by J. R. Rain
I turned up a street called Mariner, which, coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these days I kept it particularly handy.
I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun handles.
***
I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome guy; worse, he knew it.
When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.
“Bryan Dawson?” I asked.
He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.
“You are the detective,” he said, brushing past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.
“Pardon you,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. A little clumsy this early in the morning.”
He had known of me, which I found interesting. Someone had hired the thug, too; someone who had known of me as well.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your shoulder is okay,” I said jovially. “How do you know me?”
“Someone pointed you out the other day when the police arrived for Coach Castleton. Weren’t you the one who found him?”
“Yes.”
“Must have been awful,” he said. “Seeing his brains and shit all over the place.”
His gaze was unwavering and challenging. I didn’t like him. He was cocky, loud, and too sure of himself.
“It was more awful that he found it necessary to end his life. The murder of Amanda Peterson has had significant repercussions. Not to mention an innocent boy is in jail for the crime.”
“The police don’t seem to think he’s so innocent. For them it’s an open and shut case.”
“Luckily for Derrick, I don’t think it’s so open and shut.”
“Which means what? You’re only a private dick.”
“Means I’m going to find the killer.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
“No.”
“Did you have a relationship with Amanda?”
“I was her band director.”
“Did you have a relationship with her outside of school?”
“Of course not.”
“Where were you on the night of Amanda Peterson’s murder?”
“I have nothing left to say to you.”
“Of course you don’t.”
And he promptly shut the door in my face.
Jim Knighthorse, master interrogator.
47.
It was late and we were at a restaurant called Waters in the city of Irvine. Coincidentally, a small, foul-smelling, man-made lake sat next to the restaurant. I wondered what came first: The lake or the restaurant?
Vice Principal Dana Williams had pushed hard for this meeting, so I agreed to meet her here. I sensed she liked me. I also sensed she was a very lonely woman. So why had I agreed? I didn’t know entirely. She was loosely connected to my case, so I could always justify the meeting in that way. I was also lonely myself. Very lonely. Perhaps we were just two lost souls meeting in the night, at a pretentiously named restaurant.
“Do you talk to your ex-girlfriend much?” asked Mrs. Williams. She emphasized the ex part a little too much.
“She’s not my ex. We’re just taking a break from all the action.”
“What sort of action?” she asked.
“Nevermind,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking about it, especially someone who was all for my break up with Cindy. Anyone who was all for my break up with Cindy was no friend of mine.
“Do you always speak in football jargon?” she asked.
We were seated outside, on the wide, wooden deck that wrapped around the entire restaurant. We had a great view of the fake lake. A duck floated nearby. It could have been fake, too, but I doubted it.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“I see,” she said. She toyed with the red straw sticking out of her margarita. If my lack of enthusiasm for our meeting was making her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I sensed that she saw me as a challenge. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly.
Admittedly, the question caught me off-guard. I looked at her from across the table. She was looking ravishing, to say the least. A tight blouse that showed way too much of her chest. Make-up that seemed expertly applied. Hair perfectly framing her pretty face.
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to dance around the subject.
She beamed, pleased.
Our food arrived. Clams for her. A burger for me. I ate the fries first. She watched me eat. She was about to ask me something, probably something about Cindy, when I cut her off. Enough of the bullshit.
“So how long have you been separated?” I asked.
She shrugged, sipped her drink. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
She leveled her stare at me and I was reminded again that she was very much the vice principal of discipline at Huntington High. When she spoke, she lowered her voice ominously. “I don’t remember, exactly. A few years I suppose. Is that okay?”
“Hey, I’m okay if you’re okay,” I said, and very much wanted to get the hell out of here. Mrs. Williams’s apparent ability to go from flirtatious to bitch was alarming at best.
We ate our food in silence. Actually, I ate and she toyed. I wondered what the clams thought about being killed only to be toyed with.
Probably be pissed off.
“Do you think Derrick killed Amanda?” I asked suddenly. Hey, might as well get some work done. In the least, I could write the dinner off for tax purposes.
“Yes,” she said immediately.
“Why?”
“He had motive and he had the murder weapon.”
“Damning evidence,” I said. “Except that all indications seem to point that he was truly in love with Amanda.”
“Which would make his jealousy all the more unpredictable,” she said. “Wouldn’t it?”
I shrugged. I didn’t like answering leading questions.
We continued to eat. Just beyond, the duck floated unmovingly. I was now certain it was fake. Or asleep.
