Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Konrath

  The school building was large and white and two-stories. It had several entrances and I picked the middle one, assuming that was where the principal’s office was. There wasn’t a metal detector, but an adult with a hall monitor badge pinned to her chest immediately stopped me.

  “Can I help you sir?”

  She was short and pear-shaped and said it in a polite yet demanding way.

  “My name is Phineas Troutt. I’m here to check on the disappearance of one of your students several years ago. Amy Scadder.”

  As I was giving the speech I suddenly realized how weak it sounded. If they didn’t remember Amy, then Scadder’s business card wouldn’t open any doors except the ones I could loid with it. And I didn’t have a private eye license to impress anyone with.

  “You have Mr. Scadder’s permission?” she asked.

  I don’t know how well I hid my surprise, but I handed his card over. She nodded and beckoned me to follow.

  I walked past lockers and students and students in lockers, many of them gave me odd looks. The Hall Monitor moved rapidly on her thick little legs, and I lengthened my stride to keep up.

  “We’ll naturally try to do anything we can to help,” she said as we walked. “It’s a shame what happened to that girl.”

  “I’d think it would be a scandal, not a shame,” I pushed.

  “Students aren’t entirely to blame for drug use, Mr. Troutt. Peer pressure is enormous. And even families as respected as Mr. Scadder’s tend to have problems.”

  “Why is Mr. Scadder’s family so respected?” I asked.

  I highly doubted, in a school of many hundreds, that each parent was treated with such respect as she seemed to endow Scadder with. I doubted that most parents were even known by name.

  “He graduated here in the sixties,” she said. “In the eighties he donated the funds for the new Scadder Theater. It was built next to the gym.”

  I wondered why Scadder hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe he just wasn’t the bragging type.

  “I’ll see if Principal Kwon can see you now.”

  She left me in the waiting room of the principal’s office. I sat in a leather chair and leafed through a copy of College Times, reading about ten easy ways to improve your SAT scores. None of the ways they described involved cheating, bribing, or extorting. So much for preparing kids for life.

  The Hall Monitor returned and flashed me a smile.

  “This way, Mr. Troutt.”

  I put down the mag and entered a small office wallpapered with plaques and certificates. The Hall Monitor left and closed the door behind her.

  “Mr. Troutt, I’m Principal Kwon.”

  I took her extended hand and her grip was warm and firm. Her expression held no shock or surprise at my cancerous appearance. When she sat back down, she smoothed her tailored brown suit over her thighs.

  “You seem to have your share of commendations,” I indicated the walls.

  “Our school has received top academic honors in the state since I became principal. We also have the largest exchange student program, the most college-level courses, and the cleanest cafeteria. The incidents of drop-out and student violence are among the lowest in Illinois for a school of this size.”

  “Biggest theater too?” My implication seemed lost on her.

  “With professional lighting and sound. Give students a safe and productive place to learn, and they’ll exceed expectations.”

  “How’s the expulsion rate?” I asked.

  Her living smile flew out the window. I’d touched a sore subject. So I prodded at it.

  “I was just wondering if the school’s high academic record was due to the practice of expelling students with less than average minds.”

  “That’s illegal, Mr. Troutt. If Shorington High were involved in illegal expulsion activities I wouldn’t be up for a seat on the Illinois Board of Education.”

  Ah. Political ambitions.

  “I’m here about Amy Scadder,” I said, changing the subject.

  She switched from bragging mode to sad mode and shook her head. “A tragedy. She was a promising student.”

  “I’d like to speak to some of her teachers, if possible. And friends too.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t interrupt the educational process for that.”

  “How about after class?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Of course, I had no idea who Amy’s teachers were.

  “Can I see her school record?”

  “I’m afraid I can only release student transcripts with the student’s permission.”

  “The student may be dead, Principal Kwon.”

  She nodded sadly.

  “How about a list of her teachers?”

  “I’m afraid that’s part of the transcript, Mr. Troutt.”

  “Vincent Scadder wouldn’t like to hear about the roadblocks I’m running into.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to stand firm on this. Students—even missing students—have rights.”

  “Did you know Amy?”

  “Yes. We had several occasions to talk.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember much. She was bright. Had decent grades.”

  “If she was a model student, why was she in the principal’s office several times?”

  “She was having… difficulties, in one of her classes.”

  “What kind of difficulties?”

  Principal Kwon began to say something, then stopped herself.

  “I understand why you can’t show me Amy’s transcript, but I still don’t know why she ran off. If it was school-related, it would help me a lot to know that.”

  No reply.

  “Behavior problem?” I asked, watching her eyes. “Problem with a teacher? Another student? Sex? Drugs?”

  The principal glanced away when I said drugs.

  “Does Shorington High have a drug problem?”

  “Certainly not.”

  I shrugged. “Lots of wealthy kids here. And Amy was busted for cocaine. Half a kilo isn’t personal use. That’s dealer possession.”

