Grey Zone by Clea Simon Page A

some connection. She did say “boyfriend trouble,” right? But maybe they’re asking about him for something entirely different.’
    That thought didn’t make Dulcie feel any better. She knew she had blanched at the sight of Dimitri’s pale and smiling face. After that, she’d had to identify her colleague, and even though she swore up and down that she didn’t think he’d been the one in the passageway, she didn’t know if Rogovoy believed her.
    Meanwhile, Suze was still talking. ‘Maybe it’s simply that they’re worried about her. You know, these things can be contagious.’
    â€˜What things? I’m sorry, Suze. I was distracted.’
    â€˜Suicide. You know. One person does it, and the idea goes around. Especially on a college campus.’
    â€˜ What ?’ It was too late. Dulcie heard the phone clatter on to a desk and waited. She was standing outside the police headquarters, leaning into a cornice to hear. ‘Suze! What do you mean?’
    â€˜Sorry. Crazy as usual.’ Suze was back. Dulcie tried to interrupt, but her friend kept talking. ‘Hey, I’m probably not coming home tonight. Let me make some calls, see what I can find out.’
    â€˜Wait, Suze. Suicide?’ It was too late. The line was dead, and Dulcie didn’t even know if her friend had heard her. Suicide was contagious, like a cold? And Carrie? No, it didn’t make sense. That email had sounded so chipper, and, more to the point, the detective had said that they hadn’t thought Carrie Mines was ‘at risk.’ Still, she wondered as she made her way across the Yard, could you really tell someone’s mood from an emoticon?
    And what role, if any, did Dimitri play in all of this? Walking down the Memorial Hall steps to the tiny office she shared with Lloyd, Dulcie thought about their absent colleague. Dimitri Popolov might sound like the name of a Russian gangster, but the quiet scholar Dulcie knew was anything but. Slim, pale, and soft spoken, Dimitri looked more likely to be a victim of violence than its perpetrator. True, his area of expertise – Raymond Chandler and his ilk – was bloody. But that kind of dichotomy wasn’t that uncommon. After all, she – Dulcie – considered herself an extremely rational person, a fan of detailed proofs and abstruse arguments. And here she was, studying highly emotional Gothic fiction.
    â€˜ And talking to ghosts. ’
    Dulcie started. ‘Mr Grey?’ The basement room was always dim, but today less light than usual came from the high-set window.
    â€˜ Yes, kitten? ’ A swirl of dust, a slight movement in the shadows, drew her eye, and Dulcie realized she was holding her breath. Recently, it had seemed that her late cat had manifested only in the apartment, and even then, only to instruct Esmé. It wasn’t that she was jealous of her own kitten, or not exactly. But if she was going to have a conversation, she wanted to make sure of whom she was talking with.
    â€˜That is you, isn’t it?’ She couldn’t help the peevish note creeping into her voice, even as she reached toward the corner with the darkest shadow. ‘It’s been so long. And, well, you never come to the office any more.’
    â€˜ Dulcie! ’ She wasn’t the only one who could sound annoyed. And if there was any question of who the shadowy presence was, a sharp scrape – like a slap with unsheathed claws – caused her to pull back her hand.
    â€˜Sorry.’ She slumped into her desk chair, head in hands. ‘It’s just been horrible, Mr Grey. Professor Herschoft. The police. The missing student.’ She didn’t know how much he knew, but as a living cat, he’d always been able to pick up on her moods. Surely, he would now. She waited, but when the only response was a little chirp – part purr, part inquisitive – she went on: ‘I thought everything