Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (16 page)

“Yes,” she said immediately.

“Why?”

“He had motive and he had the murder
weapon.”

“Damning evidence,” I said. “Except that all
indications seem to point that he was truly in love with
Amanda.”

“Which would make his jealousy all the more
unpredictable,” she said. “Wouldn’t it?”

I shrugged. I didn’t like answering leading
questions.

We continued to eat. Just beyond, the duck
floated unmovingly. I was now certain it was fake. Or asleep.

While we ate, I could sense Mrs. Williams
watching me. Her watching me made me uncomfortable in a way I
couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps I sensed in her an
unpredictability. She reminded me of my father in that way. Happy
one moment, a real piece of work the next.

And for perhaps the hundredth time that
evening, I wished with all my heart that Cindy was sitting across
from me. I missed her laugh, her smile, her scent. Her
everything.

When the bill came, I quickly paid it and we
left. As we exited the restaurant, Mrs. Williams looped her arm
through mine. I think I shuddered a little.

I walked her to her car, where we stood
awkwardly for a few moments. I wanted to leave but she wouldn’t
release my arm. Above, the tiny sliver of moon reflected the hollow
feeling inside me.

“I had a great time tonight,” she said.

Her words took me by surprise. What date had
she been on? I had been miserable.

“We should do it again sometime,” she
added.

I nodded dumbly and just wanted to leave.
Finally she released my arm and surprised me again by planting a
big, wet kiss on my lips. She pulled away and grinned warmly, then
got in her massive SUV and drove off.

I stood there in the parking lot, watching
her go.

I wanted to run to Cindy.

But I didn’t. Instead, on the way home, I
bought a case of beer and drank the night away.

48.

I went on a seven mile jog the next morning.
I kept an easy pace, and my leg only hurt a little, which was
encouraging. I showered and shaved at home, then headed for the
office, where I kept my office door locked and the Browning on the
desk next to me.

I called Donna Trigger. A girl answered and
told me that Donna had classes this morning but I could try later
in the afternoon. I said I would, she said cool, popped a bubble
and hung up.

Next I called Sanchez on his cell and asked
him to run Bryan Dawson’s name through his data base and see what
turned up. He said no problem and that if it weren’t for me he
wouldn’t have shit to do, nevermind his caseload of homicides to
solve. I hung up on him in mid-rant.

I sat back in my chair and realized I had no
real clues or suspects, other than two lecherous men with a
fondness for young girls. This was so depressing that I felt it
necessary to take a nap. I usually don’t need much convincing when
it comes to naps.

* * *

The phone woke me. It was just before
noon.

“Hi,” said a soft voice. My heart lurched. It
was Cindy.

“Hello.”

“Can I see you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up and sat at my desk for a minute or
two until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly.
Within the next few minutes the course of my life would be set.
Amazingly, it was out of my hands, and in Cindy’s alone.

* * *

I stood off to the side of my window, looking
down onto Beach Blvd, the blinds partly open. Hauling ass down the
street and turning dangerously in front of a white pickup, Cindy
arrived in her silver Lexus. I could hear the pickup’s angry horn
from here.

And trailing behind Cindy was a blue Taurus.
Not normally a big deal, granted, but sitting in the driver’s seat
was my friend the hitman. He continued on past my building and made
a left and disappeared.

He made two mistakes: the first was that I
made his plate. The second was that he had involved Cindy.

My phone rang. I grabbed it.

“You’re girlfriend’s cute. Back off, or she’s
dead.” The line went dead.

I immediately called Sanchez and got his
voice mail. I left the plate number for him to run. Now I was going
to owe Sanchez another dinner. So what else was new?

Next I unlocked the door and paced before my
couch, trying like hell to get the killer out of my mind and focus
on Cindy. To focus on us.

Moving along the cement walkway, heals
clicking rapidly along, I could hear Cindy coming.

My hands were sweating; my shoulders were
knotted. I resented her for putting me through this. We had been
serious for eight years. She knew the dangers inherent to my
profession, but she also knew that I could handle them. The only
new twist was my interest in resuming my football career; well, and
the drinking.

The door to my office opened, and she stood
there holding a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. She came in and
set the flowers down on the desk, then threw her arms around me.
Her lips found mine and we kissed like lost lovers, which, for a
few days, we were. We fumbled our way to the couch, and there we
made up for lost time.

And the direction of my life became clear
again.

Damn clear.

49.

Nestled between a Rite Aide and a laundromat
was a little Italian place that I liked, called Frazzi’s. Cindy and
I were heading there now for lunch, holding hands. The mid-day sun
shone straight down on us, but lacked any real heat, just a bright
ornament hanging in the sky.

“So why is Italian your favorite food?” asked
Cindy. I sensed she was feeling happy. The weather was nice, and we
had just made love, and she wanted to keep things light and fun, at
least for the moment. We still hadn’t talked about the heavy stuff,
which was fine by me.

“I’ve discovered in the course of my
considerable dining experience and extensive travels that a food
joint has to work pretty damn hard to screw up Italian food. It’s
usually a sure bet.”

“I’ve screwed it up before,” she said.

“Actually, we screwed it up together,” I
said.

“Which is why we no longer cook.”

“And why we eat out.”

“Except for you and your damn cereal and
PB&Js.”

“Cereal and PB&J’s are my staple. They
keep me alive.”

“I know. I think it’s cute.”

Frazzi’s was a narrow restaurant with
checkered table cloths and red vinyl seats. We found a booth in the
back and sat ourselves. By now Cindy knows to allow me to have the
best view of the restaurant, where I keep my eyes on the front
door, the butt of my gun loose and free. There wasn’t much for
Cindy to look at other than me. Lucky girl.

