J Rain: Dark horse

“But I do give a damn who killed her.”

“You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid before he goes to trial.”

I said nothing.

“I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it your way.”

I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”

I was sitting outside Huntington High in my car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted through the car. Life was good at the Beach.

It was three o’clock and school was just getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip, showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired security that were referred to as The Staff.

More than one Mercedes whipped out of the student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.

The less fortunate, and those not of driving age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses. Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.

I didn’t blame them, although my ego was crushed a little.

All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and Hispanics, but no blacks.

Teachers on duty did their best to clear out the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away. And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and headed up to the administration building at the front of the school.

The building, and much of the school, was old cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office. There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I stepped up to the front desk.

“Hello,” I said.

She jumped. She had been writing a personal letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole, love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing so sweet in life as love’s young dream.

When she had recovered enough to speak, she said, “Can I help you?”

I smiled engagingly and showed her my investigator license.

A hell of a picture.

“Doesn’t look like you.”

“It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose, turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same full wattage smile. “See?”

She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is cuter.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy cute.

“So you’re a private investigator?”

“Yep.”

She nodded, but her interest was already waning.

“I give autographs, too,” I said.

“I don’t want your autograph.”

“Of course not. Who would I see about gaining permission to access your school?”

“You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”

“Great.”

“Let me see if she’s in.”

“That would be fantastic.”

“Are you always this cheery?”

“Yes!”

“Hold on.”

“Super!”

She removed herself from her post, snatched up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the windows.

“Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr. Knighthorse.”

“Keen.”

“Keen?”

“I was running out of superlatives.”

The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah, she would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of discipline.

One difference.

She couldn’t have been prettier.

Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.

I am, of course, a detective.

Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming, true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice. She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.

“You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your mind.”

Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly with each breath.

“I was just wishing I had had you as my vice principal in high school.”

She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick away from mine. “What are you implying?”

“You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”

She cracked a smile, and placed one hand carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band clearly. A plain gold band.

“A looker?”

“Means I think you’re swell.”

“Lord. Is this some sort of come-on line?”

“You’re married, and I’m happily dating the love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I need.”

“At least you’re honest about your intentions.”

“That, and I think you’re a looker.”

“What do you need, Knighthorse?”

“What happened to the mister?”

“Anyone who calls me a looker loses that formal courtesy.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m warming up to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I need access to your school.”

“What sort of access?”

Behind her the blinds were open, and I had a shot of an open quad. From here, Mrs. Williams could see much of the school. It was a good view for the vice principal of discipline to have.

“I’m here to investigate the murder of Amanda Peterson,” I said. Her eyes did not waiver. I forged on. “To do so I will need to speak to witnesses.”

“There are no witnesses to Amanda’s murder here.”

“But there are those here who could provide me some assistance, including yourself.”

She leaned forward and looked down at her ring. Her smooth face had the beginnings of crow’s feet. She used her thumb to toy with the ring, spinning it around her narrow finger. I wondered if perhaps she was regretting the ring was on, and thus losing an opportunity to be with yours truly. Or perhaps not.

“I’ll give you access, but not during school hours, and no speaking with students.”

“Agreed.”

“Now what do you need from me?”