“I am a big guy. I can take care of myself.”
And that’s when the front door open and Mr. Peterson came in.
The first thing I noticed was that both Cat and Alyssa shrank back into themselves. Especially Alyssa. The cute little girl disappeared. Replaced by something cold and wet, and left out in the rain to die.
20.
He strode quickly into the living room, head swiveling, trying to take in everything at once. He was wearing black slacks, cordovan loafers and a black silk shirt. Sunglasses rode high on his graying head of curly hair. His roaming, pale eyes finally settled on me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said to me.
“Richard…” said Cat, but her voice was weak, her words trailing.
I stood, “I’m Jim ‘the fuck’ Knighthorse.”
I held out my hand. He didn’t take it. Little Alyssa was right. I was bigger than her father, had the guy by about two inches. It was clear that he lifted weights: thick chest and small waist. But he lifted for show. I know the type.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.
Richard Peterson turned to his wife, who flinched unconsciously. Or perhaps consciously. Maybe he preferred the women in his life to flinch in his presence. He next turned to his daughter. She was looking down, pressed against the glass of the sliding door.
I said I was here to investigate the murder of his daughter.
“Who hired you?”
I told him.
“Get out,” he said. “Get the fuck out.”
I didn’t move at first. He then turned and looked at the little girl.
“Go to your room,” he said. “Now.”
Alyssa jumped and ran away, leaving her Barbie’s where they lay, with Ken on top of Barbie. I saw that there was a small puddle of urine where she had been sitting. A door in the back of the house slammed shut.
I turned and looked at Mrs. Peterson. Only then did I notice the purplish welts inside her legs.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” I said calmly.
“Don’t you people have any decency?” He said to me, then turned on his wife. “And you, Cat. You let him in. How could you? He’s representing the boy who murdered our Amanda. He’s trying to set him free.”
“But Richard-”
“Shut the fuck up, Cat. You.” He turned to me. “Get the fuck out or I’ll call the police.”
I looked at Cat and she nodded to me. That’s when I saw a picture of another girl on the mantle above the fireplace. This one older. She had her arm around her mother and was wearing a blue and white UCI sweatshirt. A third daughter.
I left the way I had come, and he slammed the door shut behind me. I paused a few minutes on the porch but could hear nothing. I had the feeling he was standing behind me, waiting for me to leave.
There was nothing to do but leave.
So I did.
21.
“We should probably call the police,” said Cindy, after I told her about my encounter with Richard Peterson. Whom I now referred to as Dick.
“A few bruises and a terrified child does not a case make,” I said. “Someone would need to come forward.”
She sighed. “And most victims of domestic violence are hesitant to report the abuse, for fear of repercussions.”
It was just past 10 p.m. Cindy’s evening class had just ended. We were sitting at a small cafe in the UCI student union. I was eating a chocolate chocolate muffin-yes, chocolate chips in a chocolate muffin-the way it should be eaten: big bites that encompassed the stump and the top. Cindy was sipping hot cider. The cafe was surrounded by a lot of glass and metal. Couches and chairs lined the walls and filled the many adjoining rooms, filled with students studying and working and not making out or sleeping, as I would have done in my day.
“We are surrounded by over-achievers,” I said.
“UCI is a tough school to get into,” she said. “Same with UCLA. Were you not once an over-achiever?”
“On the football field, yes. In the classroom, my mind wandered.”
“Where did it wander?”
“To the next game. The next girl. I was a big man on campus.”
She looked at me over her cider. “You still are,” she said.
“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.
“If there wasn’t a chocolate chip on your chin, the answer would be yes.”
She reached over and scooped it off and ate it.
“Does that count against your diet?” I asked.
“I’ll jog an extra lap tomorrow morning.”
She sat her cider down carefully in front of her. She adjusted the mug so that the handle was facing at a forty-five degree angle. Precision and exactness was her life. And I loved her for it.
I reached over and moved the handle a little to the left.
“Hey,” she said, slapping my hand. She adjusted it back. “So what are you going to do about the brute?”
“About Dick? First, I need to speak with the eldest daughter, and confirm my suspicions.”
“Your suspicions are generally pretty accurate.”
“In this case, I want confirmation. I need to speak to the eldest daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask.”
“And how am I supposed to find her here at UCI if you don’t know her name?”
“I know her last name is Peterson. Or at least I assume it to be. The other two daughters’ names both started with an A. So I would begin there. Perhaps an Alicia Peterson, or an Antoinette Peterson.”
“You realize this isn’t part of your job description, at least not on this case, resolving domestic violence.”
“I know.”
“And what if she confirms your suspicions of abuse?”
“Then Dick Peterson and I are going to have a talk.”
22.
“So why is God dressed like a bum?” I asked. “Isn’t that a little cliche?”
“I invented cliche,” said Jack.
I rolled my eyes. He continued.
“But to answer your question: This is how you perceive me.”
“As a bum?”
“Not exactly. You figure that if God came to earth, he would do so in a nondescript way.”
