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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.
