by J. R. Rain
Coming down through a side hall, turning into the faculty parking lot, was a handsome man with dark hair. He was carrying a briefcase, and looked far too important to be just a band director. Or at least that was the impression he presented. He got into a red Jetta.
“Let’s roll,” I said.
57.
Bryan Dawson lived in a condo about a mile from the beach. We were currently heading in the opposite direction.
“He’s not heading home,” said Sanchez.
“Astute,” I said.
I was three cars behind the Huntington band director, sometimes drifting back to four or five. To date, he had made no indication that he knew he was being followed.
“You’re following too close.”
“No, I’m not.”
“He’s going to make us.”
“He’s not going to make us,” I said. “And I’m the one who taught you how to tail.”
“But I’m the one who got all the tail.”
“So you say.”
We were heading deeper into Huntington Beach. In fact, we were just a few blocks from my office.
“Know someone works around here,” said Sanchez. “Thinks he’s a detective.”
The Jetta suddenly turned into an empty bank parking lot. I pulled to the side of the road and killed the headlights, giving us a good view of Pencil Dick. From the shadows, a lithe figured stepped away from the building and into Dawson’s car. The Jetta swung around, exited the parking lot and was soon heading back our way. Sanchez and I both ducked.
“You realize that we look like fools,” said Sanchez as the car sped past us. “The windows are tinted. They can‘t see us.”
“They especially can’t see you,” I said.
“Is that a comment on my darkish skin?”
“Your dark skin.”
“I’m proud of my dark skin.”
“Good for you,” I said, peeking up and looking in my rearview mirror. Dawson was heading south, probably home. I flicked on the lights. “And away we go.”
58.
I followed four car lengths behind the Jetta. Judging by Dawson’s preoccupation with his newly acquired passenger, I probably could have followed directly behind him with my brights on, with little fear of being made.
“She just disappeared,” said Sanchez.
“In his lap,” I said.
“You think she’s inspecting the quality of his zipper?”
“She’s inspecting something.”
The Jetta swerved slightly to the right. Dawson over-compensated and swerved to the left. He finally regained some control, although he now drove more toward the right side of the lane and even on the line itself.
“Seems distracted,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
“How old do you think she is?”
“No way of telling yet,” I said.
“In the least, gonna nail him for statutory rape.”
“Got the camera?”
Sanchez reached around and grabbed a nifty piece of equipment. It was a high resolution camcorder with night vision capabilities.
“So you know how to work this thing?” he asked.
“No idea. But we should figure it out fairly quickly.”
The Jetta braked and made a right into a massive condo complex. I pulled immediately into a maintenance parking spot near the trash dumpster.
“Okay,” Sanchez said, “I’ve got it rolling.”
“Zoom in on the car.”
I heard the whir of the zoom feature, and watched the lens stretch out like a probing eye. A green light feature indicated that the night vision capability was currently being used.
“Keep it steady,” I said.
“That’s what your mom told me back in high school.”
“I didn’t know you back in high school. Plus, my mom was killed when I was ten.”
He pulled away from the camera. “No shit? How was she killed?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged, lifted the camera back up to his eye. “Fine.”
I said, “Here they come.”
“Nice choice of words.”
The girl emerged from her position in his lap. We both hunched down. The doors opened. I peaked through the steering wheel. Although the windshield was tinted, it was not as dark as the door glass. Someone looking hard enough could still spot us.
“You need to get a van. This is bullshit.”
“When you talk the camera moves. So don’t.”
They headed our way, laughing and holding hands. Dawson’s shirt was untucked. They continued toward us. Sanchez turned in his seat and followed them. As if on cue, Dawson stopped next to Sanchez’s door, turned the girl around, planted a big kiss on her lips, and felt her up.
“You getting this?” I whispered.
“Oh, yeah.”
“How old do you think she is?” I asked.
They continued up a flight of stairs and disappeared. Sanchez pulled the camera away from his eye.
“Too young.”
I said, “Goodbye, Pencil Dick.”
59.
I was in my office, feet up on my desk, fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let’s see Colombo do that.
When the burn in my arms and chest had resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I’ve been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax machine stopped spitting out its image.
The fax machine sat on top of a short bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to me, along with all of Clive Cussler’s novels, my guilty pleasure.
In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.
My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over again.
I carefully put the faxed photograph in a manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk’s top drawer and left the office.
***
Huntington Beach was paradise. The best weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of, were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms, looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the waves.
Two miles up the coast I turned left and headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High. My home away from home.
It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.
I moved up the central artery, past hundreds of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom.
***
Mario and I were sitting opposite each other in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.
Mario was studying the photograph, not saying much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from him.
Finally he looked up at me. “Yes,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly. “That is him.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “You killed him?”
I said nothing. He said nothing and looked away.
“He was a motherfucker,” said Mario. “I am glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family.”
“I know.”
