Saving the environment was so gross.
The Oakridge Mall is home to every possible store you could ever want to shop at. Target, Macy’s, Old Navy, Sears, as well as all the usual mall staples, including Hot Topic, the Gap, and Hollister. It also houses a food court, a full movie theater, a P.F. Chang’s, a Cheesecake Factory, and a California Pizza Kitchen. I could happily live my entire life at this mall.
The only downside was that as they built more stores over the years, they ran out of room to build out the parking lot. We circled for fifteen full minutes before spotting a lady with a loaded stroller and two kids exiting Target. We car stalked her to the back of the parking garage (eliciting odd looks as we filled the entire lower section of the parking structure with burger smoke) and waited while she loaded the bigger kid into the back, the baby into the car seat, and the stroller into the trunk of her beige SUV. A truck came down the other aisle, peering at our prized spot, but Sam pointed to her blinker, honked aggressively at him, and he moved on. (I’m sure it was the honk that did it, not the fact that our smoke was starting to cloud the air.)
Once we seized parking victory, we cruised down the main thoroughfare of the crowded mall and made our way to the Hollister store, situated between the Victoria’s Secret and Borders. We paused to enjoy the larger-than-life man-candy image on the front wall of a guy wearing nothing but low-slung Hollister jeans before pressing inside to find Caitlyn.
We spied her right away at a display near the back, folding piles of pink T-shirts with sparkly peace-sign designs on them. (Cute. I wondered if they were on sale. . . . )
The second Caitlyn’s eyes lifted from the crop-sleeved T in her hand to meet mine, she let out a little scream. “You! Stay away from me! You’re the angel of death!” She jumped back, putting one hand out in front of her as if to ward off evil spirits.
Oh, brother.
“Relax, Caitlyn. I’m not armed.”
“That’s not funny. Because of you, two of my best friends are dead.”
“I didn’t kill them!”
But Caitlyn nodded vigorously, still keeping a good three feet between us. “Every time you go near someone, they die. You’re cursed!”
This time I did a real eye roll. “Seriously?”
“I’m not dead,” Sam pointed out. “And I hang out with Hartley all the time.”
Caitlyn bit her lip, digesting the logic of this statement. “You must be immune or something.”
I thought about pointing out that Caitlyn spent a lot more time with the dead girls—and therefore was way more likely an angel of death than I was—but I figured there was no sense in pissing off my prime witness. Instead, I tried to ease her mind with flattery.
“Nice shirt,” I said, pointing to the sparkly purple thing she had on. Honestly, it looked exactly like the one she’d worn last time I’d seen her. I wondered if she bought them in bulk.
But she was vain enough to bite. “Thanks. We’re sold out of these, but we have some in a more”—she paused, giving me an up-and-down look—“generous style near the register.”
I’m pretty proud of myself that I managed to keep a smile on my face. “Great. Thanks. I’ll check those out.” Okay, it was more of a grimace. “We actually wanted to ask you a few questions. About the interview you did this morning.”
At the mention of her KTVU debut, Caitlyn softened a little. “You saw that?”
I nodded.
“How did I look on camera?”
Her grief was touching.
“You looked fabulous.”
She tossed her hair over her right shoulder. “They said they might do a follow-up next week.”
“You said that someone was targeting members of the Color Guard,” I reminded her. “What did you mean by that?”
“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. First Courtney, then Kaylee. Someone has a problem with us. We’re just too moral.”
I could think of quite a few other adjectives that described Courtney more accurately, but I had to admit that as far as I could tell, Kaylee had been the real deal. Sure, her perkatude was annoying as could be, but as far as I knew she wasn’t anything other than what she’d presented herself to be—a virgin obsessed with the perfect tan and twirling giant colorful flags at football games.
“Has anyone been threatening the Color Guard?” I asked.
Caitlyn nodded. “All the time. We get at least one hate letter a day. Some people just can’t stand that we’re so good.”
