Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead by Janice Kay Johnson Page A

the
wrinkled-linen-clad back of a woman thin to the point of looking breakable.
    “In fairness,” Troy conceded, “you have a very fine
cleavage.”
    Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, no.
Is this dress too...too...”
    When she failed to come up with a word, he supplied one. “Sexy?
No, your dress is pretty and perfect for a hot evening.” He bent his head closer
to her ear. “It’s you that’s sexy.”
    She blinked at him, tiny creases appearing between her
eyebrows. “Thank you. I think.”
    Troy smiled. “You look beautiful tonight. Don’t worry. He’s a
dirty old man.”
    Madison spared a glance the senator’s way. “He’s only
fifty-seven. Or maybe fifty-eight.”
    “And married.”
    “Well, yes. He is married. You’re right.” She nodded. “He’s a
creep.”
    “Ellen Kenney here?”
    “Yes, holding court by the bay window.”
    Mostly, Troy could see a whole lot of backs. Heads were
nodding. The author was presumably doing the talking. Hard to resist, when so
many people were hanging on your every word.
    “She actually seems to be really nice,” Madison said. “She and
the senator both spoke to students today. I stuck my head into the classrooms.
She had the kids enthralled. He had a little more trouble, because the students
here tend to be liberal and they were throwing some tough questions at him. He
seemed to take it in stride, though.”
    Troy accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’d
intended to go hear him tonight.”
    Their eyes met and they both laughed.
    “From a security standpoint, I probably should go,” he said
reluctantly.
    “Absolutely.” She grinned at him. “You can tell me all about
it.”
    They were both laughing again when a particularly penetrating
man’s voice cut through the babel.
    “Hard to believe they never arrested anyone for killing
Mitch.”
    Madison turned and Troy saw her alarmed gaze meet the college
president’s. “Into the fray,” she said softly to Troy, and started briskly
toward the speaker.
    Troy followed but hung back, curious how she’d handle this.
    The answer was: very smoothly.
    She joined the group, commented on how shocking it must have
been back then to have a fellow student killed right here on campus, then within
moments had them rhapsodizing about wine and kidding each other about who was
going to play under par in the morning.
    Troy reflected that Madison’s professional instincts and his
were exactly opposite. She wanted to stifle all speculation, pretend the whole
ugly thing had never happened. When it came to murder, he was all cop. He’d
always been especially intrigued by cold cases. There was nothing he’d have
liked better than to encourage talk.
    Half the people in this room had known Mitchell King and maybe
some of his secrets, assuming he had any. Those same people might conceivably
have known the killer, too, assuming you didn’t buy the
stranger-who-happened-to-be-passing-through-town theory—which Troy didn’t. It
was even possible, he reflected, that the killer was one of these people,
although on second thought he decided that was unlikely. If some twenty or
twenty-two-year-old kid had been in a rage great enough to drive him to bludgeon
Mitchell King to death, you wouldn’t expect that same student to become the kind
of alumnus so fond of his college experience he enjoyed regular visits to the
campus, now would you? Since he presumably wasn’t a psychopath who enjoyed
killing—or at least he was hiding it real well if he was—the guy would be more
likely to have clutched his diploma in sweaty hands and sworn never to set foot
on this campus again. He probably did his damnedest not even to think about Wakefield College and what he’d discovered
about himself while he was here.
    Yeah, that made sense. Troy had been scanning the room as he
pondered, his gaze going from face to face. Now his mouth tipped up in a faint
smile. Madison wouldn’t be thrilled if she knew