“But they weren’t seen.”
“No, they weren’t. Straffo was in his office off and on that morning, door closed. Did he slip out, get over here, and do it? Possibly—very tight, but possibly. Allika was shopping. Same deal. However, Allika was seen on the day Williams was killed. Signed in, hung around.”
Again, he followed her reasoning. “If she decided to eliminate teachers, why run the parallel line with one and intersect on the other?”
“Exactly. I’ve got other reasons for and against, but that one sticks on me. Nobody’d have thought anything about it if she’d come into the school the day Foster was killed. Any excuse would’ve worked.”
She crossed to Foster’s classroom. Saw him again, lying on the floor in pools of his own waste. “These killings aren’t passionate and impulsive, and they’re pretty damn smart. Smarter for her—Allika—to have come in clean. I don’t like her for it, and she’s too emotional to have pulled this off. Straffo, now, he’s got the control and the focus, but not his wife. And still…”
“Something bothers you about her.”
“A few things. But I need to tur
n it around in my head some before I lay it out. Meanwhile, Foster comes back, goes in, closes his door for his daily lunch/lesson-planning deal. Drinks really bad hot chocolate. If he’d got medical attention in the first few minutes, he might have made it. But the killer’s banking on it going as it did.”
She stepped in for a moment, and again saw Foster. Alive now, going through his habitual routine. “He sits. Shoots off a cheerful little e-mail to his wife, gets working on the pop quiz he has planned. He drinks, he dies.”
“Painfully,” Roarke murmured, knowing what she was seeing.
“Painfully. Then the two kids, sprung from their study session on the main level, come up, see the janitor, speak with Dawson, show their passes, go to the classroom.”
“Question? Why is it Dawson doesn’t seem to blip on your radar?”
“No motive, no sense, no buzz. Teacher for twenty-odd years, fifteen right here. No current around him. He’s the…What is it? He’s the tortoise type.”
“Slow and steady.”
“Yeah.”
“Follow-up. You’re veering well away from Principal Mosebly, though you’ve shown she had motive.”
“Yeah.” Raking her fingers through her hair, Eve walked out of the classroom again. “I could be way off on her, but I can’t see her for it either. Murders on her sanctified ground, under her watch? It’s a nightmare for her, worse than having her sexual indiscretion revealed. She’s hemorrhaging students out of here, getting slammed with unpleasant media. Maybe she did it, maybe she thought she could spin it all and weather the damage. But it doesn’t ring. Still like to fry her for crying rape. Bitch.”
She frowned. “Where was I?”
“The two girls go to the classroom.”
“Right. If they’d come up fifteen minutes earlier, Foster’s got a chance. Instead, he’s gone and they run out screaming. Dawson runs over, sees what’s happened, calls the principal.”
“A fairly predictable series of events.”
“It is, isn’t it? Now we’ll take Williams.”
She led the way downstairs, through the fitness center, into the pool area.
“Not bad,” Roarke commented.
“Yeah, a pretty sweet setup for a kid or a teacher. In here, Williams intersects with Mosebly. Allika Straffo is on premises—no intersections reported—then, according to her statement, she went looking for Williams, and—using your terms—ran a parallel line with him and Mosebly, overhearing their argument.”
From where she stood, Eve could see the exits, entrances into the pool area. Staff. Students.
“She leaves, Mosebly leaves, more intersections with her and Hallywell, Dawson. Dawson comes in to see Williams, and for the second time in a week finds himself a dead body.”
“Quite the coincidence.”
“Yeah, yeah. But he and the nurse, who was also called to both scenes, they’re peripheral. Someone else reached the center of both these circles, undetected.” Eve stared down at the surface of the water. “Both times.”
“You’re sure it was the same killer?”