“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 Jell-O 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 PD 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, VPD’s greenest patrolman, hurried to meet us, six foot, with a blond crew cut. In khaki slacks and his bulky brown VPD 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 back seat 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.”
“Ever go upstairs?”
“No, it was off-limits. Why?”
“C’mon,” Zee said. “You’re gonna love this.”
She was right. The second-floor rooms were larger, plusher, complete with en suites and walk-in closets. And at the end of the corridor, a single door stood wide open. Its latch was shattered. It had been kicked in.
I rested my hand on my weapon as I eased through, but there was no need. None at all.
“Wow,” I said, turning in a slow circle, taking in the room. “What have we here?”
The bedroom looked like the honeymoon suite at a Vegas bordello. Mirrored ceiling, angled mirrors on the walls, king-size beds in each corner. A larger, circular bed occupied the center of the room, all five of them close enough for easy hopping, covered in what looked like faux ermine.
A large-screen TV loomed over one corner. On a shelf beneath it, a Sony video recorder was flanked by a long row of DVDs. Half of them were clearly commercial porn, garishly labeled. The other half weren’t labeled at all, only numbered. I opened one. No labels inside either, just a handwritten number on the disc that matched the jacket.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think this room’s wired up,” Zee said, pointing out nearly invisible lenses mounted in the mirrored ceiling. “If they’ve been making home movies, I see my future on a beach in Bimini. Check out the gear on the nightstands.”
Against the wall, between the beds, small bedside tables held a selection of lubricants, massage oils, and sex toys. Some had obvious purposes, a few I could only guess at.
“Okay,” I said, still taking in the room. “We’ve got a party going on downstairs, somebody kicks open the door to this playroom, but does no other damage I can see.”
“The beds aren’t even mussed,” Zina agreed. “Maybe somebody was hoping to get lucky later?”
“It doesn’t matter why. The drugs flip this thing from a teenage tragedy to something a lot messier.” I pressed the eject button on the recorder, removed the DVD, and slid it into an evidence bag. “C’mon, let’s round up the usual sus—”
“Hey! You guys can’t be in here!” a kid said. “You know the rules. Second floor’s family only. No guests!” The boy in the doorway was maybe fifteen, wearing a green Michigan State sweater, but I doubt he was college bound.
His heavy-framed glasses housed twin hearing aids. His eyes were wide apart and guileless, with the slight Asian cast of Down syndrome. I guessed his emotional age at ten or twelve.
“It’s okay,” I said, showing him my shield. He glanced at it, but didn’t react. I doubt he knew what it was. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Joey Champlin. You can’t be up here. My dad doesn’t allow it.”
“Do you know how the door got broken, Joey?”
His face fell, and the look in his eyes was as good as a signed statement.
“You — still have to leave,” he repeated.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Whatever you say.” We already had what we needed, and in a house with an all-star dad and an army of jocks, I doubt many folks paid attention to this kid.
So we did as he asked. When I glanced back, he was gone.
The next hour flew by in a fury. I had patrolmen seal off the house and herd the kids into separate rooms. We took names, ages, and vital stats. No talking. No breathalyzers either. They were of age, in a private home. How they partied was their business.
All we wanted was info about the girl on the lawn.
What we got was doodley squat.
A few kids knew Derek Patel from school. Nobody seemed to know his angel date at all. Time to change tactics. Maybe Derek had sobered enough for a conversation.
Leaving Zina to finish questioning the final few, I headed out the front door. And went from hangover central into a grab-ass free-for-all.
Derek Patel was sprawled on his back in the driveway, his face a bloody mess. Van Duzen was wrestling with a big guy in a flannel shirt, who was clearly trying to break free to have another go at the kid on the ground.
I came on the run. Crashing into Van Duzen’s opponent from behind, I snaked an arm around his throat in a crude chokehold. I managed to haul him off Duze, but he was bull-strong and enraged. He kept kicking wildly at Derek on the ground. It was all I could do to hold him back.