Dark horse jk-1

by J. R. Rain

  “Hmm. You have your purposes,” she said, sipping her glass of chardonnay.

  “Is one of those purposes my usefulness in the bedroom?”

  “I have uses for you in the bedroom.”

  “We have time before our dinner arrives.”

  She looked at her watch. “Should be here in ten minutes.”

  “Like I said, we have time.”

  She didn’t need much more encouragement than that. With Ginger on the pergo floor below, running laps around the bed, I served one of my useful purposes.

  Twice.

  ***

  We were now on the balcony. The balcony was devoid of last night’s cigarette butts and Oreo crumbs. We were sharing a glass patio table, eating cheese tortellini and drinking chardonnay.

  “Does Sanchez have any idea who threatened you?” asked Cindy.

  “He doesn’t recognize him, but Sanchez works primarily in L.A. He’s going to ask his cop buddies around here.”

  “Who do you think this guy works for?” she asked.

  “I’m willing to bet for someone who doesn’t want me to find the true killer.”

  “So you think the boy’s innocent?”

  “Now more than ever.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “They think I’m a nuisance. Nothing new. They think this is an open and shut case and resent the fact that I’m poking around on their turf. In essence, calling them fools and liars and incompetent.”

  “Are you?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  “Will you call your father?”

  I felt my shoulders bunch with irritation, but let it slide. She was only trying to help.

  “No.”

  She patted my arm, soothing me. “Of course not. You don’t need him. You are your own man. I’m sorry if I offended. I just worry about you.”

  “I know.”

  We were quiet. Ginger was chasing a fly that was almost as big as her.

  “The man who came to your office, he was a hired killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could see it in his eyes?”

  “He looked like a shark. Dead eyes.”

  “You sometimes get that look,” said Cindy, pushing her plate away. She had eaten most of it, but had left exactly three tortellinis. I was still hopeful they would go forgotten. But the woman had a bottomless stomach, to my chagrin.

  “You mean in the bedroom when my eyes roll up during the final throes of passion.”

  “Final throes of passion?”

  “Means before I climax.”

  “Thank you for that clarification. No, I’m referring to the bar fight in Matzalan. I thought you were going to kill the guy. But you emerged from that look, sort of came back to your senses. I always considered that man lucky to be alive, lucky that you found yourself before you killed him.”

  I said nothing. I remembered that night. A barroom fight, nothing more. The man had felt up Cindy on her way to the bathroom. Bad move.

  She suddenly leaned over and kissed my ear above the scab. It was a heartbreakingly sweet thing to do. She took my hand and led me into the living room, to my sofa. We sat together.

  She said, “You were a devastating football player. And you may very well be again. It is a violent sport that you excel at. I would not love you if you were not always able to come back down from whatever heights you need to scale to fight and even kill.”

  We were silent for a few minutes.

  “Almost makes you think I am at the apex of evolution,” I said. “A handsome, physically imposing, intellectually stimulating, emotionally sophisticated brute.”

  She put her head on my shoulder.

  I was on a roll. “I will even permit you to take me to your classes for show and tell, as an example of a well-evolved human being. And in contrast we can take your last boyfriend and have him stand next to me.”

  “Are you quite done?”

  “Quite.”

  “Will you need protection?” she asked, wrapping her arm through mine and holding me close to her chest.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  She patted my hand. “I know.”

  Ginger was jumping up and down, doing her best to leap onto the couch, but missing the mark by about a foot. I reached down and picked her up and set her in my lap. She turned three circles quickly, and then found a nook and buried her cold nose where our arms intertwined.

  “How is your leg?” she asked.

  “I am worried about my leg.”

  When I looked down at her hand, I saw that she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It was a black cap. The cap to my scotch. She had said nothing, simply held me, and let me know that she knew about my drinking. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

  I held her close. She quit playing with the cap and held it tight in her fist.

  19.

  I parked my car in front of the murder site. The same decayed heap of flowers still marked the place where Amanda had been found slain. There might have been a new teddy bear in the front row, but it was hard to tell. Anyway, he was a cute little guy holding a red heart balloon that said: “I Miss You.”

  I got out and headed up the stone pathway through the grass, passing a limestone circular fountain that was currently turned off. Leaves were collecting in the drain, and I suspected it might be a while until the fountain, with its gurgling expectations, would be turned on again.

  When I reached the door, it swung open as if on its own volition.

