Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (4 page)

There were now two female joggers circling
the track around us, dressed in long black nylon jogging pants and
wearing white baseball caps. They moved spryly, their identical
ponytails swishing along their angular shoulder blades.

“Sooner or later we’re going to have to run
to the other side of the field,” said Sanchez. He spoke with a
slight Hispanic accent when he wasn’t careful, or when he was
tired. He was tired. He was watching the two joggers. “Unless you
prefer to watch them all morning long.”

“Worse ways of spending a morning.”

“How’s the leg holding up?”

I shrugged.

Sanchez grinned. “That good, huh?”

We ran back to the other side of the field,
just in time to meet the two women again, who swished past us with
a casual glance or two. One of them said something and the other
giggled.

“They’re laughing at you,” said Sanchez.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “By the
way, I beat you this time. Bum leg and all. How does that make you
feel?”

“Maybe I should shoot myself.”

“Got a gun in my gym bag.”

“So do I.”

We raced back and as far as I could tell we
were dead even this time, pulling up just past the far sidelines.
The throb in my leg was feeling unhealthy. We had done this for the
past thirty minutes.

“We’re even on that last run,” said Sanchez.
“So I say we call it a morning. Baby steps. This is your first day
back in training. Want to take it easy on the leg, especially a man
your age.”

“You’re only a month younger.”

“Lot can happen in a month.”

“True.”

We sat on a bench wet with dew. The mist was
all pervasive, leaving nothing untouched. I enjoyed the solitude it
allowed.

“You going back with me to San Diego?” I
asked. “To try out?”

He laughed, and kept his dark eyes on the
joggers. “I wasn’t the one they asked to come out of
retirement.”

“You could make it.”

“I was good, but not that good,” he said. The
mist was dispersing and more light was getting through. There were
also more joggers now, three males, but these were not as
interesting to look at.

Sanchez checked his watch. “Most people with
respectable jobs have to get going now.”

“Luckily, neither of us have respectable
jobs.”

“True,” said Sanchez. “So who do you think
did this girl?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “That’s the part I’m
working on.”

“Isn’t it just your job to get the kid off?
And to give a damn who really killed the girl?”

“But I do give a damn who killed her.”

“You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not
your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid
before he goes to trial.”

I said nothing.

“I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it
your way.”

I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”

8.

I was sitting outside Huntington High in my
car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My
windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted
through the car. Life was good at the Beach.

It was three o’clock and school was just
getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I
remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most
of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip,
showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back
tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those
who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably
had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood
did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired
security that were referred to as The Staff.

More than one Mercedes whipped out of the
student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and
twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen
near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.

The less fortunate, and those not of driving
age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses.
Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly
ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.

I didn’t blame them, although my ego was
crushed a little.

All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and
Hispanics, but no blacks.

Teachers on duty did their best to clear out
the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away.
And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot
cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I
waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and
headed up to the administration building at the front of the
school.

The building, and much of the school, was old
cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very
school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office.
There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working
furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I
stepped up to the front desk.

“Hello,” I said.

She jumped. She had been writing a personal
letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be
tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with
her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole,
love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing
so sweet in life as love’s young dream.

When she had recovered enough to speak, she
said, “Can I help you?”

I smiled engagingly and showed her my
investigator license.

A hell of a picture.

“Doesn’t look like you.”

“It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose,
turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same
full wattage smile. “See?”

She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is
cuter.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After
all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy
cute.

“So you’re a private investigator?”

“Yep.”

She nodded, but her interest was already
waning.

“I give autographs, too,” I said.

“I don’t want your autograph.”

“Of course not. Who would I see about gaining
permission to access your school?”

“You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”

“Great.”

“Let me see if she’s in.”

“That would be fantastic.”

“Are you always this cheery?”

“Yes!”

“Hold on.”

“Super!”

She removed herself from her post, snatched
up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the
open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall
and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered
with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The
photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the
windows.

“Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr.
Knighthorse.”

“Keen.”

“Keen?”

“I was running out of superlatives.”

9.

The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk
designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah, she
would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all
students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of
discipline.

One difference.

She couldn’t have been prettier.

Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and
shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She
was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around
her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free
from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to
her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.

I am, of course, a detective.

Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide
collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and
pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald
eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a
pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming,
true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice.
She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.

“You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr.
Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your
mind.”

Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of
sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly
with each breath.

“I was just wishing I had had you as my vice
principal in high school.”

She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick
away from mine. “What are you implying?”

