Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (19 page)

I thought of my mother and her own unsolved
murder.

There was much to do.

Time to quit screwing around.

At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway,
turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start
of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.

My leg felt better already.

61.

On the way back to Orange County I pulled out
my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron
Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for
the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.

He returned my phone call almost instantly,
furious. “Move on? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Means I’m not coming in.”

There was a pause, and I knew he was
thinking: players would give their left nut for this
opportunity.

“I don’t understand. Do you want to
reschedule? I’ll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we
have a whole crew out there waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Life happened.”

“You could make our team, Knighthorse.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers
to catch. But for now, I will take one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at
it.”

“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You
walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give
you another opportunity.”

“Good luck with the coming season. Go
Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington
Beach Homicide.

62.

I arrived at Huntington High later that same
day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was
climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra
foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s
seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees,
exactly where most skirts should be.

I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You
could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”

“But could you take over a small Baltic
country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in
case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.

I said, “Only if they were susceptible to
fits of hysterical laughter.”

She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes
were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe
blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see
the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.

“A big guy like you. I’m sure you’re being
modest.”

“Mrs. Williams, are you flirting with
me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Just as long as we’re clear on that
point.”

“Oh, we’re clear.”

Her thigh was about face high. It was
muscular, smooth and tan. She moved it toward me, and when she did
her skirt rode up, showing more skin.

“You and I need to talk.”

“Oh, we’re going to do more than talk, sugar
butt,” she said. “Follow me home.”

And so I followed her.

Sugar butt?

* * *

We drove south along PCH, through Newport
Beach and into Laguna. She drove quickly, darting in and out of
traffic, her need to see me without my shirt on pushing her to
drive recklessly. Or perhaps she had to pee. Luckily the Excursion
was big enough to follow from outer space.

She turned into a gated community, then
waited for me to catch up. When I had done so, a pair of wrought
iron doors swung open, and I followed her in, passing beautiful
Mediterranean homes, each more elaborate than the next.

A garage door opened on my right and she
pulled the Excursion all the way into what must have been a hell of
a deep garage. I parked in the driveway and got out.

The sun was hot on my neck. I was wearing a
loose Hawaiian shirt, jeans and black hiking boots, although I
wasn’t planning on going for a hike any time soon.

She stepped expertly down from the monster
truck and beckoned me to follow her through a doorway that led into
her kitchen. Once inside she tossed her keys on a counter near the
phone and dropped her purse onto the seat of a dining chair. I felt
the need to toss something of my own, but decided to hold on to my
wallet and keys. The kitchen was paved with tan Spanish tile, and
the cabinets were immaculate.

“Vice principals in charge of discipline do
well,” I said.

“Oh, they do. Especially for those who do
their job well.”

“I imagine you are one of those.”

“Discipline is not something I take lightly,
Mr. Knighthorse.”

“I see. Does anyone oversee you, Mrs.
Williams?”

“Dana, please.” She took hold of my hand and
led me out of the kitchen and into a much larger room. She hit the
lights. “The answer is no one oversees me. Not really. If I failed
to do my duties the school board would consider a demotion, but in
actuality I am judge, jury and executioner at Huntington High.”

“An interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, I don’t lay a hand on them,” she
said.

“But do you want to?”

“Always,” she said without hesitation. “Some
of them need to be beaten into submission.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She laughed. “What would you like to
drink?”

“Soda water is fine.”

The room was very adult. There was a
zinc-topped bar in one corner, filled with all sorts of alcoholic
delights. Dana was there fixing us a couple of drinks. Off to the
right was a large cigar box sitting on a delicate end table.
Original artwork from local painters adorned the wall. I walked
over to one and studied it. It was a stylized surfer hanging
ten.

She walked over with my drink, took hold of
my hand again and led me to a leather couch in the middle of the
room. I sipped the soda water. She had spiked it with scotch. I
didn’t say anything, just set it down on a coaster on the glass
coffee table. She was watching me closely.

“Do you like your drink?” she asked.

“It’s very nice.”

“I have never held the hand of someone so
goddamn big before. Look at your hand, it dwarfs mine.”

“You should see my feet.”

“And you know what they say about that.”

“I guess you could say I stepped into that
one.”

She giggled and drank deeply from her glass,
then got up and made herself another. She seemed to be drinking
something green on the rocks. Perhaps a Midori sour. She came back
and sat closer to me. Our legs were touching. I was not
aroused.

“How long have you been separated, Dana?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, leaning over and
kissing my neck.

“Well it might should your husband use this
moment to show up and make amends.”

“Oh, please. You could handle him with one
hand behind your back. However, he won’t be coming home anytime
soon. Does that put you at ease, sweetums?”

Sweetums?

“How long have you been separated?” I asked.
“Six months? A year? Five years?”

She started unbuttoning my shirt. “Let’s not
go down that road right now, sugar butt.”

As she reached for the next button, I grabbed
her hand and pulled it away. “You’re not separated are you?”

A small sound escaped from her lips.

“In fact, you are divorced, and have been
from Bryan Dawson, current band director at Huntington High, for
the past seven years.”

“So what do you want, a fucking reward?” When
she spoke, she glanced at the ornate end table. There was a small
drawer within the end table. The glance was fleeting, then settled
back on me. She leaned over and drank more of her Midori sour.

