Murder Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  “Okay, Bret,” she said under her breath. “What’s your story?”

  On the one hand, researching kids was tough because most of the time there was no trail of records; no property records, no driver’s license data, no criminal record. But on the other hand, kids were notoriously lax about security and loved social media.

  Enter Facebook.

  Lacey did a search on Bret’s name and came up with several hits. The tiny thumbnail profile pictures were sometimes hard to make out, but she was pretty sure she could rule out anyone with a beard, a mustache or gray hair.

  “No, no, no,” she murmured as she scrolled down. Then she saw a profile picture of the Grand Theft Auto splash page. She clicked on it.

  “Well, hello, Bret,” she said. His timeline, as she’d guessed, was open to public scrutiny—no security filters at all—and contained several pictures of a blond-haired, blue-eyed kid who could have been fourteen. She checked his birthday—yup, that was him. He even mentioned his school by name in a post.

  Good-looking kid, she thought, except she knew he could be a jerk and a bully. A couple of selfies showed a wide grin and dimples that no doubt caught many girls’ eyes. He had a sort of surfer look going on: tan, sun-streaked hair, a slender build.

  But as she scrolled, she noted some of his rants. He had a habit of calling people he didn’t like “fags,” and made lurid allusions to gay sex, primarily as punishment.

  Nice, she thought sarcastically.

  Then she noticed something else. Seeing Bret alone, or seeing any of his pictured friends alone, she would not immediately think they were gay, but seeing the bunch of them together pointed up similarities. She hated succumbing to stereotypes—the earrings, the haircuts, the slender builds—but had to acknowledge that there was a pattern there. It was subtle, but pervasive enough to get her attention.

  She went back to read some of his posts. Crude humor, the name-calling, the repeated diatribes against “fags.” Even one reference to fisting.

  Methinks thou dost protest too much, she thought.

  Bret was gay.

  She sat back and stared at the ceiling, trying to fit this piece of information into the puzzle.

  She knew how some people handled their “unacceptable” sexual persuasion. Most tried to cover it up, either by purposely entering into heterosexual relationships—even marriage—or by being overly critical of homosexuality. How many times had strenuously vocal attackers of homosexuality been found in public bathrooms with their pants down around their ankles? So Bret’s rants were in line with that offense as defense.

  Did he and Jason have a relationship? From what Cathy said, it didn’t sound like it. More of a rivalry, at least as far as video games went.

  On a hunch, Lacey looked up Jason on Facebook. His profile was still there, but filled with expressions of sorrow from school friends. She scrolled through; nothing from Bret. She went back further, before Jason’s murder. He talked about video games, looking forward to summer—and blocking people who didn’t know when to shut up. Had he blocked Bret? She checked the date of that post: two weeks before the murder. She scrolled through earlier posts, looking for Bret, but he still didn’t appear. Maybe Jason had deleted any comments he’d made.

  Didn’t sound too chummy, but then if there had been a relationship that had soured, that sometimes brought out the worst in people. Lacey had seen love turn to hate. It was never pretty.

  A new thought struck her. What if Bret had hired the other kid to murder Jason? Could he have been so consumed with jealousy over video game points that he would do that? And if he had and Daniel accidentally picked up on Jason’s spirit—and the truth—it was likely Bret would do anything to discredit Daniel. Anything to tear him down, so if Daniel did say anything, no one would believe him.

  The key was the other kid.

  She went back to Bret’s Facebook page and scrolled through, checking the photos. None of the kids looked considerably older. Would Daniel be able to describe him? Sam had done that once, given a description of a murderer to the police before they really knew who they were dealing with. And it had helped.

  Would Sam let Daniel do that?

  She was beginning to feel the same frustration that Cathy had evidenced. There could be several paths to the truth, but they all seemed to go through Daniel. If he was just another citizen, she’d certainly be for leaning on him, “encouraging” him to give up as much as he knew. But it wasn’t just an ordinary person. It was Sam’s son.

