Dark horse jk-1, Page 3

  I produced one of my business cards and placed it on the glass table. In the background on the card was a photo of the sun sinking below the blue horizon of the Pacific Ocean. The word keen always comes to mind. In one corner, was my smiling mug.

  “Should you remember anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I set my card on the glass table; she somehow managed to not lunge for it. I finished the tea in one swallow and, leaving the way I had come, picked the mint sprig from my teeth.

  Ah, dignity.

  7.

  The field was wet with dew, and a low wispy mist hung over the grass. The mist made the morning look colder than it really was. Sanchez and I had been doing sprints along the width of Long Beach State’s football field for the past twenty minutes. Sweat streamed down my face, and I probably had a healthy, athletic glow about me. I tried desperately to ignore the pain in my right leg. But the pain was there. Persistent, throbbing and threatening to become something more serious. But I pushed on.

  “You’re pretty fast,” I said to Sanchez. “For a cop.”

  “I’ve got to work off the donuts.”

  We finished another set of sprints and were now standing around, sucking wind like we had done at UCLA years earlier, when we had both been young and not so innocent. When the world had been my oyster. Before I had shattered my leg, and before Sanchez had become an LAPD homicide detective.

  There were now two female joggers circling the track around us, dressed in long black nylon jogging pants and wearing white baseball caps. They moved spryly, their identical ponytails swishing along their angular shoulder blades.

  “Sooner or later we’re going to have to run to the other side of the field,” said Sanchez. He spoke with a slight Hispanic accent when he wasn’t careful, or when he was tired. He was tired. He was watching the two joggers. “Unless you prefer to watch them all morning long.”

  “Worse ways of spending a morning.”

  “How’s the leg holding up?”

  I shrugged.

  Sanchez grinned. “That good, huh?”

  We ran back to the other side of the field, just in time to meet the two women again, who swished past us with a casual glance or two. One of them said something and the other giggled.

  “They’re laughing at you,” said Sanchez.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “By the way, I beat you this time. Bum leg and all. How does that make you feel?”

  “Maybe I should shoot myself.”

  “Got a gun in my gym bag.”

  “So do I.”

  We raced back and as far as I could tell we were dead even this time, pulling up just past the far sidelines. The throb in my leg was feeling unhealthy. We had done this for the past thirty minutes.

  “We’re even on that last run,” said Sanchez. “So I say we call it a morning. Baby steps. This is your first day back in training. Want to take it easy on the leg, especially a man your age.”

  “You’re only a month younger.”

  “Lot can happen in a month.”

  “True.”

  We sat on a bench wet with dew. The mist was all pervasive, leaving nothing untouched. I enjoyed the solitude it allowed.

  “You going back with me to San Diego?” I asked. “To try out?”

  He laughed, and kept his dark eyes on the joggers. “I wasn’t the one they asked to come out of retirement.”

  “You could make it.”

  “I was good, but not that good,” he said. The mist was dispersing and more light was getting through. There were also more joggers now, three males, but these were not as interesting to look at.

  Sanchez checked his watch. “Most people with respectable jobs have to get going now.”

  “Luckily, neither of us have respectable jobs.”

  “True,” said Sanchez. “So who do you think did this girl?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “That’s the part I’m working on.”

  “Isn’t it just your job to get the kid off? And to give a damn who really killed the girl?”

  “But I do give a damn who killed her.”

  “You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid before he goes to trial.”

  I said nothing.

  “I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it your way.”

  I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”

  8.

  I was sitting outside Huntington High in my car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted through the car. Life was good at the Beach.

  It was three o’clock and school was just getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip, showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired security that were referred to as The Staff.

  More than one Mercedes whipped out of the student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.

  The less fortunate, and those not of driving age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses. Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.

  I didn’t blame them, although my ego was crushed a little.

  All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and Hispanics, but no blacks.

  Teachers on duty did their best to clear out the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away. And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and headed up to the administration building at the front of the school.

