Besides which, everybody in the whole building knows who the RAs are. I mean, the staff performs safer sex skits and stuff at dinnertime. If Mark or Todd had been an RA, Lakeisha would have known him by sight.

As far as the maintenance staff is concerned, forget it. They’re all Hispanic and over fifty, and only Julio speaks enough English to be understood by someone not bilingual. Plus they’ve all worked in Fischer Hall for years. Why would they suddenly start killing people now?

Which, of course, leaves just the women on the staff. I should, in light of diversity awareness, include them on my list of suspects…

Only none of them could have left that condom in Roberta’s room.

But I guess I’m the only one who considers it odd that two girls—who each had a file in my office, and who each happened to have found a boyfriend within a week of each other—both happened randomly to decide to go elevator surfing, then plunged to their deaths at around the same time the key to the elevator doors went missing, only to reappear shortly after the discovery of at least one of their bodies.

Which is why at seven o’clock that night, I slip from the brownstone—I haven’t heard a peep from Cooper since the elevator incident that morning, which is fine with me, because frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to say to him when Ido see him again.

It’s also why I consequently walk right into Jordan Cartwright, who is just coming up the front stoop.

“Heather!” he cries. He has on one of those puffy shirts—you know, like the kind they made fun of on Seinfeld — and a pair of leather pants.

Yes. I am sorry to have to say it. Leather pants.

What’s worse is, he really does look quite good in them.

“I was just coming to see how you are,” he says, in a voice that drips with concern for my mental health.

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling the door closed and working the locks. Don’t ask me why we have so many locks when we also have a burglar alarm and a dog and our own Rastafarian community watch program. But whatever.

“Have a nice evening,” one of the drug dealers urges us.

“Thank you,” I say to the drug dealer. To Jordan, I say, “I’m sorry, I really don’t have time to chat. I’ve got somewhere to go.”

Jordan trots down the steps behind me.

“It’s just,” he says, “I don’t know if you’ve heard. About Tania and me. I meant to tell you the other day, but you were so adversarial—I didn’t want you to find out this way, Heather,” Jordan says, keeping pace with me as I tear down the sidewalk. “I swear. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jordan,” I say.Why won’t he go away? “Really.”

“Hey.” One of the drug dealers blocks our path on the sidewalk. “Aren’t you that guy?”

“No,” Jordan says to the drug dealer. To me, he says, “Heather, slow down. We’ve got to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I assure him, in my most cheerful voice. “I’m good. Everything’s good.”

“Everything’s not good,” Jordan cries. “I can’t stand to see you hurting like this! It’s tearing me up inside—”

“Oh, hey,” I say to the drug dealer who is trailing after us. “This is Jordan Cartwright. You know, from Easy Street.”

“The dude from Easy Street!” the drug dealer cries, pointing at Jordan. “I knew it! Hey, look!” he calls to his friends. “It’s the dude from Easy Street!”

“Heather!” Jordan is swallowed up in a crowd of autograph seekers. “Heather!”

I keep right on walking.

Well, what exactly was I supposed to do? I mean, he’s engaged. ENGAGED. And not to me.

What more is there to say? It’s not like I don’t have more pressing concerns right now, too.

Rachel seems kind of surprised to see me walk through the doors of Fischer Hall at night. She’s standing in the lobby just as I come in, and her eyes get kind of big.

“Heather,” she exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

“They asked me to judge,” I say.

For some reason, she looks relieved. I realize why a second later. “Oh good! Another judge for the lip-synch! How great! I was hoping Sarah and I wouldn’t have to judge on our own. What if there’s a tie?”

“Heather.” Jordan comes bursting into the lobby.

And all around us, breaths are sucked in as he is immediately recognized. Then the whispering begins:“Isn’t that—no, it couldn’t be. No, it is! Look at him!”

“Heather,” Jordan says, striding up to Rachel and me. His gold necklaces rise and fall beneath the puffy shirt as he pants. “Please. We’ve got to talk.”

I turn to Rachel, who is staring at Jordan with eyes that are even bigger than when I’d walked in.

“Here’s another judge for you,” I say to her.

