He said, She said, Murder (He said, She said Detective Series Book 1)

by Jeramy Gates

  “Thank you, Kendra. You’ve been a lot of help. Can we call you if we have any more questions?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  Five minutes later, we were back in the Suburban. “That was interesting,” Joe said as he pulled back onto the road. “What is she, some kind of Buddhist or something?”

  “New-Ager,” I said. “Did you see the crystals? The sandalwood incense, the meditation rug?”

  “I guess. I was mostly looking at the Buddha statue.”

  “That wasn’t Buddha,” I said.

  Joe glanced at me.

  “Yes it was. The bald guy with the big belly. Buddha.”

  “That’s Budai. He was a monk. Don’t feel bad; people confuse him with the Buddha all the time.”

  Joe gave me a quizzical look. “You seem to know an awful lot about this stuff.”

  “I took a comparative religions class in college. You know what college is, Joe?”

  “Never heard of it. So you’re saying Kendra Sweet is not a Buddhist?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. She practices New Age spiritualism. It’s a religious movement with roots in eastern philosophy and pagan spiritism. They embrace a variety of different creeds and cultures. They are only loosely organized, if at all.”

  “Do all of these New Ager people believe in letting their kids have sex?”

  “They pride themselves on open-mindedness,” I said. “Joe, you do know that northern California is considered the home of the modern New Age movement, right? Where have you been all your life?”

  “Working,” he said with a sneer. “Have you been keeping something from me? Are you a New-Ager?”

  “Hardly. If Autumn thinks I’m going to let her high school boyfriends spend the night, she’s going to have another thing coming.”

  Joe laughed. “So tell me, FBI lady: Was Kendra telling us the truth?”

  “I think so. The woman is scattered. I’m sure you could tell from her mannerisms that she has a history of drug use. She also has emotional problems. But I didn’t notice any signs of intentional deception.”

  “Intentional?”

  “Let me put it this way: There is a difference between lying and forgetting. In her case, I would suspect the latter first.”

  “So you think she may have left out something important?”

  “I’m not saying that. She was helpful, I suppose.”

  “We should track down Becky’s old journalism teacher while we’re in town. He might still work at the school.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And then we can talk about that check in your purse.”

  I stared at him. “You went through my purse?”

  Joe looked me up and down, making some sort of mental calculation, and turned his focus back on the road. “We can talk about it later.”

  “You had no right.”

  “You had no right to go to my grandmother for money,” he snapped.

  I bit my lip. Tears welled up in my eyes. Rotten hormones. Figures they’d kick in right when I needed to be strong. I started to say something in my own defense, but cut it short as the tears came. I looked the other way. Joe stared guiltily at the road.

  We finished the drive in silence.

  Healdsburg High School was a sprawling campus covered in aging and dilapidated buildings and surrounded by tall chain link fences. As we crawled out of the Suburban, Joe leaned on his cane and turned his head slowly, taking it all in.

  “Does it bring back memories?” I said.

  “It’s strange. Things are so different now, and yet somehow the same. Some of the buildings have been rejuvenated.”

  “They have?” I said skeptically.

  “You should have seen them before. These fences… this is all new. The place looks like a penitentiary. It used to be an open campus. They must have had some problems.”

  “I don’t see how eight foot fences are the answer. If you have to lock the kids inside, maybe the kids aren’t the problem.”

  Joe shook his head. “I remember breaking in here a few times, just for fun. We didn’t vandalize the school or anything. We were just wild kids, looking for a good time.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I think I’m beginning to see the problem.”

  Joe ignored me. He headed for the office, leaning on his cane as he walked. I hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but his swim in the cold lake must have done a number on his hip. I suddenly felt very sorry for him, watching him ambling towards his old high school, looking more like a broken old man than a returning hero.

  Everything falls apart, I thought, and had to force myself not to cry. I hurried after him.

  A short woman with narrow eyes, a pinched nose, and a million freckles greeted us at the counter. Her nametag said “Linda.” We introduced ourselves and I said, “We’d like to speak to your journalism teacher. We don’t have an appointment, but it will only take a few minutes.”

  “That would be Solomon King,” she said. “Give me a moment.”

  She dialed King’s room, and explained that two police detectives were there to see him. After hanging up, she reached into a drawer and pulled out two guest badges. “Take these,” she said. “You’ll find Mr. King in Room 106 down the hall.”

  The hallway was quiet and empty and smelled of cafeteria food. The sound of our shoes echoed around us we walked, and children’s voices came drifting in from the football field. My stomach rumbled, and I tried to ignore the heartburn working its way up into my esophagus. Baby Autumn was punishing me for skipping lunch.

  It didn’t help that my nerves were on edge. The whole situation with Joe was hanging over my head like a storm cloud. I was furious with him for going through my purse to find that check, but I was also angry with myself for not telling him about it sooner. I wanted to explain to him that Grandma had offered the money; that I’d tried to refuse it several times, but she had insisted. I knew that if I brought it up, we’d be right back to arguing. I didn’t have the energy or the emotional stamina.

