'You leave me alone, J. P.'
'Where'd you get the picture, Max?'
'The picture? What picture?'
'The one you wrote about but didn't print. The one of Darwin Ridley and the cheerleader.'
He smirked then. 'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.'
I didn't have time to mess around with him. I turned on my heel and got back in the car.
'All I want to know is if it's Peters or not.'
'Fuck you, Max.'
He looked offended. 'I have other ways of confirming this, you know,' he whined.
'So use 'em,' I told him. 'Be my guest, but you'd damn well better keep your facts straight, because I'll cram 'em down your throat if you don't!'
With that, I started the engine and laid down a layer of rubber squealing out of the parking lot.
I took a meandering route to the Mercer Island Denny's through the maze of interminable road construction that has screwed up traffic there for years. Surprisingly, lots of other people had evidently done the same thing.
The restaurant was busy, jammed with the after-church/Sunday-brunch crowd. I waited almost fifteen minutes before they finally cleared out the line and showed me to a table, a short-legged two-person booth in the center of the room.
During the few minutes I was there alone, I couldn't help reflecting. The last time I had been in the room I was with Peters and Andi Wynn together, that afternoon when we finished questioning the students. That time seemed years ago, not days. Since then, my life had been run through a Waring blender. Fatigue and worry weighed me down, threatening to suck me under and drown me.
Then Ned Browning entered. He rushed through the door and stopped abruptly by the cash register to look for me. Now, starting forward again, he slowed his pace, walking deliberately and with some outward show of dignity, but nothing masked the agitation that remained clearly visible on his face.
My transformation was instantaneous. Adrenaline surged through my system, pulling me out of my stupor, putting every nerve in my body on full alert. By the time he reached the booth, my mind was honed sharp. I was ready for him.
He held out his hand in greeting, but I ignored the empty gesture. Instead, I motioned for him to sit down opposite me. If he thought I had invited him over for a nice social chat, he was wrong. The sooner Ned Browning understood that, the better.
He paused and looked down at his hand, first comprehending and then assessing the message behind my refusal to shake hands. Maybe he had convinced himself that he had mistaken the meaning in what I had said about the cheerleaders.
My insult wasn't lost on him. Ned Browning was caught, and he knew it. Flushing violently to the roots of his receding hairline, he sat down.
'What do you want?' he asked in a hoarse, subdued whisper.
It was time for poker. Time to play bluff, raise, and draw. I happened to have a pretty good hand. 'What did you use?' I asked obliquely for openers.
'I beg your pardon?' He frowned. He may have been as genuinely puzzled as he looked, or he may have been playing the game.
'What did you use to smash the locker, Ned? A sledgehammer? A brick? A rock?'
He drew back in his chair as though I'd slapped him squarely across the face. His unhealthy flush was replaced by an equally unhealthy pallor. 'I don't know what you're talking about!'
'Yes, you do. You know very well.'
He stood up. 'I've got guests waiting at home. I didn't come here to play games.'
I caught the sleeve of his jacket and compelled him back into the booth. 'Fuck your guests,' I snarled. 'Believe me, this is no game.'
His eyes darted warily around the room, checking to see who was within earshot, to see if there was anyone nearby who might know him or who had overheard my rude remark.
He made an attempt to retrieve his old stuffiness. 'I don't think it's necessary to use that kind of language, Mr. Beaumont.'
Once upon a time I had been briefly impressed by his outward show of high-toned values. That was no longer true. His high-toned values were a sham.
'Don't pull that bullshit on me. I'm not one of your students, Ned,' I reminded him. 'I'll talk to you any damn way I please.'
His hands dropped to his lap, but not before I caught sight of a nervous tremor. An involuntary tic touched the muscle of his left jaw. A rush of gleeful satisfaction passed through me. I was definitely making progress. Visible progress.
Just then, our waitress appeared. 'Can I get you something?' she asked.
'No, nothing for me,' Browning murmured shakily.
'Toast,' I said. 'Whole wheat. And two eggs over easy.' I nodded as the waitress offered and poured coffee. Browning refused that as well. When the waitress left, I picked up my spoon and began stirring my coffee with slow deliberation. Ned Browning was already nervous. Any delaying tactic, anything that would make him sit on his powder keg a little longer, would work in my favor.
Carefully, I put down the spoon, took a long sip of coffee, then leaned forward, thrusting my face toward his, invading the body space, the distance, he had created around himself.
'Let's get down to brass tacks, Ned. When did you find out about the list?'
'What list?' He was determined to play dumb. I was in no mood to tolerate it.
'The one with you on it, Ned. The pep squad scorecard. As I recall, your name is on it more than once.'
In the previous few minutes, a little color had returned to his face. Now it drained away again, leaving him a pasty gray. That took the fun out of it for me, calling a halt to the game. I prefer someone who offers a little more of a challenge, a worthy adversary who fields the questions and makes me work for my answers. Ned Browning caved in so easily, I almost laughed out loud.
'You know about that?'
'Lots of people know about it. More than you'd expect. They also have a pretty good idea what it took to get on it.'
'But…'
'When did you find out about it?' I insisted. 'And how?'
'But she said…'
'Who said?'
'Candace. Mrs. Wynn.'
'What did she say?'
'That if I destroyed the locker, no one would ever know.'
'Right. And why do you suppose she told you that?'
'I don't have any idea.'
'When did she tell you?'
'Saturday morning. She called me at home.'
'What time?'
'It must have been around ten. I was out working in the yard when she called and asked me to meet her at school'
'And you did?'
'She said it was urgent, something I needed to know.'
'Where did you meet? In the locker room?'
'No. In my office.'
'All right, so after you met, what happened then?'
'She told me about the list. Said she'd just found out about it the night before, at Darwin Ridley's memorial service.'
The little orange warning light in the back of my head started flashing. I had a vivid memory of Candace Wynn
