That was a joking reference to that old doodle I’d drawn of Chase. The one with a question mark where his number would’ve been.
How much do I know about him now?
That he used to be a hard-partying delinquent, but that he had a good side, too. And a great grasp of the English language. And a nice butt.
But there’s still something mysterious about him . . .
“So let’s open this, huh?” I urged, remembering we weren’t there to investigate Chase. Then I took a few steps back because, while I was eager to see the contents of Mike’s locker, I’d been burned a few times, amateur detecting, and wasn’t exactly excited to smell any dirty laundry, be it literal or figurative.
In fact, just to be on the safe side, I decided to let Chase do the honors of rummaging through Mike’s stinky cleats and soiled jock straps while I went to check out that cool hydrotherapy tub.
“Call me if you find anything interesting,” I said, stepping up to the tub. “And make it quick, before somebody comes—”
Then I stopped talking because, as it turned out, we already weren’t exactly alone.
I stood there for a long time, trying to get my heart to restart and my vocal chords to relax enough to speak again. But it seemed to take forever before I could tell Chase, with what I thought was admirable composure, “Umm . . . Chase? I don’t think Mike is the killer anymore.”
“No?” It sounded as if his head was in a locker, but I could tell he was surprised. “Why not?”
“Because,” I said, swallowing thickly, “his body is kind of in your special whirlpool.”
Chapter 62
“My God, Millie . . .” Dad grabbed me and squeezed me tightly. Not only did he not seem angry with me anymore, but it was the biggest public display of affection he’d ever offered me—even if “public” meant in an isolated locker room, in front of one football player. “It’s one thing for you to stumble on a weeks’-old body,” he said, seeming close to shaken. “But I just saw Mike.” He loosened his grip and glanced at the tub, although he probably couldn’t see the corpse. Once we’d determined that Mike really was dead and called my father and 911, Chase and I had backed far away. “This must’ve just happened . . .”
I hadn’t understood why my dad was so freaked out until I got what he was trying to say. Prying myself free, because Chase was watching and I wasn’t five, I said, “Wow . . . I never thought about that.” I looked at Chase. “We could’ve walked in on a murder.”
That realization gave me the chills—and I also felt like a thoughtless, selfish heel when Chase, suddenly pale, said softly, “Maybe we could’ve stopped it . . . saved Mike . . . if we’d come earlier.”
Oh, gosh. How many times did he intend to get his passport stamped on his endless guilt trip?
But before I could inform Chase that Mike’s death wasn’t his fault, my father asked a question that I probably should’ve prepared for while we’d waited for him to arrive.
“What were you two doing here—alone—in the first place?”
In fact, not only should Chase and I have been ready to answer that for my dad, we should’ve anticipated that somebody else would be curious about our after-hours exploits in a boys’ locker room. Somebody who was, right then, shoving open the door and noting, in a voice rich with twisted glee, “Well, well, well . . . Isn’t this a cozy reunion?”
Chapter 63
“So, kids . . .” Detective Lohser managed to sneer that word. He clearly had issues with teenagers—no doubt rooted in his own not-too-distant youth, which I would’ve bet my meager life savings had included a fair amount of wedgies and perhaps even a “swirly” or two. “What were you doing here alone?”
“Ease up on Chase and Millie,” my father said softly. “They just lost a classmate.”
A classmate whose body was still in a nearby tub, being examined by a bunch of police officers and other people who were traipsing in and out of the locker room, carrying official-looking gear and muttering quiet but official-sounding stuff.
“They still need to explain themselves,” Detective Lohser told my father. Then he addressed me and Chase again, speaking slowly, like we were preschoolers. “What. Were. You. Doing. Here?”
Chase and I shared a look, silently asking each other, “What should we say? Why didn’t we discuss this?” Then I met Detective Lohser’s beady eyes and informed him, “We were looking for clues about Coach Killdare’s murder.”
“You were what?”