  She had to tread carefully.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t her nature.

  Sam always said she was like a dog with a bone once she started an investigation. She didn’t particularly like the description, but she had to admit, it was apt. Now, drumming her fingers on the table and racking her brain for other ways to go, she realized she needed to back off.

  Okay, she told herself, time to switch gears. She cleared her browser and pulled her notebook to her, starting a new search for her subpoena-avoider.

  She set Jason on the back burner of her mind, dialing it down to “simmer.”

  ~~~

  NINE

  By the time Sam got home, she was engrossed in her search.

  He was covered in sawdust.

  “Making progress on the shelves?” she guessed with a laugh.

  “What tipped you off?” He gave her a kiss and went immediately to the laundry area to retrieve a whisk broom. “Forgot to take this with me. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped outside to broom himself off, then returned, considerably cleaner.

  “How many did you put up?” she asked.

  “I put two across the back wall of the front room. I think later I’ll extend them to the side wall, but that can wait. I need to make some stuff to put on them now.”

  “When are you going to start that?”

  “I’m going to get some clay tomorrow, and pick up a wedging table. I’d love to go out to the res and dig my own clay, but that’ll have to wait. I still need to set up a system for washing that doesn’t involve sending clay down the drain, then I can start.” He opened the fridge and stared at the contents. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

  “Did you not eat lunch?” she asked. She pushed her laptop aside.

  “Forgot.”

  “And you say I’m like a dog with a bone,” she grumbled.

  He grinned at her. “It’s rubbing off on me.”

  “How about grilled cheese sandwiches?”

  “Sold,” he said.

  Over the simple dinner, Lacey returned to his project. “Did Theodora help you?”

  “No. She’s not good at handing me nails.”

  Lacey blinked at him, at the perfectly straight face and the perfectly modulated voice. Then she laughed.

  “Oh, you,” she scoffed. “She can give you encouragement.”

  “And she did that,” he said, nodding. “She likes what I’m doing.”

  “I looked her up.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyes to her. “And…?”

  “She was one wild woman. Born in 1890, died in 1951, and she was quite the eclectic artist. Used all sorts of media, combined them in new ways. She was reported to have had affairs with Picasso, Dali and Jackson Pollock.”

  Sam chewed slowly, assimilating that group of names. “That’s quite a menagerie.”

  “Isn’t it? Apparently she would never confirm or deny; guess she didn’t kiss and tell. I’d dearly love to sit and chat with her. Can you pass me some of your talent?”

  Sam chuckled. “I would if I could, but I don’t think it works that way. Too bad you can’t take Daniel’s share, since he’s not crazy about it.”

  Lacey sipped her iced tea. She’d been waiting for an opening. “That reminds me, I talked with Cathy Perez today.”

  “Oh?” One of Sam’s black eyebrows inched upward.

  “Yeah. I know it’s not our case, but I figured a little research couldn’t hurt. I started thinking about the di
fferent scenarios that could be behind the murder, you know: drugs, gangs, stuff like that.” She toyed with her sandwich. “I really think it’s about sex.”

  Sam stared at her, no expression in his dark eyes. “Because…?”

  “Remember what Daniel said about Bret Russell calling him names, because he and Jason were so ‘close’?” She used air quotes around “close.” “I asked Cathy if Jason was gay. She said yes.”

  Sam listened intently, but apparently saw no need for a response.

  “She also knows Bret, or knows of him. She said he was jealous of Jason’s high video game scores. Said his name-calling was nothing new.”

  Still no response.

  “I looked Bret up on Facebook.” She pulled in a deep breath. “I think he’s gay, too. His pictures and posts all lean that way. I’m wondering if this was a relationship gone sour, and if Bret hired the other guy to kill Jason.”

  “The other guy that…”

  “That Jason showed Daniel.”

  Sam took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly, staring down at his plate.

  Lacey waited, letting him take it all in. She knew it kept coming back to Daniel. She knew Daniel was the key. And she knew Sam didn’t like that.

