Justin ignored me and bought us both an order of fries. He was afraid I would munch away on his and he would not have any left.
On the drive home, I kept thinking about the Firefly, his wet hair, the sprinklers, and why he or someone else would be in the park. He would have had to leave by another door to get to the park without being seen, but if it wasn’t him, then who was it?
If there were two people, they must be together—or so I thought—unless Miss Pinkerton had lied, and he walked right past her. Or, maybe he did, and she never looked up. However, the way she acted when I left, I was sure she paid attention.
I made a mental note to check the Neighborhood Watch emails for any suspicious activities at the park. Then again, what description would I look for? Average height, average dark hair. I doubted there would be a description saying yoga master.
“Hey, are you going to Homecoming?” Justin asked.
“I haven’t decided. Probably.”
“Do you want to go with Guppy?”
“Guppy . . .? I don’t think so. Do I know him?” I’m not big—just average—but no one ever called me a munchkin either. How big can a boy called Guppy be?
“Who is he anyway?” I said.
“You know, Parker Bernstein.”
“He’s ‘Guppy’?”
Parker Bernstein is one of the biggest guys in school. He is smart and hyper and he’s been that way since kindergarten when he was the smallest kid in class. I guess that’s when he got the name Guppy and it just stuck.
“Yeah, that’s him,” said Justin. “I told him you didn’t have a date and he said to ask if you wanted to go with him.”
“You big stupid!” I said. “Why did you tell him that?”
“It’s true!”
Brothers, I swear.
“I told him you would probably say yes,” Justin added.
I’m going to kill him.
“He’s really excited,” Justin went on.
He never knows when to stop.
“He was going to go by himself, but he said he’d rather go with someone he knows—sort of knows. He couldn’t think of anyone, so I said I’d ask you.”
Justin pulled up in front of our house. He took his foot off the clutch and the engine died.
“Can he dance?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I frowned at Justin.
“Everyone can dance,” Justin said. “I think he can. I’ll ask him.”
Five minutes after we got home, Justin stood in the doorway of my room. “Okay, it’s all set,” he said grinning proudly.
“What’s all set?”
“Guppy. I just told you. He doesn’t know how to dance but I said I’d show him some moves. He’s really looking forward to it. He’s never danced before, but he says he needs to develop his social skills.”
I should have known.
“Justin!” I said, pulling a face. “Why did you do that?”
“What! I’m just trying to help!”
We went back and forth, louder and louder.
My dad heard us. The old leather sofa squeaked. Click. He set the remote on the coffee table. His footsteps padded down the hall. The door was open, but he tapped the doorframe with his knuckles. Justin stepped to the side and Dad stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.
“Team,” Dad said, giving us the what’s-the-matter-with-you-don’t-you-know-better look.
When Dad is talking to more than one of us, he always calls us “team.” I think it’s because at the consulting firm where he works everyone is part of a team. Either that or doesn’t remember our names.
“Let’s keep it down, team, okay? Act like adults.”
End of lecture. He turned around and left. Dad is so much easier than Mom.
I glared at Justin one last time. The only thing that saved him from instant death is that he really is a good dancer. I didn’t think he would be able to teach Guppy—I mean Parker—anything in two days—but if anyone could, it’s Justin.
Anyway, with fast dancing, I would just work my way across the room if I had to. The point is, I would be going to Homecoming and there was a dress I saw at the mall. I already tried it on; it looked good.
My spirits rose. I sat up straight. Then when they were at their highest, the wimpy specter of Abigail morphed in front of me. My elated ego sputtered to the floor.
If Mom asked how the friendship was going—which fortunately she hadn’t—I would have to admit there wasn’t any friendship.
I needed a plan. Would Abigail be at the Homecoming dance, and who with?
Maybe I could ask Justin if he had another friend who needed a date and we could—what was I thinking!
Chapter 8. Advised
I had deleted all but the most recent emails from Neighborhood Watch and those I read through quickly: area, date, time, description of crime.
Most were similar: a stolen handbag and laptop from an unlocked vehicle; a stolen bicycle from a front porch; stolen surfboard from an unlocked garage. One titled “Home Invasion” caught my eye. It took place on The Strand and the suspects had been arrested. It was probably not what I was looking for, but I noted the date.
At the top of each email was a disclaimer: this is not a complete list of all crimes committed in Manhattan Beach.
That meant I wanted information about crimes not reported in Neighborhood Watch. A sensational crime would be covered on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, the news, so I would know about a murder, kidnapping, or missing person.
Where were the others?
A further search of the internet did not turn up anything. So, I went to the one person I could talk to about crime—and not be asked why I wanted to know: my grandfather.
His workshop is in his garage. He keeps the door halfway open so if neighbors stop by, they can walk in and visit. The open door also helps keep the air free of pipe smoke.
Before he retired, he had been a Los Angeles Superior Court Judge. Before that he worked as a deputy district attorney which followed several years with the public defender’s office. I once asked him if it ever felt strange to put the same people in jail he once defended.
