Deadly Cool (5 page)

I managed to make it through English and PE, but by third period, I’d had enough of the stares, the whispers, people mouthing across the classroom “Is it true?” Even worse were the sympathetic head tilts from my teachers, who all made sure I had the grief counselor’s name and room number written down. All but Mrs. Blasberg. She just reminded me to study for the trig test next week.

By fourth, I couldn’t take it anymore. I texted Sam.

ditching. U in?

Two minutes later she responded with,

totly. 5min bck prklot.

Five minutes later I was standing in the back lot of HHH, scanning the rows of old minivans and compact starter cars for Sam’s blond head. Finally, I saw her, bobbing and weaving between the rows, glancing nervously over her shoulder every two seconds.

“We’re not dodging the mob, you know,” I said when she finally approached. “It’s just the faculty.”

“Yeah, try explaining that to my dad. I’d get a three-hour lecture on how this is going to play out on my entrance essay to Stanford.”

I bit my lip. “Sorry. Wanna go back in?”

She shook her head violently. “H-E-double-hockey-sticks no! I couldn’t have been any more avoided today if I’d had swine flu.”

“Me, too.” I paused. “Josh came over last night.”

Sam gave my shoulder a shove. “No way! Tell me!”

I did, quickly filling her in on my midnight visitor, all the while watching her eyes grow wider and wider. By the time I was finished, she looked like she’d been popping No-Doz all morning.

“You seriously promised to help him?” she asked.

I stuck a fingernail between my teeth. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dude, Hartley, I thought you were gonna break up with him.”

“I know!” I said, a little more loudly than I’d meant to. I made a conscious effort to lower my voice before I continued. “I know. And I did,” I assured her, ignoring the memory of how conflicted my stupid emotions had been last night. “But I can tell you there is no way he did this. He may be a cheater and a liar, but he’s no killer.”

Sam frowned, chewing on this for a moment. “So, what do we do? I mean, it’s not like we’re investigators or anything.”

“No,” I hedged, “but think about it—we know HHH inside and out. We have access to all kinds of info about Courtney that no one would ever spill to the cops.”

Sam nodded slowly. “True. Okay, so who do we know that hated Courtney?” She paused. “Besides you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

I pursed my lips. “Well, we could start with the Goths. She was always getting on them for not showing school spirit.”

“Oh, and remember how she totally snaked the homecoming crown from that cheerleader with a last-minute voting blitz from the school band?”

I nodded. Truth was, it would be easier to narrow down those who didn’t hate Courtney Cline. You didn’t get to be that popular by being nice.

“Okay, maybe we need to go at this from a different angle,” I decided. “Who had access to the crime scene?”

“Look at you being all
CSI
,” Sam teased.

I punched her in the arm. “I’m serious. Who could have been in Josh’s house that day?”

“Well, I think we kinda proved it wasn’t the Batcave,” Sam pointed out. “I mean, anyone could have gotten in the window.”

Right. This investigator stuff was harder than it looked.

“Okay, here’s what we know,” I said. “Courtney was in her Color Guard uniform, right? Which means she took the time to change after school before going to Josh’s place. It took us, what, half an hour to get Kevin’s car and drive over?”

“At least,” Sam agreed.

“And a few minutes to climb the shed.”

“Right.”

“So, we’re looking at a very small window between when school got out at two thirty and when we found her at, say, three fifteen.”

“Well, maybe someone in the neighborhood saw something?” Sam offered.

Lightbulb moment.

“The neighbor with the camera!” I pointed my finger at Sam. “The guy in black. He was outside taking pics of his car. Maybe he saw someone go into Josh’s house. Maybe he even caught them on camera!”

“Worth a try,” Sam said. “Let’s go find out.”

Since neither of us had any idea what the guy in black’s name was, we started by scanning the back parking lot for his dented Camaro. We passed by souped-up pickups belonging to the football team, hand-me-down station wagons driven by the debate team, and a silver sedan with a sparkly purple heart hanging from the rearview that served as the Color Guard’s conveyance of choice. But no Camaro. Which meant either (A) his dent damage extended to engine trouble or (B) he was cutting, too. From the bad-boy look he had going on the other day, we took a gamble on (B), and twenty minutes and one bus ride later, we were back on Josh’s street. Today, however, his lawn was flattened in patches, showing signs of being trampled by dozens of pairs of feet. A fine sheen of black dust covered the doorjamb and windowsills where fingerprints had no doubt been lifted. And the welcome wreath on the front door was askew, tilting haphazardly to the left.

