by J. R. Rain
“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, señor.”
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, señor. 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, señor. 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.
Chapter Thirty-one
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?”
Chapter Thirty-two
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.”
“Sexually?”
“No. Not me. I wouldn’t let him. I fought him. So he settled on beating the shit out of me. Broke my arm twice. In the same fucking place. Loves to grab it and shake until something snaps.”
“Were your sisters sexually abused?”
“I think so, and I’m pretty sure little Alyssa is getting the worst of it now, especially now that she’s alone with him.”
“Has your mother ever tried to leave?”
“No. He tells her he will kill her and her daughters. Classic shit. She’s terrified of him.”
“Has anyone ever gone to the police? Have any teachers ever noticed the bruises, questioned your broken arms?”
“The answer is no. Father is an assemblyman for the county. He can have anyone’s job. He knows it and they know it. Our plight has been ignored.”
“Plight,” I said, grinning at her. “You must be a writer.”
“Someday soon I hope to even make money at it.”
“Would you like your father to stop the abuse?”
“Of course. Stupid fucking question.” She leaned forward, hands flat in the grass. Not surprisingly, her nails were unpainted. “Are you going to stop him?”
I shrugged. “I could give a shit if he’s an assemblyman. I work for myself. I could make most men on this earth bend to my will.”
She actually laughed and clapped, and that
pretty much made my day. She said, “That’s such a funny way to describe that you are going to royally kick his ass.”
“Royally.”
“He’s a big guy,” she said. “But you’re bigger.”
“I’m bigger than most. And if I happen to break his arm in the process?”
Her gaze hardened. “Tell him it was from me.”
A Frisbee landed next to us. I flicked it back to an embarrassed young lady. She caught it neatly with one hand and dashed off.
“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know why Amanda quit her school band?”
“Because the band director was a creep.”
“How do you know?”
“He made a pass at her,” she said.
“What did she do about it?”
“Told him to leave her alone.”
“I assume he didn’t.”
“No.”
“And then she quit?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she often confide in you?” I asked.
She looked away. “Yeah, we were close.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I.”
I gave her one of my cards, and she looked at it.
“Nice picture, Mr. Knighthorse,” she said.
“I know.”
Chapter Thirty-three
It was early morning and the crowd in McDonald’s consisted mostly of old men in tan shorts, white tee shirts and running shoes. Most didn’t look like they did much running.
I was eating a Big Breakfast with Jack at the back of the restaurant. He was sipping his lukewarm black coffee and looking very ungodlike in his bum outfit. Then again, according to him, this is how I expected him to look.
“So who’s running the universe if you’re down here with me?”
“I can be in many places.”
“Convenient,” I said. “Must make waiting in line for Zeppelin tickets a breeze.”
“And makes doing chores a snap.”
“Was that a joke?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“God jokes?”
“Who do you think invented humor?”
“The devil?” I asked.
“There is no devil, you know that.”
“I know that because you told me there’s no devil. I’m still not convinced.”
The man in front of me shrugged and sipped his coffee. I’ve noticed that Jack often didn’t care if I believed him or not. I found that interesting and a little disconcerting.
“Prove to me you’re God.”
“Prove I’m not.”
“Touché,” I said. “What’s the square root of one million?”
“Do you know?”
“No,” I said. “But I will later.”
“Then ask me later.”
“Fine,” I said. “Perform a miracle. A real miracle.”
“Like turning coffee into wine?”
“Yes. That. Or beer. Turn it into ice cold beer and let me drink it.”
“You sound like an alcoholic, Jim.”
“You would know.”
“Drinking is not good for your body. In fact, it’s very hard on your body.”
“Let’s not go down that road.”
“Okay,” he said. “What road would you like to go down?”
“I want a miracle. I want proof that I’m talking to God.”
“One man’s miracle is another man’s reality.”
“Oh, screw that,” I said. “Turn something into something else, and quit giving me shit.”
“And if I performed a miracle for you, that would finally satisfy your curiosity?”
“Yes.”
“No it wouldn’t. You would ask for another miracle, and then another. Always doubting.”
“You’re not going to perform a miracle, are you?”
“No. That is, not in the way that you mean.”
“But you perform other miracles?”
“Every day. Every second.”
“But if you performed a miracle for me now, then I would no longer have to believe, or have to have faith.”
“This is true.”
“I think faith is overrated. Turn something into something else and I will be your biggest follower, I promise.”
“I don’t want a follower. I just want you to listen, to think for yourself and to lead the best life you can. Ultimately, to define who you are and to live by those convictions.”
“And if you performed a miracle for me...”
“Then you will no longer make your own choices.”
“I would blindly do whatever you say,” I said.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“But you are here now, claiming to be God.”
“Like I said, one man’s miracle—”
“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.
We were silent some more. I looked in his half-empty cup. It was still coffee.
Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Very.”
“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.
“Do what you must.”
“Really?”
“I do not define for you what is right or wrong.”
“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book out there that defines exactly what we should do.”
“Was that French?” he asked.
“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell God to shut up?”
“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”
“No.”
“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the parts about love.”
“Love?”
“As in do all things with love.”
“All things?”
“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would change much of the structure of your planet.”
“There are those who can’t love, or choose not to love.”
“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”
“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going crazy?” I asked.
“That is for you to decide.”
“So you really do not care if I hurt another human being?”
“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others, Jim?”
“No. I will be hurting another to protect many more.”
“Are you living and acting and behaving within your own moral standards?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what defines who you are?”
“Yes.”
“And so you are being true to yourself?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“I can find no fault in that.”
“So you approve?” I asked.
“I approve of defining who you are, Jim. There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”
“So any moral code would work?”
“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any true code.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.
“His name has a nice ring to it,” said Sanchez.
We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t have enough patience.
“There are two ice cream shops,” said Sanchez. “I wonder why.”
“They are across the street from each other,�
�� I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”
“If you say so.”
“There’s our man.”
It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.
“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.
“Bet she takes great dictation.”
Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.
“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”
“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a time.”
We waited at the mouth of the structure’s exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.
“I could give him a ticket for reckless driving,” said Sanchez.
“For now just follow him.”
Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.
“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.
“Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?”
We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.
“This is good,” I said.
Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.
I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”
“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective.”
“And less paperwork.”
“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait here.”
Chapter Thirty-five
I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.
