Creep - Jennifer Hillier [87]
“I talked to a few members last night after the meeting, the ones who are on a friendly basis with Stella—sorry, Sheila—and some of them remembered seeing her talking with that new guy I told you about.” Fisher cleared his throat. “His name was definitely James. A couple of the female members described him as good-looking.”
Jerry smirked. Apparently not even sex addiction therapy could turn off your radar. He scribbled in his notebook.
Fisher continued. “Also, James left in an SUV. Another member saw him in the parking lot getting into something big and black. American-made, he thought. Washington State plates. Didn’t get the plate number, though.”
“Good observational skills.”
“That’s Kenneth,” Fisher said. “He notices everything. He said for you to give him a call, but I pressed him and there’s nothing else he knows.”
“Give me his number just in case.” Jerry jotted it down. “That it?”
“Yeah. Hope it helps. And listen, I’m sorry about that comment—”
“Forget about it.” Jerry thanked him and hung up.
He looked up through the windshield at the old building in front of him. The George Herbert Mead Department of Psychology. Jerry had long forgotten what kind of psychologist George Herbert Mead was, but the man must have made a significant contribution to the field if they’d named a whole university department after him.
In light of her sudden absence, the three courses Sheila was teaching this semester had been divided among her colleagues—none of whom, according to the secretary whose voice had dramatically dropped to a whisper, had been happy about the increased course load. But the teaching assistants for each class were still the same.
Ethan Wolfe kept office hours on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Jerry was interested to find out exactly what the graduate student might know. The TA’s e-mails were more suggestive than he’d told Morris, and considering his client’s reaction at the restaurant the other day, that was probably a good call. Pulling his lanky frame out of his small car, Jerry headed inside.
The smell of the psychology building instantly brought him back to the four years he’d spent in night school studying to get his bachelor’s degree. That would have been ten years ago now. Pine floor-cleaner and slightly stale air, shiny hallways with thickly painted brick walls. Nothing had changed. The two main lecture halls were in the center with several smaller classrooms dotting the first and second floors. Administrative offices were on the third floor, and the top three floors were reserved for teaching staff.
Jerry rode up the elevator in silence beside a girl with glossy brown hair who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her jeans were tight, too, and her sweater hugged breasts so high and firm they seemed to defy gravity. Did any of these girls wear baggy clothes anymore? How did the male professors resist temptation? It would be so easy to slip. He wondered if that was what happened with Sheila.
Jerry remembered Morris Gardener’s fiancée well. She was attractive and confident with a healthy sense of humor that kept her lectures fresh. She had the ability to remember almost every student’s name, and those damned sexy red lips—it hadn’t taken long for Jerry to form a little crush on her, another tiny detail he’d refrained from mentioning to Morris. Jerry rather liked his face and didn’t want Morris’s ham fist breaking it.
Had Sheila Tao been a sex addict back then? It was hard to picture, but it just proved that people were almost never who they seemed. Everybody had secrets.
Ethan Wolfe’s office was at the end of the hall. Jerry hadn’t called in advance to let the TA know he was coming. People’s reactions after the initial surprise were always telling.
The door was open and Jerry paused in the doorway. Wolfe was at his desk, typing studiously on his keyboard, eyes focused on the computer