Josh’s Wrangler was conspicuously absent. I sincerely hoped that meant he’d taken off in the middle of the night and not that the cops had confiscated it as evidence.

I marched purposefully down the street, past Josh’s, and up the walkway of the house with the Camaro out front, Sam a step behind me. Unlike Josh’s, this one had no welcome sign. Instead a “No Soliciting” plaque hung next to the doorbell. In black. With a skull and crossbones on it. I quickly rang the doorbell before I could change my mind.

Two beats later our gamble paid off, and the guy in black opened the door. He looked from Sam to me, recognition immediately dawning. “You two again.”

Not the most friendly greeting I’d ever gotten . . .

“Uh, hi. I’m Hartley.” I stuck my hand out.

He just looked at it. “Is that the hand that touched the dead girl?”

I pulled it back, rubbing it on the seat of my jeans instead.

Sam took over and waved at him. “I’m Sam.”

“Chase,” he responded. “I think I’ve seen you guys around school.” Then he paused before adding, “What do you want?”

I shifted from foot to foot on the porch, his directness unnerving me. Not to mention the fact that he looked a lot bigger than I remembered. Taller, more menacing. But he smelled kinda nice, like leather and soap. It was a disturbing combo.

I cleared my throat. “We were wondering if you might have seen anything in the neighborhood while you were taking pictures yesterday.”

“What kind of anything?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His very broad chest. He easily could have been on the football team, though I had a feeling from the antiestablishment black and the rebellious guyliner that he wasn’t the team spirit type. He seemed more like the playing-depressing-music-in-his-parents’-basement type.

“Anything . . . suspicious? Anyone going in or out of the house down the street?” I clarified.

“You mean other than you two?”

“We didn’t kill her!” I said quickly.

He narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”

I threw my hands up. “Yes, I’m sure. Do I look like a killer?”

He let his gaze roll over my body, taking me in from head to toe in a slow assessment that ended in a smirk of approval. I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or violated.

“That was a rhetorical question,” I mumbled, my cheeks heating.

“So, did you?” Sam asked, getting us back on track. “See anyone go in or out of the house?”

He cocked his head. “Why should I tell you?”

“Uh . . . because . . .” Crap. I hadn’t counted on him being so inquisitive. Think fast, girl. “Because . . . we’re writing a story for the school’s online newspaper. The
Herbert Hoover High Homepage
. And we wanted to get neighbors’ reactions to the tragic death.” Wow, that didn’t sound half bad.

Only I wasn’t sure Chase agreed with me. He leaned back on his heels, his mouth curving into a slow smile, his eyes lighting up like he was in on some secret. A really good one.

“What?” I asked.

Instead of answering me, he turned to Sam. “Your friend here is a terrible liar.”

I threw my shoulders back. “I am not!”

“You’re not what? A liar or a terrible one?”

“Uh . . .” I bit my lip. Okay, in reality I was probably both.

Luckily, Sam jumped in to save me. “What makes you think she’s lying?”

“Besides the fact that she’s fidgeting on my porch like she’s due for a crack fix?”

I froze, forcing my feet to stop shifting.

“I’m not fidgeting,” I lied. Again.

“Look, I know you’re not from the school newspaper,” he went on, “because
I’m
the editor of the
Homepage
.”

Mental forehead smack.

“All right, fine,” I finally said. “We’re not from the paper.”

“Shocker.”

I ignored him. “The truth is, Josh is—
was—
my boyfriend.”

“So who was the chick you found dead in his bedroom?”

“The girl he was effing,” Sam supplied.

Chase did a low whistle before turning to me. “Ouch.”

“No kidding. Look, we’re just trying to find out what happened.”

“Did your boyfriend kill her?” Chase asked.

“No.”

“I heard he’s missing.”

“You did?” I hedged.

