by J. R. Rain
The coach instructed and advised as I went, reminding me to keep my head up and my back straight and to keep my legs churning.
I churned and churned all morning long, and I did not once think about Cindy, or that I had not heard from her in two days. And I did not once think about Derrick or the hitman, either.
Instead, I focused on football.
Sweet football.
A sport I had been born to play, a sport that had been taken from me. But I was determined to reclaim it-and my life.
Most of all, I tried to ignore the pain in my left leg.
That endless goddamn pounding.
42.
My father’s offices are on the fifteenth floor of a major LA skyscraper. I regretted the decision to walk the stairs by the seventh floor. At the fifteenth floor, I found the nearest bathroom and splashed water on my face and neck, then headed through some heavy double doors. Above the door were the words: KNIGHTHORSE INVESTIGATIONS.
A big, bald security guard was waiting behind a desk. He was about fifty. His uniform was neatly pressed. Probably a retired cop, or a retired colonel, a man who commanded respect. I immediately disliked him, partly because he worked for my father, partly because he was glaring at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a thick Boston accent.
“You’re pretty big for a secretary,” I said. “Do you also fetch the coffee?”
He frowned and his bushy eyebrows-the only hair on his head-formed one long bristly line. “I’m not a secretary.”
“I’m sorry. Is that not politically correct these days? How about front desk technician? Is that better?”
He stared at me. The hairy caterpillar above his eyes twitched.
“Waddya want?”
“Cooper Knighthorse. He’s the small guy with the creepy eyes.”
“Yes, I’m aware of who he is.”
“So you agree he has creepy eyes?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I thought I would surprise him. Dad always likes a good surprise. Take the time when I threw a brick through the car window when he was screwing a neighbor’s wife in the back seat.” I laughed heartily. “Let me tell you, good times for one and all.”
“Dad?”
I nodded encouragingly.
“Mr. Knighthorse is your father?”
“I see you’re no slouch. In fact, you might make a hell of a detective some day.”
He ignored me. “Didn’t know Coop had a son.”
“Obviously, I’m his pride and joy,” I said. “Now my father usually boffs his front desk engineers in the back room. Perhaps you were unaware of your full job description.”
He made a move to stand up. “Don’t push it, buddy.”
I leaned over the desk. “But pushing it is what I do best.”
He was a big guy, maybe a little soft around the middle. It would have been a hell of a fight if a voice hadn’t come from my left. The voice belonged to my father. “He’s okay, Reginald. He’s a hardass, but he’s okay.”
“Your kid has a big mouth.”
“Always has,” said my father.
I walked around the desk and smiled at Reginald. “I’ll take cream and sugar in my coffee.”
43.
The entire fifteenth floor was occupied by my father’s agency. His office was big, but not ornately so. There was a leather executive chair with brass nail trim behind a black lacquered desk. Piles of case folders everywhere, and from all indications, business was booming. No surprise there. He sat and motioned for me to do the same in one of his client chairs.
“Why you giving Reggie such a hard time?” my father asked.
“Just making friends and influencing people.”
On his desk, angled in one corner and slightly pushed askew by an errant folder, was the picture of a blond woman and a little boy. I had no idea who they were. A different family, a different life. For all I knew the little boy could have been my half brother.
“Tell me about the pictures,” I said.
He sat back in his chair and studied me silently. His gaze was unwavering. So was mine. Through the open window, in my peripheral vision, I saw a helicopter hover past, then dart away like a curious hummingbird. I tried not to let it distract me.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why you gave them to me now.”
“I only discovered them a few years ago.”
“Why not give them to me then?”
“Because you were still working here as an apprentice.”
“What does that matter?”
“You didn’t know what the hell you were doing,” he said.
I smiled, realizing what he was getting at. “You waited for me to become a detective.”
“Actually, I waited for you to become a good detective.”
“So you think I’m good?” I hated the fact that this news pleased me.
“That’s what I hear.”
“You’ve been checking up on me.”
He tilted his head toward me and shrugged. “I hear things.”
“Meanwhile you just sat on these photos.”
He shifted in his chair and looked away. “Yes.”
“Tell me more about the photos.”
“When I moved in with Candy,” he nodded toward the blond on his desk, “I found them at the bottom of a box. I flipped through, the first time I had ever done so. To be honest, I don’t know when they were developed or when I picked them up. Probably they were included with some other pictures, and got forgotten.”
