CHAPTER EIGHT
Veronica arrived on the Stanford campus just after noon the next day. The sky was cloudless, the blue a perfect contrast to the dark red tile roofs. College kids shot around on bikes or ambled past in little groups. A few sat on picnic blankets with books piled around them, taking advantage of the mild spring weather. The air smelled like grass clippings and earth, and she could hear the distant hum of landscaping equipment as the grounds crew made their rounds.
It was surreal to be back on the farm—she instantly snapped back into her old grooves, taking familiar routes through the corridors of the Mission Revival buildings that, for a while, had been her home. It almost felt as though she’d been gone for a very long summer break and returned to a newer, younger student body.
She glanced around, scanning the crowd in case she caught a glimpse of Chad Cohan’s crop of reddish-blond hair. She hadn’t called him ahead of time to set up a meeting; she wanted to surprise him. If he was as controlling and jealous as Hayley’s friends described, she wanted to find out what she could about him before he had a chance to put his guard up.
Veronica and Mac had stayed up until 2:00 a.m. the night before dredging up anything they could about him—his schedule, his grades, his extracurriculars. Anything that might give them an idea what they were dealing with. What they’d found had been a portrait of a high-achieving student, a clever, talented boy with plenty of advantages—according to his file his mom was the CEO of an outdoor clothing company in Seattle—and a fierce, focused drive. He was the star attacker of the lacrosse team. His grades were in the top 5 percent of his class. He’d just declared his major as political science, and he was in the process of applying for internships in Washington, D.C.
And, as luck would have it, he was taking a small social psychology seminar with Dr. Will Hague, Veronica’s one-time academic advisor.
Hague’s office was in Jordan Hall, a large sandstone building on the main quad. She felt another rush of nostalgia as she pushed her way through the double doors, the familiar dusty scent burning in her nostrils. She’d spent so much time in this building as an undergrad. In addition to fulfilling her prelaw requirements, she’d gravitated to psychology—it was comforting to crunch numbers from clinical studies and analyze data. It was a way to solve puzzles without all the mess and drama.
Hague’s office was on the second floor. It looked the same as ever—copies of scholarly articles were tacked to the bulletin board outside, along with a hodgepodge of New Yorker cartoons, art postcards, and a single dry red maple leaf, broad and crumbling beneath the pin. The door was closed, and no light shone underneath. But Hague had a notorious habit of hiding from his students during office hours. She rapped softly on the door.
Silence answered. She stood there uncertain, waiting. Then she saw a shadow moving under the door. A knowing smile spread over her lips.
Gotcha.
“Dr. Hague?” she called softly. “It’s Veronica Mars, one of your old students. I was wondering if I could speak to you.”
For a long moment nothing happened. She started to wonder if she’d miscalculated. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her. The thought sent a surprising ache through her chest.
Then the door jerked inward, and Dr. Hague filled the entryway.
The first thing anyone noticed about Will Hague was his height, a perfectly ludicrous six foot six. He was beanpole thin, a series of jutting angles strung together with tweed like some academic scarecrow. An overgrown goatee hung from his chin, gray shot through with a few lingering strands of red. A startled, pleased expression lit his eyes when he saw her.
“Well, well,” he said. “Veronica Mars.”
“Hi, Dr. Hague.” She smiled up at him. The top of her head was more or less level with his armpit. “Sorry to drop in like this. How are you?”
He checked his watch and grimaced. “I’d be fine if not for the faculty meeting this afternoon. If I have to sit for another hour listening to Hobbes drone on about the budget …”
Veronica grinned. In her time as his research assistant and occasional administrative aide, she’d helped Dr. Hague dodge more meetings than he made. “Tell them you’ve got food poisoning. Or … have you tried conjunctivitis?”
“Alas, Zhang threatened to send security to my office with manacles next time.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. “But I have a few minutes before I have to slink my way over there. Come in.”