While we ate, I could sense Mrs. Williams watching me. Her watching me made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps I sensed in her an unpredictability. She reminded me of my father in that way. Happy one moment, a real piece of work the next.
And for perhaps the hundredth time that evening, I wished with all my heart that Cindy was sitting across from me. I missed her laugh, her smile, her scent. Her everything.
When the bill came, I quickly paid it and we left. As we exited the restaurant, Mrs. Williams looped her arm through mine. I think I shuddered a little.
I walked her to her car, where we stood awkwardly for a few moments. I wanted to leave but she wouldn’t release my arm. Above, the tiny sliver of moon reflected the hollow feeling inside me.
“I had a great time tonight,” she said.
Her words took me by surprise. What date had she been on? I had been miserable.
“We should do it again sometime,” she added.
I nodded dumbly and just wanted to leave. Finally she released my arm and surprised me again by planting a big, wet kiss on my lips. She pulled away and grinned warmly, then got in her massive SUV and drove off.
I stood there in the parking lot, watchi
ng her go.
I wanted to run to Cindy.
But I didn’t. Instead, on the way home, I bought a case of beer and drank the night away.
48.
I went on a seven mile jog the next morning. I kept an easy pace, and my leg only hurt a little, which was encouraging. I showered and shaved at home, then headed for the office, where I kept my office door locked and the Browning on the desk next to me.
I called Donna Trigger. A girl answered and told me that Donna had classes this morning but I could try later in the afternoon. I said I would, she said cool, popped a bubble and hung up.
Next I called Sanchez on his cell and asked him to run Bryan Dawson’s name through his data base and see what turned up. He said no problem and that if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have shit to do, nevermind his caseload of homicides to solve. I hung up on him in mid-rant.
I sat back in my chair and realized I had no real clues or suspects, other than two lecherous men with a fondness for young girls. This was so depressing that I felt it necessary to take a nap. I usually don’t need much convincing when it comes to naps.
***
The phone woke me. It was just before noon.
“Hi,” said a soft voice. My heart lurched. It was Cindy.
“Hello.”
“Can I see you?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up and sat at my desk for a minute or two until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly. Within the next few minutes the course of my life would be set. Amazingly, it was out of my hands, and in Cindy’s alone.
***
I stood off to the side of my window, looking down onto Beach Blvd, the blinds partly open. Hauling ass down the street and turning dangerously in front of a white pickup, Cindy arrived in her silver Lexus. I could hear the pickup’s angry horn from here.
And trailing behind Cindy was a blue Taurus. Not normally a big deal, granted, but sitting in the driver’s seat was my friend the hitman. He continued on past my building and made a left and disappeared.
He made two mistakes: the first was that I made his plate. The second was that he had involved Cindy.
My phone rang. I grabbed it.
“You’re girlfriend’s cute. Back off, or she’s dead.” The line went dead.
I immediately called Sanchez and got his voice mail. I left the plate number for him to run. Now I was going to owe Sanchez another dinner. So what else was new?
Next I unlocked the door and paced before my couch, trying like hell to get the killer out of my mind and focus on Cindy. To focus on us.
Moving along the cement walkway, heals clicking rapidly along, I could hear Cindy coming.
My hands were sweating; my shoulders were knotted. I resented her for putting me through this. We had been serious for eight years. She knew the dangers inherent to my profession, but she also knew that I could handle them. The only new twist was my interest in resuming my football career; well, and the drinking.
The door to my office opened, and she stood there holding a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. She came in and set the flowers down on the desk, then threw her arms around me. Her lips found mine and we kissed like lost lovers, which, for a few days, we were. We fumbled our way to the couch, and there we made up for lost time.
And the direction of my life became clear again.
Damn clear.
49.
Nestled between a Rite Aide and a laundromat was a little Italian place that I liked, called Frazzi’s. Cindy and I were heading there now for lunch, holding hands. The mid-day sun shone straight down on us, but lacked any real heat, just a bright ornament hanging in the sky.
“So why is Italian your favorite food?” asked Cindy. I sensed she was feeling happy. The weather was nice, and we had just made love, and she wanted to keep things light and fun, at least for the moment. We still hadn’t talked about the heavy stuff, which was fine by me.
“I’ve discovered in the course of my considerable dining experience and extensive travels that a food joint has to work pretty damn hard to screw up Italian food. It’s usually a sure bet.”
