J Rain - Dark horse

My breath caught in my throat. Fuck, I missed her.

“She misses you, too,” said Jack. “But she wants you to know that she is always with you.” He paused, and that gentle smiled found his weathered face. “And that you will always be her little prince, even though you are a big son-of-bitch.”

And all I could do was wipe my eyes and laugh.

Hi, mom.

“Last time you were here, Knighthorse, my school was turned upside down. Please, no more bodies.”

Vice Principal Williams’s levity over the tragic suicide of her football coach was a tad alarming, but I let it slide without comment. She had come to the door to shake my hand. Today she was dressed in a white pant suit and a white blouse that was see-through enough to ignite the imagination of any hormone-enraged teenaged boy. And to ignite the imagination of at least one hormone-enraged detective.

“Um, nice blouse,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked down at it. “Or are you just saying that because you can see the outline of my bra?”

“Which qualifies it as a nice blouse.”

She settled into her chair behind her desk. I sat before her. Her gaze did not waver from mine. “I am a married woman.”

I pointed to the rock on her hand. “Not a hard fact to overlook, even for one as highly trained as I.”

“What makes you so highly trained?”

“I apprenticed for two years with my father. And he is the best.”

“You say that almost grudgingly.”

“My father and I have never been close. You could say he was unsupportive in my earlier sporting endeavors.”

“You hold that against him?”

“Yes.”

She studied me some more, and we held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. She inhaled and her chest inflated and the lacy bra pushed out. It was a calculated move.

“Currently my husband and I are separated.”

“I see.”

“What is your situation, Mr. Knighthorse?”

I hesitated. I did not know my situation. Cindy had not called me for two days. As far as I knew she was gone.

“I am in a similar situation,” I said.

“Perhaps we can entertain each other in the meantime.”

“Entertaining is good.”

“How about dinner this weekend?” she asked.

I thought about it. It was getting old drinking alone.

“Mrs. Williams-”

“Please, Dana.”

“Dana, this weekend would be…fine.”

She smiled, relaxed and sat back. She had the attitude of a closed deal. “Now what can I do for you?”

“Where can I find the school band director?”

“Bryan Dawson?”

“If that’s the band director.”

Her fingers drummed the arm of her chair.

“Is there a problem, Dana?” I asked.

She turned in her swivel chair and gazed out her considerable window into the empty quad. I continued to watch her, intrigued by her response.

“Why do you wish to speak to him?”

“Amanda quit the school band unexpectedly. I want to find out why.”

“Seems a reach for your investigation.”

“My job is to reach. Luckily I have a long arm.”

“You can find him here in the mornings. Room one oh seven, around six a.m. Band practice starts at zero period, six forty-five a.m.”

“Is there something I should know about him?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m a good detective. Perhaps not as good as my pop, but the next best thing. If there’s something going on with your band director, I’m going to find out about it. But you and I can cut a deal now, and if you make things easy on me, perhaps I will agree to keep things quiet.”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps is the best I can offer.”

“Perhaps is not good enough.”

“Then I will find the truth on my own, and there is no deal.”

She sat back and gazed at me from over steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”

“You have no idea.”

“I just want myself and the school left out of it.”

“I can probably swing that,” I said.

“Probably?”

“Best I can offer right now.”

She got up and shut her door, then sat back down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that. She only risked glancing up at me occasionally. Even then she seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could blame her, really?

“Now, there have been some, ah, alleged indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in the past.”

“Have the allegations been confirmed?”

“No.”

“Was Amanda Peterson one of those who allegedly had an indiscretion?”

“Yes.”

“What did these indiscretions involve?”

“Sexual advances.”

“Has anyone looked into the allegations?”

“I did.”

“And what did you discover?”

“He denied everything and there was no proof, and now one of the girls is dead.”

“And the other?”

“Lives in Washington state.”

“Do you have her address?”

She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it, Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.

Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”

“No stone unturned.”

“Are you just as thorough in the bedroom?”

“You’ll just have to use your imagination.”

She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little red.

“Oh, I have.”

I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with some Krispy Kremes.

Which I did, along with two containers of chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories I’m looking for.

It was cool enough for the heater, and since I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.

I turned up a street called Mariner, which, coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these days I kept it particularly handy.

I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun handles.

I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome guy; worse, he knew it.

When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.

“Bryan Dawson?” I asked.

He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.

“You are the detective,” he said, brushing past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.