“I understand you assaulted Troy Taylor.”
That surprised me. “I didn’t assault him. It was self- defense.”
“I see. But there was an altercation?”
“Not really. Maybe a quick one-”
“And was this altercation over Rachel Caldwell?”
“No. He took my friend Ema’s laptop and-”
“And you hit him.”
“No. That’s not how it went.”
“I see,” she said in a way that suggested that she clearly didn’t. “According to Chief Taylor, you’ve had a number of run-ins with the law.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?” She looked down at a slip of paper. “It says here you were arrested for trespassing-”
“And released,” I said. That had been at Bat Lady’s house. “I was knocking on a door, that’s all.”
She kept reading. “You also operated a motor vehicle without a valid driver’s license. You operated a motor vehicle while underage. Then there’s breaking and entering, and using a fake ID to enter a drinking establishment and nightclub.”
I decided to keep my mouth shut. I could explain it all, but she’d never get it. Heck, I didn’t even get it.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mickey?”
“Where’s Rachel?”
She shook her head. Once again the door behind her opened. Officer Ball came into the room, and so did my uncle Myron. Myron gave Dunleavy a quick glance and rushed toward me.
“Are you okay?” Myron asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Uncle Myron straightened up and faced Dunleavy. Though he didn’t really practice law-Myron was an agent for athletes and entertainers-he was officially an attorney. He cleared his throat and said, “What’s going on here?”
She smiled at him. “We’re done here. Your nephew is free to go.”
She started to rise.
“Investigator Dunleavy?” I said.
She stopped.
“Who was killed?”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know-?”
Now it was my turn to hold up the hand. “You said two people were shot. You also said you were a homicide detective. That means someone was killed, right?”
“Not always,” she said, but her voice was soft.
Myron stood next to me. We both just watched her.
I said, “But in this case?”
She took her time, looking down, gathering her paper. But then she said, “The gunman also shot Rachel’s mother. And, yes, she’s dead.”
CHAPTER 8
What do you do after getting news about a friend being shot and her mother being murdered?
In my case, you go to school.
Myron asked me a hundred questions, making sure I was fine, but in the end, what was I going to do-take what my classmates call “a mental health day”? I checked my phone and saw two texts from Ema. The first one had been sent early in the morning: I found something about your dad’s paramedic that makes no sense.
Normally, I’d be all over that, but about an hour later, Ema’s next point was much more urgent: OMG! RUMOR THAT RACHEL WAS SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU?
The mood at school was both somber and surreal. There were counselors on hand for kids who were having trouble dealing with the news of the shooting. Some students were openly weeping in the hallways-the ones you’d expect to get overly emotional. It didn’t matter if they knew Rachel well or not, but, hey, people react differently to tragedy and it wasn’t fair to judge.
Rumors were flying all over the place, but nobody seemed to know how seriously Rachel was injured. Two days ago, Rachel had told me that her parents were divorced and that her mother lived in Florida. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her mom visiting.
So what was Rachel’s mother doing in New Jersey?
I found Ema sitting alone in the cafeteria. Some would say that we sit at the outcast or “loser” table. That may be, but to me the cafeteria is more like a sports stadium. The so-called cool kids get the boxes and suites while the rest of us sit in the bleachers-but I always have more fun when I sit in the bleachers.
“Wow,” I said to Ema.
“Yeah. Where were you this morning?”
I told her about the police asking me questions. As I did, I spotted Troy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Troy sat, to keep within my sports metaphor, in the “owner’s luxury box.” Our fellow students came up to him to pay their respects or offer condolences.
I looked over at his table and frowned. “They weren’t even dating.”
Ema gave me the flat eyes.
“What?” I said.
“That’s what matters to you now? Troy Taylor’s past with Rachel?”
She had a point.
“And just for the record, Rachel didn’t sit here. She sat with them.” Ema pointed toward Troy’s table. “Once she graced us with her presence to unload some baked goods. That’s all.”
“She helped us,” I said.
“Whatever.” Ema waved her hand dismissively. Her dark nail polish was chipped.
We ate in silence for a few moments.
“Mickey?”
“What?”
“Do you think the shooting is connected to what happened at the nightclub? I mean, are we in danger too?”
“I don’t know. But we should probably be more careful.”
“How?”
She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and hope. I flashed back to Wednesday, to the knife against her throat, how close Ema came to dying. My heart crumbled anew. I was about to offer up some lame statement about not worrying, that we’d come up with some answer, but I was mercifully interrupted.
“Hello, comrades. Even on this terrible day, it gives me great pleasure to see you.”
It was Spoon. He always held his tray close to him, afraid that someone would intentionally knock it out of his hands. This was our table in the farthest corner of the “bleachers”-Ema, Spoon, and yours truly. Spoon put down his tray and pushed up his glasses. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying.
“So,” Spoon said, “do we take on the case?”
Ema frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Rachel was shot.”
“We know,” Ema said.
He looked at her, then at me, then at her again. “So it’s agreed then?”
Ema again asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Rachel. She’s part of our group.”
“No, Spoon,” Ema said, pointing toward the table of varsity jackets and cheerleader sweaters. “She’s part of that group.”
Spoon shook his head. “You know better.”
That silenced Ema.
“We have to act,” Spoon said.
“Act how?” I asked.
“What do you mean how?” He stuck out his chest. “We need to find out who shot her. This is too important. We cannot rest until we find out who committed this terrible deed. We should make a pact-we do not quit until we know the truth and Rachel is safe.”
Ema sighed. “Ready to rescue the pretty girl, I see.”
Spoon wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m a hero to all the babes.” He turned to me. “What do you say, Mickey?”
“We don’t even know where she is,” I said.
Spoon smiled. “I do.”
That got our attention. Ema and I leaned forward. Spoon just smiled. We waited. Spoon smiled some more.
Finally I said, “Talk, Spoon.”
“Right, sorry. My father. You know he’s the head custodian at this school, right?”
“Of course we know,” Ema snapped. “Get on with it.”
“Ah,” Spoon said, raising his namesake in the air, “but do you know about the custodial network?”
“The what?”
“The custodial network. It’s probably too intricate to explain in detail, so let me give you the basics: Janitors talk to one another. They are the eyes and ears of any establishment. See?”
Spoon stopped and waited for a reply.
I said, “No.”
Spoon sighed. “Another janitor in the custodial network is friendly with my father. This particular janitor-his name is Mr. Tansmore-works at Saint Barnabas Hospital in Livingston, New Jersey. He told my dad that’s where Rachel is currently residing.”