Go figure.
“Anyone in particular?” I asked. “Any threats seem especially menacing?”
Caitlyn scrunched up her nose, checking her mental memory banks. “Usually the threats are anonymous. But there was one last week from one of the Goth boys. He yelled ‘bitch’ at Courtney when we were leaving the Jamba Juice.”
Hm. It was a far cry from yelling expletives to strangulation.
I decided to go at it from another angle. “Any idea what Kaylee might have been doing out on the football field at that time of night?”
Caitlyn shook her head. “No. Sorry.”
“She didn’t mention meeting anyone?”
Again with the head shake. “No.”
“When was the last time you talked to Kaylee?”
“Yesterday. After school we went for mani-pedis. You know, to get our minds off Courtney.”
“How did she seem then?” Sam asked. “Nervous or upset about anything?”
Caitlyn put her hands on her hips. “You mean other than our best friend being killed?”
“Right. So, where did she go after the spa?” I asked.
“Home. She said she had a lot of chem homework to do.” She gave me a pointed look. “Some of us actually pay attention to our science labs.”
Yeah, I was gonna have to find out what that blue stuff was.
“And that was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
Caitlyn nodded. Then did a patented non-mascara-smearing sob. “She was such a good friend. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”
Even if her tears never reached her eye makeup, and her grieving process involved spa treatments, this statement I believed. Color Guard girls traveled in packs. And Caitlyn had suddenly been made a lone wolf.
“I’m the only one left now,” she said as if reading my thoughts. “Which makes me next.”
“Have you received any specific threats?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Isn’t the death of both my best friends threat enough?”
Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be slinking down any dark alleyways either if I were her.
“Look, I have to get back to work,” Caitlyn said, backing up. “Just stay away from me, ’kay? I’m not ready to die.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am not the angel of death.”
“Whatevs. You’re not much of a good luck charm, either.”
She had me there.
When Sam pulled the green machine onto my block to drop me off, I saw that Raley was, predictably, parked outside my house, half a liberally freckled arm hanging out the car window, while Daughtry played at a very low volume from his speakers. Which, in itself, was a sign that he was too old to be listening to Daughtry.
He raised a hand in greeting as Sam dropped me at the curb.
“Hi, Hartley,” he said.
I nodded his way.
“Go out after school?”
I nodded again.
“Where?”
I shrugged. “Places.”
“To do?”
“Stuff?”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Teenager stuff.”
“Nice car,” he said, changing tactics. “It makes me hungry.”
I had a feeling most things made Raley hungry.
I turned my back to him, walking up the front steps and into the house. I dumped my bag near the bottom of the stairs and wandered into the kitchen. A note greeted me on the kitchen counter:
Hart,
Went to Yogalates class. Grab somethi
ng from the freezer for dinner.
P.S. Keep the door locked and don’t answer the phone!
I grabbed a pint of hidden ice cream from the back of the freezer. (Okay, I’ll admit the scent of Kevin’s car made me hungry, too.) After all, Mom had said to get something from the freezer, and if I ate Chunky Monkey, there was dairy, protein (nuts), and fruit (bananas). That sounded like a balanced meal to me.
I took my dinner and a spoon upstairs and cracked open my homework. But as much as I tried to focus on my chem labs, my mind was somewhere else.
Or, more accurately, fifteen different places, as pieces of information I’d assembled over the last few days floated through my brain in seemingly random patterns. None of it seemed to fit, and yet I felt like everything I needed to figure this out was there.
Scooping more ice cream into my mouth (was there anything better than chocolate and bananas?) I shoved my chem aside and grabbed a Sharpie and a pad of paper.
On cop shows, there were three main things that detectives always looked at—means, motive, and opportunity. I wrote all three down on the pad.
