Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (15 page)

“So where’s my mother now?” I asked. “You
know, her spirit, or whatever?”

As I spoke, Jack inhaled the coffee deeply,
pausing, taking the scent deep within, making it a part of him.

“She is wherever she wants to be,” he said,
exhaling.

“And where would that be?”

“For instance, she is with us now since we
are talking about her.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“And is she sitting next to me?” I asked.

He didn’t answer at first, although he gave
me a gentle smile.

“She is in your heart, Jim. Be still, and
feel her there.”

I looked at the old man across from me. On
second thought, he wasn’t really that old. On third thought, I was
hard pressed to gauge just how old he was, although he was
certainly older than me. And then another thought occurred to me:
My mother. I suddenly remembered a time when she and I had gone to
the beach together in the city bus. She let me ditch school and had
treated me like a prince that day.

My breath caught in my throat. Fuck, I missed
her.

“She misses you, too,” said Jack. “But she
wants you to know that she is always with you.” He paused, and that
gentle smiled found his weathered face. “And that you will always
be her little prince, even though you are a big son-of-bitch.”

And all I could do was wipe my eyes and
laugh.

Hi, mom.

45.

“Last time you were here, Knighthorse, my
school was turned upside down. Please, no more bodies.”

Vice Principal Williams’s levity over the
tragic suicide of her football coach was a tad alarming, but I let
it slide without comment. She had come to the door to shake my
hand. Today she was dressed in a white pant suit and a white blouse
that was see-through enough to ignite the imagination of any
hormone-enraged teenaged boy. And to ignite the imagination of at
least one hormone-enraged detective.

“Um, nice blouse,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked down at it.
“Or are you just saying that because you can see the outline of my
bra?”

“Which qualifies it as a nice blouse.”

She settled into her chair behind her desk. I
sat before her. Her gaze did not waver from mine. “I am a married
woman.”

I pointed to the rock on her hand. “Not a
hard fact to overlook, even for one as highly trained as I.”

“What makes you so highly trained?”

“I apprenticed for two years with my father.
And he is the best.”

“You say that almost grudgingly.”

“My father and I have never been close. You
could say he was unsupportive in my earlier sporting
endeavors.”

“You hold that against him?”

“Yes.”

She studied me some more, and we held each
other’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. She inhaled and her chest
inflated and the lacy bra pushed out. It was a calculated move.

“Currently my husband and I are
separated.”

“I see.”

“What is your situation, Mr.
Knighthorse?”

I hesitated. I did not know my situation.
Cindy had not called me for two days. As far as I knew she was
gone.

“I am in a similar situation,” I said.

“Perhaps we can entertain each other in the
meantime.”

“Entertaining is good.”

“How about dinner this weekend?” she
asked.

I thought about it. It was getting old
drinking alone.

“Mrs. Williams—”

“Please, Dana.”

“Dana, this weekend would be...fine.”

She smiled, relaxed and sat back. She had the
attitude of a closed deal. “Now what can I do for you?”

“Where can I find the school band
director?”

“Bryan Dawson?”

“If that’s the band director.”

Her fingers drummed the arm of her chair.

“Is there a problem, Dana?” I asked.

She turned in her swivel chair and gazed out
her considerable window into the empty quad. I continued to watch
her, intrigued by her response.

“Why do you wish to speak to him?”

“Amanda quit the school band unexpectedly. I
want to find out why.”

“Seems a reach for your investigation.”

“My job is to reach. Luckily I have a long
arm.”

“You can find him here in the mornings. Room
one oh seven, around six a.m. Band practice starts at zero period,
six forty-five a.m.”

“Is there something I should know about him?”
I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m a good detective. Perhaps not as
good as my pop, but the next best thing. If there’s something going
on with your band director, I’m going to find out about it. But you
and I can cut a deal now, and if you make things easy on me,
perhaps I will agree to keep things quiet.”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps is the best I can offer.”

“Perhaps is not good enough.”

“Then I will find the truth on my own, and
there is no deal.”

She sat back and gazed at me from over
steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”

“You have no idea.”

“I just want myself and the school left out
of it.”

“I can probably swing that,” I said.

“Probably?”

“Best I can offer right now.”

She got up and shut her door, then sat back
down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she
busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that.
She only risked glancing up at me occasionally. Even then she
seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could
blame her, really?

“Now, there have been some, ah, alleged
indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in
the past.”

“Have the allegations been confirmed?”

“No.”

“Was Amanda Peterson one of those who
allegedly had an indiscretion?”

“Yes.”

“What did these indiscretions involve?”

“Sexual advances.”

“Has anyone looked into the allegations?”

“I did.”

“And what did you discover?”

“He denied everything and there was no proof,
and now one of the girls is dead.”

“And the other?”

“Lives in Washington state.”

“Do you have her address?”

