The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“Then tell Lisa what you know about all the RAs being so sick.”

“It wasn’t all of them,” he says, raising his tousle-haired head. “Mostly the new ones. Look, do I really have to—”

“Why were they sick, Gavin?” Lisa’s voice has gone cold as ice. “Are you saying it wasn’t the flu, like I had?”

“Uh, no, ma’am.” Gavin looks back down at his slippers. “They were just hungover.”

“Hungover?” Lisa’s eyes flare like firecrackers. “What do you mean they were hungover?”

“Because they’d been up partying all night in room fifteen-twelve with Sexy Sheikh,” Gavin explains. “I mean, Prince Rashid.”

Lisa’s face pales. She’s shaking her head the way Tricky does when he has a flea. No. No, no, no.

“It has to have been the same party Ameera was talking about,” I say to her. “Remember, I told you. She said Jasmine seemed fine during the party. It must have been a party at Prince Rashid’s. Jasmine’s on the tape. I saw her in the hallway, going into the prince’s room with the others.”

Lisa is still shaking her head, not because she doesn’t believe me, but because she’s so angry. I can see the tips of her ears turning red, a sure sign that she’s upset.

Silence fills Lisa’s small office. Outside the two wide windows that look onto the street, I can hear the rapid footsteps on the sidewalk of people who are late to work, and the sound of a car pulling into that rarest of all commodities in Manhattan—a parking spot.

“Who . . .” Lisa says to Gavin, after she’s had a chance to control her breathing. “Who from the RA staff has been to the parties in Rashid’s room? I want names. All of them.”

She’s lifted a pen. Now she holds it poised over a New York College notepad on her desk.

“Oh, man,” Gavin says, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “Come on. Don’t do this to me! This is not cool.”

“You want to know what’s not cool, Gavin,” Lisa says, sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard her. “A young woman on my staff was found dead yesterday morning, and last night when I asked her peers if any of them had seen her the night before, not a single one of them volunteered that they’d been to a party with her, a party in my building, information that might actually help the coroner determine the cause of her death. They sat there and lied to my face about it. So if you know anything about it, start talking, or by God, Gavin, you can start looking for a new place to live.”

Gavin’s eyes widen perceptibly. Without skipping another beat, he begins coughing up names. “Howard Chen. And both the other Jasmines.”

Lisa writes Howard Chen, Jasmine Singh, Jasmine Tsai on her notepad.

“Christopher Mintz,” Gavin goes on. “And that Josh guy, the one who always wears a Yankees baseball cap.”

Joshua Dungarden, Lisa writes. I notice her hand trembling, but she keeps a firm grip on the pen.

“Stephanie, from the fourth floor.”

Stephanie Moody, Lisa writes.

“That Ryan guy. Oh, and that one with the long nose and glasses.”

Lisa stops writing and glares at Gavin. “Excuse me?”

“You know.” Gavin points at his nose. “The girl with the glasses.”

“Megan Malarty?”

“Yeah, that one. Oh, and the guy with the Justin Bieber hair.”

“I saw him on the tape too,” I say. “Kyle.”

Lisa writes down Megan Malarty and Kyle Cheeseman on the notepad.

“Is that all?” I ask Gavin.

He nods, then hesitates. “Oh, well, except Jasmine. Jasmine—well, Dead Jasmine. She was there too.” He looks from Lisa to me and then back again, apologetic. “Sorry to call her Dead Jasmine, but I can’t remember her last name. There are so many Jasmines. I guess it was a popular name the year they were all born, or something.”

“It’s all right, Gavin,” Lisa says, distracted. “Albright. Her last name was Albright.”

Lisa runs her pen quickly down the list. I know what she’s doing.

Counting.

“Gavin,” I say while Lisa is occupied. “How do you know all these RAs were at the party the night Jasmine died? I didn’t recognize this many on the video. Were you there?”

Gavin hesitates, looking out Lisa’s windows as if he’s contemplating throwing himself from them.

Unfortunately for him, the windows are covered in wrought-iron bars. Not to keep people in but, since we’re on the first floor and this is New York City, to keep thieves out.

“Gavin, it’s okay, you’re not going to get in trouble,” I explain. “You’re over twenty-one, and so is the prince. He didn’t do anything illegal serving you alcohol, or the RAs who were twenty-one and older.”

Though for the ones who were drinking while on duty, it’s a different story. And since Ameera—who is a freshman and only eighteen—was apparently at the party, the presence of any of the RAs in Rashid’s room while he was serving alcohol is problematic. In New York College residence halls, it’s a violation of the student code of conduct for anyone under the age of twenty-one to be found in possession of alcohol, and a further violation of policy for those over the age of twenty-one to serve alcohol to residents under the legal drinking age.

It’s no wonder none of the RAs admitted the truth to Lisa. Their mere presence in room 1512 the night before Jasmine’s death was a violation of their employment contract with New York College.

“Of course I wasn’t there,” Gavin says, his arms still folded across his chest, but now more out of disgust than defensiveness. “He invited me, but how could I go? Somebody’s got to man the front desk, am I right, and make sure folks are getting their toilet paper and trash bags and billiard cues? Jamie and I have been splitting the night shifts to make a little extra cash. Besides, we don’t go in for that kind of stuff. Alcohol’s not my thing. You of all people should know that, Heather.”

I do, actually. To commemorate his twenty-first birthday, Gavin had gotten it into his head to consume twenty-one shots. This decision had landed him—and me, beside him, as his appointed administrative hand-holder—in the emergency room.

“I haven’t touched a drop since then,” he says, with a touch of sanctimoniousness. “Well, except the occasional beer now and then,” he adds, when I raise an eyebrow. “You know I love my PBR.” Pabst Blue Ribbon, official beer of the screenplay-writing hipster. “Mostly I only smoke weed.”