“Keep it,” I said.
“No, senor.”
He thrust it back into my pocket. Sometimes money talks, sometimes it doesn’t. I asked, “Were you here on the night Amanda Peterson was murdered?”
He blinked up at me. Whether or not he understood I didn’t know.
I forged bravely ahead. “On the night Amanda Peterson was murdered, could you verify whether or not Derrick Booker was in the school’s weight room?”
He said nothing. Sweat had broken out on his brow. He was looking increasingly troubled. “Please, senor. I know nothing.” His voice was pleading, filled with panic.
I studied him, watching his agitated body movements, and on a hunch I asked, “Has someone else been here to speak with you?” I asked. “An older man, perhaps? Gray hair, an earring.” I gestured to my ear. “A golden hoop?”
He was gasping for breath. “Please, senor. He scare my family.”
Bingo. I walked over to him and took my card from his trembling hands and placed it carefully in his overall’s pocket at his chest.
“I’m going to take care of him, Mario. I promise.”
He said nothing. We stared at each other. His eyes were wide and white.
The hitman had come to see him. Warned him to shut up. Threatened his family. No wonder Mario was terrified.
“It’s going to be alright, Mario. No one’s going to hurt you or your family.”
He said nothing more.
I left the way I had come.
31.
The day was bright and there was a chill to the air, but that did not stop eighty-three percent of the female college students at UCI from wearing tiny shorts and cut-off T-shirts that revealed many pierced belly buttons.
I had already tried one of the classrooms, using the schedule Cindy had faxed me, but I did not see a single young lady who looked like the framed picture on the Peterson’s mantle.
Now I was standing outside a classroom in the Humanities building. I was on the seventh floor and had a great shot of what the students here called Middle Earth, a beautiful central park located within the campus.
One of the problems I was running into were that many of the girls could have been A. Peterson. Hell, most of them were cute with dark hair.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me.
I turned away from the window. I saw that the class across the hall had just let out, and I had already missed a few faces. Damn. But standing in front of me was clearly A. Peterson. Cute face, cute button nose. But the cuteness ended there. Everything else about the girl was anything but cute.
“Miss Peterson?”
She nodded, frowning. “Are you the private investigator that came to see my mom?”
She looked haunted. No. She was haunted. Her pale eyes were empty, troubled and suspicious. A heavy backpack weighed her down, and she was hunched forward to support some of the weight. Her arms were crossed in front of her, her hands holding her bony shoulders. Her hair was dyed pitch black, skin pale and milky. She had a nose, tongue and brow ring. Had she decided to wear make-up, she would have been able to cover the dark rings around her eyes.
“How did you know me?” I asked.
“My mom described you. She called me last night. Said a tall muscular man with a full head of blond hair and a tattoo of a black horse on his forearm had come to see her about Amanda.” Her voice was soft and wispy. I strained to listen to her.
“And I fit the description?”
She looked at my crossed arms. The black horse, shooting steam from its nostrils, was clear on my left forearm.
“Plus,” she said, “You’re packing heat.”
She pointed to the bulge under my left armpit. I was leaning against the wall in such a way that the bulge was evident to those who knew where to look.
“You would make a hell of an investigator,” I said.
“Investigative journalism is my major.”
“I couldn’t think of a more fitting job,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Annette,” she said.
“Ah,” I said.
“And you found my classroom, so you’re not so bad yourself.” She might have grinned, but she had probably forgotten how.
“Glad I have your vote of confidence.”
“I assume you’re here to talk with me about my sister?”
“Yes,” I said. “That and more. Is there somewhere we can have privacy?”
32.
We were in Middle Earth, surrounded by oaks and pines and a lot of rolling green hills. Students with laptops were banging away under trees nearby. Other students were soaking in the sun, and too few were making out. There was one couple, however, going at it like minks. Good for them. College at its best.
We were sitting on the grass. My back was up against the trunk of a gnarled ash tree, and Annette was leaning against her massive backpack which was filled to overflowing.
“Are you a senior?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you live at home?”
She shook her head vehemently. “I needed to get away. Far away. But I couldn’t leave mother and my sisters. So I compromised with my mother. I live in a dorm here at UCI, and my sisters and mother can come visit me anytime.”
I said, “Your father is abusive.” It wasn’t a question.
“Do you know where my mom called me from last night?”
I had a sinking feeling. “The hospital.”
She nodded. “You are good. Two broken ribs and a broken nose. Said she fell down the stairs. We don’t have fucking stairs.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right. The man is a goddamn animal and I have hated him my entire life.”
“He abuse you?”
“Often.”
“Sexually?”
“No. Not me. I wouldn’t let him. I fought him. So he settled on beating the shit out of me. Broke my arm twice. In the same fucking place. Loves to grab it and shake until something snaps.”
“Were your sisters sexually abused?”
“I think so, and I’m pretty sure little Alyssa is getting the worst of it now, especially now that she’s alone with him.”
“Has your mother ever tried to leave?”
“No. He tells her he will kill her and her daughters. Classic shit. She’s terrified of him.”
“Has anyone ever gone to the police? Have any teachers ever noticed the bruises, questioned your broken arms?”
“The answer is no. Father is an assemblyman for the county. He can have anyone’s job. He knows it and they know it. Our plight has been ignored.”
“Plight,” I said, grinning at her. “You must be a writer.”
“Someday soon I hope to even make money at it.”
“Would you like your father to stop the abuse?”
“Of course. Stupid fucking question.” She leaned forward, hands flat in the grass. Not surprisingly, her nails were unpainted. “Are you going to stop him?”
I shrugged. “I could give a shit if he’s an assemblyman. I work for myself. I could make most men on this earth bend to my will.”
She actually laughed and clapped, and that pretty much made my day. She said, “That’s such a funny way to describe that you are going to royally kick his ass.”
“Royally.”
“He’s a big guy,” she said. “But you’re bigger.”
“I’m bigger than most. And if I happen to break his arm in the process?”
Her gaze hardened. “Tell him it was from me.”
A Frisbee landed next to us. I flicked it back to an embarrassed young lady. She caught it neatly with one hand and dashed off.
“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know why Amanda quit her school band?”
“Because the band director was a creep.”
“How do you know?”
“He made a pass at her,” she said.
“What did she do about it?”
“Told him to leave her alone.”
“I assume he didn’t.”
“No.”
“And then she quit?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she often confide in you?” I asked.
She looked away. “Yeah, we were close.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I.”
I gave her one of my cards, and she looked at it.
“Nice picture, Mr. Knighthorse,” she said.
“I know.”