Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (18 page)

The hallways had been empty. He must have
been watching me on some closed circuit TV. A sort of high tech
surveillance to monitor my gait.

“Well, I’m a hell of a specimen.”

“Around here, they all are.”

We set a date for my mini-workout, and when I
left his office, I waved to the little camera situated in the upper
corner of the hallway.

56.

“Where the hell is he?” asked Sanchez.

I shrugged.

“Did you just shrug?” he asked. “Because it’s
too dark to tell. I mean there’s a hundred reasons why I’m one of
the best homicide detectives in LAPD, but seeing in the dark ain’t
one of them.”

“Neither is using proper English.”

“Hell you’re lucky I’m using any English at
all, being of Latino descent, and this being Southern
California.”

“This is America, you know.”

“Unfortunately there ain’t no such thing as
speaking American.”

“Too bad.”

“And last time I checked we ain’t in England,
so fuck English.”

We were waiting outside of Huntington High in
my Mustang. It was past 7:00 p.m., and Bryan Dawson, or Pencil
Dick, was still in his office. We had been waiting here for the
past four hours. Students were long gone, including most of the
faculty. We had watched the sun set over the Pacific.

“I’m hungry,” said Sanchez.

“There’s a Wendy’s around the corner. Why
don’t you go get us something to eat.”

“Why don’t you give me the fucking money to
go get us something to eat.”

“When was the last time you paid for
anything?” I asked.

“The last time you helped me solve a
case.”

I gave him the cash. Sanchez left, and the
mere thought of a burger and fries made my stomach start to growl.
We had been following Pencil Dick for four straight days. So far
there was no evidence of any extracurricular activities on the part
of the band director, other than his fondness for frozen
yogurt.

Sanchez came back with a massive
grease-stained bag of food. We ate silently and quickly, drinking
from two plastic buckets that were passed off as jumbo drinks. And
when we were finished, when the eating noises finally stopped
altogether, when the debris had been collected back into the bags,
I saw a familiar sight.

Coming down through a side hall, turning into
the faculty parking lot, was a handsome man with dark hair. He was
carrying a briefcase, and looked far too important to be just a
band director. Or at least that was the impression he presented. He
got into a red Jetta.

“Let’s roll,” I said.

57.

Bryan Dawson lived in a condo about a mile
from the beach. We were currently heading in the opposite
direction.

“He’s not heading home,” said Sanchez.

“Astute,” I said.

I was three cars behind the Huntington band
director, sometimes drifting back to four or five. To date, he had
made no indication that he knew he was being followed.

“You’re following too close.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He’s going to make us.”

“He’s not going to make us,” I said. “And I’m
the one who taught you how to tail.”

“But I’m the one who got all the tail.”

“So you say.”

We were heading deeper into Huntington Beach.
In fact, we were just a few blocks from my office.

“Know someone works around here,” said
Sanchez. “Thinks he’s a detective.”

The Jetta suddenly turned into an empty bank
parking lot. I pulled to the side of the road and killed the
headlights, giving us a good view of Pencil Dick. From the shadows,
a lithe figured stepped away from the building and into Dawson’s
car. The Jetta swung around, exited the parking lot and was soon
heading back our way. Sanchez and I both ducked.

“You realize that we look like fools,” said
Sanchez as the car sped past us. “The windows are tinted. They
can‘t see us.”

“They especially can’t see you,” I said.

“Is that a comment on my darkish skin?”

“Your dark skin.”

“I’m proud of my dark skin.”

“Good for you,” I said, peeking up and
looking in my rearview mirror. Dawson was heading south, probably
home. I flicked on the lights. “And away we go.”

58.

I followed four car lengths behind the Jetta.
Judging by Dawson’s preoccupation with his newly acquired
passenger, I probably could have followed directly behind him with
my brights on, with little fear of being made.

“She just disappeared,” said Sanchez.

“In his lap,” I said.

“You think she’s inspecting the quality of
his zipper?”

“She’s inspecting something.”

The Jetta swerved slightly to the right.
Dawson over-compensated and swerved to the left. He finally
regained some control, although he now drove more toward the right
side of the lane and even on the line itself.

“Seems distracted,” said Sanchez.

“Yep.”

“How old do you think she is?”

“No way of telling yet,” I said.

“In the least, gonna nail him for statutory
rape.”

“Got the camera?”

Sanchez reached around and grabbed a nifty
piece of equipment. It was a high resolution camcorder with night
vision capabilities.

