by J. R. Rain
“My God, Knighthorse, you are a big boy,” he said, pumping my hand.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
He laughed and gestured for me to sit. He moved behind his black lacquer desk and took a seat. Larkin leaned forward eagerly and laced his fingers together before him. His fingers were thick and gnarled and some seemed particularly crooked, not too surprising after a full career in football. Between high school, college and the pros, fingers were bound to get broken.
“We are very excited to hear from you,” Aaron Larkin began.
“Excitement is good. I am happy to be here.”
“Well, we had given up on you. Such a tragedy about your leg. But my God you have kept yourself fit. And we need someone like you badly. Hell, who doesn’t need a fullback nowadays?”
“Outside of football, few people.”
He laughed. “We want to give you a private workout in two weeks. If we like what we see we’ll invite you to training camp. We are honored that you’re here, Knighthorse. My God you were an unholy terror on the playing field. Your services could be very, very valuable to us. So how is the leg?” he asked, and his voice was filled with genuine concern, and for that I liked the guy immensely.
“It has healed completely.” I lied. It hurt like a motherfucker.
“An utter miracle. I watched you coming down the hall. There’s no limp to speak of.”
The hallways had been empty. He must have been watching me on some closed circuit TV. A sort of high tech surveillance to monitor my gait.
“Well, I’m a hell of a specimen.”
“Around here, they all are.”
We set a date for my mini-workout, and when I left his office, I waved to the little camera situated in the upper corner of the hallway.
Chapter Fifty-six
“Where the hell is he?” asked Sanchez.
I shrugged.
“Did you just shrug?” he asked. “Because it’s too dark to tell. I mean there’s a hundred reasons why I’m one of the best homicide detectives in LAPD, but seeing in the dark ain’t one of them.”
“Neither is using proper English.”
“Hell you’re lucky I’m using any English at all, being of Latino descent, and this being Southern California.”
“This is America, you know.”
“Unfortunately there ain’t no such thing as speaking American.”
“Too bad.”
“And last time I checked we ain’t in England, so fuck English.”
We were waiting outside of Huntington High in my Mustang. It was past 7:00 p.m., and Bryan Dawson, or Pencil Dick, was still in his office. We had been waiting here for the past four hours. Students were long gone, including most of the faculty. We had watched the sun set over the Pacific.
“I’m hungry,” said Sanchez.
“There’s a Wendy’s around the corner. Why don’t you go get us something to eat.”
“Why don’t you give me the fucking money to go get us something to eat.”
“When was the last time you paid for anything?” I asked.
“The last time you helped me solve a case.”
I gave him the cash. Sanchez left, and the mere thought of a burger and fries made my stomach start to growl. We had been following Pencil Dick for four straight days. So far there was no evidence of any extracurricular activities on the part of the band director, other than his fondness for frozen yogurt.
Sanchez came back with a massive grease-stained bag of food. We ate silently and quickly, drinking from two plastic buckets that were passed off as jumbo drinks. And when we were finished, when the eating noises finally stopped altogether, when the debris had been collected back into the bags, I saw a familiar sight.
Coming down through a side hall, turning into the faculty parking lot, was a handsome man with dark hair. He was carrying a briefcase, and looked far too important to be just a band director. Or at least that was the impression he presented. He got into a red Jetta.
“Let’s roll,” I said.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Bryan Dawson lived in a condo about a mile from the beach. We were currently heading in the opposite direction.
“He’s not heading home,” said Sanchez.
“Astute,” I said.
I was three cars behind the Huntington band director, sometimes drifting back to four or five. To date, he had made no indication that he knew he was being followed.
“You’re following too close.”
“No, I’m not.”
“He’s going to make us.”
“He’s not going to make us,” I said. “And I’m the one who taught you how to tail.”
“But I’m the one who got all the tail.”
“So you say.”
We were heading deeper into Huntington Beach. In fact, we were just a few blocks from my office.
“Know someone works around here,” said Sanchez. “Thinks he’s a detective.”
The Jetta suddenly turned into an empty bank parking lot. I pulled to the side of the road and killed the headlights, giving us a good view of Pencil Dick. From the shadows, a lithe figured stepped away from the building and into Dawson’s car. The Jetta swung around, exited the parking lot and was soon heading back our way. Sanchez and I both ducked.
“You realize that we look like fools,” said Sanchez as the car sped past us. “The windows are tinted. They can‘t see us.”
“They especially can’t see you,” I said.
“Is that a comment on my darkish skin?”
“Your dark skin.”
“I’m proud of my dark skin.”
“Good for you,” I said, peeking up and looking in my rearview mirror. Dawson was heading south, probably home. I flicked on the lights. “And away we go.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
I followed four car lengths behind the Jetta. Judging by Dawson’s preoccupation with his newly acquired passenger, I probably could have followed directly behind him with my brights on, with little fear of being made.
“She just disappeared,” said Sanchez.
“In his lap,” I said.
“You think she’s inspecting the quality of his zipper?”
“She’s inspecting something.”
