Buzz Kill (22 page)

Chase rubbed his head where I'd hit him, maybe a little too hard. “That was a pretty good impression—and, I have to admit, a plausible scenario.”

“So let's open the locker,” I suggested with a glance at the small room where the football players stored their gear. “Although, I gotta say, you'd have to be
really
stupid to stash anything
that
private in here.”

“I don't know,” Chase said, leading the way. “These lockers are pretty sacrosanct.”

Most girls—okay, including myself—were probably attracted to Chase's appearance. For example, the way his butt looked in the Levi's he was wearing that evening, a sight that was nothing short of perfection. But it was how Chase could toss off a word like “sacrosanct,” out of the blue, that really made my tongue hang out as I followed behind him.

A guy with a vocabulary . . . Talk about
hot.

And taken, Millie!

“So, if these lockers are so sacrosanct”—seriously, what a great word—“how will we ‘hack' into Mike's?”

“I'd say we use the same reasoning you just used to figure out Mr. Killdare's password.”

“Meaning?”

“We'll take what we know about Mike, such as his—no offense—basic level of intelligence. Then we'll consider the things that are important to him—his ‘greatest triumphs,' to use your phrase—only this time, we'll interpret them numerically.”

I knew that Chase had a girlfriend, and that he had zero interest in me, but at that moment, I couldn't help thinking that he was almost irresistible. Who
said
stuff like that?

And who could deny that we connected on some mental level, at least, when we both looked at each other and said, simultaneously, “Four to the left, four to the right, four to the left.”

“How did you know Price's old jersey number?” Chase asked, spinning the knob on Mike's locker. “You don't strike me as a sports fan.”

“It's on those fake Eagles jerseys he wears every other day,” I explained, then admitted, “Actually, I assumed he was still number four.”

“No.” Chase pulled down on the lock, which did open. Neither one of us even registered surprise. “Running backs have higher numbers. Quarterbacks get the pick of one through nine.”

“Lucky you.”
By which I mean, “Who cares?”

The locker was just waiting to be explored, but Chase hesitated. “Um . . . Do you know
my
number? Because I know you've covered games for the paper . . .”

Was he still worried that I was stalking him, or fishing for flattery? If it was the latter, I was about to disappoint him. “No clue. For all I know, you wear a pink unicorn on your jersey. Or a big question mark, like the Riddler.”

That was a joking reference to that old doodle I'd drawn of Chase. The one with a question mark where his number would've been.

How much do I know about him now?

That he used to be a hard-partying delinquent, but that he had a good side, too. And a great grasp of the English language. And a nice butt.

But there's still something mysterious about him . 
.
 .

“So let's open this, huh?” I urged, remembering we weren't there to investigate Chase. Then I took a few steps back because, while I was eager to see the contents of Mike's locker, I'd been burned a few times, amateur detecting, and wasn't exactly excited to
smell
any dirty laundry, be it literal or figurative.

In fact, just to be on the safe side, I decided to let Chase do the honors of rummaging through Mike's stinky cleats and soiled jock straps while I went to check out that cool hydrotherapy tub.

“Call me if you find anything interesting,” I said, stepping up to the tub. “And make it quick, before somebody comes—”

Then I stopped talking because, as it turned out, we already weren't exactly alone.

I stood there for a long time, trying to get my heart to restart and my vocal chords to relax enough to speak again. But it seemed to take forever before I could tell Chase, with what I thought was admirable composure, “Umm . . . Chase? I don't think Mike is the killer anymore.”

“No?” It sounded as if his head was in a locker, but I could tell he was surprised. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said, swallowing thickly, “
his body
is kind of in your special whirlpool.”

