Veronica Mars (8 page)

She’d just hit Send on her e-mail when the familiar Skype chime came singing out her speakers. She gave a little start.

It was Logan.

She clicked Accept, and his image filled the screen. She could tell her picture wasn’t coming in clear for a moment—he stared blankly at the camera for a few beats. It was a strange thing, watching him without his knowing. His long, vulpine face had a stillness she didn’t usually see in it, pensive and expectant. His hair was short and spiky—he shaved it himself rather than letting the company barber mangle it month after month—and he wore a blue crewneck T-shirt, his off-duty garb. Just a few inches behind him was a steel wall. She could just make out the corner of some kind of inspirational poster containing eagle feathers and a flag.

Then, all at once, a grin broke across his face.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “This is a nice surprise.” Usually they had to plan their Skype dates weeks in advance, and then there was still the chance he’d miss them.

“I saw that you were online. I figured I’d take my chance.” His eyes didn’t quite meet her eyes—his camera must be a little off center. She felt like he was staring at her ear.

“What time is it there?”

They always started like this—awkward, banal. And by the time they got over the strangeness, it was usually time for one or the other of them to leave.

“Almost eight.” He glanced to his left, speaking to someone off screen. “Ten minutes. Come on, please?”

“Someone’s got a timer out, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” He turned back to her ear, smiling, and she wondered what part of her he was really staring at. Her eyes? Her lips? For some reason the whole thing—the way they could never quite sync up right—made her indescribably sad. “So Petra Landros. In your office. I’ve had that fantasy a few times, but it usually didn’t involve a missing person case.”

“She’s not nearly as sexy in real life. That beauty mark?” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “It’s really just a mole.”

“Don’t tell me that. Right now the 2004 Victoria’s Secret Christmas catalogue is all I’ve got keeping me warm at night.”

“Really? That thing must have seen some mileage by now.”

“The seaman’s life is one of privation,” he said soberly. She smirked.

“How’s the sinus infection? You still grounded?”

“For another few days. The flight doc says he’ll clear me by the end of the week.”

“I hate that news,” she said softly. “You sneezing is you not on missions.”

“This is the life I chose, Veronica.” He said it simply, without irritation or anger. And she knew he was right. He’d joined the navy because he wanted to fly, because he wanted to do something that might stand a chance of helping someone. She of all people had to understand that.

He looked to his left again and sighed. “Yeah, okay. Sorry, man.” Then he turned back to face Veronica. “I gotta go.
Hughes’s wife just had a baby—he’s got to be online at oh-eight hundred to talk to them.”

“Okay. Tell him congratulations.”

“I will.” He looked at her for another long moment, his honey-brown eyes warm and sad. “You free this Thursday? Three thirty your time?”

“I can be for you.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

She watched him for another half second, and then his screen went black.

For a few more minutes, she swiveled back and forth in her office chair. She tried to imagine the aircraft carrier—tried to picture Logan walking down the narrow halls, beneath pallid fluorescent lights. Tried to imagine him in the gym or the mess, surrounded all the time by hundreds of people in those cramped quarters. It was almost impossible. She closed her eyes. She preferred to see him on the beach in the early morning, his hair thick with salt, his board tucked under his arm as he trudged up the sand to meet her.

She heard the front door swing shut.
Dad
. Quickly she shook off her reverie and went out front to meet him.

He knelt by the door unlacing his sneakers, wearing track pants and a T-shirt.

“You’re home! I’ve got news. But it can wait—I want to tell you over dinner. Say … steaks at O’Mally’s? My treat?” She nudged him gently.

He shook his head. “No can do, honey. Wallace is coming over with a pizza. March Madness is under way.” He walked toward the kitchen, cane thudding dully on the hardwood. She followed.

“Ah, yes, March Madness. The rumspringa of college hoops fans.” She smiled. “Just don’t strain anything yelling at the TV.”

“I make no promises. San Diego State’s playing Michigan. There’s gonna be some yelling.” He pulled a glass down from the cupboard, then paused to look at her. “So what happened today? It
must
have been crazy if you can suddenly afford a T-bone.”