Which is how Jordan and I end up sitting in the front row of about three hundred cafeteria chairs, facing the closed-off grill and salad bar, clipboards in our laps. You can imagine how difficult this makes it for Jordan to talk to me about our relationship, as he is so desperately longing to.

But this is just fine by me. I mean, the truth is I’m only here to hunt for the mysterious Mark and/or Todd, and my being a judge isn’t exactly helpful in this capacity.

But if it keeps me from having to listen to Jordan as he tries to make excuses for his behavior—though why he should care what I think of him, when he’s made it so perfectly obvious he doesn’t want to be with me anymore, I can’t imagine… maybe Sarah can explain it—it’s fine.

The kids are all in a dither about Jordan. They hadn’t known there was going to be a celebrity judge. (I don’t count. The few kids who’d recognized me at check-in could not have cared less. Tonight, it’s all about Jordan… even though I’m afraid some of them are making fun of him, on account of the puffy shirt and Easy Street and everything.) Jordan’s presence does seem to give the contest an air of legitimacy it lacked before.

It also seems to make the competitors even more nervous.

There’s an elaborate sound and light system set up over by the salad bar, and all sorts of students are milling around, chatting and noshing on free soda and chips. I look for couples, trying to single out any boys and girls in close conversation, thinking that if Mark or Todd is going to strike again, there is a bevy of fresh women here for him to choose from.

But all I see are groups of kids, boys and girls, white, African American, Asian, you name it, in baggy jeans and T-shirts, screaming happily at one another, and tossing back Doritos.

Mmmm. Doritos.

Sarah, seated next to Jordan, can’t take her eyes off him. She keeps asking him searching questions about the music industry, the same ones she’d asked me when she’d first met me. Like, had he felt like a sellout when he’d done that Pepsi ad? And hadn’t he felt that performing at the Super Bowl halftime show had been degrading to his calling as a musician? And what about that calling? Did it bother him that he knew how to sing, but not how to play a single instrument? Didn’t that, in a way, mean that he wasn’t a musician at all, but merely a mouthpiece through which Cartwright Records could deliver their message of corporate greed?

By the time the lights go down, and the hall president, Greg, gets up to welcome everyone, I’m feeling a little sorry for Jordan.

Then the first act comes on, a trio of girls lip-synching Christina’s latest, with choreography and everything. With the lights down, I’m able to scan the audience without looking too obvious.

There are a lot of students there. Nearly every seat is filled, and the cafeteria can hold four hundred. Plus there are people lining the back of the room, hooting and applauding and, in general, acting like eighteen-year-olds away from home for the first time. Beside me, Jordan is staring at the Christina wannabes, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. For someone who’s been shanghaied into the job, he seems to be taking it way seriously.

Or maybe he’s only acting interested in order to keep Sarah from asking him any more questions.

The first act comes to a hip-grinding stop, and a quartet of boys leaps into the spotlight. Heavy bass begins to shake the cafeteria walls—they’re performing “Bye Bye Bye” by ’N Sync—and I feel pity for Fischer Hall’s neighbors, one of which is an Episcopalian church.

The boys throw themselves into their act. They have the choreography down pat—so much so I practically wet my pants, I’m laughing so hard.

I notice Jordan isn’t laughing at all. He doesn’t seem to understand that the boys are making fun of boy bands. He is carefully scoring them on originality and how well they know the lyrics.

Seriously.

Glancing over my clipboard as I score the boys’ act—I give them mostly fives out of ten, since they don’t have costumes—I notice a tall man wander into the dining hall, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his khakis.

At first I think it’s President Allington. But the president never wears khakis, preferring, as I think I’ve mentioned before, white Dockers. The newcomer is entirely too well-dressed to be the school’s president.

When he moves into a shaft of light that spills from the Coke machine, however, I realize that it’s Christopher Allington, the president’s son. So my confusion is understandable.

It isn’t unusual for Christopher to drop by. I mean, even though he has his own place at the law school dorm, his parents do live upstairs. He’d probably come over to visit them, then stopped in the café to see what all the noise was about.

But when he moves toward a group of students leaning against a far wall and begins chatting casually to them, I start to wonder. What is Christopher doing here, exactly? He’s a law student, not an undergrad.