Murder 101 by Maggie Barbieri Page A

the thought that I was actually a suspect in a murder case and that I had just broken into someone’s dorm room. But I had to figure out a way to show the police that I didn’t have anything to do with this. Waiting around and hoping that they would come to that conclusion on their own wasn’t enough for me.
    Max came out of the bathroom, clean, full, and ready to go. She picked up her purse from the bench of the booth and riffled around in her wallet. She pulled out two twenties and tossed them on the table. “Thanks, Sully,” she said. Sully was deep in conversation with the man at the end of the bar, the two still on opposite sides of the designated hitter debate. He gave us a quick wave as we departed.
    Outside in the street, squinting at the glare, it took me a few minutes to make out the shape of Detective Crawford leaning nonchalantly against Max’s car, his arms crossed and his eyes focused on something north up Broadway. I threw an elbow into Max’s side, and, as her eyes adjusted, she stiffened.
    Crawford turned and looked at us. “Ladies.”
    “It’s Detective Hot Pants,” Max muttered under her breath, and froze on the spot. I knew what she was thinking: we were in big-ass trouble. I struggled to stay calm as I mentally considered myself in handcuffs and leg irons. Crawford eased himself off the car and ambled toward us, stopping just a few feet from where we stood.
    We stood like statues for a few more seconds before Max said, “Gotta go,” and went into a full sprint down the street, her legs pumping in her high heels. I was starting to think she could do just about anything in stilettos. She pulled her car keys out of her pocketbook as she was running and got into the driver’s side of the car. She was out of the parking space almost before Crawford realized what she was doing; he turned and watched her maneuver out of the spot and speed down Broadway, through a yellow light, and out of sight.
    I stood there, under the el, listening to the trains come and go, weighing my options. Turn around and go the other way? Go back into Maloney’s? Hail a gypsy cab? Die right on the spot? There was too much to choose from and not enough time to make a decision.
    Crawford was in front of me before I could do anything. He smiled slightly: “good” cop in a bad mood. “Hello, Dr. Bergeron. Long time, no see.”
    “Detective.” I didn’t think a neon sign with the words “I’m guilty” was flashing from my forehead, but it was pretty damn close. I tried to hold his gaze but cast my eyes down.
    “What are you doing over here?” he asked.
    I held up my fingers, which were still slightly orange from the wings, despite my best efforts with the Handi Wipes. “Eating wings,” I said.
    “They don’t have wings up by you?” he asked, “up by you” implying that my school was so far away from Joliet. Twenty city blocks equals a mile.
    I shook my head. “Not like Maloney’s.”
    “Should I try them?” he asked.
    “If you like wings, then yes.” I looked around. “Where’s Detective Wyatt?”
    “He went to the cemetery,” he said. He pulled on his tie. In my heels, we were closer in height, but he still had a good four inches on me. I had ice in my veins as it dawned on me that he had probably followed us and seen us break into Vince’s dorm room. I imagined their conversation, Wyatt saying, “I’m going to the cemetery. You stick to the professor like glue.” And Crawford responding, “I’ll see if she does anything hinky.” Or something like that. That’s the way cops talk on TV.
    “Anything you want to tell me?” he asked. He stared down at me, his green eyes boring into mine. This guy was good; I was about to wet my pants.
    I shook my head; I guess he wanted to know about the “hinky” stuff, but I wasn’t prepared to share. “I don’t think so,” I said.
    The el rumbled above us and he looked up. “Can I give you a tip, Dr. Bergeron?”
    I looked down at my shoes. “Put a