For a moment she hesitated. He’d been resisting talking about work since she moved back in, as if even acknowledging that she’d taken up the family business was tantamount to encouraging her. But there was a difference between crummy infidelity cases and the opportunity to find a missing girl. This was something he could be proud of.

“You know the Hayley Dewalt case? Missing girl, totally ignored by Lamb, current obsession of Trish Turley? Well, guess who’s been hired to find her? Me! I’m heading to Stanford tomorrow to talk to Hayley’s ex-boyfriend.” She leaned back against the cabinets. “I met with her family today. They’re pretty intense—I mean, they’re obviously scared about Hayley, but there’s also just something off about them. Especially her brother. He strikes me as kind of creepy.”

Keith poured a glass of iced tea and replaced the pitcher in the fridge. “Oh yeah?”

She nodded, buoyed by his question. “Apparently she went missing from some party, but get this: no one seems to know whose party it was. The house is up on Manzanita. I mean, it’s not like those are low-profile houses up there, so we should be able to figure out who was hosting and ask them some questions, right? I think Lamb knows something he’s not telling me. He was doing that weird hair-slicking
thing he does when he thinks he’s hiding something. Oh, and her friends have pictures of Hayley the night she went missing, hanging all over this guy. No name, no information about him, but they look pretty cozy, and that was just hours before she was last seen. I’m trying to decide if I should ask around about him, or if I should keep that information close to my chest. I mean, I don’t want to give him the chance to go underground if he gets spooked.” She paused. “So what do you think?”

For a few seconds he stared sullenly out the kitchen window, his glass half raised to his lips. A frantic, scrabbling feeling filled her chest as he set the glass down with a firm clink on the countertop.

“Honestly?” His voice came a moment later, low and tight. “I think you’re wasting your talent, your brains, and your entire life, Veronica. I think you should get on the next plane to New York and take the bar exam.”

The words hit her like shards of glass from a breaking window.

“How can you call it a waste? We
help
people.” She strode over to him, bracing herself against the island and staring him full in the face. “This is who we are. It’s in our blood.”

“You’re treating it like something you have no control over, like you just can’t help yourself.” Keith’s cheeks were flushed, his hand shaking. “But that’s just an excuse for giving up on a chance at something better. It’s childish, Veronica.”

“Why don’t you want me to be like you?” The desperate eagerness of a moment ago curdled in her stomach, pure and righteous anger replacing it. “Why is that such a shameful thing?”

“Because you could be safe!” he shouted. “Do you know what it does to me to think of you, out there, every day?”

She inhaled sharply. “Of course I do. How many times have I almost lost
you
? But for some strange reason, you keep going right back in. Like you
just can’t help yourself
.”

The doorbell rang. Both Veronica and Keith froze where they were, faces tight with anger. She could feel her pulse, heavy as a drumbeat in her temples.

“That’ll be Wallace,” Keith said. His jaw was still rigid, but his voice was soft, almost sad. Veronica turned away.

“I’ll let him in.”

She could see her old friend through the glass door as she approached, a lean-muscled man in jeans and a San Diego State hoodie, an extra-large pizza box in both hands. He grinned when he saw her, that same easy, comfortable smile that had buoyed her in even her most bitter moods. She took a few quick breaths as she opened the door, trying to calm herself, but Wallace was not fooled.

“You all right?” he asked, the grin fading.

“Are you kidding me? A fine-looking man just brought me a pizza and I didn’t even have to tip him. All’s right with the world.”

He tilted his head back to size her up, looking skeptical. Wallace Fennel had been her best friend since their junior year at Neptune High. He’d been the first person besides her dad she’d been able to trust after Lilly Kane’s death. And he’d been able to see right through her bullshit from day one. But before she could say anything else her dad came in from the kitchen. “Wallace!” He pretended to waft the scent of the pizza toward himself. “And pizza!”

“Half Canadian bacon and pineapple, half Carnivore’s Delight—pepperoni, hamburger, sausage, ham, and bacon.” Wallace cracked the box open just a little and inhaled. “Topped with Mr. Cho’s special recipe marinara and three kinds of artisan cheeses. And a side order of salad, because we’re watching our figures.”

