities and to rewarm my tea. Now you’re up to date.”

  “Okay, Harvard, call it a day.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the station house writing up the interview with Hank Carter.”

  “Anything?”

  “He doesn’t remember the girls, but he did remember Pettigrew once I described him. Other than that, he didn’t add much. I have a feeling that it’s going to be that way with all our interviews. It’s been a while. Innocent people forget, guilty people don’t talk.”

  “Is Carter crossed off the list?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t like him—he seemed shifty, but that isn’t indictable. Go home.”

  “Thanks. Should I come to the station house or to your house?”

  “Don’t you have your own apartment, kid?”

  “I shipped my clothing to Cambridge and my fridge is empty. I’m living out of my suitcase.”

  “Pick up dinner. It’s the least you can do.”

  “What is wrong with you? Did you miss your nap?”

  Decker laughed. “Go to Pita Delight and get some falafel, Israeli salad, tabbouleh salad, and spiced carrots. And also get hummus, tahini, and baba ganoush.”

  “Can you repeat the order now that I have a pencil and paper?”

  Decker did. He added, “Also, get some slaw. Rina likes the slaw. We have some leftover chicken. Between all that, we should have enough for dinner.”

  “For anyone else except Jews, it’s enough for a party.”

  “Now, now,” Decker said. “I can say that. You can’t.”

  “Of course I can. I’m your honorary son. And that makes me an honorary Jew.”

  “Are you sure you want that?”

  “Listen, Old Man. I’ve been alienated all my life. I might as well have an excuse for it.

  Chapter 17

  “We got the report back from the forensic odontologist.” Radar was talking over the phone. “It’s Occum. Expected—although it could have been that clerk at the gas mart.”

  “Erin Young.” Decker had papers spread out at the dining room table. He picked up one of the folders from her file box. “She disappeared about a year after Pettigrew. I can’t seem to work her into the puzzle.”

  “Maybe she’s not part of it. She wasn’t a student, correct?”

  “Correct. She was a local and she was older.”

  “We’ll keep digging for a few more days before we pull back. Last thing I want is to miss something. If you want, I’ll make Occum’s notification. I’m going to call her parents anyway.”

  “No, I’ll do the notification,” Decker said. “I just got off the phone with Karen. She interviewed Occum’s best friend, Emily Crowler, who wasn’t at the party. She wasn’t even in town. She had gone home because she had a massive allergic reaction
to an insect bite. Didn’t show up until the following Monday. I’ve crossed her off the list.”

  “Anything else I should be aware of?”

  “No, not so far,” Decker said. “Mike, regardless of what you find out there, I want to reopen Erin Young’s file. If her parents see us working the other three cases and not hers, they’re going to be rightfully upset. Even though we haven’t found her body, I don’t want anyone who lives here to think that college students are more important than the locals.”

  “There was just a single mother. Her name was Corrine. Erin didn’t live with her, but there was contact between them. Jerry Plains was the detective on the case. He retired to Florida about two and a half years ago. Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, because I replaced him.”

  “Yeah. Right. I believe Erin went missing four years ago. For all I know, Erin could have made contact with her mother and the old woman forgot to tell us.”

  “If Erin hasn’t contacted her, do you think Corrine might have hired a private investigator?”

  “That’s what they usually do when we crap out. But in this case, Corrine had a drug problem and not a lot of disposable income. I don’t see how she could have afforded one. Do you have the coroner’s report for Yvette Jones?”

  “Not yet. It’ll probably be in tomorrow.”

  “What about Occum?”

  “Nothing yet. I also expect that soon. If we don’t make some headway on this, I’m going to have to fan out to other police departments. It’s possible our killer moved on after Bogat was opened as a public trail.”

  Radar paused. “I’ll contact Boston and New York. They both have a lot of colleges and universities. They both also have a lot more crime and missing person cases compared to our little department.”

  “You’re right about that,” Decker said. “This thing is like a tsunami. Rarely comes, but when it does, it just drowns out everything.”

  Decker, Rina, and McAdams spent early Sunday evening going through the roster of the names that intersected all three students. A handful of people on the list had died; others had moved away. The updated list included two who worked administration for Morse McKinley, including Leo Riggins, whom Decker met a few days ago while trying to track down Lawrence Pettigrew. There were three students who started as freshmen when Yvette went missing and were now finishing up MBAs in the MM graduate school. On the list were also five teachers, including Hank Carter and Jason Kramer, the psychology professor associated with the LGBT Center who routed them to Lawrence Pettigrew. Others included a clerk who manned the MM bookstore, an MM librarian, and two dining hall servers, two bartenders who worked at places off-campus, and Henry King, who was close to ninety and owned the local Army Surplus and More retail outlet next to the Burger Haven.

  Decker hung up the phone. “That was Priscilla Hardy.”

  “Who?” Rina asked.

  “Cameron Snowe’s former partner. They started a business when he took a leave of absence from school.”

  “What’d she say?” McAdams asked.

  “That he was nice kid, that he was haunted by Delilah’s death.” Decker made a face. “Did he seem haunted to you?”

  “No, but college boys hide their emotions—except anger and horniness.” McAdams was looking at his list of names. “Ricardo Diaz is a bartender at the College Grill, the gastro pub on Yale. He was in town when Pettigrew, Erin Young, and Delilah Occum disappeared.”

  “What about Yvette Jones?”

  “I don’t know. We should ask him. Do you think he might still be on tonight?”