  Actually, not on its own volition. A cute little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.

  “Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.

  “You’re big.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re bigger than daddy.”

  “I’m bigger than most daddies.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She giggled.

  A cute little black cat worked its way through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its ears. It was purring before I even touched it.

  “That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little girl.

  “He’s cute.”

  “I love him.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.

  “There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”

  “I’m not a policeman,” I said.

  The door was pulled all the way open and a woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.

  “Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.

  She paused, the white briefs hanging over her hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I speak with you? About Amanda.”

  She looked at me some more. A minute passed. Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own home.

  She left the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her in.

  ***

  After asking if I would like a cup of coffee, and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad place myself.

  I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into
her coffee.

  “More medicine, mom?” said the younger version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.

  “Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”

  She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door, and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted that both were nude.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Knighthorse?” asked Mrs. Peterson. She was looking down at one of my nifty business cards on the coffee table before her. But before I could answer she moved on. “Are you Indian? Your name sounds Indian.”

  “My great grandfather was Apache. Apparently grammy had a taste for savages.”

  “I wouldn’t call them sava-oh, I see, you’re kidding.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But the Native American in me is diluted. Mostly, I’m German and Welch and a whole lot of man.”

  She looked up at me and almost smiled. “You certainly are a whole lot of man. I should have guessed the German: blond hair, tall and muscular. Would have done Hitler proud.”

  “I would have done anyone proud, ma’am.”

  “A true knight in shining armor.”

  She might have sounded flirty if her words were not empty and devoid of meaning. Like listening to a corpse speak from the grave.

  “You’re here to try to clear Derrick?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She drank from her spiked coffee. “So what the hell can I do for you?”

  “First of all, I would like to express my condolences.”

  “How very sweet of you.”

  “Do you feel the police have found your daughter’s killer?”

  “You get right to it.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended.”

  “No. I like it. No reason to dance around the subject. My daughter was torn apart just inches from our front door by a goddamn animal.”

  Her voice never rose an octave. She spoke in a monotone, although her lower lip quivered slightly.

  “Mrs. Peterson, did you ever meet Derrick?” I asked.

  She nodded and looked away. She was watching Alyssa play with her oddly nude dolls. “Call me Cat. For Cathy.” She continued to watch Alyssa. Now Ken and Barbie were kissing in her hands. Butt naked.

  “What did you think of Derrick?” I said.

  “I thought he was wonderful. Charming, energetic. He seemed to really care about Amanda.”

  “I liked him, too,” said Alyssa suddenly. Her voice echoed slightly in the darkened room. The upbeat child-like quality seemed out of place, but somehow appreciated. At least by me.

  “Why did you like him?” I asked her.

  “He made me laugh. Amanda loooved him.”

  “That’s enough,” said her mother quietly. Then to me: “Yes. He seemed to love her as well.”

  “But he was not permitted to come around?” I asked.

  “No. Her father had strict rules about her dating African-Americans.”

  “Did you agree with the rule?”

  “I wanted peace in my house.”

  “Did Amanda ever come to you about Derrick?”

  “Yes. Privately, quietly. We would often talk about Derrick. She had more than a crush on him. They had been dating for over a year. She might have loved him, if you want to call it that.”

  “Love knows no age.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So you didn’t condone her secretly seeing Derrick?”

  “No. I encouraged her.”

  She almost lost it right then and there. Her lip vibrated violently, but stopped when she bit down on it.

  “Mrs. Peterson, you did not condemn your daughter to death by encouraging her to see Derrick.”

  She turned and faced me. Her eyes were full of tears. A red splotch was spreading down from her forehead. She was getting herself worked up. Before she could unleash some unholy hellfire in my direction, I quickly added, “Cat, I was threatened by an unknown killer a few days ago to stay away from this case. The killer, I assume, represents the true murderer of your daughter. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I believe Derrick is innocent.”

  She blinked. The splotch receded. “But you are not backing off the case,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for trying to help. I never believed in Derrick’s guilt, but aren’t you afraid?”

  “I am a big guy. I can take care of myself.”

  And that’s when the front door open and Mr. Peterson came in.

  The first thing I noticed was that both Cat and Alyssa shrank back into themselves. Especially Alyssa. The cute little girl disappeared. Replaced by something cold and wet, and left out in the rain to die.

  20.

