Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (6 page)

Thanks to Mrs. Williams, vice principal
extraordinaire, I now had a small list of Amanda Peterson’s known
friends from high school. To help facilitate my investigation, Mrs.
Williams gave me the home addresses to the three names on the list.
I thought that was a hell of a nice gesture on her part, and
reminded myself to repay her with one of my most winning
smiles.

The first house on the list was a massive
colonial with a pitched roof, numerous gables and a wide portico. I
pulled into the wrap-around driveway.

The doorbell was answered by a cute teenage
girl wearing matching sweatshirt and sweatpants that said UCLA. A
girl after my own heart. She was blond, pretty, and quite small, no
more than five foot two. Her big blue eyes were filled with
intelligence.

“Can I speak with Rebecca Garner?” I
asked.

“You got her.”

“My name’s Jim Knighthorse and I’m a private
investigator.”

She smiled broadly, and her eyes widened with
pleasure. I turned around to see who the hell she was smiling at.
Turns out it was me.

“A real private investigator,” she said,
clapping.

“In the flesh.”

She turned somber on a dime. “You’re here
about Amanda.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Williams called and asked if it was
okay to give out our address. So I knew you’d be coming by.”

“Are your parents home?”

“No, I’m alone, so maybe we should talk out
here.” She stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind
her. “My parents said it would be okay for me to talk to you.”

She led me to a wooden rocking bench facing
the street. Rebecca, utilizing the full use of the bench, rocked us
back and forth. A minute later, I was feeling seasick. I stopped
the rocking.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little
nervous. I’ve never talked to a real live detective before.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job of it so
far.” I pointed at the UCLA logo. “Obviously you’re highly
intelligent and wise for your age if you intend to go there.”

She looked down. “My dad went there.”

“He must be highly intelligent and wise
himself.”

“He’s a doctor. Intelligent, but I don’t know
about wise. Anyway, he’s never home, so I really wouldn’t
know.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You’re a junior?”

“Yes.”

We were silent. She started rocking again,
and I put my foot out to stop it again. She ducked her head and
said, “Oops.”

“Were you with Amanda on the last day she was
alive?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the party.”

“We got there around seven. Amanda and I went
together because Derrick was working out at the gym, as usual. He’s
so boring. He never likes to party. All he ever did was work out,
play sports and hang out with Amanda.”

“Did he love Amanda?”

She shifted her weight. The bench creaked
slightly. I kept my foot firmly planted. No more swinging today.
Rebecca looked away, brushing aside a blond strand that had stuck
to her shiny lip gloss.

“Oh, yeah. He loved her a lot.”

“You think he killed her?”

“No.”

“You say that pretty quick.”

“He loved her so much. He would have done
anything for her.”

“Was Amanda seeing someone else?”

“No. But at the time, there was another guy
who wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“Who?”

“Chris, the guy who threw the party. He’s
always liked her.”

“Did she fool around with Chris?”

“No. She never cheated on Derrick. They
really did love each other. It was sweet watching the two of them
together. They were always together and holding each other and
kissing.”

“Tell me about Chris.”

“He’s a senior. Used to play football, but
got kicked off the team because he’s an asshole. You like
football?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t understand it. Just a bunch of boys
jumping on each other.”

“That about sums it up.”

“They kicked him off the team because he was
a partier and did drugs and probably never showed up for
practice.”

“That’ll do it.”

“He always had it pretty bad for Amanda. I
mean, you’ve seen her picture. She is—was—so pretty. A lot of guys
at school liked her.”

“Especially Chris.”

“Especially Chris. He hated Derrick. Hated
him.”

“Why?”

She looked at me as if I were the beach
idiot. “Because Derrick had his girl, and because Derrick was
black. He was always making comments to Amanda.”

“Racially insensitive comments?” I
offered.

“Yes,” she said. “Those kinds of comments.
Everywhere she went, he let her know it. It was horrible.”

“Then why go to Chris’s party?”

She shrugged. “It’s high school, it was the
only party being thrown that night. Plus Amanda said that Chris
personally invited her and had apologized for being such a
jerk.”

“So what happened at the party?”

“Chris was drunk when we got there. He was
being a real dick. Usual Chris, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You know him?”

“No, I’m just being supportive.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You’re kind
of funny.”

“Kind of.”

“So anyway, we get to the party and almost
immediately Chris hits on Amanda. You know, puts his arm around her
and tries to kiss her, just being an asshole.”

“What did Amanda do?”

“She pushed him away.”

“How did Chris react?”

“Same old shit. Put her down, put Derrick
down.” She grinned. “Derrick’s already kicked Chris’s ass once for
giving Amanda a hard time.”

“Sounds like Chris needs another ass
kicking.”

“Hard to do that from jail.”

I nodded. “So what happened next?”

“Amanda was pretty upset and left the party.
I offered to go with her, but she refused, saying she wanted to be
alone.”

I didn’t add that if Rebecca had been with
Amanda, that Amanda stood a better chance of being alive today.
Then again, there might be two dead teenage girls instead of
one.