“I don’t put people in jail,” he had reminded me affably.
“All right, the jury finds them guilty”—I had said.
“—or innocent,” he put in.
“—or innocent,” I agreed, “and the judge sentences them.”
“After considering recommendations,” he cautioned. “It’s not arbitrary.”
I had wondered about that part. Even though he did not harangue anyone about law and order, he was definitely a law person.
“To answer your question,” he had said, “no, it isn’t odd to have represented both sides at different times. Everyone deserves a fair trial. Defending is not so different from prosecuting. You present the evidence, the judge rules on the law, and then it’s up to the jury.”
“And you do the best damn job you can,” I had said, quoting his previous words back to him.
“Hmm, well yes. Just don’t let your mother hear ‘damn’ or she’ll think I’m a bad influence.” I did not tell him Mom had heard a lot worse.
Our conversations always begin the same way, which means there is no official start.
I ducked under the half-open garage door and saw the familiar shelves lining three walls, each with an assortment of glass jars holding bolts, nuts, screws, nails, and lots of things I don’t know the names of.
“How do you like this?” He held up an intricate kite made of rice paper. Multi-tiered and with many fine supporting strings, it looked like a flying pagoda.
“My last one nosedived into telephone wires,” he said, referring to the Quetzalcoatl made of silk. When he flew it, its hollow body inflated with shifting wind currents. When I had asked him where he got the idea, he answered, his eyes twinkling, “Same as you.”
“I was just wondering about something,” I said, thinking I had better steer this conversation, or I would be talking about kite
s and probably end up asking if he had any he did not want so he wouldn’t miss it if it crashed. I get interested in whatever he’s doing; it’s so different from everything else.
“There’s a lot in this world to wonder about,” he said, talking around the pipe. He puffed it a few times. I watched the smoke wind its way to the ceiling where a breeze caught it and carried it away. He is not allowed to smoke in the house, but the garage is safe from my grandmother’s No Smoking rule.
“How would I find out about a crime?” I asked. “Not just what’s in Neighborhood Watch and the news, but another crime like an unsolved murder or—I don’t know”—I paused, searching for the right words— “a crime that hasn’t been reported, if you don’t want people to think you’re just snooping around.”
He paused again and the pipe went out. A wooden carousel held an assortment of briarwood and meerschaum pipes. There was a broken clay pipe, a souvenir of his college days. He chose one made of briarwood and scraped the bowl, then filled it with whiskey flavored tobacco. He lit it once—the false light as he’s told me—puffed a few times and then relit it.
“Murder, hm?” He had lifted his eyebrows at the word “murder,” but he waited and let me finish my question, which prompted me to explain further. “I want to ask questions, I’m just not sure how to start.”
“You’re right to go about it carefully,” he said. “Questions about murder take people by surprise. If they have something to hide, they naturally become defensive, so you have to watch out.”
He looked at me and nodded once. “Especially if the crime hasn’t been discovered.” He stopped again, as if considering his next words. “A witness should of course come forward and report anything suspicious.”
“What if there isn’t a witness?” I said. “There’s no body, no other evidence.”
“That’s an odd one,” he said.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask me how I could know about such a crime. We had never discussed paranormal occurrences and I had no intention of starting now. Since no more reports had been heard about Logan dying, the only explanation I could think of was that someone else had been murdered—or even weirder, it was a foretelling.
“What makes you think it’s murder?” He gave me a curious look, then went back to testing a string on his kite.
I had asked it the wrong way and I knew it.
“I don’t,” I said, “not positively, but say, hypothetically speaking, there was a murder. No one seems to know about it, or if they do, they have not reported it, so no one is looking for evidence. I’m not even sure it happened.”
“Don’t know if it happened, hmm?” Another pause. “Are you talking about a missing person? Usually, it’s the family that contacts the police and then the police ask the public for help. There is a huge number of homeless people in Los Angeles. Someone could disappear on skid row and never be found. Many die of exposure; no medical treatment.”
“Let’s assume he was murdered,” I said. “Or was going to be killed—murdered.” There is no easy way to ask about a murder that might happen without looking like you are somehow involved.
“You’re calling it ‘murder,’ but there are degrees,” he said, “manslaughter—voluntary or otherwise—it depends on intent, so that needs to be taken into consideration before you say it’s ‘murder.’ ”
“All right, suppose it was intentional.”
“You mean cold-blooded murder,” he said. I saw the look of curiosity in his eyes at the familiar phrase.
“Yes,” I said. “No heat of passion, no self-defense, no mitigating circumstances.”
You can’t help but pick up terms when your mom is a lawyer and your grandfather was a judge. It’s not a topic I can discuss with my friends, and my mom gives me more information than I want, so it’s nice to have someone I can ask who is not judgmental.
“It’s like anything else,” he said. “You go back to basics: motive, means, opportunity. Who would want him, or her, dead; who was close enough to commit the act; and what did the killer use?”
“Is that from experience or law school?”
