Free BLUE BLOOD RUNS COLD (A Michael Ross Novel Book 1) by M.A Wallace

felt disconcerted by the cameras, overt and hidden, in the office where he worked.
                  He wanted to tell her not to blame herself. He wanted to say that she was beating herself up over events outside of her control. As soon as the thought came to his mind, he knew that it would sound condescending—the kind of statement he would be expected to make and, having made it, would be resented for a lack of originality.
                  He said, “All right, now I have to ask a toughie.”
                  The president appeared unconcerned. She waved her hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal. She said, “Go ahead and ask, Detective. Whatever it is can't be worse than what's already happened.”
                  Michael took a deep breath through his nostrils, preparing himself for the worst. He said, “Can I ask you where you were last night between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m.?”
                  She recoiled as if physically struck. He saw fear in her eyes, then a familiar anger he had seen before. No one liked being accused, least of all those who had done wrong. They felt the sting of censure more than others, for they censured themselves, even if obliquely.
                  She said, “Surely you cannot mean to imply that I am a suspect in the death of Officer Bailey, can you? Surely not.”
                  He continued as though she had not heard her reply. He said, “Would you answer the question, please?”
                  “Not that I have to tell you, but I was here, in my living room, the whole night. There, are you satisfied? Have you gone fishing enough for one day?”
                  Seeing that he had pushed past the limits of her patience, he stood up and said, “Thank you, ma'am. You've been very cooperative. Now if you don't mind, I have other lines of inquiry to pursue.”
                  As he showed himself out, she said, “I don't mind at all.”
     
    5
     
                  At the health clinic, which sat on the farthest side of campus away from the president's residence, Michael was told that he would have to come back with a warrant if he wanted any information about patients who might or might not have visited. He saw that the old woman behind the counter was a stickler for rules, the kind of person who would have done well if she had come to work as support staff for a police department. Nevertheless, he told her that a young woman might have suffered severe injuries the previous day, and that he was looking for her. The receptionist's face softened, but she gave him the same reply.
                  Walking back and forth in the chill morning air, which did not grow any warmer as the sun rose through the sky, made him appreciate how much fortitude college students really had. By 10 a.m., he found himself sick of the cold and ready to go home. Since he had no other leads on Shannon's whereabouts, he decided to use the university's website. Maybe, he thought, her name would turn up as an executive board member of some group, or as a columnist for the paper.
                  For that, he needed an Internet connection. He asked at the university library whether he could access one of their computers on a guest account. The student worker had to call over his supervisor, who told him that she was not authorized to create a guest account. He would have to wait until Monday when the head librarian came back. He thanked for her assistance and left for his car. He found it in the same spot where it had been before. Though no parking ticket had been placed on the windshield, frost had accumulated so thick that he had to scrape the windshield off. He drove out of the campus and took a right turn down Main Street. He passed through several traffic lights before he encountered the Shippensburg Public Library. The library had opened ten minutes before