She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her
filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the
next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and
brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a
sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it,
Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.

Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”

“No stone unturned.”

“Are you just as thorough in the
bedroom?”

“You’ll just have to use your
imagination.”

She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little
red.

“Oh, I have.”

46.

I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to
Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with
some Krispy Kremes.

Which I did, along with two containers of
chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking
to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories
I’m looking for.

It was cool enough for the heater, and since
I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went
ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove
languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry
and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray
and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of
faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.

I turned up a street called Mariner, which,
coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and
neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down
with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor
parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these
days I kept it particularly handy.

I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the
gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun
handles.

* * *

I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard
footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I
reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the
Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was
young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a
nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome
guy; worse, he knew it.

When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.

“Bryan Dawson?” I asked.

He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a
good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high
schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.

“You are the detective,” he said, brushing
past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated
shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance
and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.

“Pardon you,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. A little clumsy this early
in the morning.”

He had known of me, which I found
interesting. Someone had hired the thug, too; someone who had known
of me as well.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your
shoulder is okay,” I said jovially. “How do you know me?”

“Someone pointed you out the other day when
the police arrived for Coach Castleton. Weren’t you the one who
found him?”

“Yes.”

“Must have been awful,” he said. “Seeing his
brains and shit all over the place.”

His gaze was unwavering and challenging. I
didn’t like him. He was cocky, loud, and too sure of himself.

“It was more awful that he found it necessary
to end his life. The murder of Amanda Peterson has had significant
repercussions. Not to mention an innocent boy is in jail for the
crime.”

“The police don’t seem to think he’s so
innocent. For them it’s an open and shut case.”

“Luckily for Derrick, I don’t think it’s so
open and shut.”

“Which means what? You’re only a private
dick.”

“Means I’m going to find the killer.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Did you have a relationship with
Amanda?”

“I was her band director.”

“Did you have a relationship with her outside
of school?”

“Of course not.”

“Where were you on the night of Amanda
Peterson’s murder?”

“I have nothing left to say to you.”

“Of course you don’t.”

And he promptly shut the door in my face.

Jim Knighthorse, master interrogator.

47.

It was late and we were at a restaurant
called Waters in the city of Irvine. Coincidentally, a small,
foul-smelling, man-made lake sat next to the restaurant. I wondered
what came first: The lake or the restaurant?

Vice Principal Dana Williams had pushed hard
for this meeting, so I agreed to meet her here. I sensed she liked
me. I also sensed she was a very lonely woman. So why had I agreed?
I didn’t know entirely. She was loosely connected to my case, so I
could always justify the meeting in that way. I was also lonely
myself. Very lonely. Perhaps we were just two lost souls meeting in
the night, at a pretentiously named restaurant.

“Do you talk to your ex-girlfriend much?”
asked Mrs. Williams. She emphasized the ex part a little too
much.

“She’s not my ex. We’re just taking a break
from all the action.”

“What sort of action?” she asked.

“Nevermind,” I said. I didn’t feel like
talking about it, especially someone who was all for my break up
with Cindy. Anyone who was all for my break up with Cindy was no
friend of mine.

“Do you always speak in football jargon?” she
asked.

We were seated outside, on the wide, wooden
deck that wrapped around the entire restaurant. We had a great view
of the fake lake. A duck floated nearby. It could have been fake,
too, but I doubted it.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“I see,” she said. She toyed with the red
straw sticking out of her margarita. If my lack of enthusiasm for
our meeting was making her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I
sensed that she saw me as a challenge. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
she asked suddenly.

Admittedly, the question caught me off-guard.
I looked at her from across the table. She was looking ravishing,
to say the least. A tight blouse that showed way too much of her
chest. Make-up that seemed expertly applied. Hair perfectly framing
her pretty face.

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to dance
around the subject.

She beamed, pleased.

Our food arrived. Clams for her. A burger for
me. I ate the fries first. She watched me eat. She was about to ask
me something, probably something about Cindy, when I cut her off.
Enough of the bullshit.

“So how long have you been separated?” I
asked.

She shrugged, sipped her drink. “I don’t
know.”

“You don’t know?”

She leveled her stare at me and I was
reminded again that she was very much the vice principal of
discipline at Huntington High. When she spoke, she lowered her
voice ominously. “I don’t remember, exactly. A few years I suppose.
Is that okay?”

“Hey, I’m okay if you’re okay,” I said, and
very much wanted to get the hell out of here. Mrs. Williams’s
apparent ability to go from flirtatious to bitch was alarming at
best.

We ate our food in silence. Actually, I ate
and she toyed. I wondered what the clams thought about being killed
only to be toyed with.

Probably be pissed off.

“Do you think Derrick killed Amanda?” I asked
suddenly. Hey, might as well get some work done. In the least, I
could write the dinner off for tax purposes.