“Neither. It’s Hercule Poirot.” Sometimes I can’t tell if he is kidding. He has every Agatha Christie detective novel in his bookcase on the opposite wall. “Sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t resist.”
“Okay,” I said. “Someone knocked him out, held him underwater, and he drowned.”
As soon as I said it, I felt like kicking myself for saying it so quickly. Sounding too sure of yourself weakens the assumption of hypothetical. He frowned at that and tilted his head. I held my breath.
“Then you need the motive,” he said, “and the opportunity. Usually, it’s someone the person knows, unless it’s armed robbery and the victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but even then, it depends. Does the victim owe money? Have a routine? Jealousy can be a factor. The killer, if the victim is a woman, is usually a husband or boyfriend, someone she knew.”
I listened as he spoke and when I really pay attention—instead of just trying to look like I am—I don’t look at the speaker.
Without looking up, I saw him glance at me and I nodded to let him know I heard what he had said.
“But drowning someone? That’s a little more unusual. Do you mean in a bathtub, holding them under water?”
“No. The ocean. Say for example, they took him there, killed him and left him. Hypothetically speaking,” I added quickly.
“Since you’re wondering why no one is asking about it or seems to care, I take it you know the person. If he was dealing—and I’m assuming, perhaps unfairly, it’s a he—it’s often gang-related; the motive can be retribution. But to lure someone to the beach, kill him and leave him is . . . definitely premeditated. And why the beach and not some other place?”
“It could be drugs,” I said, now regretting I’d given so much detail. “But I don’t really think that’s the reason.”
“There isn’t much gang activity here,” he said. “We’ve had a few home invasions. The police have video surveillance on many streets, and they do see suspicious activity, such as a perp acting furtively or running away from the scene of a crime.
“There are only two heavily trafficked streets in and out of here, Manhattan Beach Boulevard and Rosecrans. Marine has traffic but it’s more sporadic and it’s narrow. Whoever planned the streets never thought the city would be the destination of so many people. Instead of a grid like many city planners would use today, the streets wind in and out. They stop on one side of, say, the Parkway, and continue somewhere else. It’s not that easy of a place to get in and out of unless you know your way around. There are streets I’ve never heard of or been on, and I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“What about gangs?” I said. “Were there ever any around?”
“No, not here. There are some in North Redondo, but it’s nothing like L.A.”
He puffed his pipe, then said, “There have been juveniles arrested.”
“For drugs, you mean?”
“Yes. Or vandalism and occasionally for truancy but we’ve been pretty lucky so far.” He stared thoughtfully toward the corner of the ceiling. “There was an unusual case, oh, thirty years ago,” he said. “Four girls were arrested.”
“For what?”
“Murder,” he said, “first degree.”
“In the South Bay?”
“That’s right. A whole family in Palos Verdes was murdered. The police found one fingerprint. They traced it through DMV.”
“You mean, they killed the whole family?” I said, hardly able to believe it. “What happened?”
“The girls ended up in MacLaren Hall where they were held till trial. It was supposed to be a protective services center—Mac Hall was—where incorrigible kids were housed. They were found not guilty, but their custody was taken from their parents who said they did not want them back. It’s funny how that works sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Juveniles who committed violen
t crimes against others were often wanted back home by their parents. But the kids whose biggest crime was running away were considered incorrigible and often not wanted back. I guess they made life so difficult for their parents they washed their hands of their own kids.”
“But what about the fingerprint they found?”
“It wasn’t enough. Their lawyer brought in his own expert who said the police tampered with the evidence. There was a confession too, but he said it had been coerced: the girl asked for a lawyer, but they didn’t call one. They searched her room without a warrant and found evidence. It was inadmissible, fruit of the poisonous tree.”
“So, you think they were guilty?”
“If the inadmissible evidence had been allowed, it’s possible,” he said. “And a jury might have convicted them, but it was a court trial, a commissioner heard it.”
“I thought minors didn’t have jury trials anyway.”
“Normally, they don’t, but if the crime is bad enough or they have a past record of violent crime the D. A. can ask to try them as adults. As it was, it never got that far.”
I thought about this for a few seconds. Could there be a record in the files of the Archival Society?
“There was one thing I heard later,” he said, “a rumor; never proven.”
“What?” I must have sounded too eager, because he suppressed a smile.
“The girls were accused of witchcraft. A witness testified she overheard them making a pact at MacLaren Hall to get even with whoever set them up. One of the minors who testified on her own behalf—and against her attorney’s advice—said it was not true, they never said anything like that.”
He frowned at me and then said, “They were released shortly after. There were four girls, three of them wanted to go home and were allowed back with their parents. But the girl who testified did not want to go home. She said she had never been free even on the outside and she wanted to stay in lock-up.”
“Did they let her?”
“No. She almost went into foster care. I don’t know what happened afterwards, but as far as I know her parents had a change of heart. They said they wanted her back and she was turned over to them, which essentially meant she was put back on the street.”
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 6