“You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”

She cracked a smile, and placed one hand
carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band
clearly. A plain gold band.

“A looker?”

“Means I think you’re swell.”

“Lord. Is this some sort of come-on
line?”

“You’re married, and I’m happily dating the
love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I
need.”

“At least you’re honest about your
intentions.”

“That, and I think you’re a looker.”

“What do you need, Knighthorse?”

“What happened to the mister?”

“Anyone who calls me a looker loses that
formal courtesy.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m warming up
to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I need access to your
school.”

“What sort of access?”

Behind her the blinds were open, and I had a
shot of an open quad. From here, Mrs. Williams could see much of
the school. It was a good view for the vice principal of discipline
to have.

“I’m here to investigate the murder of Amanda
Peterson,” I said. Her eyes did not waiver. I forged on. “To do so
I will need to speak to witnesses.”

“There are no witnesses to Amanda’s murder
here.”

“But there are those here who could provide
me some assistance, including yourself.”

She leaned forward and looked down at her
ring. Her smooth face had the beginnings of crow’s feet. She used
her thumb to toy with the ring, spinning it around her narrow
finger. I wondered if perhaps she was regretting the ring was on,
and thus losing an opportunity to be with yours truly. Or perhaps
not.

“I’ll give you access, but not during school
hours, and no speaking with students.”

“Agreed.”

“Now what do you need from me?”

“Was Derrick the only African-American in
school?”

“No. There are three others. The papers were
incorrect.”

“Was he a good student?”

“Exceptional. He carried a 4.0 GPA. Was on
his way to USC for a full football scholarship. The world was his
oyster.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call USC an
oyster, Mrs. Williams. Maybe a parasitic tiger mussel that’s
currently infesting the Great Lakes.”

“Nice imagery. UCLA fan?”

“And their best fullback.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that.
You are a big boy.”

“Was Derrick capable of killing?” I
asked.

She spread her hands flat on the desk and
smiled at me. “Derrick was strong and excelled at a violent sport.
Physically he could have done it. If you are inquiring about his
psyche, you are barking up the wrong tree. Derrick and I rarely
crossed paths. He kept his nose clean, as my father would say.”

“And being in charge of discipline, you would
know.”

“I would.”

“Can you tell me anything about Amanda?”

“She was more trouble. But petty stuff,
really. Nothing serious.”

“Like what?”

“Skipping class, smoking on school
grounds.”

“She and Derrick an item?”

“Yes. The whole school knew that. He was our
star athlete.”

“And black in a nearly all-white school. Did
he ever have any problems with racism?”

“As far as I knew, he was wildly popular
among his fellow class mates.”

“Amanda was in the school band?”

She paused, then shrugged. “I do not know.
Maybe.”

“I was told she quit. Any reason why?”

“Refer to my prior comment.”

I didn’t like the answer. Mrs. Williams
probably had access to Amanda’s file, and certainly would have read
it since the murder. Band membership would have been in the
official records.

“And Knighthorse,” she said, “I am definitely
not the kind of principal you wish you had in high school. Students
are never, ever pleased to be sitting where you are now.”

I smiled. “I’m not a student. And it’s not a
bad view from here, Mrs. Williams.”

Most women would have blushed. She did
not.

I left her office.

10.

The campus was sprawling and clean. The
hallways were lined with yellow lockers. Most sported combination
locks, although a few were padded with locks of considerable
fortitude. These were blocks of titanium padlock perfection that
were engineered to protect far more important things than school
books and pencils.

My footsteps echoed along the now-empty
hallway. Just a half hour earlier it had been filled to overflowing
with students. Within these hallowed lockered halls, plans for
parties had been made, drug deals had gone down, students had been
harassed, asses pinched and thoughts of teenage suicide
pondered.

In the police report, Derrick claimed to have
been working out at the school gym at the time of the murder. He
had no alibi. His football coach often left him alone with the
keys, trusting Derrick. It was against school rules, but Derrick
had proven himself to be reliable, and after all he was the star
athlete. The coach probably loved him like a son.

The coach was the last to see Derrick. That
had been at 5:45 p.m. on the evening of the murder. The coroner’s
report placed the time of murder at 7:00 p.m. According to the
arrest report, the detectives figured Derrick left the school
weight room shortly after the coach had left and proceeded to
ambush the girlfriend he loved and slaughtered her in front of her
home. His vehicle had no trace of her blood. There were no wounds
on Derrick’s hands or arms. Other than the murder weapon found in
his backseat there was nothing to link him to the murder.