The Jetta swerved slightly to the right. Dawson over-compensated and swerved to the left. He finally regained some control, although he now drove more toward the right side of the lane and even on the line itself.
“Seems distracted,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
“How old do you think she is?”
“No way of telling yet,” I said.
“In the least, gonna nail him for statutory rape.”
“Got the camera?”
Sanchez reached around and grabbed a nifty piece of equipment. It was a high resolution camcorder with night vision capabilities.
“So you know how to work this thing?” he asked.
“No idea. But we should figure it out fairly quickly.”
The Jetta braked and made a right into a massive condo complex. I pulled immediately into a maintenance parking spot near the trash dumpster.
“Okay,” Sanchez said, “I’ve got it rolling.”
“Zoom in on the car.”
I heard the whir of the zoom feature, and watched the lens stretch out like a probing eye. A green light feature indicated that the night vision capability was currently being used.
“Keep it steady,” I said.
“That’s what your mom told me back in high school.”
“I didn’t know you back in high school. Plus, my mom was killed when I was ten.”
He pulled away from the camera. “No shit? How was she killed?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged, lifted the camera back up to his eye. “Fine.”
I said, “Here they come.”
“Nice choice of words.”
The girl emerged from her position in his lap. We both hunched down. The doors open
ed. I peaked through the steering wheel. Although the windshield was tinted, it was not as dark as the door glass. Someone looking hard enough could still spot us.
“You need to get a van. This is bullshit.”
“When you talk the camera moves. So don’t.”
They headed our way, laughing and holding hands. Dawson’s shirt was untucked. They continued toward us. Sanchez turned in his seat and followed them. As if on cue, Dawson stopped next to Sanchez’s door, turned the girl around, planted a big kiss on her lips, and felt her up.
“You getting this?” I whispered.
“Oh, yeah.”
“How old do you think she is?” I asked.
They continued up a flight of stairs and disappeared. Sanchez pulled the camera away from his eye.
“Too young.”
I said, “Goodbye, Pencil Dick.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
I was in my office, feet up on my desk, fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let’s see Colombo do that.
When the burn in my arms and chest had resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I’ve been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax machine stopped spitting out its image.
The fax machine sat on top of a short bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to me, along with all of Clive Cussler’s novels, my guilty pleasure.
In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.
My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over again.
I carefully put the faxed photograph in a manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk’s top drawer and left the office.
* * *
Huntington Beach was paradise. The best weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of, were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms, looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the waves.
Two miles up the coast I turned left and headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High. My home away from home.
It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.
I moved up the central artery, past hundreds of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom.
* * *
Mario and I were sitting opposite each other in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.
Mario was studying the photograph, not saying much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from him.
Finally he looked up at me. “Yes,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly. “That is him.”
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “You killed him?”
I said nothing. He said nothing and looked away.
“He was a motherfucker,” said Mario. “I am glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family.”
“I know.”
Mario pointed with a thick finger. “Someone shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his fucking face, too.” He spat to the side. His lower lip was quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more difficult to discern. “Why did he threaten my family? He is in hell. Straight to hell.”
The thought of me sending Fuck Nut to hell was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject, somewhat.
“But the person who hired him is still free, Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?”
Mario nodded.
“Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda was murdered?”
I waited for him. His lower lip continued to quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained some control of himself, and once he did, he told me everything.
And I mean everything.
Chapter Sixty
At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning, I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell, even at this very moment.
To me the pain was worth it to play football.
The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two hours.
Two hours.
Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.
Not a good thing.
All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.
I was now thirty.
For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.
But it was the NFL, man. These were the big boys.
I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner, prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous as some, but tough as hell.
At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.
I shifted in my seat to ease some of the pressure.
I had taken three Advils this morning. The Advils didn’t work, although my headache was long gone.
Was I good enough to make it in the pros?
Yeah, probably. College ball certainly couldn’t contain me.
Traffic picked up a little. I entered San Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a mother holding a child, being led by the man.
I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who killed Amanda.
A killer who needed to be stopped at all costs.
I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the hardest week’s of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for her. She had made that decision on her own.
Could I have made the NFL? Yeah, probably.
My leg would continue to throb every day of my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old’s dream. I was thirty.
I thought of my mother and her own unsolved murder.
There was much to do.
Time to quit screwing around.
At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway, turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.
My leg felt better already.
Chapter Sixty-one
On the way back to Orange County I pulled out my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.
He returned my phone call almost instantly, furious. “Move on? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Means I’m not coming in.”
There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking: players would give their lef
t nut for this opportunity.
“I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule? I’ll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we have a whole crew out there waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Life happened.”
“You could make our team, Knighthorse.”
“I know.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers to catch. But for now, I will take one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at it.”
“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity.”
“Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.
Chapter Sixty-two
I arrived at Huntington High later that same day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees, exactly where most skirts should be.
I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”
“But could you take over a small Baltic country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.
I said, “Only if they were susceptible to fits of hysterical laughter.”
She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.