Or maybe they already had.
The day didn’t seem so sunny anymore.
Yes, they could see her; we’d all been friends. I could be pissed about that, but I couldn’t be justifiably and fairly pissed off because I’d want them to remain my friends if the situation were reversed.
But no one had said anything. Just “we’re busy” that weekend. The entire weekend. Yeah, our schedules were crazy, but that Torbin, Andy, Joanne, Alex, Danny, and Elly were all busy on the same weekend was a bit much.
If that was Cordelia.
If she was here.
If they were meeting her.
Maybe I was seeing ghosts of my past and it was all a big fluke that they were all unavailable at the same time.
Fuck, just fuck. Once those demons of doubt get in, they’re hard to get out.
The past should stay the past. It never does.
Life went on. I grabbed my phone and jabbed in a text message: “Meet at the same place at the same time.”
That would call his bluff.
I got in my car and drove to my office. Getting arrested might improve my morning.
One of the coffee shop guys was outside. Yes, I should know who’s who, but too many man buns and hipster beards. He was handing out coupons for one free croissant with two cups of coffee. To be fair, he tried to hand me one as if I might be an actual customer.
I smiled as politely as I could, dodged around him, and headed up the stairs.
The computer grannies were in.
I sicced them on Brandon and his text message games, giving them the number he had used to text me and the first number he had called me on. I asked them to trace them back as far as they could.
Lady Jane nodded, said they were a little shorthanded, as one of them was off at a wedding—her grandson and his boyfriend—so it might be a day or two.
I had hoped to have it by this afternoon for our meeting, but that was only to stomp down a teenage boy, and I really should be better than that.
Then I ran up the stairs, as if motion could help dispel the mess this day was becoming.
The usual scan of email showed nothing. Then, defiantly, I checked the dating website. It was, after all, past time for me to move on with my life.
There was a message waiting. Hey, you looked interesting. I like a woman who can manage a complete sentence. Would you like to meet for coffee or something? I checked out her profile. Liked reading and good coffee. I messaged her back saying that sounded good.
A few more moments of trying to waste time online convinced me that today was not a day to sit behind the desk.
I left the office again, went back home, threw on gym clothes, then stuffed another change of clothes in my gym bag and headed back out.
After a good hard cardio workout on the elliptical and a scrubbing shower (fortunately in the middle of the day, so I wasn’t forced to share the space with twenty-year-olds whose expressions clearly indicate they think gravity won’t happen to them), I was back in my car.
I looked at my watch. A little early to head out to the greasy pizza place. Plus I was hungry and wanted decent food.
Feeling foolish, I got out of my car again, leaving it in the gym parking lot—if I was going to get arrested on the basis of a parking sticker, I wanted to get as much mileage out of it as possible—and headed to a sushi joint just down from the gym. It was enough after lunchtime that there were tables available.
Once I was finished eating—fried oysters and raw salmon are two of my favorite food groups—it was still a little early, but that could work to my advantage. Even if Brandon had conned some friend to act the part, he’d probably still be lurking about. Cruising around early might catch him unawares.
Back in my car again, and with a sigh, I headed out to Metairie.
This time I didn’t park in the lot but just around the corner. I could see the front and had a view along the side street. Most likely he was coming from school, and this was the most direct route.
So predictable. I didn’t even have to wait long. He was plodding up the street, his face buried in his phone. I could have been standing directly in front of him and he might not have noticed me.
He continued into the pizza joint, still not looking up from his phone. I waited another ten minutes, but no one else entered. Or left.
I wondered what his story would be. And how many pizzas I’d be paying for.
Two seemed to be the answer. As I was entering, the waiter gave him a to-go box and put an everything pizza in front of him. As well as a pitcher of soda.
“So, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said as I slid into the booth opposite him. The wafting pizza smell was wasted on my full stomach.
“My friend couldn’t make it.”
“He could have messaged me and let me know. Would have saved me the drive out here.”
“No, he couldn’t come here, but we can text him the questions. He doesn’t want to be seen in public.”
Okay, someone who watched a lot of bad TV might think that a plausible story.
“Why not? What’s he got to hide?”
“Nothing…except he has information that might be important. And dangerous in the wrong hands.”
I am so good. I did not even crack the hint of a smile at his cliché.
“What information does he have? Who killed Eddie Springhorn?”
Brandon ignored my question by taking a large bite of the pizza.
When he finally finished eating, he said, “We have to work out a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“What the information is worth to you?”
“About two pizzas’ worth,” I shot back.
He looked at me as he took another bite, then tried to talk about the food, “No…this is better—”
I cut in, mostly to avoid seeing masticated pepperoni. “No, so far you’ve told me nothing that’s close to what it’s cost me. Yeah, your information is much cheaper than the pizza they serve here. So I need to know just what the information is and why it’s so important before we can think about any deal. I’m not coughing up a dime to find out stuff I can read in the newspaper.”