My dad and Detective Lohser blurted that at the same time. However, my dad sounded genuinely baffled, while the cop he’d fired seemed ready to burst out laughing—which I thought was phenomenally inappropriate on more than one level.
“It’s not funny,” I said, getting irritated. “I’m investigating the story for the school paper.”
“And I’m helping her,” Chase added. “I brought her in here.”
Detective Lohser’s mustache twitched, as if that really amused him, too. “Did you now?”
“Yes, he did,” I said, crossing my arms. “And I’m probably going to win a major national award when we solve the crime.”
Okay, I had, as usual, taken things a little too far with that boast, but he was really ticking me off, especially given that he didn’t seem to have any answers and was wasting all his time sniffing around my dad.
Detective Lohser finally got suitably serious for a murder scene, telling me, “Kid, you”—his gaze flicked to Chase—“and your boyfriend don’t know the first thing about solving crime.” He spoke directly to me again. “In the future, stick to giggling with your little friends at slumber parties, or whatever teenage girls do. Because in case you didn’t notice, this is serious stuff here. Dangerous stuff.”
I opened my mouth to inform him that I’d never giggled in my entire life, and that he was the one not being serious enough, when, much to my surprise, I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “I agree that investigating a murder is too risky for young people,” he said. “But don’t ever underestimate my daughter, Detective. And don’t disrespect her—or Chase. I don’t like the way you’re addressing them.”
Detective Lohser didn’t seem to know what to make of that, while I also struggled to grasp what had just happened.
Had my father just complimented me?
I turned to meet his eyes, silently thanking him. And to my further surprise, he smiled ever so slightly and squeezed my shoulder before taking away his hand.
But the brief moment we’d shared was messed up as soon as I turned back and saw the look on Detective Lohser’s face. A cat-stuffed-with-canary look.
“Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll treat these young people like adults.” He addressed Chase. “So, young man. When was the last time you saw Michael Price alive? Who was he with?”
I’d never seen Chase Albright look anything but confident—well, except for the time he’d nearly kissed me. He’d gotten pretty uncertain then. But when Detective Lohser posed that simple question, Chase seemed completely at a loss for words. And I didn’t understand why he kept looking at my dad as he struggled to form an answer, his mouth opening and closing.
I tried to give him an encouraging look, like, “Just say something. It’s a pretty simple question!”
But Chase wasn’t looking at me. He was still meeting my father’s eyes, until my dad gave him some sort of dispensation I didn’t understand, either. “It’s all right, son. Tell the truth.”
Chase nodded and took a deep breath, answering Detective Lohser—but looking at me with apology in his eyes. “Mike was with Coach Ostermeyer,” he said. “Here. In the locker room.”
What?
Detective Lohser looked as if he’d hit the jackpot on every slot machine in Las Vegas, and possibly Atlantic City, too. “And what, exactly, were they doing?” he asked, not even trying to hide his smarmy grin. “Hmm?”
Wow, did Chase look miserable. But I still couldn’t stop myself from hating him a little when he admitted, “They were .
. . They were fighting.”
Chapter 64
“Why did you have to tell him about my dad and Mike fighting?” I cried, punching Chase’s arm. It wasn’t a playful punch, either. I kind of slugged him, enough that he rubbed his bicep. “How could you do that?”
“Millie . . .” Chase looked across the dark school parking lot. At least it was dark except for the flashing lights from a bunch of squad cars and an ambulance that was way too late. Just like Chase’s apology was going to be if he didn’t offer one soon. Which he didn’t exactly do. “Detective Lohser would’ve found out the truth.” He finally met my eyes again. “I wasn’t the only person who saw them. Half the guys on the team were still in the locker room, too.”
“Maybe Detective Lohser wouldn’t have asked the other guys,” I pointed out. “He’s not the world’s brightest detective!”
Chase didn’t seem convinced. “He was bright enough to ask the right question. It was almost like he already knew about your dad and Mike.”
That was kind of weird, but it also might have been a lucky guess. My dad was a coach, Mike was a player, and it was a weeknight during the season. Duh. They almost certainly would at least have been seen together, at practice.