He walked behind his desk and pulled open the blinds, allowing sunlight to fill the little office. Heavy books lined his floor-to-ceiling shelves. A blue-and-gold Rothko poster hung on one wall, his thirty-year-old Schwinn parked beneath. On the desk was a small pile of dark blue yarn. Hague was a compulsive knitter, sometimes even knitting straight through a meeting. He claimed it helped him think, and perhaps it did—he was one of the foremost research psychologists in his field. All Veronica knew for certain was that he was patently terrible at the knitting itself, the evidence clear in the misshapen sweaters and lumpy scarves he wore daily.
He sat down in his chair, pivoting back and forth a little. “So what brings you back to our beloved institution, Veronica? Last I heard, you were still in New York. You must be done with law school by now, yes?”
“Um, yes. I am.” She sat down across from him.
“So, how’s life as a big-time lawyer?” His voice dropped. “Or are you in Quantico now? I always suspected you’d end up with the Bureau, especially after the work you did with me on risk aversion in antisocial personalities. You’ve got exactly the kind of mind they need there.”
Veronica gave a weak smile. “Well … I’m still working with antisocial personalities.” She cleared her throat. “I’m actually working as a private investigator now. In Neptune.”
Dr. Hague’s surprise writhed around his face before settling into a confused smile. Veronica stifled a sigh. Why did every man in her life have to look at her like she was a personal disappointment?
“A private … well, that’s interesting.” He took off his glasses and made a show of cleaning them on the edge of his shirt. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. Hague’s background was in deviant behavior and psychopathology. Throw away a $150,000 education in order to track down deadbeat dads, bail jumpers, and philanderers? Didn’t get any more deviant than that.
“Very interesting,” he repeated, putting his glasses back on. “Are you … are you enjoying that, then?”
“I’m actually here on a job, Dr. Hague. And I was hoping to ask you a few questions about one of your students. Chad Cohan?” Veronica held up a photo she’d found of him online.
He blinked. “Chad Cohan? He’s in my social psych class Tuesdays and Thursdays. A lacrosse player, right? He’s the one who misses half my classes for away games.” He snorted. “I’m supposed to pass him anyway. Apparently he’s a big deal on the field.”
“I take it you’re not impressed?”
“Oh, he’s clever enough. He does good work when he’s in class—just turned in a strong paper on social cognition.”
“But?” she prodded.
He hesitated. “What exactly is this about, Veronica? What do you think he did?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment, measuring her answer.
“I’d rather not say, Dr. Hague. I don’t want to color your findings.”
His face lit up in a sudden, brilliant grin. “Perhaps you are in the right line of work after all.” He picked up his knitting absently, winding the yarn around the needles. “Well, I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I only see him twice a week, at most. He’s smart, a little full of himself. Frequently seems to have an entourage. His work is competent—he’s making an A. He wouldn’t be if I were allowed to dock him points for missing class, but …” He shrugged.
Veronica leaned forward a little. “Do you happen to remember if he was on time for your class on the eleventh of March? It was last Tuesday.”
“My TA keeps a roster.” Hague leaned over and picked up a canvas satchel that was propped next to his desk. He pulled out a jumble of paperwork, shuffling through until he found what he was looking for. “The eleventh? That was the day I asked everyone to hand in their lab reports. Yes, he was there.” He held up the attendance roster to show her the neat little checkmark by Cohan’s name.
“Did anything strike you as out of the ordinary that morning? Did he seem strained, or tired, or distracted?”
Hague frowned a little, trying to recall. Then he shook his head. “I honestly didn’t notice anything like that. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. This is helpful.” She smiled earnestly at him.
He cast a quick glance at his watch and made a face. “I hate to run, but I do have to get to this meeting or they’ll release the hounds.”
She shot to her feet. “Of course. Thanks so much for your time, Dr. Hague.” She stuck out her hand, and he shook it warmly.
“Give me a call the next time you’re in town. I’d love to catch up more.”
“I will.”
Back out in the balmy afternoon air, she took a deep breath, Hague’s words ringing in her ears. Not what he’d said about Chad Cohan—but what he’d said about her. Perhaps you are in the right line of work after all. She hadn’t realized how desperate she was to hear that from someone. The gratitude, and relief, she felt at his words was almost embarrassing.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now.
It was time to track down Chad Cohan.