He finally swallowed. “This is better than that.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“If I tell you, then you’ll know.” Then he looked at his phone and said, “Let me text my friend and see what he says.” He jabbed at the phone with his thumbs, carefully keeping the screen out of my view.
I went to the counter and asked for a sparkling water. No such thing. I settled for a root beer.
When I sat back down he looked up from his phone and said, “It’s five hundred up front or nothing.”
This time I did laugh. Stood up. “It’s nothing.” I started to walk away.
“Wait,” he called.
Somehow I knew he would. “It’s nothing. Deal’s been negotiated. That’s the outcome.”
“But what about the pizza?”
“What about it?”
“Who’s going to pay for it?”
“Guess you are.” I kept walking.
“But I don’t have any money,” trailed after me.
I took a few more steps. I made it to the door before turning around.
The counter guy was glaring at Brandon, who was looking down at his phone as if that would offer escape.
He looked up at my footsteps. He smirked. I stopped and the smirk disappeared.
I probably should have just walked out then. People who don’t think about consequences are the most dangerous of all.
But instead I came back to the table.
“How about two fifty?” he said as I slid in the seat.
“How about two pizzas?” I said. “Or nothing.”
He finally seemed to realize the corner he’d backed himself into.
“I don’t know if my friend will go for it,” he said, again looking at his phone.
“Then you need to get your friend to cover the pizzas.”
He s
eemed to be thinking. That included taking another bite of the unpaid-for pizza.
“Okay, but if it’s useful, maybe more?” he finally said after swallowing.
“Maybe,” I said. Silently adding, “and maybe not.” To play along I asked, “What does your friend know about Eddie?” I took out my wallet, peeled out two twenty dollar bills—he’d ordered the kitchen-sink pizzas—and took them to the guy at the counter.
When I came back, he read off his phone, “Eddie liked to party.”
“Yeah, I knew that.”
“Drugs, illegal stuff,” he read. Or pretended to.
“Knew that, too. Also coerced underage girls into sexual favors by conning them into sending him nude pictures like he was their boyfriend.”
Brandon blushed. Oh, not much of one, but enough to recognize that he knew all about that and had impure thoughts on the subject.
“Can he tell me who any of the other girls were?”
Brandon didn’t look at me, but read from the phone, “No, no, he can’t. Knows Eddie did it, but doesn’t know the names.”
Problem was he didn’t seem to actually send any question before he answered it. My guess was Brandon did know who some of them were but was too embarrassed or too complicit to admit it. If you’re going to lie, you have to be consistent in your lies.
I continued to play along. “How many pictures did Eddie show you?”
“None, I didn’t see any,” he answered too quickly, then said, “Oh, you meant to ask my friend. Let me text him now.” He stared down at the phone, screen still held away from my view, and took a long time texting.
You weasel, I thought. His too quick—and too guilty—answer made it clear he had seen a few. Fast Eddie probably used them as a bonding ritual, show the boys the titty pictures, so they could all laugh and enjoy the show together. I’d peg Brandon as a third-tier outer circle. Other than fawning attention, he could offer Eddie little. No money, no drug connections. Too young, nerdy, and pudgy to bring any girls into the fold. And needing to pretend he was more important and knew more than he really did.
However, even that little might help me. Or at least give me some names to hand to the police.
“Where did Eddie have his parties?” I asked.
He looked up at me, then down at his phone. He typed something on it. Waited as if for an answer.
“Not sure,” he finally said.
“You never got invited?”
“Of course I did,” he answered. Then, “But there were different places. Some friends’ houses, parents out of town, that kind of stuff. No regular place.”
I stifled a sigh. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he’d never been to one and didn’t want to admit to being that uncool. Or maybe he was lying to avoid giving the answer.
“Yeah? Give me a few. Or just the one you went to.”
His slight blush returned. Bingo, he had been there. My money was on a regular place. Fast Eddie was too old to hang in places the parents might come home to. And too wild.
He again looked at his phone.
I reached across the table and grabbed it out of his hand. The only thing on the screen was a brightly colored game.
His face first was the wide-open mouth of surprise, then he reacted, jumping up and reaching for it. But my arms are longer.
The counter guy looked at us.
“Game over, pal,” I told him. “You get your phone back when you give me some answers.”
He sat back and looked down as if out of habit, but no phone was there. Then back at me. The slight smirk appeared, much as he tried to hide it. “What will you give me?”
“What you’ve already got.”
“What I know is worth more than a pizza or two.”
“This is the fourth pizza you’ve cadged from me.”
“Four? Whatta you mean?”
“I recall you eating pizza when we met here with your friends. That was one. Then the one you got the last time, and now these two. Four.”
“I had to share the first ones, that didn’t count.”
