Chapter Six

Part 3

As I was coming around the corner into Marshall’s hall I heard a door swing open. I paused, then ducked back behind the wall. I don’t know if it was detective’s intuition that made me do it, but I was instantly glad I did. When I peeked around the corner I saw none other than Jon Wisnewski slinking out of Marshall’s room. He didn’t loiter either—he was out of there faster than you could say “suspicious.”

What was Jon Wisnewski doing hanging out in Marshall Cone’s room? Hadn’t he insulted him and his friends to me that very afternoon? Or was that just something I had inferred from his use of the word “Conenites”? No. There was no way these two were friends.

I was going to have to ponder this one later. I waited until Jon was long gone—didn’t want to be accused of stalking him again—then knocked on Marshall’s door.

The first thing I noticed when he welcomed me into his room was the smell. He must have been showering himself with gratuitous amounts of CK Be about five seconds before I got there. In seconds I was dizzy from deprivation of oxygen.

“What do you think?” Marshall asked, tipping his head back slightly as if he wanted to impress me with the girth of his neck. It took me a second to realize he was asking what I thought of the room.

The place was a bastion of materialism. There was a state-of-the-art twenty-disc changer on top of his desk, hooked up to authentic surround-sound Bose speakers that were suspended from each corner of the ceiling. His computer was a seventeen-inch PowerBook, and his iPod was hooked up to it, downloading songs. A pair of brand-new skis jutted out from behind his bed, and a home theater system—even better than David’s—was showing Old School. Every inch of wall was covered in posters of voluptuous women in scant clothing who seemed to be lusting over the red sports cars they were posed on.

Testosterone city.

“It’s . . . nice?” I said.

“Nice? Me and Rob have the sickest setup at this school!” Marshall was offended. He certainly liked to put himself up on a pedestal. I placed my CDs near his stereo and caught a glimpse of his Blackberry sitting in the center of his desk.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up on impulse.

Marshall grabbed it out of my hand swiftly, but not before I saw a reminder that read: “1/9 Delivery.” A reminder he obviously didn’t want me to see. Yet another tidbit to file away.

“It’s a Blackberry,” he said, his expression patronizing. “Where’re you from? Idaho?”

Sheesh. Did anything intelligent ever issue from this guy’s mouth?

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I’m sure all Idahoans would be happy to know that you think they’re too naïve to recognize a Blackberry.”

“Well, you didn’t,” he said.

“I just hadn’t seen that model before,” I shot back. Then, in an effort to retain his respect for my coolness factor, I ran my hand down one of his Salomon skis. As far as I knew, they were the most expensive ones on the market. “These are sleek,” I said. “I get some serious speed with those.”

Marshall seemed surprised by my knowledge, but then covered it well. “Gotta love it,” he said. This seemed to be his favorite phrase. “Check it out. I got a pair of Ray-Ban goggles too—UV-protected, glare-resistant and damn if I don’t look fine.”

He held them up to his face and I gave him the expected impressed frown and nod. I barely even noticed how he looked, however. I was too busy taking in the opulent designer wardrobe, including a preponderance of suede jackets and leather boots, in the closet behind him. There was no way this kid was here on scholarship. His room was more lavish than the latest Real World house.

“So, whaddaya got for me?” Marshall asked, flipping through my CDs.

“Most of that stuff is pretty obscure, but it’s good. Trust me,” I said, trying to take in more notable details of his room. Unfortunately there wasn’t much out of the ordinary—for a millionaire. Then I noticed a stack of correspondence on his desk, which upon further scrutiny turned out to be college applications—exactly the institutions you’d expect for a Hereford student—Yale, Princeton, Duke, Dartmouth.

“You know where you want to go to school yet?” I asked cavalierly.

Marshall glanced at the apps and shrugged. “Eh, they’re all after me, but I’m going to Duke.”

“I admire your optimism,” I said.

“What?” He seemed a little riled by my comment.

“I mean you seem fairly confident you’re going to get in.”

Marshall scoffed and looked at me as if it was just too obvious why he should be so confident about that. Somehow I squelched the desire to smack him in the head. He acted like he was heir to the throne.

“Duke’s an expensive school,” I said, trying to do the leading thing Tad had taught me.

“Money’s not an impediment for me,” he said, still rifling through my CDs.

He didn’t blink or clear his throat or touch his face or anything. If the kid was lying, he was doing a bang-up job.

“How?” I wanted to scream. “According to your record, you are currency deficient. How are you affording all this stuff?”

I paced across the room, picking up a watch here, glancing at a stack of old Post-its there. I examined a shelf full of Twinkies and Doritos and cans of Red Bull. There was nothing to implicate him. Unless you were looking for a hedonist.

“So . . . are you and Jon Wisnewski friends?” I asked.

I heard my CDs clatter to the desk. “That loser? Why would you ask me that?”

My heart pounded with anticipation. I was so onto something.

“I just saw him in the hall, and it looked like he was coming from your room,” I mentioned blithely. “Just curious.”

“Well, he wasn’t. Coming from my room, I mean,” Marshall said, his face set like stone.

You’re so busted! I thought. Though busted on what, I had no idea.

“Thanks for the CDs. I’m gonna get to work on the mixes,” Marshall said, slipping right by me and opening the door. Not too obvious an ejection.

“No problem,” I said as I stepped out of the room. “I’ll just get them back from you later in the week?”

“Yeah. Whatever,” Marshall said. And he closed the door in my face.

You mention Jon Wisnewski to Marshall, you get booted, I thought. Interesting.

I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to the case, but my curiosity was piqued. What was going on between Mr. Peevish and the biggest of the Big Men on Campus?