Garcia coughed a couple of times and waved his hand in front of his face like a fan, but that just circulated the dust even more. ‘Jesus!’ he said as his eyes scanned the disheartening number of boxes. ‘Where do we start?’
Mr. Davis gave him an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not so bad. I spent many of my free days in these rooms, trying to organize what we have.’
Garcia arched an eyebrow.
‘I hate not having anything to do.’ He started moving around the many broken, old-fashioned wooden desks. ‘It’s a way of keeping busy.’ He shrugged.
The damp and cold room made Garcia’s fingers hurt, and he rubbed the scars on the palms of his hands for a few seconds.
‘What year are we looking for?’ Mr. Davis asked, approaching the boxes stacked on the east wall.
‘She dropped out of school in ’85.’
Mr. Davis’s eyes scanned the boxes in front of him. ‘It should be right at that end.’ He pointed to the opposite wall.
It didn’t take Garcia long to find four large boxes marked ‘1985’. ‘Here we go.’ He pulled them out of the shelves and placed them on the floor. From his pocket he retrieved a photograph of Amanda Reilly they’d gotten from Tania Riggs. ‘This is the only picture I have of Amanda. It was taken just a year ago. Let’s hope she hasn’t changed much.’
The old man took it from Garcia’s hand and studied it for a few seconds. ‘She does look familiar,’ he said, nodding at the picture.
There must’ve been over two thousand photographs inside the four boxes. Individual ones, group pictures, whole classes together, students having fun and goofing around, playing sports, studying and eating lunch. Some were clearly posed and some captured the students naturally – laughing, angry, crying. Garcia and Mr. Davis started the lengthy process of going through them and trying to identify someone they’d never really met. The school janitor would stop every once in a while as flashes of memory came back to him and he’d tell Garcia a quick story concerning the students in the picture. They’d been flipping through photographs for hours when Mr. Davis stopped and squinted at one, bringing it up closer to his face.
‘Let me see that picture you have of this Amanda girl again,’ he said, extending his hand.
Garcia handed him the photo and waited impatiently.
‘Here she is,’ M r. Davis said with a pleased smile after just a few seconds. He handed Garcia both photos. The picture in question was of a group of four girls dressed in what looked to be expensive, designer clothes. All of them in full makeup. Two of them were laughing, one had an amused look on her face and the last one was sideways, looking down. They were standing by one of the school’s basketball courts where several kids were bouncing a ball behind them. Garcia didn’t have to ask. She had certainly changed, but there was no doubt the second girl from the left was Amanda Reilly. They were all stunning in their own right, but Amanda certainly stood out. She was drop-dead gorgeous. A light wind was blowing her shoulder-length blond hair away from her face. She was one of the girls who were laughing, and even frozen in time her laughter seemed contagious.
‘I remember that group of girls,’ Mr. Davis said with a melancholic grin. ‘They were always together, and all the boys-’ he shook his head and the grin widened as he remembered ‘-they were crazy for them. But these girls, they didn’t wanna know.’
‘What do you mean? Didn’t they have boyfriends?’
‘Oh yeah, but if my memory serves me right, they weren’t boys from this school. They were older, I think.’
‘Do you remember any of these girls’ names?’
Mr. Davis laughed. ‘My memory is good, detective, but not that good.’
Garcia nodded and returned his attention to the picture. ‘No way,’ he murmured after a few seconds, squinting at the photograph.
‘What? Something the matter?’ Mr. Davis asked, craning his neck.
‘Do you have a magnifying glass or something like that?’ Garcia asked without taking his eyes off the picture.
The old man smiled and pulled an old-fashioned Swiss army knife from his belt. It contained everything, from pliers to a screwdriver, a bottle opener and a small magnifying lens. ‘I knew this would come in handy someday.’ He handed it to Garcia, who quickly brought it to his eye, scrutinizing the picture for what seemed like an eternity. His mouth went dry.
‘I’ll be goddamned.’
Eighty-One
They drove down Yukon Avenue and turned left into Artesia Boulevard. Darnell Douglas was at the wheel. Ryan Turner sat comfortably in the passenger’s seat, his eyes studying the car’s interior.
‘It feels like a very smooth ride,’ Ryan said casually.
‘Oh, it is. This is a V8, 6.2-liter engine as smooth as aged whiskey.’ Darnell’s eyes stole a peek at Ryan. ‘Do you drink, Ryan?’
‘I occasionally enjoy a good whiskey, yeah.’
‘Oh, you’ll enjoy this more, believe me.’
‘I’m sure.’
Darnell knew it was time to play the cool salesman. ‘I’ll tell you what, Ryan.’ He pulled over to the side of the road. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, because we haven’t properly filled in a form back at the office, but you need to drive this puppy to really get a feel for it.’
Ryan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
The ‘nice salesman who breaks the rules’ routine always worked for Darnell. It was a buddy-bonding thing. Give and take trust.
‘We can hook onto San Diego Freeway and you can let it rip for a while.’
‘You sure?’ Ryan looked uncertain.
‘Yeah, why not? You look like a pretty decent and responsible guy. I think I can trust you.’
Ryan held Darnell’s gaze for a few seconds.
‘Seriously, if this car doesn’t blow your mind, no car will.’
‘OK.’ Ryan nodded before unlocking the passenger’s door and walking the longest way around, buying himself a few seconds.
‘This one’s in the bag,’ Darnell thought.
‘So what do you do, Ryan?’ he asked as Ryan took his seat behind the wheel.
‘I’m a doctor.’ He buckled up.
‘Wow.’
‘I’m an anesthetist.’
‘Ooh.’ Darnell shook his whole body in a shiver.
‘Something wrong?’
Darnell made a bitter face. ‘I really don’t like needles, you know? They freak the fuck out of me.’
Ryan’s hand wrapped around the syringe in his pocket and he smiled.
‘Yeah…’ He stared into Darnell’s eyes. His voice guttural. ‘I already knew that.’
They say that when it comes to danger and fear, human beings are just like any other animal. We can sense it. Some primitive instinct inside alerts us. And something inside Darnell was screaming for him to get the hell out of that car.
Ryan pressed the central locking button and smiled. ‘Guess what?’ he whispered. ‘I know what scares you to death.’
Eighty-Two
In Compton High, Hunter got his hands on a 1985 students’ yearbook – Father Fabian’s graduating year. He also managed to dig up some of his old report cards and records. The young priest had been suspended seven times during his junior year. The interesting fact was that all seven suspensions had been requested by the same teacher – Mrs. Patricia Reed, who taught algebra 2, the priest’s weakest subject, according to his grades. Teachers tend to remember their worst students better than their best ones. If anybody would remember Brett Stewart Nichols, Patricia Reed would, Hunter was certain of that.
The day was sliding from pale blue to dark night when Hunter walked into his office. Garcia had arrived only a couple of minutes before him and was standing in front of the picture board, attentively studying one of the photos. He turned and faced Hunter.
‘You won’t believe what I found.’ Excitement coated his words as he wiggled a six by twelve photo in his hand.