“So you know how to work this thing?” he
asked.

“No idea. But we should figure it out fairly
quickly.”

The Jetta braked and made a right into a
massive condo complex. I pulled immediately into a maintenance
parking spot near the trash dumpster.

“Okay,” Sanchez said, “I’ve got it
rolling.”

“Zoom in on the car.”

I heard the whir of the zoom feature, and
watched the lens stretch out like a probing eye. A green light
feature indicated that the night vision capability was currently
being used.

“Keep it steady,” I said.

“That’s what your mom told me back in high
school.”

“I didn’t know you back in high school. Plus,
my mom was killed when I was ten.”

He pulled away from the camera. “No shit? How
was she killed?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He shrugged, lifted the camera back up to his
eye. “Fine.”

I said, “Here they come.”

“Nice choice of words.”

The girl emerged from her position in his
lap. We both hunched down. The doors opened. I peaked through the
steering wheel. Although the windshield was tinted, it was not as
dark as the door glass. Someone looking hard enough could still
spot us.

“You need to get a van. This is
bullshit.”

“When you talk the camera moves. So
don’t.”

They headed our way, laughing and holding
hands. Dawson’s shirt was untucked. They continued toward us.
Sanchez turned in his seat and followed them. As if on cue, Dawson
stopped next to Sanchez’s door, turned the girl around, planted a
big kiss on her lips, and felt her up.

“You getting this?” I whispered.

“Oh, yeah.”

“How old do you think she is?” I asked.

They continued up a flight of stairs and
disappeared. Sanchez pulled the camera away from his eye.

“Too young.”

I said, “Goodbye, Pencil Dick.”

59.

I was in my office, feet up on my desk,
fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I
had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let’s see
Colombo do that.

When the burn in my arms and chest had
resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I’ve
been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could
do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my
fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I
like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax
machine stopped spitting out its image.

The fax machine sat on top of a short
bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy
textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to
me, along with all of Clive Cussler’s novels, my guilty
pleasure.

In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A
grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.

My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over
again.

I carefully put the faxed photograph in a
manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk’s top
drawer and left the office.

* * *

Huntington Beach was paradise. The best
weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I
drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off
the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert
Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of,
were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms,
looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the
waves.

Two miles up the coast I turned left and
headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High.
My home away from home.

It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.

I moved up the central artery, past hundreds
of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a
janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom.

* * *

Mario and I were sitting opposite each other
in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost
touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.

Mario was studying the photograph, not saying
much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from
him.

Finally he looked up at me. “Yes,” he said
slowly, enunciating clearly. “That is him.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. “You killed him?”

I said nothing. He said nothing and looked
away.

“He was a motherfucker,” said Mario. “I am
glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family.”

“I know.”

Mario pointed with a thick finger. “Someone
shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his
fucking face, too.” He spat to the side. His lower lip was
quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more
difficult to discern. “Why did he threaten my family? He is in
hell. Straight to hell.”

The thought of me sending Fuck Nut to hell
was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject,
somewhat.

“But the person who hired him is still free,
Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?”

Mario nodded.

“Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda
was murdered?”

I waited for him. His lower lip continued to
quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained
some control of himself, and once he did, he told me
everything.

And I mean everything.

60.

At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning,
I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head
was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed
off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had
had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell,
even at this very moment.

To me the pain was worth it to play
football.

The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but
steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two
hours.

Two hours.

Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I
thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have
to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see
less of Cindy.

Not a good thing.

All to chase a dream I had given up on. A
dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a
young man, a twenty-two year old man.

I was now thirty.

For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an
old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and
silly.

But it was the NFL, man. These were the big
boys.

I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball
had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps
I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been
pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day
gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner,
prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had
wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the
rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous
as some, but tough as hell.

At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going
from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.

I shifted in my seat to ease some of the
pressure.

I had taken three Advils this morning. The
Advils didn’t work, although my headache was long gone.

Was I good enough to make it in the pros?

Yeah, probably. College ball certainly
couldn’t contain me.

Traffic picked up a little. I entered San
Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be
alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a
mother holding a child, being led by the man.

I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had
a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who
killed Amanda.

A killer who needed to be stopped at all
costs.

I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She
had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the
hardest week’s of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her
own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for
her. She had made that decision on her own.

Could I have made the NFL? Yeah,
probably.

My leg would continue to throb every day of
my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old’s dream.
I was thirty.