Deadly Cool (6 page)

“Have a seat. This will just take a minute,” Chase offered.

I looked around. A desk chair littered with black clothes sat to one side. Beside it a wooden folding chair piled high with school textbooks. Which just left the bed. I scooted a couple pillows aside and gingerly perched on the edge.

Or
tried
to gingerly perch on the edge.

The second my butt hit the fuzzy black blanket, I sank down half a dozen inches, the mattress wobbling like I’d planted myself on Jell-O.

“Whoa!” Sam said, mirroring my own surprise as she sat beside me. “Water bed.”

“Nice, huh?” Chase asked over his shoulder.

“Fab.” I felt my cheeks go warm, trying not to think about the kind of action that went on in a bed like this, and scooted closer to the edge.

I struggled to maintain a vertical position, swaying next to Sam, as I watched Chase click away on his computer. Soon, an array of thumbnails filled the screen, showing his dented bumper from fifteen different angles. Most were indeed close-ups, displaying bashed-in chrome and a crushed taillight, but a few caught a glimpse of the street beyond in the background.

“Can you make those bigger?” I asked, pointing to a couple where I could almost make out the corner of Josh’s house.

“I can do anything you want with them,” he answered, immediately enlarging the images.

Sam and I leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Around large-scale bits of bumper I could make out a few trees, the garage of the house next door, the front of Josh’s Jeep. In a couple of photos the other cars parked across the street were visible. In another, the tires of Sam’s brother’s SVO Volvo peeked into the frame.

But unfortunately nothing screamed “murderer” or “smoking gun.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d hoped to see on the photos, but clearly Chase’s camera hadn’t picked up anything incriminating.

“I hate to say it, but I don’t really see anything here,” Sam said, voicing my own disappointment.

“Sorry,” Chase responded, shutting the window. “I told you they were mostly close-ups.”

“So now what?” I asked.

Chase pulled a wide-ruled notebook and a pen from a backpack beside his desk. “I think we should make a list of everyone who had issues with Courtney.” He paused. Then gave me a pointed look. “Besides you.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, we thought of that already,” Sam told him. “The problem is, we couldn’t figure out who
didn’t
have issues with Courtney.” She paused. “You got any guesses?”

He shook his head. “We didn’t really run in the same social circles. I knew who she was, but she was a year behind me, so I never had much to do with her.”

Which made Chase a senior and explained why Sam and I had never had much to do with him either. The divide between class years was almost as wide as the gap between the all-black-all-the-time crowd and the perktastic Color Guard girls.

I watched as Chase pursed his lips, his eyebrows hunkering together. I noticed his eyebrows were a lot darker than Josh’s. Almost bordering on too full, but instead of looking unkempt they gave off a thoughtful vibe. Like he spent a lot of time contemplating the secrets of the universe.

Or maybe just the secrets of death metal lyrics.

“Let’s go talk to her friends,” he finally said. “They’d know if Courtney had been having issues with anyone in particular lately.”

I slipped my cell from my pocket, checking the time. 11:45. Almost lunch. It was as good a time as any to catch the Color Guard girls for a chat.

Chase grabbed a hoodie from his closet—black with a big purple eagle on the back—and led the way back through the house to the front door.

There was just one problem.

Sam and I were sans transportation. And the bus didn’t come by again for another half hour, by which time the Color Guard girls would be safely tucked away in fifth period. If we wanted to question them before the end of the day, we had only one alternative.

I stared at Chase’s dented Camaro in the driveway.

“It’s just a scratch. She still runs fine,” he assured us, pulling open the passenger-side door.

The dented bumper leaned to one side, the muffler tilting precariously close to the ground. If I sneezed, I was pretty sure the tailpipe would fall off.

“So, some guy hit you from behind?” I asked.

“Yeah. Total jerk. But it was the guy in front of me that really caused the accident. He stopped suddenly, I braked, and the guy behind me rammed my tail.”

“Oh.” I felt a little better. Sudden stop slamage could happen to anyone, right? I pushed the front seat forward, climbing over it into the tiny back. “So it wasn’t your fault.”

Chase shook his head. “Nope. Totally the guy in front of me. I mean, who stops for a yellow light, ya know?”

