To Catch a Killer

by Sheryl Scarborough

  “Okay. Here’s what I’ve got.” Spam pulls some folded sheets of paper out of her back pocket and curls her foot up under her on the sofa. “Miss P’s cell phone account was, as I predicted, extremely easy to hack. I’ve checked out all the calls to and from her cell for the last three months. There was only one number that looked sketchy.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “I can’t tell.” Spam gives me a shrug. “It’s an old landline: 555-8446. I tried calling it but it just rings, no voice mail.”

  “Wait.” I blink a couple of times, training my gaze on the ceiling. “Why is that number so familiar?” I pretend to dial it on my phone. “It’s two numbers off from Rachel’s work number.”

  “Where does she work?” Journey asks.

  “The police station. She’s the 911 unit supervisor.” Spam answers Journey’s question because my brain is busy trying to figure out what a number close to Rachel’s could mean.

  “Are you saying the calls were to someone at the police station?” Journey asks.

  “It’s possible,” Spam says. “They often link business phone numbers in sequence like that.”

  “But wouldn’t there be voice mail?” Lysa asks.

  I’m wondering the same thing. My paranoia kicks in. “How many calls were there?” Did Miss Peters discuss my DNA hunt with Rachel? No. If Rachel knew about that, she would have been all over me. Besides, the number isn’t Rachel’s, it’s just close to it.

  Spam scans the printout. “The calls went both ways, to Miss Peters and from her. There were one or two last month, but more than ten right before…” She trails off with a sigh. A quiet moment follows while we all reflect on what we’ve lost.

  No question, we are truly and irrevocably changed.

  When the silence threatens to pin us to the floor, I get to my feet. “Be right back.” I lightly skim down the ladder and bound through my bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. There’s a drawer where Rachel keeps all the weird things that don’t belong anywhere else, like take-out menus, rubber bands, and her collection of little screwdrivers. Underneath all the junk is an old address book from before she put everything on her cell phone. I bring it back upstairs.

  The three of them are still sitting there, silent and sad.

  I curl onto the floor and slide up close to Journey. We’re not touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Just being near him makes me feel better. He gets me. He even said so. I flip through the pages of Rachel’s phone book. The usual veil of hair slides across my forehead and into my eyes. Journey rescues it and tucks it behind my ear. The warmth of his fingers as they linger on my neck summons a minor blush. I’m hoping Spam won’t notice, but a quick glance up at her face finds a silly smirk plastered there. I’m so busted.

  “Okay. I’m looking up Sydney in Rachel’s book. Her direct line is 555-8442.”

  Spam checks the list. “That’s not it.”

  “Who else?” I flip to C, looking for Chief Culson’s name. I find the name Charles and a notation for a private line. “What about this one: 555-8446?”

  Spam sits forward. “That’s it. Whose is it?”

  I gnaw on my lip, not sure how these things hook up. “According to Rachel’s book, it’s Chief Culson’s private line.”

  “That could explain why I couldn’t track it down,” Spam says. “Private lines are different from direct lines. They’re supposed to be—well, private. Off the books.”

  “Makes sense for the chief of police, I guess. Right?” I say.

  “Maybe Miss Peters called him because she was being threatened,” Journey offers.

  “But why would she call his private line and not the main line?” Spam wonders.

  “Besides, the chief doesn’t investigate problems, he’s responsible for overseeing the entire unit,” Lysa says. “If Miss Peters had a complaint she would talk to an officer or a detective, like Sydney.”

  “Plus, if she was afraid of someone, the police would have a record of that and they wouldn’t be looking at us,” Journey says.

  Spam shakes her head. “I doubt that they’re seriously looking at you.”

  Lysa picks at a ragged cuticle. “Actually, I heard my parents talking. First it was just Journey they were looking at. But now that the two of you are hanging out, well, people are starting to wonder.”

  I glance over at Journey, but he just stares straight ahead. “Screw what they think. The only way for Erin and I to stay safe and out of trouble is for us to stick together,” he says.

