Dark Horse (A Jim Knighthorse Novel) (8 page)

She put her head on my shoulder.

I was on a roll. “I will even permit you to
take me to your classes for show and tell, as an example of a
well-evolved human being. And in contrast we can take your last
boyfriend and have him stand next to me.”

“Are you quite done?”

“Quite.”

“Will you need protection?” she asked,
wrapping her arm through mine and holding me close to her
chest.

“I can take care of myself.”

She patted my hand. “I know.”

Ginger was jumping up and down, doing her
best to leap onto the couch, but missing the mark by about a foot.
I reached down and picked her up and set her in my lap. She turned
three circles quickly, and then found a nook and buried her cold
nose where our arms intertwined.

“How is your leg?” she asked.

“I am worried about my leg.”

When I looked down at her hand, I saw that
she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It was
a black cap. The cap to my scotch. She had said nothing, simply
held me, and let me know that she knew about my drinking. But she
didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

I held her close. She quit playing with the
cap and held it tight in her fist.

19.

I parked my car in front of the murder site.
The same decayed heap of flowers still marked the place where
Amanda had been found slain. There might have been a new teddy bear
in the front row, but it was hard to tell. Anyway, he was a cute
little guy holding a red heart balloon that said: “I Miss You.”

I got out and headed up the stone pathway
through the grass, passing a limestone circular fountain that was
currently turned off. Leaves were collecting in the drain, and I
suspected it might be a while until the fountain, with its gurgling
expectations, would be turned on again.

When I reached the door, it swung open as if
on its own volition.

Actually, not on its own volition. A cute
little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up
at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.

“Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.

“You’re big.”

“I know.”

“You’re bigger than daddy.”

“I’m bigger than most daddies.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

She giggled.

A cute little black cat worked its way
through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its
neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its
ears. It was purring before I even touched it.

“That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little
girl.

“He’s cute.”

“I love him.”

“I bet you do.”

“Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a
note of panic in the woman’s voice.

“There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”

“I’m not a policeman,” I said.

The door was pulled all the way open and a
woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version
of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that
were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed
in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.

“Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.

She paused, the white briefs hanging over her
hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I
speak with you? About Amanda.”

She looked at me some more. A minute passed.
Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own
home.

She left the door open. I took a deep breath
and followed her in.

* * *

After asking if I would like a cup of coffee,
and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought
me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my
hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a
bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of
my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not
want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad
place myself.

I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that
matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson
now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet
like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly
poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into her
coffee.

“More medicine, mom?” said the younger
version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.

“Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”

She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie
backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door,
and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted
that both were nude.

“How can I help you, Mr. Knighthorse?” asked
Mrs. Peterson. She was looking down at one of my nifty business
cards on the coffee table before her. But before I could answer she
moved on. “Are you Indian? Your name sounds Indian.”

“My great grandfather was Apache. Apparently
grammy had a taste for savages.”

“I wouldn’t call them sava—oh, I see, you’re
kidding.”

“Yes, ma’am. But the Native American in me is
diluted. Mostly, I’m German and Welch and a whole lot of man.”

She looked up at me and almost smiled. “You
certainly are a whole lot of man. I should have guessed the German:
blond hair, tall and muscular. Would have done Hitler proud.”

“I would have done anyone proud, ma’am.”

“A true knight in shining armor.”

She might have sounded flirty if her words
were not empty and devoid of meaning. Like listening to a corpse
speak from the grave.

“You’re here to try to clear Derrick?” she
said.

“Yes.”

She drank from her spiked coffee. “So what
the hell can I do for you?”

“First of all, I would like to express my
condolences.”

“How very sweet of you.”

“Do you feel the police have found your
daughter’s killer?”

“You get right to it.”

“I’m sorry if I offended.”

“No. I like it. No reason to dance around the
subject. My daughter was torn apart just inches from our front door
by a goddamn animal.”

Her voice never rose an octave. She spoke in
a monotone, although her lower lip quivered slightly.

“Mrs. Peterson, did you ever meet Derrick?” I
asked.

She nodded and looked away. She was watching
Alyssa play with her oddly nude dolls. “Call me Cat. For Cathy.”
She continued to watch Alyssa. Now Ken and Barbie were kissing in
her hands. Butt naked.

“What did you think of Derrick?” I said.

“I thought he was wonderful. Charming,
energetic. He seemed to really care about Amanda.”

“I liked him, too,” said Alyssa suddenly. Her
voice echoed slightly in the darkened room. The upbeat child-like
quality seemed out of place, but somehow appreciated. At least by
me.

“Why did you like him?” I asked her.

“He made me laugh. Amanda loooved him.”

“That’s enough,” said her mother quietly.
Then to me: “Yes. He seemed to love her as well.”

“But he was not permitted to come around?” I
asked.

“No. Her father had strict rules about her
dating African-Americans.”

“Did you agree with the rule?”

“I wanted peace in my house.”

“Did Amanda ever come to you about
Derrick?”

“Yes. Privately, quietly. We would often talk
about Derrick. She had more than a crush on him. They had been
dating for over a year. She might have loved him, if you want to
call it that.”

“Love knows no age.”

She didn’t say anything.