“I’ve screwed it up before,” she said.
“Actually, we screwed it up together,” I said.
“Which is why we no longer cook.”
“And why we eat out.”
“Except for you and your damn cereal and PB amp;Js.”
“Cereal and PB amp;J’s are my staple. They keep me alive.”
“I know. I think it’s cute.”
Frazzi’s was a narrow restaurant with checkered table cloths and red vinyl seats. We found a booth in the back and sat ourselves. By now Cindy knows to allow me to have the best view of the restaurant, where I keep my eyes on the front door, the butt of my gun loose and free. There wasn’t much for Cindy to look at other than me. Lucky girl.
The waitress came by and we ordered two Cokes.
“So can I say a few things?” asked Cindy.
“Of course.” Here it comes.
“Your drinking worries me. Actually, it’s not the fact that you occasionally get drunk, it’s that you feel you need to drink secretly.”
“Well, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“How long have you been getting drunk?”
I shrugged. “Off and on since I broke my leg.”
“The broken leg was the catalyst?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing else?”
I reached out and took her hand from across the table. She needed to be reassured. I looked at her steadily in the eye. “It’s the only reason.”
“Nothing about me?”
“No.”
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Will you try to stop for me? I’m not asking you to give up drinking altogether, but I’m asking you to stop getting drunk whenever we are away from each other, to stop destroying your liver, to stop feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself.”
“I might need help.”
“I’ll help you.”
Our drinks came, along with some fresh bread and oil.
“The usual, Jim?” asked Mama Lucco. She was Italian and in her mid-forties. I’d been coming here for four years, ever since I set up my agency down the street.
“Make that two,” I said.
When Mama Lucco had moved off, Cindy asked, “What’s the usual?”
“Lasagna, of course.”
“I should have known.”
“So what else is on your mind?”
She took a sip from her Coke, and then tore a piece of bread off, dipped it in oil and gave it to me. I took it, and she repeated the process for herself.
When she was ready, she said, “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, too, admittedly. I asked myself why couldn’t I have a boyfriend who has a normal job, a job in which his life isn’t threatened by a hired killer, a job that didn’t require you to deal with the dregs of society.”
She paused. I waited.
“But then I realized that you are so goddamn good at what you do, and someone has to set things right in this fucked up world. And if you are willing to do it, then the least I can do is stand by your side, and give you my support.”
I digested this, then asked, “What about football?”
“I don’t know what to make of this football business. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“Fair enough.”
“And I’ve come to the conclusion that if I go back to you now, I will forever accept you, just the way you are, and deal with whatever comes our way, together. I had a taste of life without you this week, and it was horrible. Just horrible.” She paused and took my hand, and looked me in the eye. “Will you take me back?”
“Yes,” I said.
She kissed my knuckles. “You’ve got me forever, Jim Knighthorse. Or for as long as you can stand me.”
50.
Later, with Cindy teaching an aftern
oon class, and me wondering how I was going to stay off the booze, Sanchez called.
“I got an address on that plate.”
“Swell.”
“You say it was an older model blue Taurus?”
“Uh huh.”
“How about a green ‘89 Taurus?”
“Green, blue, same difference.”
“Christ, Knighthorse. Can’t you tell the difference?”
“No,” I said. “Greens and blues are tough.”
“That could be the difference in apprehending a felon.”
“We all have our handicaps,” I said. “Mine is coloration. Yours is unattractiveness.”
“Fuck you,” he said, chuckling.
“Perhaps if you were better looking.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Convince the killer to stay away.”
Sanchez was silent. “You’re going to kill him,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question.
“No other way to convince a hitman to stay away.”
“You need help?”
“Wouldn’t that be against the law?”
“Yes.”
“No, thank you. He made it personal. Be better if you stayed out of it, in case something goes wrong.” I paused. “I owe you.”
“Fucking eh, you do. You can start with dinner tonight.”
He gave me the name and address, and hung up. Johnny Bright. I stared at the name for some time.
He should have left Cindy out of it. Would have been healthier for him.
***
Next I called Washington state, and this time got hold of Donna Trigger.
“Who’s this?” she asked. Her voice was soft.
“My name is Jim Knighthorse, I’m a private detective down in Huntington Beach. I’m following up on the murder of Amanda Peterson.”
There was silence. Not even a hiss of a connection. “What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?”
“Can I ask you about Bryan Dawson?”
Another pause. “What would you like to know?”
