“Everybody who’s ambulatory.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Once or twice.”
The end of the hall opened into a giant playroom. Pinball machines, foosball, and pool tables lined the walls. In the center, a long, curved leather couch faced a jumbo flat-screen TV.
None of the pool tables was in use, unless you counted a moose-sized lineman who’d wrapped himself in his Val High letterman’s jacket and conked out amid the cue sticks.
Several college-age kids were sprawled across the couch in various states of disarray, bleary-eyed and hungover. Four young guys, three girls, watching a soccer game on the big screen.
“Hey, guys,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m Sergeant LaCrosse, Valhalla P.D. Who’s in charge here?”
They looked at each other, then back at me. A few shook their heads, no one answered. They weren’t belligerent, just baffled and groggy.
“Okaay,” I said, “easier question. Are the Champlins at home? Parents, I mean?”
“I’m Sissy Champlin,” one of the girls said, nestling deeper in the arms of her bull-necked boyfriend. She had a nose ring, spiky blond hair with blue highlights. “My folks are in... Toronto, for the weekend. We had a little bash last night. We’re the survivors.”
Her boyfriend was staring at me. Sloped shoulders, head the size of a watermelon. U of M sweatshirt. “I know you,” he said slowly. “You played hockey for Val High back in the day, right? Defense?”
“Have we met?”
“Nah,” he grinned, “I’ve seen you on game film. Mark shows that scrap in the playoffs when you and your cousin wiped out Traverse City’s front line. The refs tossed everybody out. Awesome, man.”
“What’s your name?”
“Laslo. Metyavich. I’m goalie for the Vale Vikings.”
With his dark hair buzzed down to fuzz, he looked more like a Cossack warrior in pajamas from The Gap. He was wide enough to be a goalie, though. “Were you here last night, Laslo?”
“I live here, man. We all do,” he added, gesturing at his bleary comrades on the couch. “Exchange students.”
“A girl left your party last night and — got into some trouble. Julie Novak? Does anybody know her? Or who she was with?”
Again, baffled looks.
“Wait a sec,” Sissy Champlin said, frowning. “Julie? A young chick? Wearing a white formal, like a freakin’ bridesmaid?”
“You know her?”
“I know she came to the wrong party,” Sissy sniffed. “That Indian kid brought her. What’s his name, hon? The geek who tutors the basketball players?”
“Derek, you mean?” Laslo offered.
“Last name?” Zina prompted.
“Some foreign name,” Laslo said, without irony. “Patel, I think. Derek Patel.”
“Any idea where we could find Mr. Patel?”
“He crapped out early.” Laslo shrugged. “Lot of guys did. I think some wiseass spiked the punch. Derek’s probably crashed in one of the guest rooms. HI show you.” He started to rise, wobbled, then quickly sat back down. “Whoa,” he said, looking a little green.
“Stay put,” I said. “I know the way.” Laslo slumped back on the couch. Sissy brushed his arm away. She was on her cell phone, frantically texting.
Zina and I headed into the guest wing, an eight-room addition added back in the fifties. Working opposite sides of the hall, we rapped once, then stuck our heads in, scaring the bejesus out of various young lovers. On my third knock, I found an Indian kid conked out atop one of the twin beds, fully dressed in a dark suit and tie. Tall, slender, skin the color of café au lait, thick curly blue-black hair. He sat up slowly, blinking, dazed and confused.
“Derek Patel?”
“I... yes?” He shook his head, then knuckled his eyes. Trying to remember his name. I totally sympathized. Been there, done that.
“Do you know a girl named Julie Novak?”
“Julie? Ah... sure. She was my date last night. Is she okay?”
“Why shouldn’t she be?”
“She ditched me and went home. Said she wasn’t dressed right. I was in no shape to drive, so I gave her my keys and... oh damn! Did she wreck my car? My God, my dad’s gonna kill me—”
“She didn’t wreck your car, Derek. Were you two drinking a little last night?”
“Just the virgin punch,” he said. “Julie’s underage.”
“If you were drinking nonalcoholic punch, how’d you get wrecked?” Zina asked.
“I did a few Jello shots with some of the guys. I’m not a big drinker.”
“What about Julie? Did she do a few shots too?”
“No! Only the punch, like I said. I promised her dad — oh God, her old man’s gonna be totally pissed. He hates me anyway. He’s prejudiced, I think. Is he here?”
“No. Put your shoes on, Derek. We have to go.”
“Are you arresting me?”
I didn’t answer, hoping he wouldn’t push it. He didn’t. Glumly slipped into his tassel loafers instead. I sent Zee off to scout the rest of the house while I walked Derek out.
Outside, the scene had gone from Christmas-card quiet to crime-scene chaotic. Valhalla P.D. prowl cars had sealed off both ends of the circular driveway, their emergency strobes flashing in the gentle snowfall, blocking in the half-dozen cars parked in front of the house. A third prowlie was sitting astride the rear drive that led back to the garage.
The snow angel was blocked from view by the state police CSI van, and the area around her had been taped off with yellow police lines. Techs in black nylon state police CSI jackets were crouched over the vic while Joni looked on. She still wasn’t whistling.
I marched Derek to the nearest prowl car. Joe Van Duzen, V.P.D.’s greenest patrolman, hurried to meet us, six foot, with a blond crew cut. In khaki slacks and his bulky brown V.P.D. jacket, he’s a recruiter’s dream.
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“This is Derek Patel, Duze. He’s a material witness. Park him in your prowlie, keep him on ice. He doesn’t leave and nobody talks to him, understand?”
“Copy that. What the hell’s going on in there, Dylan?”
“The morning after the night before, Duze. Don’t lose this kid, okay?”
“You got it.” Duze eased Derek into the prowlie’s backseat and closed the door.
Zina was waiting for me at the front door, her mood darker than before.
“We’ve got problems, Dylan,” she said. “C’mon.”
“What’s up?” I asked, falling into step.
“I found the famous virgin punchbowl,” she said. “In the living room. There are two of them, actually. One with fruit punch, one with margaritas.”
“Sounds right.”
“I also found these,” she said, holding out her open palm. Three small red capsules.
“Oh hell,” I said, feeling my stomach drop like a freight elevator. “Roofies?”
She nodded. “Date-rape drug. Found ’em on the floor near the punchbowls. Both concoctions are murky, but you can see the remains of some caps on the bottom. I think somebody laced both bowls with GHB—” She broke off as I tapped my collar mike.
“Barden? Is your prowlie blocking the driveway?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Take a walk, check the parked cars in the drive, make sure nobody’s asleep in one. I don’t want any more angels.”
“Angels?” he asked.
“Check the damn cars, Tommy.”
“Copy that.”
“You said you’ve been here before?” Zina asked, as I switched off.
“Right. To parties, back in high school. Mark Champlin was older than we were, but he’d been a three-sport all-star back in the day, and his folks were big athletic boosters. This place was jock central. Parties almost every weekend, free beer, groupies, and Mr. Champlin was good for a few bucks if a player was short. From the looks of this crew, things haven’t changed much.”