The Big Splash (6 page)

I knew he wouldn't be concerned at all. In fact, he'd be broadcasting it, using it to further his own legend. But my mouth was on a roll, saying things before my brain could stop it. “Well, this was probably revenge for something she did while following your orders. So maybe you didn't pull the trigger, but you're as responsible as the kid that did.”

“I like you, Matthew, I really do,” Vinny replied, as if
speaking to a small, dumb child, “but sometimes you don't have a clue as to what you're talking about. I never forced her to do anything that she didn't want to. All I did was give her an opportunity, an opportunity that she was born for. And she took it. Why? Because she wanted it. She made a choice, and she faced the consequences of that choice.”

I didn't say anything, mostly because I felt like an idiot. He was right. It was a losing argument to try to paint Nikki as an innocent pawn.

“Now then,” Vinny said, “here's the rest of your money.” He handed me a twenty.

“This is ten too many,” I said.

Vinny chuckled. “Always honest … The extra ten is a retainer. I want to keep you in my employ, to find out who took down Nikki.”

“You don't need me for that. With your network, you could have that kid in the Outs in twenty minutes … twenty-five tops.”

“You overestimate my reach, Matthew.”

“I don't think I do. In fact, I may have underestimated it. You could probably find him in fifteen.”

“Are you trying to talk yourself out of a job? I
could
find out who did it on my own, but again—”

“Don't give me that garbage about owing me, because I'm still not buying it from the first go around,” I said.

“Listen, Matthew, just take the money. Find out who did this and I'll give you another twenty. That's thirty dollars to do a job that I can tell you're itching to do anyway.”

“Nicole's sister already hired me.”

“This is a free-market society. I'm outbidding her. Tell her she'll get the same results, but she won't have to shell out a dime. Not a bad deal. Or tell her nothing and collect twice on the same job. I don't care. Just find out who pulled the trigger.” He turned to leave, then turned back and handed me the surfer girl. “Here,” he said, “you need this more than I do.”

I pointed to Brian. “Not if
he's
your bodyguard.”

“He's not. Anymore.”

Brian winced, then shot me a look that could have peeled paint. After a moment, he wandered off, the weight of his failure bowing his shoulders. He gave a final, wounded look back at Vinny as he rounded a corner out of sight.

“You're going to walk through the halls without a bodyguard?” I asked.

“Your concern for my well-being is touching, Matthew. But don't worry … I think I'll be all right.” He turned and walked off. When he was fifteen feet from me, three kids seemed to materialize out of thin air, forming a protective half-circle around him. One of the kids turned back and blew me a kiss; I doubted she was looking for a date.

left school with a lot on my mind, but not much in my stomach. It was already four o'clock. I hopped on my bike and rode home, reviewing the events of the day. They rolled around my brain like billiard balls on a table with no pockets; nothing was sinking in.

Nikki Fingers had once been the most feared trigger girl in school, and now she was in the Outs. The number of suspects could fill a New York City phone book. I was having a harder time thinking of kids that didn't have a motive. The question was: Who had the motive
and
the
guts? That was a much shorter list. Then again, a kid gets some sugar-induced courage—a couple of sodas, a couple of candy bars—there's no telling what he or she will do.

Take a case I worked on last year. Some kid from the yearbook staff hired me to track down his camera. He had put it in his locker and gone to lunch, and had come back to find it missing. Nothing else was out of place. In fact, his locker door was still locked. The only thing gone was his camera. Turns out, kids from the yearbook staff had had cameras taken from their lockers all year, all with the same M.O.: Kids would go to their lockers after lunch, unlock them as they always did, and nothing would be out of place, except the cameras that were in there before lunch were now gone. The hall monitors didn't have any leads, so they were keeping the story hush-hush.

Instead of attempting to solve the case through the front door, I decided to try a back way. I went to the two camera stores in town that bought used equipment. A lot of criminals in the Frank forgot that when they tried to deal their stuff to the adult world, they always left an impression. Both camera places had bought equipment from a “blond kid, ten to twelve years old, medium height, freckle-faced, tons of energy, and a wide, disarming grin.”
They remembered him because they thought it was a little weird that a kid would be able to get his hands on so much camera equipment. I had a feeling I knew who it was, but I had a hard time believing it. The next day at school confirmed it. The description was too spot on.

Peter Kuhn was the least likely kid to do anything criminal. Honor society, basketball star, top of his class. On the surface, Peter was a happy-go-lucky model student, but underneath, he had a dirty little secret: He was a Pixy Stixer. He'd go through two or three packs a day. He'd even drink soda through them, as if they were ordinary straws. It instantly doubled the amount of sugar in your bloodstream. Two Pixy juices a day was enough to send most kids over the edge, bouncing off the walls 'til midnight. By the middle of last year, Peter was hitting the juice six times a day, every day. That kind of habit takes a lot of dough—more than an average kid can get ahold of on a regular basis.