As if I needed reminding, his focus on a pizza or two made it clear I was not dealing with an adult, but a boy firmly in the hormonal imbalance of the teenage years, a socially awkward one at that. He was just sly enough to recognize that the most likely little info he had was his only leverage, and once it was gone, so was the free pizza. I had to decide whether I wanted to get that info as easily and quickly as possible or if I wanted to engage in the trivial jockeying of ego—mine over his.
Be a fucking adult. As boring as it is. A lot of guys have been jerks, from hitting on me, catcalling, mansplaining, telling me to smile, telling me I wasn’t pretty enough or too mannish. Taking all that out on this one nerd boy wasn’t worth it. Nor, at the end of the day, who I wanted to be.
“I need to know about Eddie. His friends, where he’d hang out, who he might have taken advantage of. Anything you can tell me, okay?” I pulled three twenty dollar bills out of my wallet and placed his phone on top of them, but kept the entire package firmly under one hand and as far away from him as I could. “Tell me what you know.”
He bit his lip. Then admitted, “It wasn’t like I was a good friend of his.”
“But you did go to at least a few of the parties.”
“Yeah, but nothing much happened. I mean, mostly drinking beer and stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“You know, watching movies, playing computer games. Nothing really exciting, just hanging out.”
“Who was there?”
“I don’t really know.”
“You spoke to no one? Heard no names? Even first names?”
“Well…Steve, but I don’t know his last name. Someone called Ace, but I doubt that was his name.”
“So, it was Eddie, Steve, Ace, and you?”
“Well, no, there were a bunch of people, but I didn’t know most of them.”
“What about the ones you did know? What can you tell me about them?”
“They liked to drink beer. Play games. Fool around, you know, joking and stuff.”
“So you really don’t know much?” I said, slipping one of the bills out of the pile and stuffing it back in my wallet.
“Some. Not everything, though. I didn’t know Eddie was doing the stuff with pictures.”
A little too much protesting for me to believe. And something else. Envy? Dejection?
I took a guess. “Did he give you a hard time?”
Brandon looked up at me, then down again as if trying to hide in the phone he didn’t have. Still not looking up, he answered, “No, it was fine.”
“He kidded you for being too young, right? A nerd? Told you about the pictures, but wouldn’t show them to you. Rubbed it in your face that he could get girls—”
“No! That’s not true. He was nice to me. He liked me.”
Still no eye contact. His jaw was clenched and red was creeping up his neck. I’d hit a raw nerve.
“I believe you,” I lied. “You’re a smart man. He probably liked your sense of humor.” More lies, but Brandon was the kind of not cool enough, not well-off enough, not good-looking enough that guys like Eddie used as punching bags. Of course Brandon wanted to hang out with the cool boys. And of course they’d used him.
I didn’t push. “How’d you meet Eddie?”
“Through some friends.”
“Which friends?”
“A teacher. She knew him.”
“A teacher at your school?”
“Yeah.” With a look of “where else?”
“What class?”
“Chemistry.”
“What’s her name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“She asked me not to.”
“Why?”
Another look that told me this was a dumb question. “Because he got killed. And the stuff with Tiffany. She could get in trouble if that came out.”
Like I couldn’t figure out
who it was from what he’d already told me. “Why should that matter? It’s not criminal to know people.”
“I think they were going out, and she dumped him when she found out about the pictures.”
“How did she find out?”
“When it came out about Tiffany. Think she read it in the paper.”
“Did you tell her?”
Again, the look up then back down. “No, not me.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that, either. Just a friend who knew them both.”
“One of your school friends?”
The look away. “No, nothing to do with school.”
Yep, one of his friends. Given that he didn’t seem to have too many, I could probably figure that out as well. “Was it Kevin?”
He looked at me, then down again, then took a bite of pizza, but didn’t really chew. A gulp of soda, then finally chewed it for far longer than it should have taken. Finally, “No, why would you think that?”
“Or Janice or Sophia. Had to be someone you know and the teacher knows and who would know Tiffany.”
He took another bite of pizza. After a thorough chew he said, “Well, maybe, but I can’t tell you.”
Another topic I’d come back to if I needed. “When did you start going to the parties?”
“I don’t remember. I guess in the fall, right after school started.”
“Where was it?”
“A fishing camp on the lake. Out on Highway 90.”
“How’d you get there?” Brandon didn’t have a car, and that wasn’t someplace you took a bus to.
“Eddie gave me a ride.”
“Eddie picked you up and gave you a ride?” That didn’t sound like the Eddie I knew.
“Yeah. We had to go early.”
“Why?”
“He needed me to get internet out there,” then added, “To set up the computer games and stuff.”
Just in case I might have thought it was to surf for porn. No, just innocent computer games.
“How much computer stuff did you do for him?”
His face brightened. “I’m good at computers. I know the best games and am really fast at setting things up.” He then launched into a detailed account of what he had to do to get internet access set up at the remote fishing camp.
I nodded at the appropriate places and acted like I had a clue about what he was saying and also—harder—that it was interesting.
The Girl on the Edge of Summer Page 18
