She sat back and gazed at me from over steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”
“You have no idea.”
“I just want myself and the school left out of it.”
“I can probably swing that,” I said.
“Probably?”
“Best I can offer right now.”
She got up and shut her door, then sat back down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that. She only risked glancing up at me occasionally. Even then she seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could blame her, really?
“Now, there have been some, ah, alleged indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in the past.”
“Have the allegations been confirmed?”
“No.”
“Was Amanda Peterson one of those who allegedly had an indiscretion?”
“Yes.”
“What did these indiscretions involve?”
“Sexual advances.”
“Has anyone looked into the allegations?”
“I did.”
“And what did you discover?”
“He denied everything and there was no proof, and now one of the girls is dead.”
“And the other?”
“Lives in Washington state.”
“Do you have her address?”
She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it, Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.
Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”
“No stone unturned.”
“Are you just as thorough in the bedroom?”
“You’ll just have to use your imagination.”
She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little red.
“Oh, I have.”
46.
I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with some Krispy Kremes.
Which I did, along with two containers of chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories I’m looking for.
It was cool enough for the heater, and since I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.
I turned up a street called Mariner, which, coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these days I kept it particularly handy.
I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun handles.
I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome guy; worse, he knew it.
When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.
“Bryan Dawson?” I asked.
He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.
“You are the detective,” he said, brushing past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.
“Pardon you,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. A little clumsy this early in the morning.”
He had known of me, which I found interesting. Someone had hired the thug, too; someone who had known of me as well.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your shoulder is okay,” I said jovially. “How do you know me?”
“Someone pointed you out the other day when the police arrived for Coach Castleton. Weren’t you the one who found him?”
“Yes.”
“Must have been awful,” he said. “Seeing his brains and shit all over the place.”
His gaze was unwavering and challenging. I didn’t like him. He was cocky, loud, and too sure of himself.
“It was more awful that he found it necessary to end his life. The murder of Amanda Peterson has had significant repercussions. Not to mention an innocent boy is in jail for the crime.”
“The police don’t seem to think he’s so innocent. For them it’s an open and shut case.”
“Luckily for Derrick, I don’t think it’s so open and shut.”
“Which means what? You’re only a private dick.”
“Means I’m going to find the killer.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
“No.”
“Did you have a relationship with Amanda?”
“I was her band director.”
“Did you have a relationship with her outside of school?”
“Of course not.”
“Where were you on the night of Amanda Peterson’s murder?”
“I have nothing left to say to you.”
“Of course you don’t.”
And he promptly shut the door in my face.
Jim Knighthorse, master interrogator.
47.
It was late and we were at a restaurant called Waters in the city of Irvine. Coincidentally, a small, foul-smelling, man-made lake sat next to the restaurant. I wondered what came first: The lake or the restaurant?
Vice Principal Dana Williams had pushed hard for this meeting, so I agreed to meet her here. I sensed she liked me. I also sensed she was a very lonely woman. So why had I agreed? I didn’t know entirely. She was loosely connected to my case, so I could always justify the meeting in that way. I was also lonely myself. Very lonely. Perhaps we were just two lost souls meeting in the night, at a pretentiously named restaurant.
“Do you talk to your ex-girlfriend much?” asked Mrs. Williams. She emphasized the ex part a little too much.
“She’s not my ex. We’re just taking a break from all the action.”
“What sort of action?” she asked.
“Nevermind,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking about it, especially someone who was all for my break up with Cindy. Anyone who was all for my break up with Cindy was no friend of mine.
“Do you always speak in football jargon?” she asked.
We were seated outside, on the wide, wooden deck that wrapped around the entire restaurant. We had a great view of the fake lake. A duck floated nearby. It could have been fake, too, but I doubted it.
“Yes,” I said simply.
“I see,” she said. She toyed with the red straw sticking out of her margarita. If my lack of enthusiasm for our meeting was making her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I sensed that she saw me as a challenge. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly.
Admittedly, the question caught me off-guard. I looked at her from across the table. She was looking ravishing, to say the least. A tight blouse that showed way too much of her chest. Make-up that seemed expertly applied. Hair perfectly framing her pretty face.
“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to dance around the subject.
She beamed, pleased.
Our food arrived. Clams for her. A burger for me. I ate the fries first. She watched me eat. She was about to ask me something, probably something about Cindy, when I cut her off. Enough of the bullshit.
“So how long have you been separated?” I asked.