  When we reached the classroom, Mr. King was in the middle of a class. Rather than interrupting, we decided to wait it out. While we were standing there, a young girl with ripped up clothes and a knitted beret went skateboarding by. Naturally, Joe waved her over.

  “Hey, what time does this class get out?” he said.

  “Ten minutes. Then it’s lunch.”

  “Perfect,” said Joe. “Nice board. Is that a Santa Cruz?”

  “Yeah, I skate old school.”

  “Good for you.”

  Joe wistfully gazed after her as the kid skated off down the hall. He turned back to me and realized I’d been staring at him.

  “What?” he said.

  “Did you just encourage that girl to skateboard inside the school?”

  “So what?”

  “Joe, it’s against the rules! She wasn’t even wearing a helmet for Pete’s sake!”

  Joe rolled his eyes at me. “Helmets are for sissies.”

  “Right. So says the gimp with a cane.”

  “I’ll have you know that if it wasn’t for all those years of skateboarding and biking, I might not have survived the fall off that building, in order to need this cane.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because I know how to land,” he said. “I learned how to protect my head, rather than depending on some junky piece of foam to do it for me.”

  I had a whole slew of statistics ready to quote back at him, but I let it go. I knew I’d never win that argument, not for a lack of facts, but because Joe would never concede. Thankfully, the bell rang and the hall immediately filled with teenagers. Joe and I waited outside for the wave of bodies to subside, and then stepped into the classroom.

  We saw a tall, distinguished looking gentleman wearing wire-rimmed glasses writing on the chalkboard. He heard us come in, and placed the chalk in the tray as we approached him.
r />   “Hello, I’m Mr. King,” he said. “Linda tells me you’re with the police?”

  “We’re private investigators, working with the Sheriff’s Department,” I said. “We’d like to ask you some questions about Becky Sweet. Did you teach this class when she went to school here?”

  “Oh, yes, I remember her well. She’s the poor girl who died a few years ago.”

  “Murdered, actually,” Joe said. “Do you know if Becky had any enemies in school?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mr. King said. “I know she dated several different boys. I suppose there may have been some jealousy or rivalry, but I never saw anything that struck me as concerning.”

  “Did you know Randall Rosen?”

  Mr. King narrowed his eyebrows and tapped his chin. “That name does sound familiar. I’m not sure I can place it.”

  “He was a reporter,” I said. “With the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Of course! He was a guest speaker here. Randall gave us a nice lecture about how the children could use the skills they were learning in my classroom to start a career. I had forgotten… he was here the same semester that Becky died, wasn’t he? Randall didn’t have something to do with her death, did he?”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Randall?” I said.

  “Just that once. It was part of a promotional tour for his book. We were glad to have him, of course. It’s not every day that the students get to meet a real journalist, and from the Chronicle no less. What does all of this have to do with Becky?”

  “Randall Rosen was with Becky Sweet the night she was killed,” Joe said.

  “Oh, my goodness.” He glanced back and forth between us as he settled into his chair and tapped a pen nervously on his desk. “Randall didn’t do it, did he? The truth is, I didn’t know him that well. He was just a guest speaker, you see-”

  “Relax,” said Joe. “Randall didn’t kill Becky Sweet. He was murdered the same night.”

  “I see… I wonder why the police never told anyone. I’m sure I would have recognized his name in the papers.”

  “His body was missing,” I said. “It wasn’t discovered until just now. That’s why we need to know about Randall’s relationship with Becky.”

  He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid that’s all I know. Like I said, he only spoke here that one time. I imagine it’s possible that they had connections outside the classroom, but I had no awareness of that.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. King,” I said. “Can we contact you if we have any more questions?”

  “Of course.”

  We excused ourselves, and left the room.

  “That’s strange,” Joe said quietly as we were walking back down the hall.

  “What? That Becky met Randall at school?

  “No, I mean Mr. King. I just thought he would remember me.”

  “Were you in his class?”

  “No. I used to see him in the hallways all the time. I served detention with him a couple of times.”

  “Detention? Why do I have the feeling that there’s a lot about your childhood you haven’t told me?”

  “Because there’s a lot about my childhood I haven’t told you.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure he’s seen thousands of kids go through these hallways.”

  “There is definitely that. And I’m sure you’ve changed a lot.”

  My stomach rumbled again, and that time Joe heard it. “We’d better get you some food,” he said with a laugh.

  We drove across town to a nice little taqueria that Joe swore had the best super burritos in all northern California. My stomach rumbled all the way there. I was looking forward to a nice big meal, but I was not looking forward to the inevitable conversation that would follow.

  I realized as we were driving that I had been focusing on Joe’s snooping in my purse. That was the source of my anger. But that wasn’t right at all. It was a tactic, a diversion from the real subject. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t specifically asked for that money, or that Grandma had practically forced it on me. What mattered was that I had kept it a secret from Joe. Just like I’d kept our imminent foreclosure a secret. In both cases, I had no right to do that, and it was time to come clean.

