Todd Strasser - Kill You Last

It was easy to say, but sadly, I had learned not to count too much on his words. Dad was good at saying whatever he thought was expected without following through. I thought back to Gabriel. “Did the police say what they think happened?”

Dad chewed pensively and swallowed. “They don’t know.

They really want to believe that it’s got something to do with his gambling debts. Because if it doesn’t, then maybe Janet isn’t the killer after all and they may have arrested the wrong suspect. And that would look really, really bad.”

“Did you tell them about him trying to blackmail you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dad let the air out of his lungs. “They know he had big gambling debts, so his needing money wouldn’t be news.”

I stared at him. Once again he was unable to meet my gaze. “But that’s not why you didn’t tell them, is it?”

He lowered his head. “No, it’s not.”

I went to bed still trying to make sense of it all, still feeling like the answer was right in front of me and I just wasn’t looking at it the right way. In the morning, neither Mom nor Dad was around, and Roman didn’t come to school. I assumed her sniffles the night before were from a cold and not from an allergy, but I sent her a text anyway, to find out what she was up to.

After lunch, I was sitting in math when I felt my BlackBerry vibrate. Assuming it was Roman texting back, I waited until class ended before I checked.

The text was from Whit: Meet @ rez asap!!!!

I texted back: Cant. @ schl.

He wrote: Lfe/dth.

Life or death? Was he serious? In any other situation, I would have considered it a gross exaggeration.

But not in this situation.

I left school and drove to the reservoir. Whit was waiting in his car. I parked and got out, expecting him to do the same. Instead, I heard his car engine start. He waved for me to get in.

I hesitated. If he wanted to go somewhere else, why had he suggested meeting here? Why couldn’t we go in two cars?

He lowered his window. “Come on, get in.”

I didn’t move. “Why?”

“I need your help with Mercedes.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” he said impatiently. “Come on.”

Something told me not to. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you, I’ll explain in the car.” There was something different about him. Something urgent and tightly wound. I still didn’t move. His brow furrowed. “What are you waiting for?”

“Can’t we go in two cars?”

He blinked with astonishment. “You… don’t want to be in the car with me?”

I felt embarrassed and didn’t answer. Would he get angry?

Instead, his expression softened. “Oh, man. You really don’t know who to trust, do you?”

I nodded, feeling my face flush. Was I being incredibly unfair?

“I understand.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he stared straight ahead, as if lost in thought.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“How to do it without you.”

I got in. Whit started driving.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

“You were willing to go without me.”

“How do you know I wasn’t faking it? Playing you?”

I looked at his profile as he drove. From the side, his bent nose had a bump on the bridge. “Were you?”

He let out a snort.

“So where are we going?” I asked.

“To find her.”

“Because you’re thinking that if Dad is innocent and Janet couldn’t have killed Gabriel because she was in jail, that leaves Mercedes?”

“Yes, but not the way you mean it,” he said. “Mercedes didn’t disappear. She just wanted to make it look that way. I think she’s hiding because she’s scared.”

“Of?”

“The real killer.”

“So you think whoever killed those girls killed Gabriel, too?”

“It’s a lot more likely than someone killing him for money.”

“Why?”

He glanced at me. “If someone owes you a lot of money and you kill him, will you ever collect?”

He was right. “So you want to find Mercedes and see what she knows?”

He nodded.

“And you need me because you think I’m someone she’ll trust,” I said. “But what makes you think she’ll talk to me?”

He bit his lip. “I hope by the time we find her, you’re feeling a little more positive about this.”

The “Hispanic” part of Soundview was tiny-just three or four blocks of small houses squeezed tightly together with fenced-in postage-stamp lawns and first-floor windows covered with metal grates.

“What are we looking for?” I asked as Whit drove slowly up one of the blocks.

“Mercedes, or maybe one of her men friends.”

Young mothers pushed strollers along the sidewalk. Kids played in the street. Men sat on stoops. “There.” I pointed at a low brown car in a driveway. “I think I’ve seen her come to work in that one.”

Whit parked and reached for the door, but I didn’t move. “You sure about this?” I asked nervously.

He turned and looked at me. “No. Have a better idea?”

For a second, neither of us budged. Then, without a word, we both got out. As I followed Whit up the steps to the house where the brown car was parked, an old man with the stump of a cigarillo in the corner of his mouth curiously lifted his wrinkled face to us. On the porch was a worn, sagging couch; some empty beer cans; and a child’s Big Wheel. Whit rang the bell. A moment later the door opened a fraction of an inch, and a woman peeked out apprehensively.

“? Mercedes esta aqui?” whit asked.

The woman shook her head.

Whit launched into Spanish, and they had a short conversation. His command of the language was much better than mine, and he spoke so quickly that I could understand only enough to know that he was pressing her and she was resisting. Finally, she said something about getting her son and backed away, leaving the door slightly open.

A minute passed. A couple of children came to the door and stared at us with big eyes. Then a deep voice from inside growled something, and the kids scattered. A bare-chested, heavily tattooed man appeared. His eyes were puffy from sleep, and his dark hair fell in thick strands into his eyes. He scratched himself and grumbled something in Spanish that sounded like slang. Once again Whit pressed. This time the conversation was even harder to follow. Both of them mentioned Mercedes’s name several times. The man kept shaking his head and saying that he didn’t know where Mercedes was.

It was obvious Whit didn’t believe him. As the tone of the conversation grew tenser, I began to feel scared and was tempted to tug on his sleeve and suggest we leave. But Whit stood his ground. It sounded like he was saying that he was a reporter and was about to run a story about how Mercedes was hiding somewhere here in town and how the police would be very interested in knowing that. And that the only way he wouldn’t run the story was if he could speak to her in person.

Finally, the man said that he had to consult someone and closed the door.

“Who’s he going to talk to?” I whispered.

“No idea.”

The man reappeared with a folded piece of paper and grumbled something threatening about how Whit would be sorry if he didn’t keep his word.

The address was a few blocks away, and when we got there, another heavily tattooed man was sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette. I had a feeling he was waiting for us.

“You from the newspaper?” the man said.

“Yes.”

The man glanced at me, then back at Whit. “And her?”

“I’m Mercedes’s friend. Su amiga,” I said.

The man frowned skeptically.

“She works for my father… trabaja para mi padre…comprende?” I explained.