“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?”