  He strode quickly into the living room, head swiveling, trying to take in everything at once. He was wearing black slacks, cordovan loafers and a black silk shirt. Sunglasses rode high on his graying head of curly hair. His roaming, pale eyes finally settled on me.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he said to me.

  “Richard…” said Cat, but her voice was weak, her words trailing.

  I stood, “I’m Jim ‘the fuck’ Knighthorse.”

  I held out my hand. He didn’t take it. Little Alyssa was right. I was bigger than her father, had the guy by about two inches. It was clear that he lifted weights: thick chest and small waist. But he lifted for show. I know the type.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.

  Richard Peterson turned to his wife, who flinched unconsciously. Or perhaps consciously. Maybe he preferred the women in his life to flinch in his presence. He next turned to his daughter. She was looking down, pressed against the glass of the sliding door.

  I said I was here to investigate the murder of his daughter.

  “Who hired you?”

  I told him.

  “Get out,” he said. “Get the fuck out.”

  I didn’t move at first. He then turned and looked at the little girl.

  “Go to your room,” he said. “Now.”

  Alyssa jumped and ran away, leaving her Barbie’s where they lay, with Ken on top of Barbie. I saw that there was a small puddle of urine where she had been sitting. A door in the back of the house slammed shut.

  I turned and looked at Mrs. Peterson. Only then did I notice the purplish welts inside her legs.

  “I’m sorry for intruding,” I said calmly.

  “Don’t you people have any decency?” He said to me, then turned on his wife. “And you, Cat. You let him in. How could you? He’s representing the boy who murdered our Amanda. He’s trying to set him free.”

  “But Richard-”

  “Shut the fuck up, Cat. You.” He turned to me. “Get the fuck out or I’ll call the police.”

  I looked at Cat and she nodded to me. That’s when I saw a picture of another girl on the mantle above the fireplace. This one older. She had her arm around her mother and was wearing a blue and white UCI sweatshirt. A third daughter.

  I left the way I had come, and he slammed the door shut behind me. I paused a few minutes on the porch but could hear nothing. I had the feeling he was standing behind me, waiting for me to leave.

  There was nothing to do but leave.

  So I did.

  21.

  “We should probably call the police,” said Cindy, after I told her about my encounter with Richard Peterson. Whom I now referred to as Dick.

  “A few bruises and a terrified child does not a case make,” I said. “Someone would need to come forward.”

  She sighed. “And most victims of domestic violence are hesitant to report the abuse, for fear of repercussions.”

  It was just past 10 p.m. Cindy’s evening class had just ended. We were sitting at a small cafe in the UCI student union. I was eating a chocolate chocolate muffin-yes, chocolate chips in a chocolate muffin-the way it should be eaten: big bites that encompassed the stump and the top. Cindy was sipping hot cider. The cafe was surrounded by a lot of
glass and metal. Couches and chairs lined the walls and filled the many adjoining rooms, filled with students studying and working and not making out or sleeping, as I would have done in my day.

  “We are surrounded by over-achievers,” I said.

  “UCI is a tough school to get into,” she said. “Same with UCLA. Were you not once an over-achiever?”

  “On the football field, yes. In the classroom, my mind wandered.”

  “Where did it wander?”

  “To the next game. The next girl. I was a big man on campus.”

  She looked at me over her cider. “You still are,” she said.

  “Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

  “If there wasn’t a chocolate chip on your chin, the answer would be yes.”

  She reached over and scooped it off and ate it.

  “Does that count against your diet?” I asked.

  “I’ll jog an extra lap tomorrow morning.”

  She sat her cider down carefully in front of her. She adjusted the mug so that the handle was facing at a forty-five degree angle. Precision and exactness was her life. And I loved her for it.

  I reached over and moved the handle a little to the left.

  “Hey,” she said, slapping my hand. She adjusted it back. “So what are you going to do about the brute?”

  “About Dick? First, I need to speak with the eldest daughter, and confirm my suspicions.”

  “Your suspicions are generally pretty accurate.”

  “In this case, I want confirmation. I need to speak to the eldest daughter.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask.”

  “And how am I supposed to find her here at UCI if you don’t know her name?”

  “I know her last name is Peterson. Or at least I assume it to be. The other two daughters’ names both started with an A. So I would begin there. Perhaps an Alicia Peterson, or an Antoinette Peterson.”

  “You realize this isn’t part of your job description, at least not on this case, resolving domestic violence.”