Mario pointed with a thick finger. “Someone shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his fucking face, too.” He spat to the side. His lower lip was quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more difficult to discern. “Why did he threaten my family? He is in hell. Straight to hell.”
The tho
ught of me sending Fuck Nut to hell was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject, somewhat.
“But the person who hired him is still free, Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?”
Mario nodded.
“Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda was murdered?”
I waited for him. His lower lip continued to quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained some control of himself, and once he did, he told me everything.
And I mean everything.
60.
At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning, I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell, even at this very moment.
To me the pain was worth it to play football.
The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two hours.
Two hours.
Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.
Not a good thing.
All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.
I was now thirty.
For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.
But it was the NFL, man. These were the big boys.
I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner, prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous as some, but tough as hell.
At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.
I shifted in my seat to ease some of the pressure.
I had taken three Advils this morning. The Advils didn’t work, although my headache was long gone.
Was I good enough to make it in the pros?
Yeah, probably. College ball certainly couldn’t contain me.
Traffic picked up a little. I entered San Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a mother holding a child, being led by the man.
I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who killed Amanda.
A killer who needed to be stopped at all costs.
I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the hardest week’s of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for her. She had made that decision on her own.
Could I have made the NFL? Yeah, probably.
My leg would continue to throb every day of my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old’s dream. I was thirty.
I thought of my mother and her own unsolved murder.
There was much to do.
Time to quit screwing around.
At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway, turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.
My leg felt better already.
61.
On the way back to Orange County I pulled out my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.
He returned my phone call almost instantly, furious. “Move on? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Means I’m not coming in.”
There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking: players would give their left nut for this opportunity.
“I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule? I’ll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we have a whole crew out there waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Life happened.”
“You could make our team, Knighthorse.”
“I know.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers to catch. But for now, I will take one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at it.”
“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity.”
“Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.
62.
I arrived at Huntington High later that same day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees, exactly where most skirts should be.
I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”
“But could you take over a small Baltic country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.
I said, “Only if they were susceptible to fits of hysterical laughter.”
She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.
“A big guy like you. I’m sure you’re being modest.”
“Mrs. Williams, are you flirting with me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Just as long as we’re clear on that point.”
“Oh, we’re clear.”
Her thigh was about face high. It was muscular, smooth and tan. She moved it toward me, and when she did her skirt rode up, showing more skin.
“You and I need to talk.”
“Oh, we’re going to do more than talk, sugar butt,” she said. “Follow me home.”
And so I followed her.
Sugar butt?
***
We drove south along PCH, through Newport Beach and into Laguna. She drove quickly, darting in and out of traffic, her need to see me without my shirt on pushing her to drive recklessly. Or perhaps she had to pee. Luckily the Excursion was big enough to follow from outer space.
She turned into a gated community, then waited for me to catch up. When I had done so, a pair of wrought iron doors swung open, and I followed her in, passing beautiful Mediterranean homes, each more elaborate than the next.
A garage door opened on my right and she pulled the Excursion all the way into what must have been a hell of a deep garage. I parked in the driveway and got out.
The sun was hot on my neck. I was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt, jeans and black hiking boots, although I wasn’t planning on going for a hike any time soon.
She stepped expertly down from the monster truck and beckoned me to follow her through a doorway that led into her kitchen. Once inside she tossed her keys on a counter near the phone and dropped her purse onto the seat of a dining chair. I felt the need to toss something of my own, but decided to hold on to my wallet and keys. The kitchen was paved with tan Spanish tile, and the cabinets were immaculate.
“Vice principals in charge of discipline do well,” I said.
“Oh, they do. Especially for those who do their job well.”
“I imagine you are o
ne of those.”
“Discipline is not something I take lightly, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“I see. Does anyone oversee you, Mrs. Williams?”
“Dana, please.” She took hold of my hand and led me out of the kitchen and into a much larger room. She hit the lights. “The answer is no one oversees me. Not really. If I failed to do my duties the school board would consider a demotion, but in actuality I am judge, jury and executioner at Huntington High.”
“An interesting choice of words.”
“Oh, I don’t lay a hand on them,” she said.
“But do you want to?”
“Always,” she said without hesitation. “Some of them need to be beaten into submission.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She laughed. “What would you like to drink?”
“Soda water is fine.”
The room was very adult. There was a zinc-topped bar in one corner, filled with all sorts of alcoholic delights. Dana was there fixing us a couple of drinks. Off to the right was a large cigar box sitting on a delicate end table. Original artwork from local painters adorned the wall. I walked over to one and studied it. It was a stylized surfer hanging ten.
She walked over with my drink, took hold of my hand again and led me to a leather couch in the middle of the room. I sipped the soda water. She had spiked it with scotch. I didn’t say anything, just set it down on a coaster on the glass coffee table. She was watching me closely.
“Do you like your drink?” she asked.
“It’s very nice.”
“I have never held the hand of someone so goddamn big before. Look at your hand, it dwarfs mine.”
“You should see my feet.”