  I inch my fingers across the floor until just the tips of mine meet just the tips of his. He slides his hand forward.

  “He’s right,” I agree.

  We’re not holding hands exactly, but it is a touch of support. Maybe even solidarity.

  “Fine. Just don’t get so caught up in your lovefest that you miss something.” Spam gets to her feet. “Anyway, I need to go. I’m helping my dad tomorrow and it’s going to be a long day.”

  The rest of us stand up, too. “I can’t get to the fingerprints until Monday after school, but I will get to the chroma test over the weekend. I’ll also research the box from the lab freezer. You need to go through Miss Peters’s computer files.”

  Spam gives me a quick hug. “I’ll get to the files over the weekend, too. But the minute we find something concrete, we’re taking it to Sydney. Agreed?” Spam says.

  “Agreed.”

  “I want you safe,” she says.

  Journey slides his arm around my waist. “Don’t worry. I’ve got her back.” He squeezes my waist, sending a flush of goose bumps across my body in all directions. I’m kind of speechless. Spam’s eyebrows rise and Lysa’s mouth falls open.

  “Roger that,” Spam murmurs, as she shoots a serious side-eye toward Lysa.

  There’s an awkward silence.

  They can’t really expect me to talk when my brain is exploding from the whole Journey-just-put-his-arm-around-me thing. Then I realize that this is the first time one of us has brought a sort-of boyfriend into our group and how much it might look to Spam and Lysa like Journey and I are squaring off against them.

  “No matter what, we’re still a team, right?” I say.

  Journey drops his hand from my waist and quietly studies his shoes.

  “Yeah!” Lysa finally says. “A killer team.” She gives a weak arm pump. “Oh. Bad choice of words.”

  I was trying to bring them together, but my team comment fell flat. There’s definitely a feeling of my side with Journey and their side with Spam and Lysa.

  Journey clears his throat. “Do I need to slip out through the balcony like I came in?”

  Spam and Lysa go all heavy eyebrows to each other again. I know what they’re thinking. That he’s been hanging out in my bedroom. But they’re wrong.

  “It’s only nine-thirty; Rachel won’t be home for a couple of hours yet, and I’m pretty sure Victor’s still out.” We troop together out of the attic, down the stairs, and out the back through the kitchen. Spam and Lysa wave good-bye and continue on down the driveway. Journey hangs back. He takes my hand, massaging it with both of his.

  “We’re going to figure this out,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  I press my forehead into his shoulder. It’s solid, like a wall. He lightly circles his arms around me and pulls me close. His fingers play with the tips of my hair. I breathe out a long, pent-up sigh. I want to say something, but my throat is so tight a pea couldn’t slip through.

  “Okay, yeah. Got it. I’ll get back to you in a day or so,” a low male voice promises, but it isn’t Journey. It’s coming from deep in my backyard.

  I jump away from Journey and squint into the darkness. There’s a cement patio located behind a flower bed toward the back of our garage. Rachel and I never use this area. In the dim light, I can barely make out Victor sitting at an old table out there, talking into his cell phone. He clicks the phone off, rises, and comes toward us, shuffling through the dried leaves.


  I panic but don’t know what to do. It would be obvious if Journey took off running mere seconds before Victor reaches us. Our backyard isn’t that big. There’s no way Victor hasn’t seen him. Instead we both just stand there with blank, guilty expressions.

  Victor stops in front of us, looking from me to Journey and back to me.

  “I assume this is Journey,” he says.

  I avoid making direct eye contact.

  Journey thrusts his hand forward. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” Victor takes his hand and they shake. Victor continues to the bottom of the stairs before pausing. “You coming up?”

  Journey and I exchange a look. “I better go,” he says. “See you Monday?”

  “Yeah. Monday,” I say.

  Journey turns and lopes off down the driveway. I head up the stairs even though it feels like he’s taking a part of me with him.

