Dark horse jk-1

by J. R. Rain

  She used to call me her little angel.

  I gripped the steering wheel. The leather groaned in my hands. I could hear the blood pounding in my skull. I fought to control my breathing.

  After her funeral, she had been all but forgotten. By the police, by her friends, the media, and even her own lackluster husband. She had been forgotten by everyone accept me.

  I care that you were killed. I care that someone stole your life and cut your throat and hurt you so very badly. I care that you were taken from this earth before your time. I care that you felt the fear of death, the pain of the knife, the hot breath of your killer on your neck. You have not been forgotten, and your little angel is not so little any more.

  This was going to take time, I knew. The case was cold. I would investigate it on the side, around my paying work. There was no reason to rush. It’s been twenty years, and no one was going anywhere.

  28.

  The next morning, Sanchez and I were at Cal State Fullerton’s defunct football field. The school had spent millions on a fashionable new stadium, hoping to lure big name schools to compete against their smaller program, and then mysteriously decided to pull the plug on football altogether a year later. I sensed a conspiracy.

  Still, the bleachers were massive and made for an invigorating stadium workout. It was also hell on my leg. The pain was relentless and disheartening. I was accustomed to my body working through kinks of pain. But this was no kink. This was a pain that encompassed the entire leg. It was a pain that registered in my brain as something very wrong, and that perhaps I should stop doing stadiums.

  I didn’t stop.

  I was determined.

  Football is all about learning how to live and deal with the pain. Football was in my blood. My father played in college, but he was too small for the pros. I am not too small. I am just right.

  Sanchez followed me as we wended our way up and down the narrow concrete stairways between the bleachers. We had been doing this steadily now for thirty-two minutes. I was soaked to the bone. Sanchez had a minor sweat ring around his shirt collar.

  The man was a camel.

  At thirty-five minutes, my target time, I stopped at the top of the bleachers, gasping for air. Sanchez pulled up next to me, gasping, I was pleased to hear, even louder.

  “You need a respirator?” I asked.

  “You need a towel?”

  We both had our hands on our hips, both wheezing. I had done perhaps ten minutes more than my leg could handle. It was throbbing alarmingly. I tried to ignore it.

  We had a great view of Cal State Fullerton’s sports complex. I could see the baseball field, built by Kevin Costner, an alumnus of Cal State Fullerton and a hell of a fan and athlete in his own right. Baseball was this little-known university’s pride and joy, having won three national championships.

  Baseball wasn’t a bad sport.

  It just wasn’t football.

  I told Sanchez about Dick Peterson and his daughters. For now, I left news about my mother to myself.

  “So you want me to bust this guy?” asked Sanchez when he finally found his wind. “Dick who’s-this.”

  “That would make it worse,” I said. “He’ll just come back more angry than ever.”

  “You think he could have killed his own daughter?”

  I shrugged. “Anyone who terrifies the youngest one to the point she loses control of her bladder might be capable of doing anything. But he didn’t kill her. He was with his wife; they were eating dinner together at the time of the murder.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Talk with the older daughter. Confirm my suspicions.”

  “And then what?”

  The pain in my leg did not subside. It was a constant force. A reminder of what I had lost. But I decided to view it as my one and only obstacle to achieving my goal. It was the only thing standing in my way to becoming what I most wanted. At least, I thought it was what I most wanted. Sometimes the pain made me waver. I hated wavering.

  “I will convince him to stop his nefarious ways,” I said.

  “Nefarious,” said Sanchez. “Shit. You’ve been reading too much.”

  We walked down the bleachers. I could have used a handrail, to be honest.

  Sanchez said, “You sure this is all worth it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re in pain.”

  “I thought I could hide the pain.”

  “No one’s that good of an actor.”

  We reached the clay track that surrounded the football field. We were completely alone this morning.

  “Why is all this shit you’re putting yourself through worth it?”

  The morning was still and cool. Steam rose from our bodies. In the distance, on another field, I could see the university’s soccer team stretching together.

  “It’s something left unfinished,” I said.

  “Maybe some things are meant to be left unfinished.”

  I thought about that, and had no answer.

  29.

  After the stadiums I headed straight to 24 Hour Fitness and soaked in their Jacuzzi for half an hour. Now, I was in my office and the pain in my leg was down to a dull throb. I could almost ignore the pain. Almost.

  Although my office is in Huntington Beach, it’s inland and in a tough area. I fit in nicely here. I grew up in Inglewood, the only white kid in an all black neighborhood, as was my story through elementary school and junior high. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I was no longer the only white student. There were five white students at East Inglewood High.

  Anyway, I’m at home in tough neighborhoods. Plus the rent’s cheaper here.

  I sat down in my leather chair and opened a bag of donuts. An NFL fullback weighed anywhere from two-twenty-five to two-fifty. Just to hit the minimum weight I still had to gain another ten pounds. Ideally the weight is added on as muscle and not fat. Well, I had plenty of muscle. I never stopped lifting weights, even for a single day. Except when I was sick, which is different. Your body deserves to rest when sick.