“That was the last time you saw her?”

She was looking away, blinking hard.
“Yes.”

“After Amanda left, what did Chris do?”

“I don’t know. He took off in his car.”

Oh?

“Did you tell the police this?” I asked.

“The police never came by.”

“The police assume Derrick did the killing,”
I said.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “But I think
someone set Derrick up.”

“I do too.”

“Someone who doesn’t like him very much,” she
said.

“I agree. Where does Chris live?”

She told me, and I gave her my card.

“Nice picture,” she said.

“Like I said, you are obviously a bright and
intelligent young lady.”

I left her rocking alone on the bench
swing.

14.

According to Rebecca, Chris’s house was three
streets down. Look for the broken garage door and red mailbox.
Turns out the house was seven streets down. She was close. Okay,
not really.

There was no one home, so I waited in my car,
which really was my home away from home. I had wasted more time
sitting in it than I care to dwell on. One of these days I was
going to wise up and keep an emergency novel in the glove box for
just such an occasion. I turned on the radio and listened to
various sports radio programs. There had once been a time when I
was the subject of sports radio. At least locally. Maybe again
someday. I looked at my watch. An hour of my life had passed. I
turned off the radio and put my seat back. The police hadn’t
investigated Amanda’s murder very thoroughly. That much was
obvious. They were confident the killer was Derrick. They had no
reason to believe otherwise, and they did not look for a reason.
Looking for a reason made their job harder than it had to be,
especially when a kid with a knife was looking them straight in the
face. According to the homicide report, an anonymous caller had
tipped the police that the knife was in the backseat of Derrick’s
car. Convenient.

Two hours later, after a fitful nap, a silver
Corvette squealed around the corner and bounded into the driveway.
A lanky kid hopped out and stared at me.

More than ready for a little action, I leapt
out of my car and, perhaps a little too eagerly, approached him.
The kid backed up a step.

“Chris Randall?” I asked.

He was about an inch shorter than me, about
half the width of me, and certainly not as good looking. Not
everyone can be me.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I told him.

“You have a badge or something?” he asked.
There was mild humor in his voice, and a whole lot of cockiness.
I’ve been told the same.

“Or something.” I showed him my
investigator’s license. “Can I talk to you about Amanda
Peterson?”

His shoulders bunched at the mention of her
name. He recovered and walked around to the Vette’s trunk and
popped it open with the push of a button on his keychain. He
reached inside and pulled out a ratty backpack. His hands were
shaking. When he spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice,
although there was still an underlying tone of arrogance. My
question had unsettled him. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“She was last seen leaving your party.”

He slung the pack over a bony shoulder.
“Probably should have stayed, huh?”

“Probably. You were also seen leaving the
party shortly thereafter.”

“Yeah, so.”

I smiled broadly, just your friendly
neighborhood detective. “So where’d you go?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

“No.”

“Then they would be interested to know that
prior to Amanda leaving the party that you had verbally abused her
and made racially insensitive remarks about her boyfriend
Derrick.”

He looked at me some more, then shrugged. “I
went on a beer run.”

“Where?”

“Corner of Eighth and Turner.” He leaned a
hip against the Vette’s fender. The mild amusement was back. His
eyes almost twinkled. “You think I killed her?”

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”

“Knives can be planted,” I said.

“Why would I kill her?”

“You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a
lot.”

“Maybe you were jealous.”

“Of the nigger?”

“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda,
and you didn’t.”

“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make
sense.”

“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to
his front door.

“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”

Without turning, he flipped me the bird.

Kids these days. They grow up so fast.

15.

Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the
Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant
owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his
security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him
that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it,
but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a
warning. He obliged.

When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he
handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone,
mumbling under his breath.

“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.

“Nope.”

“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our
diligent investigative work?”

“Slim to none.”

We both leaned back in a worn leather love
seat, the only seating available in the back room.

“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said
Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know
it yet.”

I had the remote control and was fast
forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right
corner was the time.

At seven thirty I let the tape play in real
time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.

“Should have brought some popcorn,” he
said.

“They have some in the store. I think Phuong
might be inclined to give us some on the house.”

“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse
of power. We would be on the take.”

“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”

“But only if buttered.”

We watched the comings and goings of many
different people of many different nationalities, most of them
buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down
on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s
shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.

“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.

“The brunette?”

“No, the blond.”

“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?”
he asked.

“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty.
There’s a difference.”

“You’re blond.”

“There always an exception to every
rule.”

At seven thirty-eight a young man approached
the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and
lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the
kid’s money.

“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.

“Yes.”

“The time of death was seven thirty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”

“No,” I said.

“The kid didn’t do her.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I stopped the tape and we sat back on the
sofa.

“Which means someone was waiting for her at
her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be
leaving the party early?”

We were silent. Two great investigative minds
at work.

“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.

“Me neither,” I said.

“Maybe she was followed home.”

“Or just a random killing.”