  Joe wasn’t going to like it, but he was about to learn the truth about everything.

  Chapter 8

  Joe

  Little Joe’s Tacos were every bit as good as I remembered. It was also just as noisy and even more crowded. Tanja and I had to wait for a table. Tanja took a seat on the bench in the waiting area, and I stood next to her, leaning on my cane. I didn’t want to sit down for fear of my leg cramping up, and I also didn’t want to stand for the same reason. The truth was that no matter what I did, it was going to hurt. I was just trying to minimize the inevitable pain.

  The place smelled like heaven with extra onions, and by the time we were seated, my stomach was growling even louder than hers was. Thankfully, we had chips and salsa to snack on while we waited for our lunch.

  Twice during our meal, Tanja tried to bring up Grandma’s check. Both times, I changed the subject. I’d had some time to think about it, and I had realized that I was wrong. I was wrong for accusing her in the first place. Tanja had probably mentioned offhandedly that business had been slow, and Grandma had all but forced her to take the check.

  That’s the kind of thing Grandma does. She’s very maternal, very protective of her family. As tactful as Tanja is, she probably didn’t have the heart to flat-out refuse the offer. Most likely, she had just taken the check to get Grandma off the subject. Tanja hadn’t mentioned it to me yet, because we’d been so busy. Maybe she had been planning to tear the thing up anyway.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t figured all of this out until after I had made my wife cry. I had been hating on myself ever since. If there’s any rule to manhood, it’s that you don’t hurt the people you love. You just don’t. Making Tanja cry made me feel about as big as a gnat. I could barely bring myself to look her in the eye, much less discuss what had happened. So every time she brought it up, I changed the subject back to work.

  “We know how Becky and Randall met,” I said at one point. “I just don’t understand what they were doing together at the dairy.”

  “It could have been a romance,” said Tanja. “With her being underage, perhaps they were meeting in secret.”

  “I doubt that. Her mother used to let Jimmy Pishard spend the night, remember? Randall would have had no reason to sneak around like that.”

  “Unless he was married, and didn’t want it to get out.”

  “That’s possible,” I said. “Either way, it brings us back to the question of who killed them, and why.”

  “Could have been any of a dozen different boyfriends,” said Tanja. “It sounds like her love life was fairly active.”

  “Maybe, but only one of them panned out as a suspect.”

  “Jimmy? He wasn’t much of a suspect. If Jimmy really was the genius super-villain the cops made him out to be, I doubt he’d be working at a junkyard, and living in a trailer.”

  “Good point,” I admitted grudgingly. “If anything, he’s just a burnout. He used his experiences as an excuse to give up on life.”

  “Then we’re in agreement?” she said. “We’re crossing Jimmy off the list?”

  “Might as well. There is another interesting possibility, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  I smiled. “What other psychopath do we know who’s involved in this case and capable of murder?”

  “You’re thinking of Jimmy’s father,” Tanja said. “I suppose that’s possible, but what would be his motive? The police never made any connection between James Pishard and Becky Sweet. And wouldn’t Jimmy have said something, if that was the case?”

  “Hard to say. Unless they did it together.”

  “Now that is far fetched,” she said. “They hated each other. James Pishard has no connection to this ca
se other than the fact that his son was a suspect.”

  “Okay, let’s rule both of them out for now. Where does that leave us?”

  “We have ex-boyfriends, most of whom probably don’t even live here anymore. We have Randall Rosen, whose only connection at this point is that journalism class-” Her phone rang, cutting her off. “It’s Diekmann,” she said as she glanced at the screen.

  She took the call. Normally, Tanja would have left the restaurant to avoid disturbing the other patrons. Today, there wasn’t any point. The taqueria was as noisy as a football stadium, and almost as crowded. I could see three people talking on their phones just in our vicinity, and all three were struggling to communicate over the cacophony of noise and music playing in the background. Nobody was going to be offended by another loud conversation in that place.

  I stroked my goatee as I stared out the window, waiting. A minute later, Tanja hung up. “Diekmann located a missing persons report on Randall Rosen from five years ago. His wife Caroline filed it. Get this: when Caroline filed the report, she told the police she thought her husband was having an affair.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like she had a motive.”

  “Uh-huh, except Diekmann already contacted her by phone, and she has an alibi. Caroline was out of the country the night Randall and Becky were killed.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So what now?”

  “I can only think of one other person who might have known what was going on in Randall’s life.”

  “Who?” I said. “His boss? We have an appointment to meet him tomorrow.”

  “Nope,” Tanja said. “His literary agent.”

  My eyes widened. Until she mentioned it, I had completely forgotten that Randall had been on a book tour at the time of the murders. “Okay. Who’s the agent?”

  “I don’t know,” Tanja said, tapping the screen of her cell phone. “But give me five minutes.”

  I admit doubting her as I watched Tanja scroll through pages of internet search results, but in less than five minutes, she proved me wrong. She proudly held up the phone, displaying the website of a San Francisco literary agent named Natalie Brown. A carousel of books that she represented was on the front page. Randall’s was among them.