  Once inside the kitchen, Victor takes a seat at the table. I head for the refrigerator and pretend to check out the contents. “There’s some leftover pizza, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m good,” Victor says.

  I close the door and stand at the table for a few seconds. I don’t want to sit down and discuss what Journey was doing here. I fake a yawn. “Well, I think I’m going up to bed.”

  “So early?” Victor asks. He sounds disappointed.

  “Yeah, it’s been a pretty long day.”

  “Okay.” He studies me for a long minute. “Good night.”

  I slowly ascend the stairs until I’m out of his sight, and then I race to my bedroom door. He didn’t say anything about Journey and neither did I. The question is, will he tell Rachel?

  25

  Life always finds a way.

  —MISS PETERS

  Saturday is Victor’s first weekend home since I’ve been part of the family, and Rachel has the whole day planned. First, pancakes for breakfast, then a drive through the old neighborhood and lunch at her favorite restaurant.

  She invites Sydney to meet us for lunch, which turns out great because the conversation between Victor and Sydney is better than any crime-investigation class ever. Victor goes into great detail about all the amazing equipment he has in his lab at the FBI while Syd grumbles over Chief Culson’s reluctance to bring that same technology to our city.

  “It’s the cost,” Victor says. “Setting up a crime lab is expensive.”

  This supports what Journey said about Miss Peters’s idea to share a lab with the school and the police department. But Sydney shakes her head.

  “Cost isn’t the whole story on him, I’m afraid,” Sydney says. “Charles is your basic gumshoe. He’s all about old-school detective work and truly believes a well-followed hunch is far more valuable than science.” She uses air quotes around the word “science.”

  Wow. That’s surprising. What police officer wouldn’t want hard, cold science to support his cases? But I don’t ask the question out loud.

  “Chuck only says that because he got stuck here in a Podunk police unit.” Victor sits back and sips his coffee. He waves his cup at Rachel for emphasis. “You remember, back in the day, he and I were going to go to the FBI together.”

  There’s a clunk under the table.

  “Ow.” Victor casts a wary look at Rachel.

  “Sorry,” she mutters. But I know the exact meaning of her pinched expression and the quick side-eye motion she makes in my direction.

  She doesn’t want Victor talking about all this in front of me.

  The adults veer off into talking about less exciting memories of the past. To make them more comfortable, I slip my headphones on and listen to some music until lunch is over.

  More sightseeing follows lunch, this time a drive to the beach. On the way we pass the turnoff to the old cannery where Journey lives. Victor mentions the legends of the old place and gets another side-eye from Rachel. Poor guy. Everything he wants to talk about is on Rachel’s off-limits list.

  We end the day with dinner at home. Rachel’s cooking another family favorite, enchiladas with green sauce, and I’m making a salad. She urges me to invite Spam and Lysa to join us, but I tell her they already have plans. I didn’t actually check with them, though. It’s not that I don’t want to see my best friends, it’s that I’m missing Journey. I want the freedom to think about him with no distractions.

  I used to only think about Journey when I was at school. My weekends were pretty much Journey-free. But suddenly, having to go two whole days without seeing him is making me itchy. I don’t know why, but while I’m slicing vegetables for the salad I’m remembering how he chews his fingernails. As I set the table, I’m picturing him slam-dunking his trash. Journey never just throws something away; it’s always a slam dunk. I don’t even want to get started thinking about his eyes, or how popular he is.

  It’s only Saturday. How will I survive Sunday?

  * * *

  Sunday morning starts early with a whole new household sound track—the thup, thup, whang of a basketball warm-up in our driveway. But it’s the smell of bacon that ultimately draws me downstairs. This also brings Victor in from his morning workout.

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but Rachel seems different since Victor’s arrival. She’s actually humming while she cooks, and I can’t remember Rachel ever humming while doing anything. As I set the table, Victor keeps the conversation flowing with jokes and stories about their past. I bask in his uplifting energy. He’s the breath of fresh air this family has needed.

