Burning Blue

“Charming.”

“At least she can keep a secret.”

“Infect me.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” She zipped it to my phone with a patch that I opened first to prevent the worm from vaporizing my hard drive. We compared notes. We had the exact same suspect list. I told her I had ruled out Sabbatini, Schmidt and Mr. Sager.

“Let’s get back to Bendix,” she said. “What’s your take on him?”

“Long shot.”

“Right,” she said. “No motivation. You’re sure he asked her to lie about something?”

“What else could he have been doing?”

“We better check him out, then. I’ll run strings on him.”

“I already did,” I said.

“And?”

“Nothing.”

She popped a fistful of fries. “Look, that thing that happened back at that house party freshman year: Obviously I was bombed.”

“I’m surprised you remember it.”

“Caitlin told me what you did for me.” She frowned. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“You can relax, though. I’m not into you that way. You’re a little too clean for my taste, no offense.”

“Absolutely none taken.”

“Good.”

“Hey, this is crazy, but do you think she could have done it to herself?”

“Why would Nicole Castro burn herself?”

“Right.” I sipped my shake, studying Angela as she looked at her phone and Nicole’s Facebook page. I was getting into business with a girl who drank in school, but did I have any choice? Angela was right: I needed a hand. She was going to hack at this thing anyway, until she got her reward money. She would be happy to do the one thing I couldn’t: hack Nicole. I didn’t want to violate whatever was going on between us, friendship or certainly the beginnings of it. Also, I was afraid of what I might find in her files. If nothing was there, Angela wouldn’t bother to tell me about them. She didn’t strike me as the type to waste time on gossip. If she did find something scary, she would tell me. I was okay with that. My ears were open to any information that would help Nicole, or help her help herself, if she did in fact burn herself. Whether Angela was an alcoholic or not, I had to work with her. That didn’t mean I had to trust her, yet.

THIRTY

A little after one in the morning the phone rang. My father. I was sure he’d talked with Detective Barrone. He said, “You couldn’t call me to check in?”

“You couldn’t call me?”

“You sound weird. I don’t know, afraid or something.”

“You’re leaving me alone since I’m thirteen. I’m just mainlining a little heroin.”

“Jay? I’m sorry, okay?”

Now I knew he was drinking. I’d been about to ask him what went down between Mr. Castro and him all those years ago, but no way I was going to get anything substantive out of him when he was smashed.

“Jay?”

“I heard you. Look, just go to bed.”

“I didn’t mean it, Jay.”

“I know. I gotta go.”

“Okay. Okay. Jay?”

“Yes, Dad?” Rolling my eyes.

“I’ll see you Saturday. Maybe we’ll go to the driving range.”

“Or we could just smash our hands with sledgehammers and guzzle Drano.”

“Why do you have to. . Look, just stay out of trouble.” Click.

“Right,” I said to the dial tone. “’Night.” I tapped into his phone account and scanned his Calls Made list. He still hadn’t returned Detective Barrone’s call.

Around two a.m., Angela sent me a link that had helped her worm her way through the NJPD firewall. She’d planted an evercookie when somebody somewhere in the NJPD clicked a link that promised three more inches. The girl was good. More than that, sharing information like this, she was beginning to win my trust. She’d only gotten to the gate, though. It was up to me kick it down. I used the code that listed Detective Barrone’s call to my father to wiggle into the Division of Detectives mainframe. I probably had two minutes before the I.T. guys would notice the breach.

Folder: RECLUSE

Folder: DAVID BENDIX

Folder: VIDEO INT. 09 Sept.

I ripped it and got out of there. I played the video through the TV to get a better look at the faces, the eyes. They had Dave in a conference room. An older dude in a tailored suit sat with him. Dave was pale. Barrone was off-screen, pacing. Dave tracked her with glossy eyes.

Barrone: “Again, David, where were you?”

Bendix: “Ma’am, I told you.”

Barrone: “And I told you, she said you weren’t in the cutout.”

Bendix: “I was.”

Barrone: “I don’t buy it. Here’s my thing: It would be odd that you were just hanging out in the hall when the second bell had rung and you were late for class.”

Bendix: “It was English. Mrs. Nally never cares if you’re late. Seriously, ask her. We were doing the metaphysical poets. Would you be in a rush to get yourself some pastoral elegy of John Donne?”

Barrone: “You mean Edmund Spenser.”

Bendix: “Him too.”

Barrone: “This is what happens when you cut class. Why hang in the cutout, with nothing to do? Why not the cafeteria?”

Bendix: “Why not the cafeteria?”

Barrone: “I asked you first.”

Bendix (exasperated): “I don’t know what to say.”

Barrone: “I know you don’t. Okay, if you were at the water fountain, who threw the acid?”

Dave: “I told you, it happened out of my line of sight, just past the corner where the hallway splits.”

Barrone: “No, David. No. I checked the acid marks on the floor. I stood where Nicole was standing when she was hit, and I could see the water fountain fine.”

Bendix: “My head was down. I was drinking from the water fountain. I, was, there. She, Nicole couldn’t see me. Maybe the glare in the windows-”

Barrone: “Nuh-uh. Nope. No glare that day. Rainy that day. Torrential. Besides, the sun never falls on that side of the building. Where were you, Dave?”

Bendix: “You keep asking me the same question, Detective.”

Barrone: “And I’ll keep asking until I get the right answer. Look at me. What are you hiding? I said look at me. Breathe. Listen. I don’t have you pegged as the thrower. I don’t. But you’re lying to me. I can tell. I’m doing this a good while now. You know what? I’m going to do you a favor. I’m gonna tip you off to the two things a liar does when he’s stringing one. Here they are, for the next time a cop taps you for questioning.”

Bendix: “The next time?”

Barrone: “How do you really feel about Nicole?”