  Finally Sam raised his eyes to her. They held a hint of defiance. “What do you want me to do?”

  Lacey met that look with one of compassion. “Nothing,” she said.

  He blinked at her. “Nothing?”

  She shrugged. “Like I said, I know it’s not our case. I just thought I’d see what I could find.”

  He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and glared at her. “You did all this work, found all this information, and you don’t care if we do nothing with it?” He glanced around. “Who are you and what did you do with my wife?”

  She grinned at him. “I know you don’t want to drag Daniel into this. I can respect that. But, like his impressions from Jason, my research is just extra ammunition the LAPD could use—if they can’t figure it out themselves. Hopefully they will. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Sam settled somewhat, although his eyes still held a note of suspicion. “All right,” he said, calling her bluff. “We do nothing.”

  “Fine,” she said. She popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and gathered up the dirty dishes.

  Sam’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen.

  “Christine,” he said. “Now what?” He tapped the answer button. “Hello?”

  Lacey busied herself at the sink and tried not to listen too much.

  “What happened?” Sam asked. “He did… what? … Really?”

  Lacey glanced over. Sam was staring at her, but his expression was one of pleasant surprise instead of the exasperation she would have expected.

  “Yeah, sure. Put him on. Hey, Daniel. What…?”

  Lacey could barely contain her curiosity, but she focused on the dishes. Sam’s face showed no concern, no exasperation, at all. This should be interesting, she thought.

  Finally she wiped the counter and refilled her glass of iced tea, then took her place at the table again. She watched Sam with barely restrained impatience.

  “Uh huh. Well, that’s great. I’m proud of you. You did good… Yeah, sure… She’s still there… I saw her today… Sure. Okay, see you Saturday.”

  He keyed off the call and laid his phone down with a chuckle.

  “What was that?” Lacey demanded.

  Sam sat back and grinned at her. “You won’t believe it.” He shook his head. “Apparently Bret was back, calling Daniel names and trying to pick a fight again. You know what Daniel did?”

  “No.” Tell me.

  “He turned his phone on video and caught the little jerk in the act. He even walked away—or tried to—but Bret followed after him and kept it up. Daniel got it all on tape. And he took it to the principal.”

  Lacey’s jaw dropped. “And?”

  “Bret’s been suspended. Daniel’s fine.”

  Lacey settled back in her chair, blowing out a relieved breath. “Thank God.”

  “Yeah. And you know the best part? He got the idea from you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You know, because you’re always filming me on my walks. How’s that for ingenuity?”

  “That’s great,” Lacey laughed. “That is terrific. He shouldn’t have any more trouble with Bret, then.”

  “The suspension is for three days. Friday’s only a half day, so if Daniel can get through that, he’s home free for the summer.”

  “Great,” she said again. “He ought to be able to handle that. And if Bret has any brains at all…”

  “He’ll leave Daniel alone, or get videoed again.”

  Lacey chuckled. “Smart boy you got there.”

  “And something else. He wants to visit my studio again this weekend. And he wants to bring Tori.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” Sam grinned. “She likes being around Theodora.”

  Lacey couldn’t help it; she laughed out loud. “Nothing like a girlfriend’s interest to sweeten the ability to feel ghosts.”

  “Exactly. I think Daniel’s finally gone from freak to cool.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer kid,” she said.

  ~~~

  TEN

  Tuesday morning, Sam surprised her by rolling out of bed when she did. “What are you doing?” she asked with a suspicious eye. “You don’t usually get up until I’ve got the coffee ready.”

  “I’m getting clay today, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. Mmm, exciting. No wonder you can’t sleep.”

  “Right,” he agreed, totally missing the sarcasm. “Want to go with me?”

  She peered at him as he dressed. He was totally serious. Clay, exciting? She had to see this for herself. “Sure.”