  “Go for it,” Decker said.

  McAdams picked up the phone and was met with success. “The place closes early on Sunday. Diaz is off at nine.”

  Rina said, “You’ve got over an hour. Why don’t you go down and buy a beer from him. It may make him more amenable to talking.”

  “Good idea.” Decker turned to his wife. “You want to come? With you there, it’ll look supercasual.”

  “Sure, I’ll be your decoy. I’ll get my jacket.”

  McAdams said, “If I order booze, can I have the department pay?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I won’t go overboard. Macallan 12 is fine.”

  “Do they even have Macallan 12?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “So you’ve been there?”

  “Throughout my time in this town, I have frequented a bar or two on more than my share of lonely nights. The food at the grill is mediocre, but the whisky is plentiful and often nice.”

  “The twelve is a little rich for the department. How about if I buy you a good-luck-in-your-second-year-of-law-school drink?”

  “If you’re buying, I’ll jack it up to Macallan 18.”

  The bar was twenty stools separated from the grill’s restaurant by a half wall. It was dimly lit and smelled of wood polish and cooking oil, probably because the kitchen was behind mirrored shelves that held dozens of liquor bottles. Not a whiff of tobacco since the county had outlawed indoor smoking in public places.

  There was thirty minutes left until closing time and last call had just been announced by the bartender. He was in his midthirties with straw-colored dyed hair and very dark brown eyes. Medium height with large shoulders, he wore black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt rolled up to expose tattooed arms.

  The three of them took stools in the corner. Decker signaled the bartender, who nodded as he set out drinks for three college-aged girls who were talking too loud and laughing too much. One of them was perched precariously on the stool, fingertips hanging on to the bar top for balance.

  After serving the ladies, the man came over and put down three round paper doilies with scalloped edges. “Last one of the night, folks. Make it a good one.”

  McAdams said, “Macallan 18 . . . neat.”

  Decker said, “Times two.”

  Rina said, “A Diet Coke.”

  The bartender smiled at her. “Sure. On the house.”

  “You can put my drink on the house,” McAdams said.

  “Save your parents some money, eh?”

  “They’re not my parents . . . not my biological parents.” He presented his badge.

  The bartender frowned. “You’re early. I’m not off for another forty-five minutes.”

  “I know, Mr. Diaz,” Decker said. “But there’s nothing wrong with us enjoying the evening, right?”

  “I’ll get those drinks for you.” He turned and starting pulling down glasses and an amber-colored bottle. A minute later, he returned, drinks in hand. “Here you are. Did you want ice, ma’am?”

  “I’m fine,” Rina said. “Lively crowd here. Is it always this busy on Sunday?”

  “Are you a detective as well?” Diaz said.

  “Just married to one.”

  The trio of girls let out a huge peal of laughter. Everyone turned around. Diaz shook his head. “Yeah, it’s busy over the weekends. Even on Sundays. Especially on Sundays.” He cocked his head in the direction of the girls. “They’re getting in their last licks.”

  “Regulars?” Decker asked.

  Diaz shrugged. “I’ve seen them before.” He took out a rag and started to wipe down the bar top. “When this place gets jammed, it’s hard to distinguish one from another unless they fall over dead drunk and make a spectacle of themselves. Even then, they’d have to do it several times before I’d take notice.”

  Decker said, “Telling me in a not-so-subtle way that you can’t remember yesterday’s customers let alone someone from four years ago.”

  “Maybe.” Diaz smiled. “But lemme see the pictures anyway. Sometimes I zero in on a face.” He pointed to Rina. “Like you. I’d remember you. You’re older, no offense, and dressed differently than the average female student. You’re also pretty.”

  “That’s my wife you’re talking to,” Decker said.

  “Facts is facts.”

  Decker smiled and took a sip of his whisky. It was smooth and warm. McAdams la
id two pictures on the bar top: Delilah Occum and Yvette Jones, respectively. Diaz mulled them over. “I’ve never seen this one.”

  He slid Yvette’s photograph over the bar top back to Decker.

  “But I do remember her. I had moved here around two years before she disappeared. I remember thinking that crime can happen even in a small town. But then I came to understand the way college towns work. The colleges are contained entities that have nothing to do with the town. They are all about placating the rich kids. That’s not to say we don’t card. Of course we do. And if the ID is obviously fake, we’ll call them on it. But lemme tell you. There are lots of good fakes out there. It isn’t up to me to pore over every detail of every state driver’s license.”

  Decker said, “We’re not interested in fake IDs, Mr. Diaz.”

  “This is all about the Bogat thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Gotcha.” Diaz looked at the photograph of Delilah Occum. “This is the girl who went missing about three years ago. I don’t remember if I knew her from the bar or if I just remember seeing her face on flyers. They were plastered all over town.”

  There were several copies of the flyer in the case files: a full-face colored snapshot with the caption: have you seen this girl? Underneath the caption was the contact information. Decker said, “Can you recall anything about her?”

  “Just that she went missing. Some kids are always disappearing for a day or two, but usually they come back.”

  McAdams had downed half his whisky. “Tell me about those kids.”

  “Just that I overhear talk. Something along the lines of ‘Where the hell did Ashley go over the weekend?’ Then you find out Ashley had a bender and was drying out in some frat house after drinking herself blind and getting banged by guys she didn’t even know.”

  “Poor Ashley,” Rina said.

  He turned to her and blushed. “Pardon my language.”