“My God, Millie . . .” Dad grabbed me and squeezed me tightly. Not only did he not seem angry with me anymore, but it was the biggest public display of affection he'd ever offered me—even if “public” meant in an isolated locker room, in front of one football player. “It's one thing for you to stumble on a weeks'-old body,” he said, seeming close to shaken. “But I just saw Mike.” He loosened his grip and glanced at the tub, although he probably couldn't see the corpse. Once we'd determined that Mike really was dead and called my father and 911, Chase and I had backed far away. “This must've just happened . . .”

I hadn't understood why my dad was so freaked out until I got what he was trying to say. Prying myself free, because Chase was watching and I wasn't
five,
I said, “Wow . . . I never thought about that.” I looked at Chase. “We could've walked in on a murder.”

That realization gave me the chills—and I also felt like a thoughtless, selfish heel when Chase, suddenly pale, said softly, “Maybe we could've stopped it . . .
saved Mike . . .
if we'd come earlier.”

Oh, gosh. How many times did he intend to get his passport stamped on his endless guilt trip?

But before I could inform Chase that Mike's death wasn't his fault, my father asked a question that I probably should've prepared for while we'd waited for him to arrive.

“What were you two doing here—alone—in the first place?”

In fact, not only should Chase and I have been ready to answer that for my dad, we should've anticipated that somebody else would be curious about our after-hours exploits in a boys' locker room. Somebody who was, right then, shoving open the door and noting, in a voice rich with twisted glee, “Well, well, well . . . Isn't
this
a cozy reunion?”

“So,
kids . 
.
 .
” Detective Lohser managed to sneer that word. He clearly had issues with teenagers—no doubt rooted in his own not-too-distant youth, which I would've bet my meager life savings had included a fair amount of wedgies and perhaps even a “swirly” or two. “What were you doing here alone?”

“Ease up on Chase and Millie,” my father said softly. “They just lost a classmate.”

A classmate whose body was still in a nearby tub, being examined by a bunch of police officers and other people who were traipsing in and out of the locker room, carrying official-looking gear and muttering quiet but official-sounding stuff.

“They still need to explain themselves,” Detective Lohser told my father. Then he addressed me and Chase again, speaking slowly, like we were preschoolers. “What. Were. You. Doing. Here?”

Chase and I shared a look, silently asking each other, “What should we say? Why didn't we discuss this?” Then I met Detective Lohser's beady eyes and informed him, “We were looking for clues about Coach Killdare's murder.”

“You were
what?
”

My dad and Detective Lohser blurted that at the same time. However, my dad sounded genuinely baffled, while the cop he'd fired seemed ready to burst out laughing—which I thought was phenomenally inappropriate on more than one level.

“It's not funny,” I said, getting irritated. “I'm investigating the story for the school paper.”

“And I'm helping her,” Chase added. “I brought her in here.”

Detective Lohser's mustache twitched, as if that really amused him, too. “Did you now?”

“Yes, he did,” I said, crossing my arms. “And I'm probably going to win a major national award when we
solve the crime.
”

Okay, I had, as usual, taken things a little too far with that boast, but he was really ticking me off, especially given that he didn't seem to have any answers and was wasting all his time sniffing around my dad.

Detective Lohser finally got suitably serious for a murder scene, telling me, “Kid, you”—his gaze flicked to Chase—“and your boyfriend don't know the first thing about solving crime.” He spoke directly to me again. “In the future, stick to giggling with your little friends at slumber parties, or whatever teenage girls do. Because in case you didn't notice, this is serious stuff here.
Dangerous
stuff.”

I opened my mouth to inform him that I'd never giggled in my entire life, and that he was the one not being serious enough, when, much to my surprise, I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. “I agree that investigating a murder is too risky for young people,” he said. “But don't ever underestimate my daughter, Detective. And don't disrespect her—or Chase. I don't like the way you're addressing them.”

Detective Lohser didn't seem to know what to make of that, while I also struggled to grasp what had just happened.

Had my father just
complimented
me?

I turned to meet his eyes, silently thanking him. And to my further surprise, he smiled ever so slightly and squeezed my shoulder before taking away his hand.