Something rose within me. Blood, anger, revulsion, hatred. “These were pictures of your murdered wife taken on the last day she was alive, the mother of your son, and they were forgotten in the bottom of a box?”
“Those were tough times. I really didn’t know my head from a hole in the ground.”
“Not a good analogy. Trust me you did just fine in that department. Remember, I saw first hand.”
We were silent. I did my best to control my anger. On the wall behind him was a picture of a lighthouse. His paperweight was a lighthouse, as were his two bookends. Since when did my dad like lighthouses? There was so much I didn’t know about the man, and so much I didn’t care to know.
“They were fishing together, and one of them appears to have taken an interest in the two of you.”
He sat back. “That’s how I see it.”
“It might have been more than an interest,” I added.
“Perhaps. Could also be a coincidence.”
I said, “Any idea who Blondie is in the picture?”
He shook his head sadly. “No.”
“Do you remember him?”
“Vaguely.”
“Were you aware that he had followed you back to the store?”
“No.”
“Did you see him again at any other time?”
“No.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“I think we did.”
“Do you recall what was said?”
“No, I don’t. I think I commented on the shark.”
“Anything else?”
“Your mother made them laugh with the rabbit ears. They thought she was funny.”
I digested this. “Since finding the pictures two years ago, have you done anything-anything at all-to follow up on your wife’s murder?”
More shifting, as if the plush leather chair could possibly be uncomfortable. He motioned toward the files on his desk. “I’ve been busy lately, too busy, you know…”
“Let me finish for you, father. You were too busy making money to follow up on your wife’s murder. Too busy solving other people’s problems to worry about a woman you never truly loved.”
He shrugged.
I got up and walked around the desk and looked down at him. I stood before him, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears.
“Do what you’ve got to do,” he said, “and get the hell out of here.”
I backhanded him
across the face. The force of the blow almost sent him over the arm of his chair. He regained his balance. A red welt was already forming on his cheek bone. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, then trickled out. He said nothing, did nothing, just watched me. His eyes were passionless and empty. No, not empty. There was something there, something deep within, something trying to climb up from the unfathomable depths of his cold soul, but then he blinked and it was gone.
44.
I was sitting next to a window drinking a large iced vanilla coffee when he appeared in the parking lot from behind a large truck. The day was hot, but he didn’t seem to mind or notice his copious layers of clothing. In fact, he wasn’t even sweating. Maybe he was God.
Once inside, he ordered a cup of coffee and sat opposite me, carefully prying the plastic lid off and blowing on his coffee. Finally, when appropriately cooled, he took a sip.
“So where do you go when you’re not here speaking with me?”
“Wherever I want.”
“And where might that be?”
“It’s not where you are, Jim, it’s how you get there.”
“Wow, that’s nice. You should put that on a bumper sticker.”
“Where do you think I got it?”
“Great, now God’s quoting bumper stickers.”
“It’s an old truth, Jim.”
“The journey and all that,” I said.
“Yes, it’s about the journey,” he said, sipping quietly and watching me with his brownish eyes.
“And what happens once you get there?” I asked. “What happens once the journey is over?”
“That is for you to decide, my son. You can stay there, or you can start a new journey.”
“A new journey?”
“Of course.”
“Are we talking reincarnation here?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Are we?”
“Does reincarnation exist?” I asked.
“The soul lives forever,” said the bum in front of me as if he knew what the hell he was talking about. “But the soul can choose many forms.”
“Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this shit, Sorry I asked.”
“Apology accepted. But there’s a reason you asked, isn’t there?”
There was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. I put down my iced coffee and set it aside.
“So where’s my mother now?” I asked. “You know, her spirit, or whatever?”
As I spoke, Jack inhaled the coffee deeply, pausing, taking the scent deep within, making it a part of him.
“She is wherever she wants to be,” he said, exhaling.
“And where would that be?”
“For instance, she is with us now since we are talking about her.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes.”
“And is she sitting next to me?” I asked.
He didn’t answer at first, although he gave me a gentle smile.
“She is in your heart, Jim. Be still, and feel her there.”
I looked at the old man across from me. On second thought, he wasn’t really that old. On third thought, I was hard pressed to gauge just how old he was, although he was certainly older than me. And then another thought occurred to me: My mother. I suddenly remembered a time when she and I had gone to the beach together in the city bus. She let me ditch school and had treated me like a prince that day.
