The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [37]
“What about the guy?” I finally asked her.
Jazza looked at me, judging whether or not I was being serious.
“Jaz, he was right behind me. He said good night. You’re sure you didn’t see or hear him?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I swear.”
I bit my lip and ran through the memory again. It still didn’t make any sense, Jazza not seeing or hearing the guy. I knew I hadn’t imagined it.
“I suppose I just wasn’t paying attention,” she said after a moment. “I was only looking at you. I was nervous. If you feel you have to . . .”
She trailed off as the implication of this hit her.
“If you feel you have to say something, you should,” she said, more firmly. “Even if it means . . .”
“They said we wouldn’t get in trouble.”
“Even if it did,” she said.
It took me about ten minutes to get up the courage to go downstairs. Before I could leave the building, I had to check in with Call Me Claudia. She was in her office on the phone, roaring away to some equally loud friend of hers about what had happened the night before.
“Yes, Aurora?”
“I . . . saw something.”
Claudia considered me for a moment.
“Last night?” she asked.
“Last night,” I repeated. I left the rest of the sentence alone while she considered this.
“Well, then,” Claudia said. “You’d better go over to the library.”
The activity outside had already increased. Police officers in fluorescent green jackets with reflective stripes were all over the place, putting up even more blue and white crime scene tape, marking off paths around the grounds. I continued past them, taking the long way around to the library. Two uniformed officers were stationed outside the doors. They admitted me. Another officer talked to me when I entered and escorted me to one of the worktables, where various people—I assumed more police officers—had already set up shop. These people were in normal clothes, suits and business wear. I was placed at a table, and a tall black woman with closely cropped hair and rimless glasses sat down across from me. She looked like she was in her twenties, but she wore a no-nonsense navy blue suit with a white blouse that made her seem older and more serious. She set down a few forms and a pen.
“I’m DI Young,” she said politely. “What’s your name?”
I told her my name.
“American or Canadian?” she asked.
“American.”
“And you saw or heard something last night?”
“I saw a man,” I said.
She pulled out one of the forms and put it on a clipboard, so I couldn’t see what she was writing.
“A man,” she said. “Where and when was this?”
“I think it was two . . . just after two. It was right when everyone was looking for the fourth body. The fourth murder was supposed to be at one forty-five, right? Because we waited for a few minutes before we came back . . .”
“Came back from where?”
“We snuck out. Just to go over to Aldshot. Just for a little while.”
“Who is we? Who was with you?”
“My roommate,” I said.
“And her name is?”
“Julianne Benton.”
DI Young wrote something else on her form.
“So you and your roommate snuck out of your building . . .”
I wanted to tell her to keep it down, but you can’t tell the police not to broadcast your business so you don’t get in trouble.
“. . . and you saw a man just after two in the morning. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
She made another note.
“And you’re sure of the time?”
“Well,” I said, “the news kept saying that the fourth victim in 1888 was found at one forty-five. We were on the roof watching the news on Jerome’s computer—”
“Jerome?” she asked.
Now I’d gotten Jerome into it.
“Jerome,” I repeated. “He lives in Aldshot.”
“Exactly how many of you were there?”
“Three,” I said. “Me, Jazza, and Jerome. We went to see Jerome in his building, and then the two of us came back.”
More writing.
“And you were watching the news at one forty-five.