  When we’re done eating, Rachel packs up for the office. She says she’s hoping she won’t have to work a double shift. I take over kitchen cleanup and Victor pitches in to help. Just as we finish, Spam shows up at the back door.

  “I’m going on a delivery for my dad and I thought you’d like to ride with me,” she says.

  I shrug. I didn’t have any other plans for today. “Okay.”

  Once we’re in her car and she’s backing out of the driveway, her plan unfolds a little further. “I’ve been thinking about your potential dads.”

  “And?” I approach this conversation with caution.

  “I think we should check them out,” she says.

  “Check them out how?”

  “Go by their houses. Snoop. Spy. Get a look at them.”

  “I see where this is going. You just want to see them, to see if you can match up some puzzle piece of their face with mine.”

  “No,” she says. “Not exactly. I thought maybe we could crack their phone records, too.”

  I give her an exaggerated side-eye. “Let’s do your dad’s delivery first and then we’ll see.”

  Spam’s delivery happens to be to an office building in the older, historic part of town, which is always under construction these days. We’ve been silent for most of the drive but I know this doesn’t mean she’s given up on wanting to check out my P-dads. P for potential. I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to call them in my head, although there’s not much potential left now that Miss P is gone.

  Spam and Lysa are my best friends but I’m not sure I want them involved with my P-dad investigation. Is that weird? It’s like this is too personal or something. The only one I ever really trusted with all of this was Miss P. Hey, Miss P … for potential. Or not, as it happens to be now.

  I picture her, circling the lab, hands raised over her head to draw our attention. “Remember this, people,” she would say. “Life always finds a way.”

  One of the P-dads could be part of my life. I can’t give up finding out for sure just because she’s gone. She definitely wouldn’t want that. But I have to set those questions aside. For now, my first priority is to figure out who killed her.

  “Crap!” Spam slams her hand on the steering wheel.

  “What?”

  “The street’s blocked. We can’t get through.”

  I pull myself out of my daydreams and see what she’s saying. There are cones and barricades keeping both people and traffic away from a la
rge, crumbling old hotel on the corner and all the buildings on the street beyond it.

  “Looks like they’re tearing down the hotel.”

  “Well, goody for them,” Spam says. “But I have to get to the other end of this block and this is the only access.”

  I stiffen as she noses her car all the way up to the barricade. “Spam, you can’t—”

  “Relax. I just want to see if there’s someone around that I can ask.”

  “Hey! Back it up.” A distorted male voice barks instructions through an amplified speaker. Suddenly, Chief Culson appears at the front of Spam’s car, waving one arm and talking into a bullhorn.

  Spam rolls down her window. “Hi. Excuse me,” she says. “But we have office equipment to deliver to the green building down the block. How can we get there?”

  Chief Culson walks up to the window. “Sorry. There’s no access today. The mayor just finished a little ceremony and as soon as we get him out of here, we’re under orders to clear the whole block so they can bring it down.” He peers in the window and spots me. “Hey, Erin. I didn’t know that was you.”

  “Hi, Chief.” I give him a small wave.

  “Is there any way?” Spam pleads. “Erin and I just need forty-five minutes to deliver this stuff and set it up. It’s for my dad’s store.” She glances in the backseat. “Actually, I could probably even do it in twenty minutes.”

  The chief gnaws on the corner of his lip, contemplating her request. He checks his watch. “I can give you twenty minutes. But you have to park your car behind that Dumpster and walk it in. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” Spam jumps at the offer. “Absolutely. We’ll be in and out. You won’t even know we were here.”

  Spam backs her car up and parks behind the Dumpster, where the chief directed her to park. Then she loads a stack of boxes containing computer components into my outstretched arms. “That’s enough,” I say, once the stack reaches my chin. “I have to be able to see.”

  “I’ll guide you.” Spam tucks a couple of boxes under her arm and slings her tool bag over her shoulder. Her idea of guiding is for me to listen to her tapping footsteps in front of me and try to follow them.