My breath caught in my throat. Fuck, I missed her.
“She misses you, too,” said Jack. “But she wants you to know that she is always with you.” He paused, and that gentle smiled found his weathered face. “And that you will always be her little prince, even though you are a big son-of-bitch.”
And all I could do was wipe my eyes and laugh.
Hi, mom.
45.
“Last time you were here, Knighthorse, my school was turned upside down. Please, no more bodies.”
Vice Principal Williams’s levity over the tragic suicide of her football coach was a tad alarming, but I let it slide without comment. She had come to the door to shake my hand. Today she was dressed in a white pant suit and a white blouse that was see-through enough to ignite the imagination of any hormone-enraged teenaged boy. And to ignite the imagination of at least one hormone-enraged detective.
“Um, nice blouse,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. She looked down at it. “Or are you just saying that because you can see the outline of my bra?”
“Which qualifies it as a nice blouse.”
She settled into her chair behind her desk. I sat before her. Her gaze did not waver from mine. “I am a married woman.”
I pointed to the rock on her hand. “Not a hard fact to overlook, even for one as highly trained as I.”
“What makes you so highly trained?”
“I apprenticed for two years with my father. And he is the best.”
“You say that almost grudgingly.”
“My father and I have never been close. You could say he was unsupportive in my earlier sporting endeavors.”
“You hold that against him?”
“Yes.”
She studied me some more, and we held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. She inhaled and her chest inflated and the lacy bra pushed out. It was a calculated move.
“Currently my husband and I are separated.”
“I see.”
“What is your situation, Mr. Knighthorse?”
I hesitated. I did not know my situation. Cindy had not called me for two days. As far as I knew she was gone.
“I am in a similar situation,” I said.
“Perhaps we can entertain each other in the meantime.”
“Entertaining is good.”
“How about dinner this weekend?” she asked.
I thought about it. It was getting old drinking alone.
“Mrs. Williams-”
“Please, Dana.”
“Dana, this weekend would be…fine.”
She smiled, relaxed and sat back. She had the attitude of a closed deal. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Where can I find the school band director?”
“Bryan Dawson?”
“If that’s the band director.”
Her fingers drummed the arm of her chair.
“Is there a problem, Dana?” I asked.
She turned in her swivel chair and gazed out her considerable window into the empty quad. I continued to watch her, intrigued by her response.
“Why do you wish to speak to him?”
“Amanda quit the school band unexpectedly. I want to find out why.”
“Seems a reach for your investigation.”
“My job is to reach. Luckily I have a long arm.”
“You can find him here in the mornings. Room one oh seven, around six a.m. Band practice starts at zero period, six forty-five a.m.”
“Is there something I should know about him?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I’m a good detective. Perhaps not as good as my pop, but the next best thing. If there’s something going on with your band director, I’m going to find out about it. But you and I can cut a deal now, and if you make things easy on me, perhaps I will agree to keep things quiet.”
“Perhaps?”
“Perhaps is the best I can offer.”
“Perhaps is not good enough.”
“Then I will find the truth on my own, and there is no deal.”
She sat back and gazed at me from over steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”
“You have no idea.”
“I just want myself and the school left out of it.”
“I can probably swing that,” I said.
“Probably?”
“Best I can offer right now.”
She got up and shut her door, then sat back down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that. She only risked glancing
up at me occasionally. Even then she seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could blame her, really?
“Now, there have been some, ah, alleged indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in the past.”
“Have the allegations been confirmed?”
“No.”
“Was Amanda Peterson one of those who allegedly had an indiscretion?”
“Yes.”
“What did these indiscretions involve?”
“Sexual advances.”
“Has anyone looked into the allegations?”
“I did.”
“And what did you discover?”
“He denied everything and there was no proof, and now one of the girls is dead.”
“And the other?”
“Lives in Washington state.”
“Do you have her address?”
She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it, Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.
Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”
“No stone unturned.”
“Are you just as thorough in the bedroom?”
“You’ll just have to use your imagination.”
She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little red.
“Oh, I have.”
46.
I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with some Krispy Kremes.
Which I did, along with two containers of chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories I’m looking for.
It was cool enough for the heater, and since I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.
