hours.
Two hours.
Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.
Not a good thing.
All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.
I was now thirty.
For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.
But it was the NFL, man. These were the big boys.
I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner, prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous as some, but tough as hell.
At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.
I shifted in my seat to ease some of the pressure.
I had taken three Advils this morning. The Advils didn’t work, although my headache was long gone.
Was I good enough to make it in the pros?
Yeah, probably. College ball certainly couldn’t contain me.
Traffic picked up a little. I entered San Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a mother holding a child, being led by the man.
I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who killed Amanda.
A killer who needed to be stopped at all costs.
I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the hardest week’s of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for her. She had made that decision on her own.
Could I have made the NFL? Yeah, probably.
My leg would continue to throb every day of my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old’s dream. I was thirty.
I thought of my mother and her own unsolved murder.
There was much to do.
Time to quit screwing around.
At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway, turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.
My leg felt better already.
61.
On the way back to Orange County I pulled out my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.
He returned my phone call almost instantly, furious. “Move on? What the fuck does that mean?”
“Means I’m not coming in.”
There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking: players would give their left nut for this opportunity.
“I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule? I’ll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we have a whole crew out there waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“Life happened.”
“You could make our team, Knighthorse.”
“I know.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers to catch. But for now, I will take one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at it.”
“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity.”
“Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.
62.
I arrived at Huntington High later that same day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees, exactly where most skirts should be.
I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”
“But could you take over a small Baltic country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.
I said, “Only if they were susceptible to fits of hysterical laughter.”
She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.
“A big guy like you. I’m sure you’re being modest.”
“Mrs. Williams, are you flirting with me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Just as long as we’re clear on that point.”
“Oh, we’re clear.”
Her thigh was about face high. It was muscular, smooth and tan. She moved it toward me, and when she did her skirt rode up, showing more skin.
“You and I need to talk.”
“Oh, we’re going to do more than talk, sugar butt,” she said. “Follow me home.”
And so I followed her.
Sugar butt?
We drove south along PCH, through Newport Beach and into Laguna. She drove quickly, darting in and out of traffic, her need to see me without my shirt on pushing her to drive recklessly. Or perhaps she had to pee. Luckily the Excursion was big enough to follow from outer space.
She turned into a gated community, then waited for me to catch up. When I had done so, a pair of wrought iron doors swung open, and I followed her in, passing beautiful Mediterranean homes, each more elaborate than
