“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m just sure I know you from somewhere.”
A smile struggled to stay on her face. “From the bank, silly. Did you get enough material?”
“Well, I would kind of like to go inside,” I said. She was definitely trying to get rid of me. Had I trod on sensitive territory with that question?
“It’s a bank,” she said. Either I was crazy or her voice was shaking. “What is there to see? A counter, a few desks, a vault, the usual.”
“But I could take photos,” I said, holding up my phone.
She waved her hand. “We’ve got enough of those.”
“I didn’t get any.”
She waved again. “We don’t need to be flashy.” She laughed, shrill and nervous. “See what I did there? Flashy. It was nice seeing you again. I’ll be looking forward to the article.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
“I am,” she said. “Bye, now. You just call if you need anything else. Save your gas.”
But as I walked to my car, I kept looking back at her, studying her. She hadn’t convinced me. I was sure I had seen her somewhere else. Somewhere other than the bank. I just couldn’t remember where.
Chapter 17
I was not what anyone would describe as an undercover reporter. I could be as in-your-face as a boot camp drill sergeant when I was tracking down a good lead. Everyone—including my partner—had made it clear that being in-your-face on this case wasn’t the best plan. But I was running out of ideas, and every minute that ticked by, the case got colder. And I knew that if you let a case get cold enough and it was nearly impossible to solve. Plus, I wanted to report something important on the podcast, too. Something that would make listeners stop and…well, listen.
As I suspected, the PHS football team was in the middle of practice. They were on a water break when I arrived at the school, having taken another late lunch. They had all taken a knee on the sidelines and were listening to their coach as they gulped from paper cups. All except Paulie, who stood impatiently by, hands on his hips with his helmet dangling from two fingers. He looked intense. And for the first time it really struck me that…he looked scary. And it was as much that scariness rattling around in the back of my mind that kept me pursuing him as a suspect as anything. I felt jittery and anxious. It didn’t happen often, but it happened. And usually when it did, it was because I was talking to someone bad.
Paulie Henderson was a big guy. At least 6’3” and well over two hundred pounds, he could have crushed Coach Farley with his bare hands without even breaking a sweat. So why didn’t he do that? Why use a car to kill him?
Because it would make it that much harder for his father to cover up the crime if he literally had his hands in it? Especially if he did it on the field in front of all of Parkwood? Maybe. I wasn’t sure. Paulie—Mr. “Unanimous” himself—didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to think things like that through. And Parkwood didn’t strike me as the kind of town to mind that Gerald Farley suddenly was gone from their lives. Maybe the only thing keeping Paulie from tearing Farley limb from limb right there on the field was the presence of the officials pulling them off of each other.
I sat in my car and assessed the current situation. The team was on the sidelines. The cheerleaders were practicing cheers in one end zone. The dance team had taken the center of the field for their rehearsal.
I needed to get Paulie alone so I could ask him some questions. If I waited by his Jeep, I ran the risk of Brooks blocking me again. If I approached the field, I ran the risk of getting the police called on me. I had to catch him in an unnoticeable place at just the right time.
I fumbled together a stack of books and random papers from my back seat and waited until I saw someone heading into the school. It didn’t take long. A car pulled up and a pouting teenage boy got out, dragging an instrument case that looked heavy and bulky enough to be housing a dead body, and headed for the school. I got out of my car and speed-walked to catch up to him.
“Hold the door!” I said when he started to go inside. I gasped as if I was out of breath and acted like I might drop all of those books at any moment. Which wasn’t really acting. I had gone overboard with my props and they were heavy.
The teen stepped aside and held the door open for me.
Rule #3 of investigative journalism: Ask people to let you in, and they usually will.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.”
He let me in the second set of doors and then disappeared toward the cacophonous sounds of a marching band warming up. I kept going, trying to look as if I knew exactly where I was headed. Look uncertain, and someone—most likely an administrator cranky about working late—is going to stop you.
My phone buzzed. Groaning inwardly, I ducked into a ladies room and dropped my books on the counter to answer.
“Hey, where are you?” asked Daisy. “You never came home.”
“I’m at the school.”
“What school? Didn’t we just leave a school?”
I peered under each stall door. I was alone in the restroom. Good.
“I’m at Parkwood High School,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Paulie Henderson.”
“He agreed to talk to you?” Her voice was a squawk.
“Kind of.”
“What does that mean, kind of?” I could hear water running and dishes rattling in the background.
“I haven’t exactly tried yet.”
“And how are you going to do it? Just show up and say, ‘Hi, there, I’m a reporter and I’m convinced you’re a murderer, so