I focused on the first one. In this case, means was a bust. Just about everyone at Herbert Hoover High owned a pair of iPod earbuds. And, while I didn’t know exactly what Kaylee had been hit on the back of the head with, the collection of large rocks readily available outside the football field meant it wouldn’t have been hard to find a blunt object.
Which left me with opportunity and motive.
Unfortunately, opportunity seemed almost as wide-open as means. So far Andi Brackenridge was the only one we had questioned who had any sort of solid alibi. Plus, she seemed to have more of a motive to keep Courtney alive than dead.
Which left me wondering just who did have a motive for killing Courtney.
Shiloh had said she’d seen Chase going into Josh’s house just before Courtney died. If that was true, what motive could Chase possibly have for killing Courtney? They clearly didn’t run in the same circles, and I had a hard time seeing Chase as Courtney’s type. He was dark and deep. But in a real way, not the way most guys tried to buy an image at Hot Topic. He was the complete antithesis of clean-cut Josh. Surely Courtney would have had zero interest in a guy like Chase.
So what was the connection? Why would Chase possibly want Courtney dead?
I didn’t know. But one thing was for sure: It was time to find out if Chase was friend or foe.
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY, WHICH MEANT (A) NO school, (B) no homework, and (C) the perfect wide-open day to do a little investigating of one brooding bad boy. In lieu of walking up to Chase and calling him out as a killer, Sam and I decided the best way to find out if he had homicidal tendencies was to search his bedroom. If there was any evidence that he’d killed two people, that was the most likely place for it to be.
The only problem was we needed Chase out of said bedroom full of evidence. Luckily, I had a plan.
Sam and I composed an anonymous tip of our own, emailing it to Chase from Kevin’s computer:
I know who the killer is. Meet me at Starbucks at 1 p.m.
Chase lived a good ten minutes away from Starbucks (though, the way he drove, I was only budgeting for five), and he’d likely wait at least ten minutes before realizing he’d been stood up, and then it would take him another five minutes to drive back. I figured we had at least twenty solid minutes to search his place.
Once we’d set the stage, Sam and I begged an hour with the green machine from Kevin (we had to promise to bring him back more brownie mix this time), and by 12:50 on the dot, we were pulling onto Beacon Street.
The crime scene tape was gone from Josh’s house, though I noticed the lawn was starting to show growth, and the windows were still closed up tight against the warm sun, a sign that his parents had not yet been able to get back from Alaska. While it had only been five days since Courtney’s murder, the entire place looked deserted and forlorn. I wondered if it would ever feel the same, considering what had happened within its walls. Personally, if I were Josh, I’d sleep in the living room for the rest of my life rather than spend another night in that bedroom.
Sam and I drove past Josh’s place and parked around the corner, just out of sight of Chase’s house. We hopped out of the car and took up surveillance behind a sculptured evergreen hedge in the shape of troll doll hair.
I peeked around the bush. Chase’s Camaro was still parked in the driveway. He hadn’t left yet. I ducked back.
“He’s still there,” I whispered to Sam.
She nodded. I looked down at my cell readout—12:53. He was cutting it kind of close.
Either that or he didn’t believe the tip was real (good instincts) and was ignoring it altogether.
I was about to go with theory number two and give up when I heard the sound of a car without a muffler starting.
Sam and I peeked around the shrub once more, just in time to see Chase peel out of the driveway. We crouched behind the bush, making ourselves as small as possible as he roared past us. Luckily, he was too engrossed in hammering his gas pedal to the floor (12:58. Seriously—he was going to be there in two minutes? I said a silent prayer for all those on the road with him) to notice two girls trying to blend into the evergreens.
Phase one, a success. Time for phase two of our brilliant plan: getting past Chase’s parental units and into his bedroom.
I hid around the side of his house as Sam walked up the steps and knocked on the front door. A moment later it was opened by an older guy with thinning hair and a protruding beer belly.
He gave Sam an expectant look. “Can I help you?” he asked in a deep baritone.