The waitress came by and we ordered two
Cokes.

“So can I say a few things?” asked Cindy.

“Of course.” Here it comes.

“Your drinking worries me. Actually, it’s not
the fact that you occasionally get drunk, it’s that you feel you
need to drink secretly.”

“Well, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“How long have you been getting drunk?”

I shrugged. “Off and on since I broke my
leg.”

“The broken leg was the catalyst?”

“Yes.”

“And nothing else?”

I reached out and took her hand from across
the table. She needed to be reassured. I looked at her steadily in
the eye. “It’s the only reason.”

“Nothing about me?”

“No.”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Will you try to stop for me? I’m not asking
you to give up drinking altogether, but I’m asking you to stop
getting drunk whenever we are away from each other, to stop
destroying your liver, to stop feeling so goddamn sorry for
yourself.”

“I might need help.”

“I’ll help you.”

Our drinks came, along with some fresh bread
and oil.

“The usual, Jim?” asked Mama Lucco. She was
Italian and in her mid-forties. I’d been coming here for four
years, ever since I set up my agency down the street.

“Make that two,” I said.

When Mama Lucco had moved off, Cindy asked,
“What’s the usual?”

“Lasagna, of course.”

“I should have known.”

“So what else is on your mind?”

She took a sip from her Coke, and then tore a
piece of bread off, dipped it in oil and gave it to me. I took it,
and she repeated the process for herself.

When she was ready, she said, “I’ve been
feeling sorry for myself, too, admittedly. I asked myself why
couldn’t I have a boyfriend who has a normal job, a job in which
his life isn’t threatened by a hired killer, a job that didn’t
require you to deal with the dregs of society.”

She paused. I waited.

“But then I realized that you are so goddamn
good at what you do, and someone has to set things right in this
fucked up world. And if you are willing to do it, then the least I
can do is stand by your side, and give you my support.”

I digested this, then asked, “What about
football?”

“I don’t know what to make of this football
business. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I’ve come to the conclusion that if I go
back to you now, I will forever accept you, just the way you are,
and deal with whatever comes our way, together. I had a taste of
life without you this week, and it was horrible. Just horrible.”
She paused and took my hand, and looked me in the eye. “Will you
take me back?”

“Yes,” I said.

She kissed my knuckles. “You’ve got me
forever, Jim Knighthorse. Or for as long as you can stand me.”

50.

Later, with Cindy teaching an afternoon
class, and me wondering how I was going to stay off the booze,
Sanchez called.

“I got an address on that plate.”

“Swell.”

“You say it was an older model blue
Taurus?”

“Uh huh.”

“How about a green ‘89 Taurus?”

“Green, blue, same difference.”

“Christ, Knighthorse. Can’t you tell the
difference?”

“No,” I said. “Greens and blues are
tough.”

“That could be the difference in apprehending
a felon.”

“We all have our handicaps,” I said. “Mine is
coloration. Yours is unattractiveness.”

“Fuck you,” he said, chuckling.

“Perhaps if you were better looking.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Convince the killer to stay away.”

Sanchez was silent. “You’re going to kill
him,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question.

“No other way to convince a hitman to stay
away.”

“You need help?”

“Wouldn’t that be against the law?”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you. He made it personal. Be
better if you stayed out of it, in case something goes wrong.” I
paused. “I owe you.”

“Fucking eh, you do. You can start with
dinner tonight.”

He gave me the name and address, and hung up.
Johnny Bright. I stared at the name for some time.

He should have left Cindy out of it. Would
have been healthier for him.

* * *

Next I called Washington state, and this time
got hold of Donna Trigger.

“Who’s this?” she asked. Her voice was
soft.

“My name is Jim Knighthorse, I’m a private
detective down in Huntington Beach. I’m following up on the murder
of Amanda Peterson.”

There was silence. Not even a hiss of a
connection. “What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?”

“Can I ask you about Bryan Dawson?”

Another pause. “What would you like to
know?”

“What was your relationship with Mr.
Dawson?”

“He was my band director,” she said evenly.
“And my lover.” She caught me admittedly by surprise. But I am a
professional, and just as I opened my mouth for the next question,
she continued: “And, in the end, my stalker.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“On what?”

“On everything,” I said.

* * *

She did, and when we hung up I had a much
clearer picture of Bryan Dawson. And I had no reason to doubt her.
Dawson had approached her during her junior year, and she had been
flattered because she had always considered him cute. All of the
girls did. It began after band camp when he offered to give her a
ride home. One thing led to another and they didn’t make it home
and she had been honored that he had chosen her out of all the
girls. She was seventeen and had been a virgin. She saw him
secretly during the next year, but he became possessive and
physical and she ended the relationship. He was relentless in his
pursuit to win her back. Soon he was following her home, standing
outside her windows, calling her repeatedly. And when she began
dating someone else, a senior at their school, that someone was
brutally attacked one night, leaving the kid with a fractured skull
and permanent semi-blindness.

But the stalking had abruptly ended when he
found a new girl.

A replacement.

Amanda Peterson.

51.

Sanchez and I were across the street from my
pad, upstairs at the Huntington Beach Brew Pub.

“Why am I always coming out to O.C. to meet
you?” he asked.

“Because I’m worth it,” I said. “What’s
Danielle doing tonight?”

“She’s taking a class. Going back to school
to get a degree in finance. She’s hit a ceiling at work, needs the
degree.”

“It’s about time you let her have a life you
chauvinistic Latino pig.”

“Hey, I’m only half Latino.”

We were both drinking the blond house draft,
a light, sweet beer.

Sanchez said, “Why is it the blond beer is
the lighter beer, and the darker beer gets you drunk faster?
Thought blonds have more fun.”