  “Our students are exceptional, Mr. Troutt. I can state, with authority, that Amy Scadder didn’t get those drugs from anyone at Shorington High.”

  “So where’d she get them?”

  “Somewhere off school grounds.”

  “Maybe from this guy?” I flashed her the pic of Amy with the creepy dude.

  Principal Kwon’s eyes narrowed. “I remember him. Our school Police Consultant, Officer MacDonald, had to escort him off school grounds on more than one occasion.”

  “Any chance he took down his name?”

  “He may have.”

  “Can I speak to Officer MacDonald?”

  “He retired last year, moved to Florida. I could check to see if he left a forwarding address.”

  I waited.

  “You’d like it now,” she figured out.

  “Please. It would mean a lot to her parents. They’d really like closure.”

  I could sense I was losing her.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, and I’d have to get it from the Administration Center, which is always busy in the mornings.”

  “Good thing you’re the principal,” I said.

  We stared at each other. She gave it one last try. “I can text you his information.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  I’d tried appeals to decency and vanity without success, so I took a shot at sympathy.

  “Cancer,” I said. “Seems silly to sign a contract that will last longer than I do.”

  The principal seemed to consider it, and then got on the phone to the Administration Center. Two minutes later, I had a name and number.

  “Did you know a friend of hers?” I asked. “Sharon Pulowski?”

  “I didn’t know they were friends. Sharon graduated last year.”

  “Any chance I could
get her phone number?”

  Principal Kwon looked at me like I’d just asked for ten million dollars.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Mr. Troutt.” She said, declaring the end of our meeting. “I hope you find Amy. I’m afraid that her questionable associates outside the school may have led to her disappearance.”

  “I’m afraid you may be right.”

  After leaving the principal’s office I stopped into attendance and asked to borrow a local phone book. Couldn’t find anyone with the last name Pulowski. But I did find Scadder’s car service.

  Earl was starting to act up as I headed to Spartan Limo to talk with Scadder’s ex-driver. I had no Tylenol left, and Maestro Earl was conducting a rhapsody on my nerve endings. Cancer pain was constant, throbbing, and more emotionally debilitating than physically. At least in this stage. When I was a breath away from death, Pasha said the pain would be so bad I’d be under constant heavy sedation.

  It wasn’t our sexiest pillow talk.

  As of now, the pain was an unending road that got worse the farther I traveled. Give me a gunshot wound or a broken bone any day of the week. At least they heal.

  It was a long shot that Miguel Ramos still worked for Spartan, and even if he did I wasn’t sure interviewing him would help me. But asking questions was how people got found. And usually the hired help knew more about the family they worked for than the family did.

  Spartan was easy to find, a few miles east of Shorington in an industrial park. It wasn’t much to look at; simply a parking lot full of various size limousines, and a small adjacent building attached to a truck repair place that also shared the lot.

  The shop was small; two couches in a waiting room and a woman behind a desk talking on the phone. She was twentyish, with either a canned tan or a recent trip to the Bahamas under her belt. She wore a double breasted brown blazer that complimented her hair, and had stupidly long fingernails, squared off at the ends and painted rose red.

  “Gotta go, Donna. Customer.”

  She deftly hung up the phone and showed me her teeth, which were so bright they had to be as phony as the nails.

  “Can I help you sir?”

  “I’d like to talk to Miguel Ramos.”

  “Mr. Ramos just took a car out.”

  “Does it have a car phone?”

  “It’s highly unprofessional for a driver to get calls when on duty.”

  “You said he just left. He probably hasn’t picked his fare up yet.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “It’s important,” I pressed.

  She raised phone and dialed a number using her knuckle.

  “Mikey, got a guy here to talk to you.”

  She handed it over to me, then pulled out a bottle of nail polish from her drawer. The drawer contained nothing but nail care products.

  “Mr. Ramos? My name is Phineas Troutt. I’m working for Vincent Scadder.”

  “That asshole? I’m sorry for you, man.”

  He had a high voice with a faint Mexican accent that he seemed to be trying to downplay.

  “He’s hired me to find his daughter, Amy. After her arrest two years ago she was released into your care.”

  “Not my care. I was just there to pick her up. Dropped off the papers, and boom, she took off like a hot knife through a goose once we got out of the police station.”

  Or like corn through butter, if we were mixing metaphors.

  “Did you ever drive for Amy?”

  “I took her to and from school every day until Daddy bought her that car. She was a snotty kid.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “God dammit!”

  I looked at the receptionist and saw one of her nails had fallen off. It was laying on her desk like a long red worm. Miguel continued, her outburst unheard by him.

  “Never thanked me for a ride. Never talked to me like a person. Treated me like something she owned. Like her old man did.”

  “Did you ever take her to friends’ houses?”

  “Maybe every once in a while. Amy didn’t have too many friends.”

  “How about boyfriends?”