But the brief moment we'd shared was messed up as soon as I turned back and saw the look on Detective Lohser's face. A cat-stuffed-with-canary look.

“Fine,” he agreed. “I'll treat these young people like adults.” He addressed Chase. “So, young man. When was the last time you saw Michael Price alive? Who was he with?”

I'd never seen Chase Albright look anything but confident—well, except for the time he'd nearly kissed me. He'd gotten pretty uncertain then. But when Detective Lohser posed that simple question, Chase seemed completely at a loss for words. And I didn't understand why he kept looking at my dad as he struggled to form an answer, his mouth opening and closing.

I tried to give him an encouraging look, like, “Just say something. It's a pretty simple question!”

But Chase wasn't looking at me. He was still meeting my father's eyes, until my dad gave him some sort of dispensation I didn't understand, either. “It's all right, son. Tell the truth.”

Chase nodded and took a deep breath, answering Detective Lohser—but looking at me with apology in his eyes. “Mike was with Coach Ostermeyer,” he said. “Here. In the locker room.”

What?

Detective Lohser looked as if he'd hit the jackpot on every slot machine in Las Vegas, and possibly Atlantic City, too. “And what, exactly, were they doing?” he asked, not even trying to hide his smarmy grin. “Hmm?”

Wow, did Chase look miserable. But I still couldn't stop myself from hating him a little when he admitted, “They were . . . They were
fighting.
”

“Why did you have to tell him about my dad and Mike fighting?” I cried, punching Chase's arm. It wasn't a playful punch, either. I kind of slugged him, enough that he rubbed his bicep. “How could you do that?”

“Millie . . .” Chase looked across the dark school parking lot. At least it was dark except for the flashing lights from a bunch of squad cars and an ambulance that was way too late. Just like Chase's apology was going to be if he didn't offer one soon. Which he didn't exactly do. “Detective Lohser would've found out the truth.” He finally met my eyes again. “I wasn't the only person who saw them. Half the guys on the team were still in the locker room, too.”

“Maybe Detective Lohser wouldn't have asked the other guys,” I pointed out. “He's not the world's brightest detective!”

Chase didn't seem convinced. “He was bright enough to ask the right question. It was almost like he already knew about your dad and Mike.”

That was kind of weird, but it also might have been a lucky guess. My dad was a coach, Mike was a player, and it was a weeknight during the season. Duh. They almost certainly would at least have been seen together, at practice.

“What were they fighting about?” I grudgingly asked a question that I was pretty sure Detective Lohser was asking my dad, maybe right then, because my father'd been detained. “Was it bad?”

Chase shook his head. “No. It was just the usual stuff. It sounded like Mike was mad about your dad not reinstating him as quarterback, now that Mr. Killdare is gone. I guess Mike thought your dad—who, let's face it, disagreed with Coach Killdare about everything—would switch him back in, now that your father's in charge.”

Oh, this stupid quarterback idiocy! Seriously, WHO CARES?

“I thought you just said, when we read the e-mails, that Mike didn't get all lathered up about that anymore.”

“He didn't, usually,” Chase agreed. “It was the first time I'd heard him get upset about it in a while. And I didn't know Mike would get . . .” He didn't seem to want to voice something that I knew we were both avoiding. A truth we'd have to deal with later.
Somebody we knew—maybe didn't like, but who was our age—has been murdered.
Instead, he said, “I just didn't think you needed to know about some argument your dad had with a player.” He dragged his hand through his hair, his usual gesture when he got uncomfortable. “I didn't think it was that big a deal.”

“It was obviously big enough that you had to narc on my father to Detective Lohser.”

“Millie, your dad was okay with it.
He
didn't want me to lie.”

“You should've anyway!”

Chase wasn't convinced. “And that would've helped things . . . how?” He paused, adding, “It would've come out, Millie. Your father would've admitted to the whole thing if I hadn't. He's always telling us about honor on the field.”