“What were they fighting about?” I grudgingly asked a question that I was pretty sure Detective Lohser was asking my dad, maybe right then, because my father’d been detained. “Was it bad?”
Chase shook his head. “No. It was just the usual stuff. It sounded like Mike was mad about your dad not reinstating him as quarterback, now that Mr. Killdare is gone. I guess Mike thought your dad—who, let’s face it, disagreed with Coach Killdare about everything—would switch him back in, now that your father’s in charge.”
Oh, this stupid quarterback idiocy! Seriously, WHO CARES?
“I thought you just said, when we read the e-mails, that Mike didn’t get all lathered up about that anymore.”
“He didn’t, usually,” Chase agreed. “It was the first time I’d heard him get upset about it in a while. And I didn’t know Mike would get . . .” He didn’t seem to want to voice something that I knew we were both avoiding. A truth we’d have to deal with later. Somebody we knew—maybe didn’t like, but who was our age—has been murdered. Instead, he said, “I just didn’t think you needed to know about some argument your dad had with a player.” He dragged his hand through his hair, his usual gesture when he got uncomfortable. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“It was obviously big enough that you had to narc on my father to Detective Lohser.”
“Millie, your dad was okay with it. He didn’t want me to lie.”
“You should’ve anyway!”
Chase wasn’t convinced. “And that would’ve helped things . . . how?” He paused, adding, “It would’ve come out, Millie. Your father would’ve admitted to the whole thing if I hadn’t. He’s always telling us about honor on the field.”
I wasn’t sure that my father would’ve told Detective Lohser about fighting with Mike. Honor, schmonor. My dad knew how to keep secrets. I still didn’t know exactly how long he and Ms. Parkins had dated. And if Dad was aware of Chase’s background, as I suspected, he’d never spilled that story, either.
“Millie,” Chase said more softly. The flashing lights kept splashing his face with red, and although I could see his expression clearly only in short bursts, I could tell that he was even more miserable when he reminded me, “I have a record. One that I try to keep quiet. I don’t need to be a focus for anyone in law enforcement. And I could get in serious trouble for lying during a murder investigation.”
I blinked at Chase, thinking that if he was trying to justify his actions to me, it wasn’t working. On the contrary, he’d just made me furious with him.
He’d sold out my father to save himself?
He was a selfish, spoiled brat, just like I’d guessed.
“So ratting on my father . . . That wasn’t really about honor at all, huh?” I challenged him. “It was about protecting yourself—at my dad’s expense.”
“Millie, the stakes are high for me,” he tried to defend himself.
I wasn’t buying it.
“I’d say the stakes are a lot higher for my father,” I said evenly. It was almost like I was too angry to yell at him. Or maybe I was so disappointed that I just . . . couldn’t. For once, I understood those times when my father logically should’ve hollered at me but got silent instead. Still, I managed to add, “You suck, Chase Albright.”
Chase didn’t dispute that. He just looked as if I’d hit him again. Then he pulled his car keys out of his pocket and said softly, “Come on, Millie. I promised your dad I’d give you a ride home. He might be stuck here awhile.”
I really, really could’ve used the comforting embrace of a soft leather seat, but I didn’t accept his offer. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stalked away from him, across the lot. He must’ve watched me for a long time, because I didn’t hear the purr of a German-engineered motor, even after I reached the street.
I wasn’t sure why, but all at once, when I knew he couldn’t hear me or see my shoulders shaking, I started to cry—about all sorts of stuff. Tears of frustration for how the universe was messing with my poor dad. And tears of sadness over the guy I’d started to like too much and who’d let me down—as well as for the guy I hadn’t liked at all but who’d been killed.
Poor Mike.
I’d read lots of philosophers’ views on death and had taken comfort in the optimistic Socrates and the pragmatic Zhuangzi since my mother had passed away. But right then, alone in the dark with thoughts I’d suppressed, I couldn’t seem to think rationally.