“What do I owe you?”

“This time’s my turn. You got the wings last time, remember?”

Veronica stepped back to let him in. “You guys have this whole hunting and gathering thing down pat, don’t you?”

“Men gotta
eat
.” Wallace nudged her playfully. “You watching the game with us tonight?”

“Um … no, I have to get over to Mac’s. We’re working late tonight.”

His face lit up. “New case, huh? Anything good?”

She glanced furtively at Keith. He’d turned away and was already making his way back to the kitchen. “Um … yeah. The Chamber of Commerce hired me to find Hayley Dewalt.”

Wallace did a double take, eyes widening. “Damn, that is a step up. So what’s the problem then?”

She cleared her throat a little, glancing toward the door her father had just disappeared through. She heard plates clatter loudly in the kitchen. “We’re not exactly on the same page.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. Wallace balanced the pizza box on one arm and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, well, he’ll come around.”

She didn’t answer, but she leaned against him for a moment, feeling the vise around her chest start to loosen a little.

“Would you mind stopping by tomorrow, just to check in on him?” she whispered. “I’ll be at Stanford until late. He should be fine, but …”

“Yeah, no problem.” He squeezed her shoulder and then let go. “Say hi to Mac for me. I hope she gets to hack something good. Or … you know, whatever it is nerds do for fun.”

“I think it involves pwnage.” She grabbed her bag. For a moment she thought about going into the kitchen to try to make some kind of peace with Keith before she left. But what would she say? How could she apologize for who she was?

Veronica arrived on the Stanford campus just after noon the next day. The sky was cloudless, the blue a perfect contrast to the dark red tile roofs. College kids shot around on bikes or ambled past in little groups. A few sat on picnic blankets with books piled around them, taking advantage of the mild spring weather. The air smelled like grass clippings and earth, and she could hear the distant hum of landscaping equipment as the grounds crew made their rounds.

It was surreal to be back on the farm—she instantly snapped back into her old grooves, taking familiar routes through the corridors of the Mission Revival buildings that, for a while, had been her home. It almost felt as though she’d been gone for a very long summer break and returned to a newer, younger student body.

She glanced around, scanning the crowd in case she caught a glimpse of Chad Cohan’s crop of reddish-blond hair. She hadn’t called him ahead of time to set up a meeting; she wanted to surprise him. If he was as controlling and jealous as Hayley’s friends described, she wanted to find out what she could about him before he had a chance to put his guard up.

Veronica and Mac had stayed up until 2:00 a.m. the
night before dredging up anything they could about him—his schedule, his grades, his extracurriculars. Anything that might give them an idea what they were dealing with. What they’d found had been a portrait of a high-achieving student, a clever, talented boy with plenty of advantages—according to his file his mom was the CEO of an outdoor clothing company in Seattle—and a fierce, focused drive. He was the star attacker of the lacrosse team. His grades were in the top 5 percent of his class. He’d just declared his major as political science, and he was in the process of applying for internships in Washington, D.C.

And, as luck would have it, he was taking a small social psychology seminar with Dr. Will Hague, Veronica’s one-time academic advisor.

Hague’s office was in Jordan Hall, a large sandstone building on the main quad. She felt another rush of nostalgia as she pushed her way through the double doors, the familiar dusty scent burning in her nostrils. She’d spent so much time in this building as an undergrad. In addition to fulfilling her prelaw requirements, she’d gravitated to psychology—it was comforting to crunch numbers from clinical studies and analyze data. It was a way to solve puzzles without all the mess and drama.

Hague’s office was on the second floor. It looked the same as ever—copies of scholarly articles were tacked to the bulletin board outside, along with a hodgepodge of
New Yorker
cartoons, art postcards, and a single dry red maple leaf, broad and crumbling beneath the pin. The door was closed, and no light shone underneath. But Hague had a notorious habit of hiding from his students during office hours. She rapped softly on the door.

Silence answered. She stood there uncertain, waiting. Then she saw a shadow moving under the door. A knowing smile spread over her lips.