“Uh, hi,” Sam answered nervously. “I’m super, super sorry, but . . . is that your car parked at the curb?” she pointed to a sedan parked just to the right of the driveway.
The guy nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
“I think I just hit it with my car.”
“What!”
Sam cowered at the guy’s loud voice, but I was proud to see her sticking with the story we’d created.
“I don’t think I scratched it or anything, but maybe you should come have a look just to be sure?”
“Great,” Papa Chase muttered, leaving the porch to follow Sam down the front steps.
As we’d counted on, his entire attention was focused on his precious baby. He didn’t even notice the girl slipping around the corner, through the open front door, and into his house.
The TV was on in the living room, a Giants game blaring. I heard sounds in the kitchen like someone was unloading a dishwasher.
I quickly scuttled up the stairs and down the hallway to Chase’s bedroom door and slipped inside.
Phase two complete. On to phase three: evidence gathering.
I took a moment to stand behind the closed bedroom door and catch my breath as I looked around. The same band posters greeted me, guys sticking their tongues out and girls dressed in next to nothing hanging off the tongue waggers. The desk was still piled high with camera equipment, but the bed was unmade today, showing off a set of Star Wars themed sheets beneath the black comforter. Yeah. Star Wars. I grinned at the small chink in Chase’s armor of cool.
I decided to start with the desk, digging into the first drawer. Rubber bands, paper clips, a stapler, and two pads of paper. One had doodles all over the front of little cartoon guys carrying guns of various sizes. Not exactly friendly hearts and rainbows but not necessarily all that different from what any other guy in my class might draw. A scattering of pens minus their matching caps sat off to the side, and a glue stick rounded out the drawer. Nothing that proved Shiloh was right about Chase being the killer.
Then again, nothing that proved she wasn’t.
I moved on to the second drawer. This one held a collection of photographs. I raised an eyebrow. Now we were getting somewhere. I grabbed a handful and sifted through them. Most were black-and-white, capturing various architectural shapes and shadows. I was surprised to find a
series of portraits among the artsy stuff. The first was of an older guy on a bench at the park. He was sitting alone, his shoulders hunched, a far-off look in his eyes that immediately made me feel nostalgic for some time I’d never actually known. It was a simple scene, but the emotion Chase had captured was surprisingly powerful. I flipped to the next picture. This one was the polar opposite of the first, depicting a small boy on a jungle gym. He was hanging upside down, the look of pure joy on his face so innocent I couldn’t help but smile, too. Chase definitely had a gift for capturing a moment.
The click of the front door closing jerked me out of my thoughts. Sam had gotten off the hook, and Daddy was back at his baseball game. I looked down at my cell—1:05. I was on borrowed time.
I put the photos back and crossed to the bookcase on the opposite wall, scanning its contents for anything that screamed “psycho killer.”
I tilted my head, reading the titles of the books on his shelf. Atlas Shrugged, Cannery Row, Catch-22. I’m not sure what sort of reading material I’d expected to find, but I was impressed. He was a real reader. None of these were on our school assigned reading list.
Beside the paperbacks were a couple of black binders, their covers scratched and showing their cardboard innards at the corners. Clearly well used. I pulled one from the shelf, flipping it open. Handwritten pages filled it, messy, sloping letters covering lined paper. I squinted at the page, trying to read the first one, telling myself that it could possibly be a confession instead of admitting I was just being nosy at this point.
When the winter wind whips her hair
Sunshine fills my soul.
When the fall dawn lights her eyes,
The promises of spring bloom in my chest.
No. Way.
It was a love poem! Who knew Bad Boy had a soft side?
I flipped to the next page. I couldn’t help it. It was another poem, this one darker, about a shadow falling over the world. The next one looked like an analogy about waves on the sand obliterating footprints like a new love washing memories of an old one.
I was so engrossed in reading his binder of personal musings that I almost didn’t hear the sound outside the window.
Deadly Cool Page 14