I didn’t really pull myself together until I was practically at my house. But by the time I got inside, I knew that while there was nothing I could do for Mike Price—or about my wrecked friendship with Chase—I could try to fix one big disaster.
Getting out my cell, I searched the Internet for a phone number I’d never used before, but that I was sure my dad knew by heart. Taking a deep breath, I dialed it, and a few seconds later heard a familiar, feminine voice offer an uncertain “Hello?”
“Hey, Ms. Parkins,” I said, wiping my wet cheeks with my sleeve and hearing a lingering trace of sniffling in my voice. “Can we talk?”
Chapter 65
“That’s a good story about finding Mike,” Ryan—grimly—complimented me, resting back in his cafeteria chair while he read the Gazette. Everybody was reading the paper for a change. The caf was practically wallpapered with the second special edition of the year. “And a nice tribute to him, too,” Ry added. “I didn’t think you liked him that much.”
I picked glumly at my grilled cheese. “I didn’t. But everybody deserves a decent memorial.” I thought about Coach Killdare, and how I was learning positive things about him now that he was gone. “Who knows? Maybe I misjudged Mike in life.”
“I don’t think so,” Laura disagreed. “But you’re right about the decent memorial thing.” She accepted the newspaper from Ryan and skimmed my work, noting, “These are good stories, Millie.” Then she frowned. “Wow . . . You actually put in here about your dad getting questioned again, and him fighting with Mike.”
“I had no choice.” I looked across the cafeteria to the table where Chase usually sat alone, nose in a textbook. He was missing in action, though, and I returned my attention to my friends. “Somebody spilled the beans. The best I could do was tell my dad’s side of the story, about how Mike was fine when Dad left the school.” I dropped my sandwich, giving up on lunch. “Besides, writing the article is already a pretty big conflict of interest for me. If this was a real paper—and Mr. Sokowski was a real publisher, instead of a clueless, overwhelmed new teacher—I’d never be allowed to write anything. If I want to keep covering the murders, I have to report the facts. Otherwise Viv will take over.”
Laura gave a small shudder. “I can’t believe you found two bodies. Or that two people have been murdered here.”
“What were you doing in the locker room, anyhow?” Ryan asked. “That’s not exactly clear.”
I pushed away my tray. “Chase and I were snooping around. We had this idea that Mike was the killer. Until, of course, I found him in the tub . . .”
Dead of “blunt force trauma.” That was the official cause of death. I’d used it in my article.
Even though I didn’t say that out loud, Laura, Ryan, and I got quiet. Then Laura said softly, “Maybe you and Chase aren’t such a great combination, after all. It seems like murder follows you two around.”
She was joking, in a bleak way, but to me, it was the understatement of the century.
Chase and I were a terrible combination. Worse than “four to the left, four to the right, four to the left.”
I guess we definitely won’t be going to that dance—if they even hold it.
I was yet again mentally writing off Chase Albright, but I found myself glancing once more toward where he usually sat.
I didn’t really expect him to be there, but apparently he’d come into the caf at some point and claimed his spot.
Only this time, he wasn’t alone.
In fact, he was—once again—deep in conversation with none other than Vivienne Fitch, who’d pulled up a seat next to his. Very next to his. As I watched, Chase handed her a napkin, which she used to dab under her expertly lined eyes, like she was crying—which I doubted. I mean, she and Mike had spent a lot of time together, but I was pretty sure she’d regarded him more as a multifunctioning tool—a human Swiss Army knife—than a friend. Plus Viv was . . . Viv. The unfettered-by-emotion “psychopath next door.”
Was it possible that Mike had been about to spill that secret she’d warned him never to share, and she’d silenced him, permanently?
I kept staring at Chase and Vivienne, who managed to pull herself together—probably because she’d never fallen apart. Then Viv stood up, smiling in a way that was no doubt meant to be “brave.” And while I was no expert lip reader, I was pretty sure I saw Chase tell her, as she backed away, “Sure. See you then.”
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