Daniel

The admin looks up from her desk when I enter. A vague, polite smile crosses her lips, and she gestures to one of the leather seated chairs positioned against the wall across from her. I'd rather stand, actually.

I can hear voices behind the closed door to the Dean's office and try to appear interested in the framed documents on the wall. Doctor of Education. Master in Business Administration. A photo of him and the governor. A picture of a boat that I presume must belong to him.

Honestly, I have to wonder, why do some men take pictures of their boats? This will always and forever remain a mystery to me. I have ten cars and I don't think I have ever photographed any of them. What’s the obsession?

Compensation?

The admin clears her throat behind me, and I turn around. Her eyebrows are raised in a hearty, direct stare. She's attractive… some would even say beautiful. But she does nothing for me. I've got work to do here, and her light flirtation would not do anything but irritate me.

I turn back around and glance over the bookshelf, preferring not to antagonize her with my mission-focused attitude. It's not her fault, and I don't mean to insult her, but I'm afraid my tone would come off as rudely abrupt. Other women just do nothing for me but present obstacles. There is only one woman on my mind now.

Kita. My kitten. I can still feel her small, soft body against mine. I force my mind away from her. I don’t want to talk to the dean with a hard-on.

Finally the voices get closer to the door and I hear it open with a creak. Dean Kravitz shakes a man's hand warmly, clapping him on the opposite shoulder and nodding.

“Well that's just fine, just fine, Tony,” he's saying, grinning as his head bobs up and down. I know that expression. That's a man who's grateful for the large donation he just received. “Thanks so much for coming in and say hello to Carolyn for me, won't you?”

“Oh I will,” the other man smiles, “See you and Marisol on Sunday? Brunch?”

“Wouldn't miss it!” The Dean chuckles affably. It’s almost comically typical of what a Dean is supposed to do.

He gently guides the donor toward the door. Not until the other man is safely in the hallway does he even turn to look at me. His expression is not quite as eager now, and I watch him narrow his eyes almost imperceptibly as he looks me over.

“Daniel Lockwood,” he says, for no reason. It's not a very warm greeting. I suppose he's letting me know our meeting won't end in a brunch invitation.

I don't say anything, and he strides back into his office. I follow him, closing the door after me and standing between the two leather club chairs that face his desk, my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands clasped behind my back.

He scowls slightly as he settles back into his overstuffed leather chair, the springs squeaking beneath him.

I take in the whole room without looking: more pictures of boats, books in neat shelves. An oil painting of someone who looks like another Dean from another time. Abundant houseplants lined up under the window. It's a nice office, a pleasant space to spend a few decades—if you're into that sort of thing. Which, suffice it to say, I’m not.

Finally he sighs, stretching a fake smile across his lips.

“You requested a meeting,” he says to open the conversation. “So, tell me: what can I do for you?”

I nod for a moment, letting the silence simmer in the air. I can tell that he's dreading this conversation, and dread is sometimes a very useful emotion. I'll let it escalate for just a little while longer. There’s power in silence.

“Are you familiar with the Chi Rho Pi sorority?” I ask finally.

His mouth twists into a scowl. Our last conversation was also about the sorority. I'm sure he remembers it.

“You know that I am,” he grumbles. His hands shift papers around on his desk pointlessly. “Are they interfering with one of your properties again, Mr. Lockwood?”

“No, I can handle that sort of activity. This is a more recent incident. Just a couple of weeks ago, they attempted one of their bake sale events at the Crow Bar, were you aware of this?”

He shrugs, pushing his glasses down his nose so he can stare at a piece of paper in his hand.

“Were there arrests?” he asks.

“Not for this incident. I believe you have already addressed whatever underage drinking that the police escalated to you from that night.”

“Indeed,” he nods, acting bored and busy. “Are you aware of other arrests?”

“No. This was not immediately apparent to law enforcement.” I keep my eyes on him, not letting him escape my gaze. He shifts.

“We don't track all off-campus activities, as I'm sure you know, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Understood. Is the sorority house on campus?”

His eyes flicker back up to me, his lips pressed into a line. “It is,” he confirms. I wonder if he knows I have him.

This is approximately the level of stress I want him to experience. If he were a cartoon character, there would be a small dial above his head indicating how close he was to blowing his top. I don't want him to get all the way there. I just want him to burn a little bit.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I ask him. He gestures to the chair and as I lower myself into it, I see his posture relax lightly. Perfect.

“Last week, I was doing some security check up… nothing serious, mind you… simply addressing some issues for a financial institution tangentially related to some of my philanthropic interests. I came across some… information. Some disturbing information. And I thought you needed to be aware of it.”

He pushes himself back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and taking deep breaths. Obviously, he is as aware as anyone of the Chi Rho Pi reputation. As the Dean, he is responsible for student safety and he understands that whether he answers yes or no, things are starting to look very bad for him. Either he does know what Lizzie is up to and is letting it happen, or he doesn't have a clue what Lizzie is doing, and he's bad at his job.