  There were five donuts in the bag. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat a half dozen. I started on them with a half gallon of whole milk in hand to wash them down. By the third chocolate long john I was beginning to notice a rank smell from within my office. By the time I finished the donuts, the stench was getting worse and I was sure something had died in my office.

  I opened a window.

  The last thing I wanted to do was disgorge all the precious fat calories I had just consumed. I inhaled some fresh air. My office was on the third floor of a professional building filled with accountants and insurance agents and even a used bookstore that I often perused.

  When I was sure I would not launch my donuts into the parking lot below, I turned back into my office, determined to find the source of the stink.

  Maybe a possum had died between the walls. Christ, that was going to be a bitch if that were so.

  I sniffed away until I found myself back at my desk. Perhaps under? I looked under. Nothing.

  I opened my top drawer-and stepped back.

  It was there in my drawer. A cat. It had not died of natural causes. No, it had been cut neatly in half, just under the rib cage. A black cat with a cute little blue bell around its neck. Paws were thrown up over its head, like a referee giving the touchdown signal. Its eyes were wide, and it appeared devoid of blood. Just skin, fur and bones.

  Tinker Bell.

  A piece of greasy paper, stained with ichor and other bodily fluids, was neatly folded and shoved into its chest cavity. I extracted it carefully, and unfolded it. There were just three words on the note:

  Last warning,

  Meow.

  And that’s when my fax machine turned on, startling me. Shaken, I got up, leaving the severed cat where it lay in my drawer. The fax was from Cindy. It was a short list of three names, all of them A. Petersons from UCI. Their class schedules were included. The last faxed page was a photocopy of Cindy’s small
palm pressed down against the glass of the copy machine. Written below her palm were the words: I like your touch.

  I needed that.

  30.

  I went to Huntington High in search for clues. That is, after all, what detective do. In particular I went searching for someone, anyone, who might be able to corroborate Derrick’s story.

  It was almost 7:00 p.m., about the time Amanda had been murdered. I wanted to see what kind of staff was on hand at the witching hour.

  I cruised through the faculty parking lot, which ran along the west side of the school. It was nearly empty, just six vehicles in total. The student parking lot was fuller, but that could be the result of the outdoor basketball courts and tennis courts that were nearby. The days were longer now than when Amanda was murdered two months ago, so I expected to see more activity in and around the school.

  At the moment, the sun was just setting, and much of the school was in shadow. Outdoor lights, many of them flickering chaotically, were perched along the upper corners of the many buildings. A security truck was parked in the visitor’s parking lot near the main entrance. There was someone inside, a large black man, talking on a cell phone. Huntington High was one of the few schools in the area that did not lock down their campus at night, trusting instead to a few tough-looking security guards.

  I parked three spaces from the truck, and so that I was official, I clipped my visitor badge to the pocket of my T-shirt. As I stepped out of my car, I had the full attention of the security guard by now. He leaned out the driver’s side window and beckoned me toward him. I showed him the visitor’s badge by sticking out my considerable chest. Perhaps too impressed for words by the size of my chest, he simply nodded once and leaned back in his front seat.

  I headed up to the school along a wide concrete path. The main hall was deserted. My sneakers echoed dully off the many lockers. Further along I heard whistling from somewhere. Had I been a puppy dog, my ears would have shot forward, twitching nervously. Unfortunately I wasn’t a puppy dog, though certainly as cute, and did my human best to zero in on the sound.

  I turned a corner and came to a bathroom. A girl’s bathroom.

  A janitor’s cart was parked out front, filled with cleaners and rags and brooms. Draped over a broom handle was a sweat-stained Anaheim Angel’s baseball cap. The whistler was whistling something I did not recognize, although it sounded sort of mournful. Something you might hear on death row, perhaps.

  White light issued from that most hallowed of places: the girl’s bathroom, where periods were discovered, cigarettes smoked and boys gossiped about. At least hallowed to the minds and considerable imaginations of high school boys.

  I rapped loudly on the open door.

  The whistling stopped. A man’s head jerked around the corner of one of the stalls, eyes wide with alarm, as if he had been caught doing something. Whatever it was he was doing, I didn’t want to know. He was Hispanic, dark complexion, wide brown eyes. Perhaps forty-five. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  “Hi,” I said, ever the friendly stranger.

  He said nothing. His sewn-on name badge said Mario.

  “Do you speak English, Mario?”

  He nodded. I held up my badge proclaiming me as an official visitor. He relaxed a little. I stepped into the bathroom and he flinched. I handed him one of my cards, holding it before him, until he finally tore his gaze off me and took the card. He looked at it carefully.

  “Nice picture, huh?” I said. I turned my head to the right and gave him the same smile that was on the card.

  “You…you a private detective?” he said in strangled English.

  “The very best this side of the Mississippi. Just don’t tell my pop that. He hates competition.”