“Why did he divorce you?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him
that.”

“I will. But I want to know why he divorced
you when in fact he was the one cheating on you.”

She shrugged again. “Apparently he was scared
of my temper. Pussy.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“It’s called love, Knighthorse. I forgave
him.”

“But he was having sex with his
students.”

“None of us are perfect.”

“You lived up north. How did you both end up
here at Huntington High?”

She was sitting at the edge of her couch, her
empty glass dangling from her hand. The ice cubes had a greenish
hue to them. Her jaw was tight and rigid. There was a deadness to
her eyes that might have been caused by the alcohol. Might.

“I came down first, once I realized the
marriage was over. Tried to start over. I have a masters in
educational administration. Never wanted to be a teacher, always
wanted to someday work on the school board, where the money is.
Because of sexual allegations, he lost his job up north, then
couldn’t find work anywhere. Said if he came down here and if I
helped him get a job that he would go straight and we could start
over again. I still loved him; the idea appealed to me.”

“So you got him a job at your school?”

“Yeah. I had enough clout to push his
application on through. There are some people who fear me.”

“Imagine that.”

“So he came down, hired on as a history
teacher, and soon worked his way to band director. I was using my
maiden name, and we kept things quiet about our divorce.”

“But you started things up again
romantically?”

She smiled faintly and looked away, looking
back into her past. “Yes. It was nice. I felt the love again, you
know. Real love. It was nice to have him back.”

“Why do you claim to be separated, when, in
fact, you are divorced?”

“Being divorced doesn’t look good in my
field. Makes you look unstable and less than desirable to oversee
school policy.” She got up and refreshed her drink.

“But then the allegations about Bryan started
again,” I said.

“Yes. The little bitches throw themselves at
him.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

“That’s what I know. Have you seen him?
Christ, he’s good looking.”

“A real treat to the eye,” I said. “So you
blame the girls and not him?”

She turned on me, her drink sloshing over the
rim and down her hand. “Of course I blame them.”

“Amanda Peterson tried to leave Dawson, but
he stalked her. Same with Donna Trigger. He stalked them
relentlessly.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Amanda was seeing Derrick steadily. She
considered her relationship with Dawson a mistake, but he would not
let her go.”

“Fucking bullshit. She was obsessed with
him.”

Her eyes darted around the room unsteadily,
restlessly. She was twisting her hands in her lap. Her eyes
repeatedly came to rest on the end table.

I continued, “I have a man, a certain
janitor, who tells me he saw you put something in the back of
Derrick Mason’s car on the night of Amanda’s murder. This janitor
was later threatened by the same thug who threatened me.”

She was breathing quickly. “Fucking nigger
comes to my school, bringing with him his fucking nigger
attitude.”

“I assume you’re speaking of Derrick
Booker?”

“The fucking nigger.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Derrick loved
Amanda.”

“Or so he says.”

“What did you put in the back of Derrick’s
car?”

“Why would you believe I put something in his
car?”

“Because the witness is credible.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like me.”

“Hard to believe,” I said. “Did you put
something in the back of Derrick’s car?”

She looked at me, and her eyes were alight
with tears and something strange. Something akin to triumph. “The
knife I used to kill Amanda. Killed two birds with one stone
really. Got rid of the skank-whore and the nigger in one fell
swoop.”

I took in some air. I knew she had also hired
the hitman, but that was a subject I was reticent to bring up,
since the death of Johnny Bright was still an on-going murder
investigation. The less said, the better.

“Why did you kill Amanda?”

“So she would leave my Bryan alone, the
fucking skank-whore.”

“Did you kill any others?”

She tilted her head and smiled. “Can you keep
a secret?”

“Boy, can I.”

“There was one up north.”

“What was her name?”

“Tabitha something-or-other.”

“You disposed of the body in the San
Francisco Bay?”

“My my my, you are a good detective aren’t
you?”

“That’s why I make the big bucks.”

“Do you really?”

“No. Not really.”

“So you just lied to me.”

“It was meant to be witty repartee.”

“I hate liars.”

She spun away rapidly, reached for the end
table drawer, yanked it open. I was at her side in three long
strides. I lifted my foot and kicked the drawer closed just as her
fingers curled around a revolver. She screamed in pain and
frustration, turned and lashed out at me. I avoided the swipe,
managed to keep my foot on the drawer, trapping her.

She clawed at my leg, but jeans are a
wonderful thing: snug, tight and protective. Finally, she pounded
on my poor injured leg until she sagged to the ground,
whimpering.

We stayed like that until Detective Hanson,
listening in on the wire strapped to my chest, burst in through the
front door.

63.

The black and white kitten was stalking my
pencil eraser. It had white paws and a patch of white fur on its
chest. It was slowly picking its way across my cluttered desk,
around a Vicks Chloraseptic, over the latest James Rollins novel,
and finally peering around my water bottle. From there it had a
good view of the pencil eraser, which, coincidentally was twitching
invitingly in my fingers. Now within perfect pouncing range, the
kitten dug its hind paws into the grain of my pine desk, wound
itself tight as a drum, then sprang forward, pouncing like a true
champion. The eraser didn’t stand a chance. The kitten and pencil
rolled together across my desk in a furry ball of black and
white.