“What kind of information?” he finally asks me in a low voice.

I take a deep breath, casting my eyes downward so that eye contact is not too aggressive. I have to play him properly. But I can still see him and gauge his reactions.

“Well, to put it directly, it appears that some of the younger members of the sorority, pledges even, have been surveilled, if you know what I mean.”

His eyes flicker over to me and I can feel the change in his breathing. He's alarmed. As he should be.

“Surveilled? As in pictures?”

“Pictures, yes. It would seem so. As well as videos.” I look up again. Some part of me is definitely enjoying watching him squirm like a fish on a hook.

“Christ,” he sneers, dragging a knuckle between his eyebrows. This is bad, and he knows it.

I decide to press further, so that there's no misunderstanding. “These pictures… and video… are being procured without authorization. Without consent. And then offered for sale. Do you understand what that means?”

I let the question hang in the air. The fact is, I don't have very much information on this. I need his imagination to run a little bit wild. Pictures of girls in the shower? In the rooms? Video? I need him to wonder just how bad this is.

“I don't suppose you have a name for me,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

“Elizabeth Whitmore,” I declare.

“Fuck,” he spits. I can tell from his tone of voice that he is not surprised at all.

I lean forward, placing my forearms on my knees. “You remember her?” I ask him, but I know he does. She was the topic of our last conversation, which apparently he did not take very seriously, because she is still enrolled in school.

“Oh, I know the Whitmores. Everyone here knows the Whitmores. Did you perhaps drive past the Whitmore Sports Pavillion on your way here?”

Oh. That makes sense.

But I have to continue.

“According to my source, the sorority house itself is the nexus of the surveillance. If this should get out and the authorities began an investigation… the public would be, well, I'm sure you already know…”

He scrubs his hand over his face, grumbling deep in his chest.

“What you suggest I do, Mr. Lockwood?” he finally asks me. He is weary now. Looking at me like I’m his savior.

“Well I'm sure if the sorority’s charter was removed, the fallout could be minimized. No charter, no need for an investigation, right?”

I hate that I'm saying this. I hate thinking that Lizzie will get away without formal charges being pressed against her, but my priority is merely to have the operation shut down. Justice will come to her in other ways, I'm sure. And swiftly. But for right now, knowing that there are videos or photographs of Kita out there, going to God knows who… It must be eliminated.

“Remove the charter,” he repeats slowly, mulling it over. “I suppose I don't have a choice, do I?”

“It does seem to be the best option.”

For a few long seconds, we sit there in silence. I want to nudge him back toward this decision in case he wants to backtrack, but I feel that his mind is already made up. Finally he looks at me and cocks his head to the side, a gesture that indicates he's accepted my proposal.

“How did you find out about this, Mr. Lockwood? The information just dropped into your lap? Just like that?”

I straighten slightly. “One of the young women came to me,” I answer, repackaging a version of the truth for him. “An exceptional student, perhaps you know her? Nikita Sokolov?”

“Oh!” he says, more interested than I thought he was going to be. “Brilliant girl. Really, top-notch. We are lucky to have her.”

“In what way?”

He waves his hand in the air as though searching for the most expedient explanation. I can tell he wants me out of his office now.

“Miss Sokolov received the Dean's award, a full scholarship that's administered by my office. I go over all of the applications personally, and she was uniquely qualified. Her work with the anti-bullying app has been outstanding. There is a good chance she could be successful with that.”

“An app?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Yes, her professor brought it to my attention. The department was considering purchasing it from her. Not bad for a freshman, wouldn't you say?”

Not bad at all. I study him. “Are you aware that she plans on quitting school?”

He stands up suddenly from his chair. “No… no I should hope not!”

“Yes,” I nod seriously. “The hazing that she received at the hands of Elizabeth Whitmore was so brutally severe that she wanted to withdraw from school. I'm fairly certain I have convinced her otherwise for the moment, but…”

He shakes his head sadly, frowning as he stares out the window. “You know, it's always the really talented ones who have the most to lose. People like Lizzie Whitmore will be fine, no matter what happens. There’s practically nothing anybody could do to her, which is why she's been able to be such a pain in the ass since she's been here. But if she's putting real talent at risk… well, I'm glad you intervened, Mr. Lockwood.”

He thrusts out his hand and I stand, shaking it. I can feel that he really means what he is saying to me and it pleases me, if I'm honest. I certainly wasn't expecting an endorsement.

“Just out of curiosity,” I venture, “how much would it cost to replace that sign on the Sports Pavilion?”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Five hundred? Does that sound about right?”

“Thousand?” he chokes out. His cheeks get shiny with anticipation. Sounds like half a million dollars just bought me a couple of tennis courts and a soccer field.

“As long as we understand each other?” I nod, waiting to catch his eye.

He smiles grimly, apparently weighing his responsibilities against each other and finding in my favor.

“We do, Mr. Lockwood,” he agrees.

The Lockwood Sports Pavilion. It has a nice ring to it.