  The building, and much of the school, was old cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office. There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I stepped up to the front desk.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She jumped. She had been writing a personal letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole, love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing so sweet in life as love’s young dream.

  When she had recovered enough to speak, she said, “Can I help you?”

  I smiled engagingly and showed her my investigator license.

  A hell of a picture.

  “Doesn’t look like you.”

  “It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose, turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same full wattage smile. “See?”

  She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is cuter.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy cute.

  “So you’re a private investigator?”

  “Yep.”

  She nodded, but her interest was already waning.

  “I give autographs, too,” I said.

  “I don’t want your autograph.”

  “Of course not. Who would I see about gaining permission to access your school?”

  “You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”

  “Great.”

  “Let me see if she’s in.”

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “Are you always this cheery?”

  “Yes!”

  “Hold on.�
�

  “Super!”

  She removed herself from her post, snatched up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the windows.

  “Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr. Knighthorse.”

  “Keen.”

  “Keen?”

  “I was running out of superlatives.”

  9.

  The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah, she would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of discipline.

  One difference.

  She couldn’t have been prettier.

  Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.

  I am, of course, a detective.

  Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming, true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice. She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.

  “You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your mind.”

  Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly with each breath.

  “I was just wishing I had had you as my vice principal in high school.”

  She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick away from mine. “What are you implying?”

  “You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”

  She cracked a smile, and placed one hand carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band clearly. A plain gold band.

  “A looker?”

  “Means I think you’re swell.”

  “Lord. Is this some sort of come-on line?”

  “You’re married, and I’m happily dating the love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I need.”

  “At least you’re honest about your intentions.”

  “That, and I think you’re a looker.”

  “What do you need, Knighthorse?”

  “What happened to the mister?”

  “Anyone who calls me a looker loses that formal courtesy.”

  “Is that a fancy way of saying I’m warming up to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I need access to your school.”

  “What sort of access?”

  Behind her the blinds were open, and I had a shot of an open quad. From here, Mrs. Williams could see much of the school. It was a good view for the vice principal of discipline to have.

  “I’m here to investigate the murder of Amanda Peterson,” I said. Her eyes did not waiver. I forged on. “To do so I will need to speak to witnesses.”

  “There are no witnesses to Amanda’s murder here.”

  “But there are those here who could provide me some assistance, including yourself.”

  She leaned forward and looked down at her ring. Her smooth face had the beginnings of crow’s feet. She used her thumb to toy with the ring, spinning it around her narrow finger. I wondered if perhaps she was regretting the ring was on, and thus losing an opportunity to be with yours truly. Or perhaps not.

  “I’ll give you access, but not during school hours, and no speaking with students.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Now what do you need from me?”

  “Was Derrick the only African-American in school?”

  “No. There are three others. The papers were incorrect.”

  “Was he a good student?”

  “Exceptional. He carried a 4.0 GPA. Was on his way to USC for a full football scholarship. The world was his oyster.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t call USC an oyster, Mrs. Williams. Maybe a parasitic tiger mussel that’s currently infesting the Great Lakes.”

  “Nice imagery. UCLA fan?”

  “And their best fullback.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that. You are a big boy.”

  “Was Derrick capable of killing?” I asked.

  She spread her hands flat on the desk and smiled at me. “Derrick was strong and excelled at a violent sport. Physically he could have done it. If you are inquiring about his psyche, you are barking up the wrong tree. Derrick and I rarely crossed paths. He kept his nose clean, as my father would say.”

  “And being in charge of discipline, you would know.”

  “I would.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Amanda?”

  “She was more trouble. But petty stuff, really. Nothing serious.”

  “Like what?”

  “Skipping class, smoking on school grounds.”

  “She and Derrick an item?”

  “Yes. The whole school knew that. He was our star athlete.”

  “And black in a nearly all-white school. Did he ever have any problems with racism?”

