She sniffled, then began to sob. I traded glances with Mitchell, who immediately stepped forward and took hold of Naomi.
“You can come with me,” he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. Before he led her away, he turned and said to me, “Police should be here any minute. I got Ned to stand guard at the other entrance to this hall.”
“What other entrance?”
He pointed to Layla’s office. “That office has a separate entrance leading to another hall that curves around to the back of the building. I had to run to the men’s room the first night and got lost coming back. I followed the hall around and ended up in there.”
I hadn’t noticed a second doorway the other night when I brought Layla the book. Probably because I was so distracted by her sleazy scheme to pass the Oliver Twist off as a first edition.
I thought of Ned on the other side of the door. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but even though I trusted Mitchell’s instincts, I wondered if we could trust Ned.
Mitchell led Naomi away, and within seconds Tom Hardesty lumbered up, out of breath. “I was outside. It’s cold. What’s going on? Mitchell said you might need some help.”
“He did? Well, maybe you could—”
“Wait. Who is that?” Tom peered around me to stare at the body. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He shook his head. “No, it’s not. No. No. No.” His voice grew louder and more high-pitched and I scanned the hall looking for help.
Finally, I had to shout over him, “Tom, shut up.”
“But she’s . . . oh, God. She’s dead.”
“Yeah, we all got that,” I said loudly. “Where were you when the memo went out?” I probably shouldn’t have talked that way to a board member but he was such a twit. Seriously, Mitchell had sent this guy to help me and now he was having a panic attack? I’d lost any last drop of sympathy I might have had for him.
He didn’t seem to notice my acerbic response, just shook his head and whispered, “I was outside making a phone call.”
“Guess you missed all the excitement.”
“She can’t be dead,” Tom whimpered, and tried to move closer.
I sidestepped to block him.
“Noooooo,” Tom moaned.
I’d reached the end of my rope. “Tom, shut the hell up.”
Without warning, he fell to his knees and tried to reach for Layla’s hand.
“No!” I slapped his hand away just in time. “Crime scene. Get out of here.”
He collapsed on the floor and curled up like a baby in a womb.
Stunned by his behavior, I yelled down the hall, “Where’s Cynthia? I need her, now.”
“I’ll look for her,” Alice cried, eager to be of service.
I stared at Tom. “Get a grip, man.”
He began to weep as Cynthia stalked down the hall. “So this is where he disappeared to.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She dropped to her haunches and smacked Tom’s head. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“It’s Layla,” he sobbed. “She’s . . . oh, my God, she’s . . .”
“She’s dead,” Cynthia shot back. “And good riddance.”
Whoa.
Tom didn’t seem to notice his wife’s antipathy as he rocked in agony.
“Jesus H,” Cynthia muttered. She exhaled heavily, then took a deep breath and seemed to gather every last ounce of patience in her body. She patted his back and said in a soothing tone, “Come on, honey. The police will be here any minute. They can’t find you like this.”
That moved him to stand up. He wobbled once but she grabbed and steadied him.
He blinked, then gulped and said, “Thanks, honey.”
She smacked his arm. “We’ll talk about this later. Come on, let’s go.” Then she gripped his shirt to lead him away.
I had a feeling Tom would get an earful when he arrived home. Maybe that was a good thing. God knows, it seemed their relationship thrived on discipline. As they moved down the hall, I noticed that some of my other students had witnessed the entire scene.
Kylie grimaced. “This is all too surreal.”
“Two attacks in one week is more than surreal,” I said.
Whitney and Gina returned to the group, and Whitney rubbed her arms. “It’s really freezing out there.”
“Hey, I wonder if the local news will show up,” Gina said.
“We should call them,” Whitney whispered, and Gina nodded with excitement.
I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, to be accosted by nosy reporters. All they had to do was link me to Abraham’s murder and the Scotland murders and I’d be known forever more as Bloody Brooklyn—or some equally annoying nickname.
Brooklyn’s Bloody Bodies “R” Us. Very catchy.
“Where are the cops?” I wondered aloud.
As if on cue, a siren screamed in the distance, growing louder and finally stopping right outside the front door.
“About damn time,” I muttered, more than ready for a good stiff drink.
Chapter 8