Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

I was not to go any further with this line of questioning. I concentrated on my chicken and waited, hoping Kevin would take the conversation in a new direction. He didn’t. We sat silently, eating our dinners and trying desperately to pretend that we were just three friends out for a leisurely and enjoyable dinner. Although I ate, I felt as if I had a large pit in my stomach when I finished, and I declined the server’s offer of coffee or dessert.
    Kevin looked at me suspiciously. “Are you all right?” He knew that I ended almost every meal with dessert so not having it was definitely a bad sign.
    “I just don’t feel like it,” I said, the enormity of the situation coming down on me. I resisted the urge to cry; Kevin looked so dejected and I knew that this charge of impropriety was weighing heavily on him. His wan pallor telegraphed that he was dying inside. I leaned over and wrapped my arms around him. He leaned back in and a little sob escaped his throat. I held on to him a long time, until I was sure he had stopped crying and then held him at arm’s length. “You let me know what I can do to help.” I pushed his shaggy blond hair off his forehead. “And remember, Etheridge is a tool.”
    Crawford signaled for the check. “You like that word, huh?”
    “It seems like an appropriate designation for him. My other nicknames have never done him justice.”
    We parted on Seventh Avenue South, Crawford promising Kevin that he would make the parking tickets go away if Kevin agreed to find a legal spot for the Fit in the next few hours. As we drove back to the Bronx, I asked Crawford if he had any thoughts on Kevin’s situation.
    “It sounds pretty serious,” he said in his usual understated way.
    “Yes, but do you think they can really let him go?” I asked, in no mood for understatement. I wanted Crawford’s emotional intensity in response to the situation to match my own and that just wasn’t going to happen, no matter how hard I pushed.
    “If he’s guilty.”
    “Well, he’s not guilty and you know that!” I said, a little louder than I intended. Crawford flinched slightly. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “He’s not guilty.”
    “Right,” he said, pulling off at the exit for the precinct. “He’s not guilty.”
    But he didn’t sound convinced and I was too tired to pursue the subject. I told him where my car was and he pulled up alongside it. He sighed. “You have a parking ticket, too.”
    I got out and plucked it from under the windshield. Crawford opened his window and I dropped it in his lap. “Take care of this for me?”
    He gave me a little salute. “You got it.”
    I leaned in and gave him a long, lingering kiss on the mouth in full view of a pair of uniformed cops who were starting their shift and walking their beat. They gave Crawford a sidelong glance, one of them uttering a muffled, “You go, Detective.” Blushing, Crawford pulled back and told me to drive safely. I watched as he drove off down the street, waiting until he was out of sight before starting for home.
    I checked my phone for messages when I got in the car and saw that I had a message from Max. I need 2 talk 2 u soon was all it said in typical cryptic, yet dramatic, Max fashion. I flipped my phone closed and threw it onto the passenger seat, making a mental note to carve out a piece of time during the evening to call her and find out what was so urgent.
    My mood on the ride home fluctuated between overwhelming sadness and intense hatred toward Etheridge. How could he take the word of a student over that of Kevin, a trusted and loyal employee? It didn’t make sense to me. But once I regained my emotional equilibrium, it occurred to me that Kevin was in a “guilty until proven innocent” situation and nothing he could say at this point would change that fact. I pulled into my driveway feeling an urge to throttle Etheridge—a feeling I was well acquainted with—along with an urge to shout Kevin’s innocence from the rooftops, one that I suppressed.
    I went around back and noticed, once again, that the screen was ripped. Max. I didn’t see a car, but that didn’t mean anything. For all I knew, she had taken the train and walked here from the station. She had left me the urgent message and had obviously come here to talk to me; not finding a way in, she used her usual mode of entry. In the darkness, I could make out a lawn chair parked under the window. It was pitch-dark now and I regretted not having