  “As far as I knew, he was wildly popular among his fellow class mates.”

  “Amanda was in the school band?”

  She paused, then shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe.”

  “I was told she quit. Any reason why?”

  “Refer to my prior comment.”

  I didn’t like the answer. Mrs. Williams probably had access to Amanda’s file, and certainly would have read it since the murder. Band membership would have been in the official records.

  “And Knighthorse,” she said, “I am definitely not the kind of principal you wish you had in high school. Students are never, ever pleased to be sitting where you are now.”

  I smiled. “I’m not a student. And it’s not a bad view from here, Mrs. Williams.”

  Most women would have blushed. She did not.

  I left her office.

  10.

  The campus was sprawling and clean. The hallways were lined with yellow lockers. Most sported combination locks, although a few were padded with locks of considerable fortitude. These were blocks of titanium padlock perfection that were engineered to protect far more important things than school books and pencils.

  My footsteps echoed along the now-empty hallway. Just a half hour earlier it had been filled to overflowing with students. Within these hallowed lockered halls, plans for parties had been made, drug deals had gone down, students had been harassed, asses pinched and thoughts of teenage suicide pondered.

  In the police report, Derrick claimed to have been working out at the school gym at the time of the murder. He had no alibi. His football coach often left him alone with the keys, trusting Derrick. It was against school rules, but Derrick had proven himself to be reliable, and after all he was the star athlete. The coach probably loved him like a son.

  The coach was the last to see Derrick. That had been at 5:45 p.m. on the evening of the murder. The coroner’s report placed the time of murder at 7:00 p.m. According to the arrest report, the detectives figured Derrick left the school weight room shortly after the coach had left and proceeded to ambush the girlfriend he loved and slaughtered her in front of her home. His vehicle had no trace of her blood. There were no wounds on Derrick’s hands or arms. Other than the murder weapon found in his backseat there was nothing to link him to the murder.

  The murder weapon was enough.

  Had he not blundered and forgotten about the murder weapon, Derrick would have pulled off one amazingly clean murder. I’ve now ha
d a chance to see the crime scene photos. The murder was definitely not clean.

  Derrick, of course, claimed he was at the school weight room until 7:30 p.m. that night, like he was every night. A routine that anyone could have caught onto and used against him.

  No one believed Derrick’s story. Except his defense attorney Charlie Brown, although he was being paid handsomely to believe his story.

  And me. But I was not being handsomely paid. I hate it when that happens.

  I moved beyond the hallway, beyond the brick walled central quad, beyond what was probably the school cafeteria, beyond the gym, and toward the athletic department.

  It was spring, and so there was no football to be practiced, which was why Derrick had been lifting weights after school, rather than working out with his team. Instead, it was baseball and track season. Beyond a chain-linked fence I could see a varsity baseball game getting under way. Parents and some students filled the small bleachers. To the north of the baseball field was a track field, and it was a beehive of activity. I watched a young girl sprint for about thirty yards and leap through the air, landing gracelessly in a cloud of dirt. She dusted herself off, and then headed back for another leap.

  I followed a paved pathway, bigger than a sidewalk, but not big enough to be called a road. The pathway skirted the softball field and headed toward a group of buildings lined with doors. One of the doors was open, and inside I could see shining new gym equipment.

  My old high school did not have shining new gym equipment. It had well-used and badly damaged gym equipment. In fact, we just had free weights and a few squat racks, come to think of it.

  But it had been enough, if used correctly and religiously. Both of which I had done.

  I stepped into the doorway and peaked in, almost expecting to see a membership desk. What a spread. Gleaming chrome equipment covered the entire room. Mirrors were everywhere. Techno rock pumped through loud speakers situated in every corner. Boys and a handful of girls were in there, all taking their workouts very seriously. I was completely ignored. In fact, there seemed to be a melancholy mood to the place, despite the rhythmic pounding of the dance music.