“You know where he is?”

“No.”

“But you’ve talked to him?”

“No . . .”

That slow smile spread across his face again. “You really are a terrible liar.”

I clenched my jaw, feeling my nostrils flare. “Look, did you see anything yesterday afternoon or not?”

Chase looked from Sam to me, then back again as if trying to decide how much to share. Finally, he seemed to come to a conclusion. “How about I make you guys a deal?”

I almost hated to ask. “A deal?”

“I’ll help you with this little investigation you’re running and, in exchange, the
Homepage
gets the exclusive story.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Like we need your help. We’re doing just fine on our own, thank you very much.” Another lie. And, from the look on his face, he could tell. I was seriously going to have to work on my poker face.

“You don’t like that deal? Fine. How about this one? We all work together, and I don’t call the cops and tell them that you’re posing as members of the press and interfering with a homicide investigation by harboring the missing boyfriend.”

“
Ex
-boyfriend. And I’m not harboring anything.” Though I wasn’t entirely sure the cops wouldn’t see it Chase’s way.

“At the very least, you’re ditching class,” he countered. “Cops don’t like that.”

“So are you,” I quickly pointed out.

“Out sick.” He coughed unconvincingly into his hand. Then smirked again. “It’s your call, blondie. Me or the cops.”

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, weighing the pros and cons. I wasn’t hot on the idea of my every move being printed for all HHH society to see. On the other hand, I wasn’t so hot on the idea of visiting Josh in a jail cell either.

And, the sad fact was, beyond canvassing the street for any nosy neighbors, I didn’t have a clue where to begin a murder investigation. Let’s face it, I could use all the help I could get.

I turned to Sam. She cocked her head to the side and shrugged.

“All right. Fine,” I said, shoving my hand toward Chase. “Deal.”

He grinned, one corner of his mouth tugging upward just a little higher than the other as he grasped my hand and shook.

“Deal.”

FIVE

HAVING SEALED MY FATE, FOR BETTER OR WORSE, WE
got right to the point of us being at Chase’s in the first place—the photos Chase was taking outside yesterday afternoon and whether or not they contained evidence of the murderer’s identity.

“Can we see them?” I asked.

“Why?” he countered.

“We figure Courtney must have been killed between two thirty and three fifteen,” Sam explained. “Which leaves a small window of opportunity for her killer. If you were taking pictures then, you might have caught something to help identify him.”

He nodded. “I brought my camera out just after school. Some guy rear-ended me last week. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some photographic evidence of the damage. I was mostly taking close-ups, but you can have a look at them. Come on in.”

I hesitated. Something about crossing the threshold felt a little like walking into the lion’s den. But, if I wanted to help Josh, I figured Chase was the tamest of the lions I was going to encounter. Besides, we were partners now, right? So I stepped through the doorway a beat after Sam.

The two of us followed Chase into a living room furnished startlingly like my own. A wood entertainment center, housing a pre-HD TV, sat against one wall. A lived-in sofa and love seat combo were situated in front of it for max viewing pleasure. To the right a kitchen tiled in baby blue was just visible beyond an oak dinette set. All standard suburban issue.

We followed Chase up the stairs and to the left, down a short hallway with three rooms branching off. Chase ushered us into the second one on the right, pushing open a white wooden door with a “Keep Out” sign on it.

Here the decor was much more teen angst than happy homemaker, making it clear that Chase’s mom did, in fact, adhere to the sign on the door. The walls were painted in black, creating a cavelike effect. A fuzzy black blanket covered the bed, and a closet full of black clothes spanned the back wall, shirts and jeans dangling askew on overburdened hangers. On the walls were posters of bands I’d never heard of, their singers’ tongues protruding, war paint on their faces, fake blood dripping from their mouths. Charming.

One window faced south, a pair of dark curtains pulled shut. Black ones. (Gee, what a surprise.) It was nearing noon outside, but in here it was midnight. I squinted in the darkness, feeling my pupils enlarge to find some little pinpoint of light to glom onto.

A gunmetal gray desk sat in the corner. Strewn across its top were a laptop, a digital camera, and a collection of different lenses. Chase went straight to the desk, flipping open his laptop.