Oh no.

I opened my mouth to protest that maybe the bus wouldn’t be so bad after all, but I didn’t get a chance as Chase slammed the door shut. Sam slid into the front, and I tried to swallow my concern as Chase started the car. But it kinda stuck in my throat as he peeled out of the driveway and took the first corner on two tires.

“Um, so, how long have you had your license?” I asked, gripping the armrest on the door like a life preserver.

“Since last year. Spent my sixteenth birthday in line at the DMV.”

“Really?” I felt the seat belt go taut against my chest as he took another corner at NASCAR speeds. “Did you, uh, pass on the first try?”

“Of course.”

He went over a speed bump, and I swear we caught at least two feet of air. I felt my head kiss the ceiling.

“And how many accidents have you been in?”

“Just one.”

That was a small comfort.

“This month,” he added.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the gods of clear intersections.

Luckily, we arrived back at Herbert Hoover High in one piece (though I was pretty sure Mr. Chase’s wild ride had shaved a good five years off my life). We turned onto High School Drive (geniusly named, no?) just as classes were letting out for a fifty-five minute lunch period and pulled into the school’s back parking lot. Which, at this time of day, was a drive-at-your-own-risk zone. Brand-new drivers in SUVs and hand-me-down sedans filled the lot, furiously texting despite hands-free laws as they rushed to Starbucks for a quick caffeine fix. Each car was filled to capacity, and the sounds of dueling mp3s blasting from souped-up stereos filled the air—Taylor Swift warring with Usher over the indistinguishable deep bass of a hip-hop song.

Chase seemed oblivious to the dangers of three hundred newbie drivers all cramming into one lot at the same time, his Camaro flying over the speed bumps like a bad seventies cop show. My teeth chattered together as I again caught air in my seat.

“You know, you’re supposed to slow down for speed bumps,” I offered.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Chase grinned at me in the rearview mirror.

I gritted my teeth, praying I would make it with all my fillings intact.

After narrowly avoiding a collision with a Honda Accord carrying half the debate team, Chase pulled his car into a slot near the field.

As Chase locked up his death trap and we crossed the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Detective Raley hovering near the cafeteria. He had a member of the school band cornered, questioning him with an intensity that had the poor guy pinned. I hated to break it to the detective, but if Courtney had said more than boo to a band member all year, I’d eat my chem book. He was seriously barking up the wrong tree.

I had much higher hopes for our prey as Chase led the way into the HHH main quad where the Color Guard girls held midday court.

When I’d first started at HHH, Mom had suggested I try out for “that cheerleading with flags.” It had taken me the better part of a gluten-free soy burger to explain to her the intricate and seriously important differences between cheerleaders and Color Guard girls.

Cheer was for girls who liked to shake their butts and do splits in short skirts in front of a screaming crowd. Color Guard was for good girls who had more school spirit than brains. Cheerleaders dated college guys with tattoos. Color Guard girls dated guys with trust funds. The last four girls in our school’s own “sixteen and pregnant” club were cheerleaders. The last four presidents of the Chastity Club had been Color Guard girls. Cheerleaders were the future Playmates of the world. Color Guard girls grew up to be soccer moms with Louis Vuitton diaper bags.

Needless to say, neither had been a group I’d been dying to join as a freshman, and I had never regretted that decision.

The cheerleaders usually spent their lunch break off campus, smoking Marlboro lights (to stay thin). The Color Guard girls, on the other hand, took the prime spot under the lone shade tree in the quad at the center of school, drinking Sugarfree Red Bull (to stay thin). (Okay, maybe they did have one or two things in common.)

Usually the conversation from the Color Guard camp could be heard from two buildings over, since the cooler the person perceived herself to be the louder she chatted. But as we approached today, the group was unusually subdued in deference to the passing of their queen. Girls gathered in twos and threes to voice their theories about her death in stage whispers. I noticed black bands covering the upper arms of several of them, though instead of the usual plain cotton, these were shot through with sparkly purple threads. Designer mourning bands. How appropriate.