Math was Peter's strongest subject. He had an almost photographic memory, especially when it came to numbers and number series. Turns out, he was seeking out kids who had cameras in their lockers. He would approach them with a cover story, saying
he needed help with some question in some subject. Or he might just shoot the crap about the state of the basketball team. As his marks were speeding through their routine of opening their lockers, he was memorizing their combinations, just from a glance. It was pretty impressive. Then, when everyone else was at lunch, he would return to the lockers armed with the combinations, the cameras now easy pickings.

After I brought him down, Peter took a couple weeks off from school to “visit an out-of-town aunt.” If his story fooled anyone, I've yet to meet them. He came back a changed kid: quiet, reserved, no Pixy Stix in sight. However, every once in a while you'll see him, eyes crazed, molecules on the verge of flying apart, and you know he's been Stixing. Once sugar gets its claws into you, it doesn't like to let go, and there's no telling what you'll do just to get another fix.

When I got home, my mom was rushing around trying to change from her “secretary clothes” into her “waitress clothes.” Ever since my dad disappeared, she's needed two jobs just to keep up. That always gave me a sour taste in my mouth.

“Hey hon, how was your day?” Her question started in the kitchen and ended in her bedroom.

“Fine.”

“You're home a little late. Everything okay?”

I winced. My mom was too sweet to say it, but it was obvious that she had been hoping to spend five minutes together before she had to rush out.

“Yeah. Something came up that I had to take care of. A little extra-credit project.” It wasn't so much a lie as a half-truth. My mom didn't know about my business. There were too many things about it that I'd have to explain, so for now, it was best to keep her in the dark.

She smiled and kissed me firmly on the cheek. “Straight A's and extra credit. You must get that from your father.”

Her smile was still there, but the left side of her mouth dropped a bit. It had been over six years since he vanished, but the wound was still fresh. I changed the subject.

“Did you eat?”

She laughed. “I was just about to ask you that. Who's the parent here?”

“Not a good sign if you're asking me,” I shot back.

She giggled and bopped me on the head with the sweater she was holding. “That mouth's going to get you into trouble someday.”

“What do you mean ‘someday'?”

“Chicken's in the fridge. I'll be home around two. Please don't wait up this time.”

“Right.”

She shot me a look that told me she knew better. She comes home at two in the morning; I'm awake waiting for her. That's the way it is.

“Love ya,” she said, then kissed my forehead.

“Back atcha.”

She dropped me a wink then slipped out the door. I went to the fridge, grabbed a chicken leg, and had at it. It disappeared in three quick bites. I was surprised I didn't chew through the bone. My stomach accepted the food and greedily asked for more. I made myself a little plate—more chicken and some rice from a separate bowl (careful to avoid the peas)—and headed down to my office.

As the tenants of the first floor apartment, my mom and I had the only indoor access to the basement. The only other person who went down there was the guy who took care of the building, and judging by the building's
condition, he wasn't around very often. It wasn't a big basement, and it was full of boxes that held everything from holiday decorations to toys I don't remember playing with. However, it was big enough for me to carve out a little space of my own. I set up shop by the furnace, which helped to keep things comfortable when the weather turned cold. There was a separate door leading to the outside, which allowed me to see clients without having to traipse them through the kitchen. There was even a phone with its own number. I had no idea who paid the bill, but someone did, because I'd been using it for a couple of years and the phone company hadn't shut it off yet. Once in a while, I'd get a call from some guy looking for “Big A,” but every time I'd try to take a message, he'd hang up.

I furnished the place with rich people's junk—stuff that was perfectly fine, but sent to the curb by someone with enough money to get sick of it. I had an old wood desk and matching chair; a beat-up but comfortable sofa with a faded floral slipcover; a couple of lamps; and an old-fashioned radio that had needed quite a bit of elbow grease to get working again. It was my own office: a little dark, a little musty, and totally private—crucial for a business like mine.

I set my plate down on the desk. The room had a warm glow from the sliver of sunset that was sneaking in through the small basement window. I sat down and took a moment to appreciate the perfectly peaceful environment I had in which to enjoy my dinner. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a scrap of paper, the same scrap of paper I pulled out whenever I was in my office and had a few minutes to myself. On that scrap was written: TMS136P15. It was a clue, or at least I thought it was. The police had found that letter/number series neatly typed on a sheet of paper in the glove compartment of my father's car, which they had found parked in a garage four states away. It was the only thing out of the ordinary they had found.

I ate some chicken and stared at the letters and numbers, running through the list of possibilities that I had already dismissed. License plate number? Nope. Too long. Map coordinates? Nope. Wrong letters. Dewey Decimal? Nope. Way off. Before I could think of any new possibilities, someone started knocking on my door as if they held a grudge against it. I put the scrap of paper back in its drawer, then got up to find out who was so excited to see me.

Before I opened the door, I squinted out the
peephole. I had installed it myself last year, after some tricky business involving a hit kid who made house calls. Tonight, Kevin Carling stood on the other side, glaring at my eye. After the events of the day, I had expected him to come talk to me. I just thought it would keep 'til tomorrow. He obviously didn't. I popped the lock and opened the door.

“Hey, Kev.”