“So you didn’t condone her secretly seeing
Derrick?”

“No. I encouraged her.”

She almost lost it right then and there. Her
lip vibrated violently, but stopped when she bit down on it.

“Mrs. Peterson, you did not condemn your
daughter to death by encouraging her to see Derrick.”

She turned and faced me. Her eyes were full
of tears. A red splotch was spreading down from her forehead. She
was getting herself worked up. Before she could unleash some unholy
hellfire in my direction, I quickly added, “Cat, I was threatened
by an unknown killer a few days ago to stay away from this case.
The killer, I assume, represents the true murderer of your
daughter. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I believe Derrick
is innocent.”

She blinked. The splotch receded. “But you
are not backing off the case,” she said.

“No.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for trying
to help. I never believed in Derrick’s guilt, but aren’t you
afraid?”

“I am a big guy. I can take care of
myself.”

And that’s when the front door open and Mr.
Peterson came in.

The first thing I noticed was that both Cat
and Alyssa shrank back into themselves. Especially Alyssa. The cute
little girl disappeared. Replaced by something cold and wet, and
left out in the rain to die.

20.

He strode quickly into the living room, head
swiveling, trying to take in everything at once. He was wearing
black slacks, cordovan loafers and a black silk shirt. Sunglasses
rode high on his graying head of curly hair. His roaming, pale eyes
finally settled on me.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said to me.

“Richard....” said Cat, but her voice was
weak, her words trailing.

I stood, “I’m Jim ‘the fuck’
Knighthorse.”

I held out my hand. He didn’t take it. Little
Alyssa was right. I was bigger than her father, had the guy by
about two inches. It was clear that he lifted weights: thick chest
and small waist. But he lifted for show. I know the type.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he
asked.

Richard Peterson turned to his wife, who
flinched unconsciously. Or perhaps consciously. Maybe he preferred
the women in his life to flinch in his presence. He next turned to
his daughter. She was looking down, pressed against the glass of
the sliding door.

I said I was here to investigate the murder
of his daughter.

“Who hired you?”

I told him.

“Get out,” he said. “Get the fuck out.”

I didn’t move at first. He then turned and
looked at the little girl.

“Go to your room,” he said. “Now.”

Alyssa jumped and ran away, leaving her
Barbie’s where they lay, with Ken on top of Barbie. I saw that
there was a small puddle of urine where she had been sitting. A
door in the back of the house slammed shut.

I turned and looked at Mrs. Peterson. Only
then did I notice the purplish welts inside her legs.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” I said calmly.

“Don’t you people have any decency?” He said
to me, then turned on his wife. “And you, Cat. You let him in. How
could you? He’s representing the boy who murdered our Amanda. He’s
trying to set him free.”

“But Richard—”

“Shut the fuck up, Cat. You.” He turned to
me. “Get the fuck out or I’ll call the police.”

I looked at Cat and she nodded to me. That’s
when I saw a picture of another girl on the mantle above the
fireplace. This one older. She had her arm around her mother and
was wearing a blue and white UCI sweatshirt. A third daughter.

I left the way I had come, and he slammed the
door shut behind me. I paused a few minutes on the porch but could
hear nothing. I had the feeling he was standing behind me, waiting
for me to leave.

There was nothing to do but leave.

So I did.

21.

“We should probably call the police,” said
Cindy, after I told her about my encounter with Richard Peterson.
Whom I now referred to as Dick.

“A few bruises and a terrified child does not
a case make,” I said. “Someone would need to come forward.”

She sighed. “And most victims of domestic
violence are hesitant to report the abuse, for fear of
repercussions.”

It was just past 10 p.m. Cindy’s evening
class had just ended. We were sitting at a small cafe in the UCI
student union. I was eating a chocolate chocolate muffin—yes,
chocolate chips in a chocolate muffin—the way it should be eaten:
big bites that encompassed the stump and the top. Cindy was sipping
hot cider. The cafe was surrounded by a lot of glass and metal.
Couches and chairs lined the walls and filled the many adjoining
rooms, filled with students studying and working and not making out
or sleeping, as I would have done in my day.

“We are surrounded by over-achievers,” I
said.

“UCI is a tough school to get into,” she
said. “Same with UCLA. Were you not once an over-achiever?”

“On the football field, yes. In the
classroom, my mind wandered.”

“Where did it wander?”

“To the next game. The next girl. I was a big
man on campus.”

She looked at me over her cider. “You still
are,” she said.

“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

“If there wasn’t a chocolate chip on your
chin, the answer would be yes.”

She reached over and scooped it off and ate
it.

“Does that count against your diet?” I
asked.

“I’ll jog an extra lap tomorrow morning.”

She sat her cider down carefully in front of
her. She adjusted the mug so that the handle was facing at a
forty-five degree angle. Precision and exactness was her life. And
I loved her for it.

I reached over and moved the handle a little
to the left.

“Hey,” she said, slapping my hand. She
adjusted it back. “So what are you going to do about the
brute?”

“About Dick? First, I need to speak with the
eldest daughter, and confirm my suspicions.”

“Your suspicions are generally pretty
accurate.”

“In this case, I want confirmation. I need to
speak to the eldest daughter.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to
ask.”