In the center of the mix, surrounded by at least a dozen future soccer moms, sat Courtney’s two best friends—Caitlyn Calvin and Kaylee Clark. If you’ve ever seen a Barbie doll, you’ve seen Caitlyn and Kaylee. Straight, shiny blond hair loaded with enough product to create their very own ozone holes. Big blue eyes rimmed in eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, and then a little more mascara for good measure. Complexions as perfect as a Proactiv after photo and their limbs an even honey color that somehow looked natural despite the absence of any tan lines.

Clearly every girl on campus simultaneously hated them and wanted to be them.

Caitlyn was dressed in a white skirt that came to mid-thigh (just low enough to pass dress code but high enough to show off the fruits of her Red Bull addiction), a tank top with ruffles down the front in a pale violet version of the Color Guard’s mandatory purple, and a pair of white canvas Skechers that somehow defied any sign of dirt. Beside her, Kaylee wore a carbon copy of the outfit, only her tank was more of an indigo purple. The only thing to differentiate Thing One from Thing Two was that Caitlyn’s hair was pulled back from her face on the right side with a purple clip. Kaylee’s was pulled back on the left.

Caitlyn, right—Kaylee, left, I chanted to myself as we approached them.

I felt conversation around us fall from a stage whisper to a heavy silence as I walked up, a clear sign I’d been the topic. I ducked my head, not wanting to make eye contact.

Chase, on the other hand, walked right up to the gruesome twosome, oblivious to the stares, and abruptly halted conversations as an intruder invaded their ranks.

“Caitlyn?” Chase asked.

Thing One gave him a slow up and down, her blue eyes silently assessing whether or not he was worthy of an answer. While his black-on-black style probably wasn’t up to her standards, a tiny smile curved the corner of her mouth as she took in the broad shoulders, dark eyes, square jaw. He might not be a trust-fund baby, but he had enough of the brooding bad boy thing going on to arouse her interest. Or at least, I assumed he did as Caitlyn answered, “That’s me. And you are . . . ?”

“Chase Erikson.”

Caitlyn shot him a big smile that spoke to the fact she was a lot more vigilant about wearing her retainer at night than I was. “Nice to meet you, Chase,” she said, her voice purring over his name as she twirled a lock of blond hair between her fingers. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m with the
Herbert Hoover High Homepage
.”

She gave him a blank look.

“The school’s online paper.”

She shrugged. “’Kay.” Clearly she was not the reading kind.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Courtney?”

Caitlyn lowered her eyes to the ground, doing an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know. It’s all so raw. I can’t believe she’s really gone.” Sniff, sniff.

“I can answer for you,” Kaylee piped up, her eyes locked onto Chase’s biceps like they were éclairs and her underweight self had spent the school year existing on . . . well . . . Sugarfree Red Bull.

Caitlyn shot Thing Two a dirty look. “I didn’t say I couldn’t answer. It’s just hard.” She turned back to Chase. “She was my best friend, you know.”

Chase nodded.

“She was my best friend, too!” Kaylee piped up, determined not to be left out. Then she did an exact replica of Caitlyn’s sniff thing.

“When was the last time you saw your best friend?” he asked the pair.

Caitlyn drew her perfectly threaded eyebrows together. “Yesterday. After school.”

“What time?” I chimed in. If we knew exactly when Courtney left, it would help narrow down the time of her death.

Caitlyn’s eyes cut to me, blinking as if seeing me for the first time. “I dunno. After school. We saw her right before Color Guard practice.”

“Did she seem upset by anything?” Chase asked. “Or distracted? Preoccupied?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “No, she was perfectly fine. Her usual self.”

“Was she having problems with anyone?” he pressed. “Anyone have a reason to be upset with her that you know of? Anyone with a reason to want her dead?”

Caitlyn’s eyes shot my way.

“Besides me,” I quickly added.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Kaylee cut in.

Caitlyn sent her a look, but Kaylee marched on, undeterred. Clearly a cute bad boy trumped the Color Guard code of loyalty. “I know who killed her.”

I raised an eyebrow. Surely it wasn’t going to be that easy, was it?

“Who?” Chase asked.

“Josh DuPont,” she announced. Then executed another perfect sniff. “He killed my best friend.”

“No way!” I shouted automatically.

Chase shot me a silent warning look, before turning back to Kaylee. “Why do you say that?” he pressed.