White Death. Daniel Blake

      Since Anna had told his fortune, Patrese had pondered and studied the major arcana with a fervor some might have thought obsessional. He knew this card wasn’t among them. The knight of swords was minor arcana, the lesser secrets. He’d have to go back to Anna tomorrow and pick her brains all over again.

      No tarot reading, though; not after last time. That was for damn sure.

      He turned to Dufresne. ‘Give me the timescale. What do we know?’

      ‘I’ll walk you through it; it’s easier. Let’s get out of here.’

       17

      The Columbia campus stretches over six city blocks, but in the last few hours of his life, Dennis had moved within only one of them. Hartley Hall was located at the eastern side of this block, on 114th and Amsterdam: Dufresne took Patrese over to Alfred Lerner Hall on the western side, 114th and Broadway. Patrese glanced at the 114th Street sign.

      ‘Across 110th Street, huh?’ he said.

      Dufresne laughed. ‘Oh, you’re not in Harlem yet. 110th Street’s the marker only over to the Upper East. Round this side of the park, us niggers don’t start in earnest till north of 125th. Matter of fact, this precinct’s one of the safest in the city. Till tonight.’

      There was another uniform at the entrance to Lerner Hall. He snapped to attention as Dufresne approached.

      ‘Easy, son,’ Dufresne said. ‘This ain’t Crimson Tide.’

      Dufresne and Patrese rode the elevator to the sixth floor, where Dufresne led the way through two sets of fire doors to a sign: WKCR, 89.9 FM. Columbia University Student Radio Station.

      ‘Dennis was here, seven thirty till eight thirty. Did it every week: Dennis Barbero’s Black Music Hour. Played whatever he wanted to play, long as it was black. Could be Martha Reeves or Kool Herc, could be Gladys Knight or Grandmaster Flash. One of the most popular shows they have.’ He made a face. ‘Had.’

      Patrese smiled: it was the most natural mistake in the world.

      ‘Anyhows,’ Dufresne continued, ‘show finishes eight thirty. Dennis hands over to the guy doing the news headlines – on the half-hour, short ones only – says adios to the producer, and leaves.’ He took Patrese back through the fire doors, down again in the elevator, and through the main foyer. ‘A couple of people see him here, leaving the building.’

      ‘What time is this?’

      ‘About eight thirty-five.’

      They left the hall and headed across the quadrangle.

      To their right, on the south side, was an enormous neo-classical library fronted by an arcade of Ionic columns. Above the columns ran a frieze of famous writers’ names, starting with Homer and Herodotus and ending with Voltaire and Goethe. To their left, a sculpture of the goddess Athena sitting on a throne, with a laurel crown on her head and the book of knowledge balanced on her lap. Her arms were raised as though welcoming the knowledge all around her.

      Whatever accusations you could level at Ivy League colleges, Patrese thought, understatement wasn’t one of them.

      ‘From Lerner to Hartley, probably seven minutes, walking at normal pace,’ Dufresne said. ‘Well-lit, people around, usually a couple of campus police patrols too.’

      ‘You think he was followed?’

      ‘Maybe. Wouldn’t have dared jump him out here, though. No chance of getting away unseen. But maybe he wasn’t followed. Every Thursday, Dennis had the same routine: his radio show, walk across the quad, open up the Malcolm X Lounge, make sure everything was ready for the G-body meeting at nine. Didn’t need to follow him. You could set your watch by him. Hell, you could set the atomic clock by him.’

      ‘So Dennis unlocks the lounge, the killer slips in there with him—’

      ‘Or has gotten access to the room beforehand, and is lying in wait.’

      ‘—or that, and then he kills Dennis and hauls ass. Must have had a holdall or something, to carry the head and arm in. Anyone see anyone like that?’

      ‘Not that we know.’

      Patrese shrugged. If the killer was smart – and they knew he was that, if nothing else – he’d have made sure that he attracted as little attention as possible. On a student campus, that meant dressing like a student, whether you were one or not. Sneakers, jeans, college sweatshirt; someone dressed in those would pass unnoticed, even with a holdall. Going to the gym, helping set up a party … plenty of reasons to carry a soft bag.

      ‘Security measures in Lerner and Hartley?’ Patrese said.

      ‘The time of night we’re talking, not much. Lerner’s a public building, so people come in and out the whole time. Hartley’s primarily residential, but it has a few communal rooms like the Malcolm X Lounge, which means the main door’s kept open till those meetings are over.’

      ‘CCTV?’

      ‘No. Students. Human rights.’

      ‘So we’re looking at, oh, several thousand possible suspects.’

      Dufresne rubbed his chin. ‘In that neighborhood.’

      Patrese thought for a moment. ‘Unless …’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Ivy League colleges: they stick together much?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘They have a lot of meet-ups just for Ivy League places? Parties, conferences, tournaments, I don’t know. That kind of thing.’

      ‘No idea. Why?’

      ‘Two people killed within sight of Yale’s front entrance. Now one on Columbia’s campus itself. Columbia and Yale are both Ivy League colleges. It must be worth seeing whether anyone from Columbia was at Yale last weekend, or …’

      Dufresne finished Patrese’s sentence for him. ‘Or whether anyone from Yale’s here at Columbia right now.’

       18

       Friday, November 5th

      Dufresne’s men and the campus police had been on the case most of the night. The campus block where Dennis had been killed had been locked down: no one allowed to leave till they’d spoken to police, no one allowed in without proof they lived there. Hartley apart, there were four other accommodation blocks: Wallach, Furnald, Carman and John Jay. Every resident had been interviewed, some at two or three in the morning. A lot of them had grumbled about this. Patrese couldn’t have given a damn.