J Rain: Dark horse

“That was the last time you saw her?”

She was looking away, blinking hard. “Yes.”

“After Amanda left, what did Chris do?”

“I don’t know. He took off in his car.”

Oh?

“Did you tell the police this?” I asked.

“The police never came by.”

“The police assume Derrick did the killing,” I said.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “But I think someone set Derrick up.”

“I do too.”

“Someone who doesn’t like him very much,” she said.

“I agree. Where does Chris live?”

She told me, and I gave her my card.

“Nice picture,” she said.

“Like I said, you are obviously a bright and intelligent young lady.”

I left her rocking alone on the bench swing.

According to Rebecca, Chris’s house was three streets down. Look for the broken garage door and red mailbox. Turns out the house was seven streets down. She was close. Okay, not really.

There was no one home, so I waited in my car, which really was my home away from home. I had wasted more time sitting in it than I care to dwell on. One of these days I was going to wise up and keep an emergency novel in the glove box for just such an occasion. I turned on the radio and listened to various sports radio programs. There had once been a time when I was the subject of sports radio. At least locally. Maybe again someday. I looked at my watch. An hour of my life had passed. I turned off the radio and put my seat back. The police hadn’t investigated Amanda’s murder very thoroughly. That much was obvious. They were confident the killer was Derrick. They had no reason to believe otherwise, and they did not look for a reason. Looking for a reason made their job harder than it had to be, especially when a kid with a knife was looking them straight in the face. According to the homicide report, an anonymous caller had tipped the police that the knife was in the backseat of Derrick’s car. Convenient.

Two hours later, after a fitful nap, a silver Corvette squealed around the corner and bounded into the driveway. A lanky kid hopped out and stared at me.

More than ready for a little action, I leapt out of my car and, perhaps a little too eagerly, approached him. The kid backed up a step.

“Chris Randall?” I asked.

He was about an inch shorter than me, about half the width of me, and certainly not as good looking. Not everyone can be me.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I told him.

“You have a badge or something?” he asked. There was mild humor in his voice, and a whole lot of cockiness. I’ve been told the same.

“Or something.” I showed him my investigator’s license. “Can I talk to you about Amanda Peterson?”

His shoulders bunched at the mention of her name. He recovered and walked around to the Vette’s trunk and popped it open with the push of a button on his keychain. He reached inside and pulled out a ratty backpack. His hands were shaking. When he spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice, although there was still an underlying tone of arrogance. My question had unsettled him. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“She was last seen leaving your party.”

He slung the pack over a bony shoulder. “Probably should have stayed, huh?”

“Probably. You were also seen leaving the party shortly thereafter.”

“Yeah, so.”

I smiled broadly, just your friendly neighborhood detective. “So where’d you go?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

“No.”

“Then they would be interested to know that prior to Amanda leaving the party that you had verbally abused her and made racially insensitive remarks about her boyfriend Derrick.”

He looked at me some more, then shrugged. “I went on a beer run.”

“Where?”

“Corner of Eighth and Turner.” He leaned a hip against the Vette’s fender. The mild amusement was back. His eyes almost twinkled. “You think I killed her?”

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”

“Knives can be planted,” I said.

“Why would I kill her?”

“You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a lot.”

“Maybe you were jealous.”

“Of the nigger?”

“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda, and you didn’t.”

“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to his front door.

“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”

Without turning, he flipped me the bird.

Kids these days. They grow up so fast.

Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it, but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a warning. He obliged.

When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone, mumbling under his breath.

“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.

“Nope.”

“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our diligent investigative work?”

“Slim to none.”

We both leaned back in a worn leather love seat, the only seating available in the back room.

“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I had the remote control and was fast forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right corner was the time.

At seven thirty I let the tape play in real time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.

“Should have brought some popcorn,” he said.

“They have some in the store. I think Phuong might be inclined to give us some on the house.”

“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse of power. We would be on the take.”

“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”

“But only if buttered.”

We watched the comings and goings of many different people of many different nationalities, most of them buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.

“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.

“The brunette?”

“No, the blond.”

“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?” he asked.

“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty. There’s a difference.”

“You’re blond.”

“There always an exception to every rule.”

At seven thirty-eight a young man approached the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the kid’s money.

“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.

“Yes.”

“The time of death was seven thirty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”

“No,” I said.

“The kid didn’t do her.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I stopped the tape and we sat back on the sofa.

“Which means someone was waiting for her at her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be leaving the party early?”

We were silent. Two great investigative minds at work.

“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.

“Me neither,” I said.

“Maybe she was followed home.”

“Or just a random killing.”

Sanchez looked at me and grinned. “Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you, kiddo.”