“Why would I kill her?”
“You tell me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a lot.”
“Maybe you were jealous.”
“Of the nigger?”
“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda, and you didn’t.”
“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to his front door.
“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”
Without turning, he flipped me the bird.
Kids these days. They grow up so fast.
15.
Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it, but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a warning. He obliged.
When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone, mumbling under his breath.
“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.
“Nope.”
“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our diligent investigative work?”
“Slim to none.”
We both leaned back in a worn leather love seat, the only seating available in the back room.
“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
I had the remote control and was fast forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right corner was the time.
At seven thirty I let the tape play in real time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.
“Should have brought some popcorn,” he said.
“They have some in the store. I think Phuong might be inclined to give us some on the house.”
“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse of power. We would be on the take.”
“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”
“But only if buttered.”
We watched the comings and goings of many different people of many different nationalities, most of them buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.
“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.
“The brunette?”
“No, the blond.”
“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?” he asked.
“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty. There’s a difference.”
“You’re blond.”
“There always an exception to every rule.”
At seven thirty-eight a young man approached the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the kid’s money.
“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.
“Yes.”
“The time of death was seven thirty?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”
“No,” I said.
“The kid didn’t do her.”
“No, he didn’t.”
I stopped the tape and we sat back on the sofa.
“Which means someone was waiting for her at her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be leaving the party early?”
We were silent. Two great investigative minds at work.
“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Maybe she was followed home.”
“Or just a random killing.”
Sanchez looked at me and grinned. “Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you, kiddo.”
16.
It was a late April morning in Huntington Beach, California, which meant, of course, that the weather was perfect.
Why the hell would anyone want to live anywhere else?
I was sitting at my desk, reviewing a sampling of the San Diego Chargers playbook, a sampling that Rob, Cindy’s brother, had just faxed to me. Rob let it be known that this was Highly Classified material, and that his job was on the line. I reminded him that I was boffing his sister, and that practically made me family. He told me that he never wanted to hear the words boffing and his sister in the same sentence again and that he was going to get drunk at our wedding and make a nuisance of himself. I told him there would be no wedding because his sister wasn’t marriage material. He told me to fuck off, and hung up.
The plays were complex, but not rocket science. The majority faxed to me involved the fullback position, which was my position. I studied them with interest, making my own notes along the borders.
And that’s when the guy with the gun showed up.
I heard the door open, and when I looked up the Browning 9mm was pointed at my head. I hate when that happens.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Shut the hell up, fuck nut.”
“Fuck nut. The one nut Home Depot doesn’t carry.”
The man was probably in his fifties, gray hair sleeked back with a lot of gel. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear, pirate-like. Indeed, in his misspent youth he probably always wanted to be a pirate or a buccaneer, only I didn’t really know the difference between the two. Had it been fashionable, he would have worn a patch over his eye. His face, all in all, was hideous, heavily pock-marked, sunken and sallow. The gun never wavered from my face.
“What’s the difference between a pirate and a buccaneer?” I asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
