But Janie didn’t pay any attention to him. Funny, she’d been hanging on his every word until then.
“I have to visit the ladies’ room,” she said.
Rafe opened his mouth to tell her not to interfere with Nathan’s investigation, but he closed his mouth before the words came out. She would do with Georgia what he’d just done with Justin.
They really were a “we.”
The chair was no more comfortable now than it had been an hour ago. It creaked as Rafe leaned forward to get a better look at Nathan.
Rafe often felt angry when investigating a senseless crime. So he understood the expression on Nathan’s face. It could best be described as fury.
The presence of drugs did that to a cop.
Janie came back.
“Spill,” Rafe ordered.
“Georgia arrived just after six, her normal time. It was close to six-thirty when she opened Patricia’s office with her keys.”
“Where does she keep the keys?”
“I think she has them on her key chain. There’s also a set in the top desk drawer, but Georgia keeps that door locked and the key is on her key chain.”
That didn’t mean much; desks were notoriously easy to break into.
“Georgia phoned campus security, and an officer got there about three minutes later. He stepped in, checked Patricia for a pulse and then called the local police.
Rafe had never shared information this easily with a civilian. It felt right; Janie had said it correctly earlier. They were a “we,” whether it was a good fit or not.
Janie’s face seemed a bit paler than it had been just five minutes ago.
“What else did Georgia say?” Rafe asked.
“That Patricia’s EpiPen was missing from the top drawer of her desk, where Patricia kept it. There’s no sign on her body that she used it. Nor can they find it on the floor or underneath anything. Georgia says if it’s missing, someone took it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“WHAT ARE THEY going to do about Patricia’s classes?” Standing in front of the elevator with Rafe, the dean and Detective Williamson, waiting to go down and hopefully home, Janie wasn’t sure why she felt obligated to ask, especially now.
Patricia Reynolds, the only other person to have read Derek’s art book, was dead.
But the twenty students in Intermediate Canvas partially belonged to Janie. She knew their names and their stories. Some were truly gifted. “The students have already had to deal with Derek’s death,” she continued. “For some of them, it’s their fifth or sixth time taking Patricia’s class. Many of them consider Patricia more a mentor than a teacher.”
“You’re just the lab assistant, right?”
Janie didn’t appreciate how Detective Williamson said “just,” but that didn’t matter now. “I haven’t got the credits to be the main teacher.”
She could do the job, though, probably better than a sub as they were halfway through the semester and Janie had been there every day.