The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“Aw, jeez,” Canavan says, rolling his eyes behind his aviators. “Castle again?”

“Whoever killed Jasmine—and meant to kill Cam—benefited by silencing them about something only they knew,” I continue, ignoring him.

Detective Turner likes this game.

“It had to be something about the prince,” he says. “And most likely something that happened the night of the big party. Right?”

“Right,” I say. “Only what? Who would benefit most from keeping that secret?”

“The prince!” Turner cries.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Canavan mutters.

“I think so too,” I say. “And the prince’s bodyguard Hamad—the one you saw grab me—clearly feels highly protective of the prince. If Rashid were to be shamed in some way—like being kicked out of school for having drugs, or something—the bodyguard would definitely have a lot to lose . . . not only his cushy career, but maybe even his life, if he were ever to go back to Qalif. They have people executed there for things we take for granted, like fornication.”

Turner looks confused. “What’s that?”

“Premarital sex. So Hamad would benefit big-time from hushing up any scandal concerning the prince.”

“We need to find out if it’s that Hamad guy on that security tape from the student center,” Turner says.

“Totally,” I agree. “Or we need to find Jasmine’s phone, which has been missing since the night she was killed. Because I’m guessing whatever happened the night of the party that the killer wants to cover up, she recorded it, and was going to send it to the Express, but never got the chance, because the killer stopped her.”

“Maybe,” Turner says excitedly, “that A-rab guy and the prince are lovers, and the girl filmed them having a homosexual interlude at the party, and the A-rab wants to keep it quiet so he and the prince can continue their shocking affair of the flesh.”

Both Canavan and I turn our heads to look at him. Turner goes slightly red around the collar of his shirt.

“What?” he asks. “I saw that in a movie once.”

“I’ll bet you did,” Canavan says darkly.

“If fornication is against the law in their country, you can bet homosexuality is too,” Turner goes on excitedly. “Sarge, we’d better bring that Hamad guy in for questioning right away. I think Ms. Wells is right, there’s something hinky about him.”

“Turner.” Canavan tightens his grip on the steering wheel as he fights for patience. “Need I remind you that in this country, homosexuality is not a crime?” His voice rises in volume with each word. “And we are not going to cause an international incident by bringing in the bodyguard of the heir to the throne of Qalif for questioning without one shred of evidence against him because a half-assed probie like you thinks there’s something hinky about him.”

Turner begins to mutter something apologetic when Detective Canavan suddenly cries, “Shit on a cracker!” and slams on the brakes.

At first I think he’s reacting to a brilliant insight he’s had about the crime, but then I see he’s reacting to something else.

We’ve been driving in circles around Washington Square Park—the most circuitous route I’ve ever seen anyone take to get to the Sixth Precinct—continuously passing the same joggers, dog walkers, and pedestrians hurrying from work. We’re about to pass them once again when I notice what’s caused Canavan to slam on the brakes: a group of students, ignoring the “Don’t Walk” light, who march straight out into the middle of the street to cross to the college’s main administration building.

If the detective hadn’t braked in time, he’d have run right into them. Several other vehicles, including the free New York College trolley, have done the same. All of them are honking angrily, the taxi drivers shouting obscenities.

The students ignore them, marching up the curb and into the administration building, their expressions either stony-faced or tearstained.

“Kids today,” Turner says, shaking his head in disgust. “They all think they’re so entitled. Don’t even have to obey traffic lights because Mommy and Daddy always told them how perfect they are, and their coaches all gave them awards for participating, not even winning. I should get out and write each of them a ticket for jaywalking. If I were still on patrol, I would.”

“I bet you would,” Canavan mutters.

“I know those kids,” I say from the backseat.

“What?” Canavan says. “You know those kids? Are they retarded, or something?”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, yes, I know them, but no, they aren’t retarded. Those are the RAs who got fired from Fischer Hall for partying with the prince.”

Canavan whistles. “No wonder they look so pissed off.”

“That’s where the president’s office is,” I say, leaning down in the backseat to see if I can spot the top of the building. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’d be able to spy President Allington up there, through his plate-glass windows. His office is too high up, and he’d said he was leaving at five, anyway. “I bet they’re going in there to demand their jobs back. It won’t work, though. The office will be closed.”

“Life is rough,” Canavan says philosophically. “Especially when you’re a kid who had everything one minute, then had it all taken away the next.”

“Why don’t we wait out here for ’em?” Turner looks excited. “Then we can snag ’em when they come out again, and question them.”

“About the shocking ‘homosexual affair of the flesh’?” Canavan asks. “Yes, Turner, why don’t we do that? Then, after I’ve pistol-whipped you to death, no jury in the world would hold me responsible because they’d all agree that you’re such an incompetent ass, it would be justifiable homicide.”

“I can see that you two have some relationship issues you need to work out,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Why don’t you drop me at that corner over there and we’ll take this up another time.”

I point to a corner of the park where there happens to be a new bakery famous for its freshly made, warm-out-of-the-oven cookies, which it sells—and will deliver, free—with a container of milk. Cookies and milk seem like exactly the right thing to eat after so much talk about murder and attempted murder and affairs of the flesh.