  “No. Wait… There was this one guy, real creepy customer. Lived in northern Illinois somewhere. Green Birch, I think. I took her there twice, she made me promise not to tell her parents.”

  “Why was he creepy?”

  I heard the sound of a car honking through the phone, and Miguel used the Spanish expletive for a boy with an active Oedipal complex.

  “Goddamn cabbies think they own the road,” he told me.

  “Goddam it!” swore the receptionist. She’d tipped over a large bottle of nail glue, and I watched as she repeatedly tried and failed to pick it up as the glue oozed out.

  “Why was her boyfriend creepy?” I repeated.

  “Once I picked them both up at Water Tower Place, took them to his house. He was ten years older. Mean face. He started messing around with her in the car. She kept telling him to stop, but his hands were all over her. She finally started to scream, and he stopped. But the rest of the ride he had this weird smile on his face.”

  “Did you try to interfere?”

  “No. I don’t speak to customers unless spoken to.”

  I noticed that the receptionist was trying to get the bottle upright using two emery boards as chopsticks. It was futile at this point; the bottle was empty.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like I said. Creepy looking.”

  “White?”

  “Yes. With a mustache. And crazy eyes. You know what I mean.”

  I knew. I had the photo.

  “Do you remember the address?”

  “Shit no. Two years ago? I only remember it was Green Birch because we passed that amusement park.”

  “Could you find it if you drove there again?”

  “Dude, I know every side street and back alley from the Magnificent Mile to Wrigley Field. But north of Chi-Town, it all blends together in my brain.”

  “Do you have a GPS?”

  “Do now. Didn’t back then.”

  So much for finding the address.

  “So you were actually the last person to see her?” I asked.

  “Hey, homes, don’t play that shit. She never even got into my car. Amy took off while we were still at the police station. You want eye-witnesses that I didn’t take her, how about a lobby full of cops?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, even though that was exactly what I meant. “Do you remember what she was wearing?”

  “What? No. Hell no. It was two years ago. Do you remember what you were wearing two years ago?”

  I didn’t. But good odds it was jeans and a t-shirt.

  “Thanks for your help, Miguel.”

  “I hope you find her. She wasn’t too bad a kid. Just snotty.”

  I hung up the phone and asked the receptionist if I could make a call.

  “Can’t you see I’m dealing with a situation here?” she said, waving around her emery boards, flicking nail glue everywhere.

  I reached over and uprighted her glue bottle. “One call. It’ll be quick.”

  “Don’t you got a cell phone?”

  “No. But I have something to trade.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Super glue. In my truck.”

  She glanced at the mess on her desk and said, “Deal. No long distance though. The bosses get pissy when the phone bill is high.”

  I found half a tube of glue in my glove compartment. There was dried blood on the cap from the last time I used it. In a pinch, super glue was good for closing wounds.

  I scraped off most of the blood with my fingernail by the time I gave it to her, then picked up the phone and turned so she couldn’t see me dial long distance.

  A woman answered.

  “I’m looking for Mr. MacDonald.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “It’s about an incident at Shorington High School, several years ago.”

&n
bsp; “Hold on a second.”

  She yelled for Mac, and the woman had some lungs on her. A few seconds later, he picked up.

  “This is Mac. You know anything about lawnmowers?”

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s ninety-jesus-nine-god-dancing-degrees out here, sun feels like lasers on every bare inch of my god-dancing skin, and every time I pull the cord the engine goes BA-BA-BUPP-BUPPP-BUPPPPP and then farts on me. It’s got gas and oil. What else does the god-dancing thing need?”

  “Check the spark plugs.”

  I could guy talk with the best of them.

  “The god-dancing spark plugs. Why didn’t I think of that? Who is this?”

  “My name is Phin Troutt. I was hired by Vincent and Phyllis Scadder to find their daughter, Amy. She ran away two years ago.”

  “I remember. Had a few runaways while I was at the school, but they all turned up except her.”

  “What can you tell me about Amy?”

  “Not much. Don’t really remember her at all. Bet I couldn’t pick her in a line-up.”

  “Principal Kwon said there was a boy, not from the school.”

  “What? Don’t recall.”

  “She said you kicked him off school property a few times. Drove a white Land Rover.”

  “A Land Rover? Wait… I do remember that little punk. He’d park in the loading zone, wait for her when school got out. Threatened to tow him a few times. He refused to open the door, just sat there, giving me the finger.”

  “You ever ticket him?”

  “Half dozen times, at least.”

  “How could I get a license plate or an address off the ticket?”

  “Let’s see, it was about two years ago. The Shorington PD might have records going back that far.”

  “Could you check?”

  “I could. Never got closure, there. Let me make a few calls. What’s your number?”

  I gave him my number at the motel, told him to leave a message with Kenny, the manager.

  “You there now, Phin? In Shorington?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Never move to Florida. It’s like a shopping mall in hell. Crowds, crazy prices, long lines, and hotter than sitting on a flame grill.”