  “Great. What’s quick and easy for breakfast?”

  The “clay place,” as Lacey called it, was close to downtown in an old section near Olympic. It was tucked in the middle of a block of small businesses, between a Jewish bakery and a Thai market.

  Lacey wondered if the mixed aromas ever gave anyone a stomach ache.

  Inside was pretty dim. The windows on either side of the door looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. Everything in the place was a uniform gray-brown color. Clay dust, Lacey guessed. The main floor was taken up with pottery wheels and various sizes of wedging tables, from four foot square to six or even eight feet long. Every wall was hung with multiple shelves and displayed tools, glazes and green-fired figurines, ready to finish, leaning heavily toward bunny rabbits and cats.

  “Help you?” a balding man asked from behind a counter along one wall.

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “I talked to you on the phone the other day. I need a wedging table and some clay.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the man said. He had a decidedly New York accent. “Four-footer? Got ‘em right here.” He led them to a square table, the surface just about waist-high. It was made of wood but the top looked like rough concrete.

  “These are all Hydrostone,” the man said. “The best I got.”

  Sam ran his hand over the surface.

  “Pulls the moisture out of wet clay,” the man continued. “If you got dry clay, you just spray some water on the surface first.”

  Sam nodded silently, and fingered the wooden frame that rose about a quarter inch above the surface.

  “Protected, so the Hydrostone won’t chip,” the man said. “No plaster chips in your clay. Best you can get.”

  Abruptly Sam turned away from the table and veered toward the large bags of clay on the floor near the wall. One by one, he read the labels.

  “These are cone four,” the man said, tapping a couple bags with his foot. “These are mid-fire, cone five or six, and these on the end are high-fire.” The man squinted at Sam. “You got a kiln?”

  Sam shook his head. “Gonna fire in a pit,” he said.

  “A pit?” The man smiled slig
htly, as if Sam had made a joke, but when Sam didn’t crack a smile, the man quickly sobered. “Oh, okay, a pit. Well. You, uh, ever done that?”

  Sam tore his eyes from the bags on the floor and met the man’s stare. “Yeah.” Then he went back to the bags. “Give me one Sedona red and one buff stoneware with grog. Oh, and that table.” He pointed to the wedging table.

  “Sure, sure,” the man said. He hefted one heavy sack of clay to the counter, then returned for the second one. “You got a truck?” he asked.

  “Outside,” Sam said. He had already moved on to tools that reminded Lacey of trips to the dentist, then wooden implements and oval metal scrapers. Sam pulled a few of each off their hooks and brought them to the counter, along with a couple of oilcloths.

  “What about glazes?” the man asked as he began ringing up the sale.

  “No.”

  The man just nodded, continuing his work at the register. Sam tossed down a credit card. “Hey, Lace? Would you mind going out and opening the tailgate?”

  “Sure.”

  She unhooked the rusty chains and lowered the tailgate just as Sam and the store owner muscled out the wedging table. Together they hefted it up into the truck bed and slid it carefully forward until it touched the cab. One more trip for the heavy bags of clay, and Sam handed Lacey the bag with the assorted tools.

  “Thanks,” he told the man.

  “Sure, sure. You need anything else, I got it,” the man said. “If I don’t, I can get it.”

  “I think you probably made his day,” Lacey said as they drove away.

  Sam chuckled. “Probably. He’s got a good selection. I’ll be back.”

  They drove to the studio and unloaded the truck. Sam wrestled the wedging table in through the door and set it in the front room.

  “Where’d you get the table?” Lacey asked. The kitchen area had a six-foot wooden table in it, flanked by benches on either long side.

  “Picked it up yesterday at a garage sale. Twenty bucks.”

  She wandered the front room, examining the new shelves on the back wall. “The shelves look nice.” She turned and took in the total work space. “Starting to look like a real studio.” She grinned at him.