  He looked at me expressionlessly.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  He shrugged, which was the correct response if my question was taken literally. I dunno, his shrug seemed to say, can you ask me a question?

  “Much work to do,” he said.

  “I bet.”

  I reached inside my pocket and gave him a hundred dollar bill. He took it without realizing what he was reaching for. Then he shook his head vigorously and tried to give it back.

  “Keep it,” I said.

  “No, senor.”

  He thrust it back into my pocket. Sometimes money talks, sometimes it doesn’t. I asked, “Were you here on the night Amanda Peterson was murdered?”

  He blinked up at me. Whether or not he understood I didn’t know.

  I forged bravely ahead. “On the night Amanda Peterson was murdered, could you verify whether or not Derrick Booker was in the school’s weight room?”

  He said nothing. Sweat had broken out on his brow. He was looking increasingly troubled. “Please, senor. I know nothing.” His voice was pleading, filled with panic.

  I studied him, watching his agitated body movements, and on a hunch I asked, “Has someone else been here to speak with you?” I asked. “An older man, perhaps? Gray hair, an earring.” I gestured to my ear. “A golden hoop?”

  He was gasping for breath. “Please, senor. He scare my family.”

  Bingo. I walked over to him and took my card from his trembling hands and placed it carefully in his overall’s pocket at his chest.

  “I’m going to take care of him, Mario. I promise.”

  He said nothing. We stared at each other. His eyes were wide and white.

  The hitman had come to see him. Warned him to shut up. Threatened his family. No wonder Mario was terrified.

  “It’s going to be alright, Mario. No one’s going to hurt you or your family.”

  He said nothing more.

  I left the way I had come.

  31.

  The day was bright and there was a chill to the air, but that did not stop eighty-three percent of the female college students at UCI from wearing tiny shorts and cut-off T-shirts that revealed many pierced belly buttons.

  I had already tried one of the classrooms, using the schedule Cindy had faxed me, but I did not see a single young lady who looked like the framed picture on the Peterson’s mantle.

  Now I was standing outside a classroom in the Humanities building. I was on the seventh floor and had a great shot of what the students here called Middle Earth, a beautiful central park located within the campus.

  One of the problems I was running into were that many of the girls could have been A. Peterson. Hell, most of them were cute with dark hair.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned away from the window. I saw that the class across the hall had just let out, and I had already missed a few faces. Damn. But standing in front of me was clearly A. Peterson. Cute face, cute button nose. But the cuteness ended there. Everything else about the girl was anything but cute.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  She nodded, frowning. “Are you the private investigator that came to see my mom?”

  She looked haunted. No. She was haunted. Her pale eyes were empty, troubled and suspicious. A heavy backpack weighed her down, and she was hunched forward to support some of the weight. Her arms were crossed in front of her, her hands holding her bony shoulders. Her hair was dyed pitch black, skin pale and milky. She had a nose, tongue and brow ring. Had she decided to wear make-up, she would have been able to cover the dark rings around her eyes.

  “How did you know me?” I asked.

  “My mom described you. She called me last night. Said a tall muscular man with a full head of blond hair and a tattoo of a black horse on his forearm had come to see her about Amanda.” Her voice was soft and wispy. I strained to listen to her.

  “And I fit the description?”

  She looked at my crossed arms. The black horse, shooting steam from its nostrils, was clear on my left forearm.

  “Plus,” she said, “You’re packing heat.”

  She pointed to the bulge under my left armpit. I was leaning against the wall in such a way that
the bulge was evident to those who knew where to look.

  “You would make a hell of an investigator,” I said.

  “Investigative journalism is my major.”

  “I couldn’t think of a more fitting job,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Annette,” she said.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “And you found my classroom, so you’re not so bad yourself.” She might have grinned, but she had probably forgotten how.

  “Glad I have your vote of confidence.”

  “I assume you’re here to talk with me about my sister?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That and more. Is there somewhere we can have privacy?”

  32.

  We were in Middle Earth, surrounded by oaks and pines and a lot of rolling green hills. Students with laptops were banging away under trees nearby. Other students were soaking in the sun, and too few were making out. There was one couple, however, going at it like minks. Good for them. College at its best.

  We were sitting on the grass. My back was up against the trunk of a gnarled ash tree, and Annette was leaning against her massive backpack which was filled to overflowing.

  “Are you a senior?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live at home?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I needed to get away. Far away. But I couldn’t leave mother and my sisters. So I compromised with my mother. I live in a dorm here at UCI, and my sisters and mother can come visit me anytime.”

  I said, “Your father is abusive.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Do you know where my mom called me from last night?”

  I had a sinking feeling. “The hospital.”

  She nodded. “You are good. Two broken ribs and a broken nose. Said she fell down the stairs. We don’t have fucking stairs.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit is right. The man is a goddamn animal and I have hated him my entire life.”

  “He abuse you?”

  “Often.”