“So do I.”
We raced back and as far as I could tell we were dead even this time, pulling up just past the far sidelines. The throb in my leg was feeling unhealthy. We had done this for the past thirty minutes.
“We’re even on that last run,” said Sanchez. “So I say we call it a morning. Baby steps. This is your first day back in training. Want to take it easy on the leg, especially a man your age.”
“You’re only a month younger.”
“Lot can happen in a month.”
“True.”
We sat on a bench wet with dew. The mist was all pervasive, leaving nothing untouched. I enjoyed the solitude it allowed.
“You going back with me to San Diego?” I asked. “To try out?”
He laughed, and kept his dark eyes on the joggers. “I wasn’t the one they asked to come out of retirement.”
“You could make it.”
“I was good, but not that good,” he said. The mist was dispersing and more light was getting through. There were also more joggers now, three males, but these were not as interesting to look at.
Sanchez checked his watch. “Most people with respectable jobs have to get going now.”
“Luckily, neither of us have respectable jobs.”
“True,” said Sanchez. “So who do you think did this girl?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “That’s the part I’m working on.”
“Isn’t it just your job to get the kid off? And to give a damn who really killed the girl?”
“But I do give a damn who killed her.”
“You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid before he goes to trial.”
I said nothing.
“I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it your way.”
I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”
8.
I was sitting outside Huntington High in my car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted through the car. Life was good at the Beach.
It was three o’clock and school was just getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip, showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired security that were referred to as The Staff.
More than one Mercedes whipped out of the student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.
The less fortunate, and those not of driving age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses. Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.
I didn’t blame them, although my ego was crushed a little.
All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and Hispanics, but no blacks.
Teachers on duty did their best to clear out the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away. And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and headed up to the administration building at the front of the school.
The building, and much of the school, was old cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office. There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I stepped up to the front desk.
“Hello,” I said.
She jumped. She had been writing a personal letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole, love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing so sweet in life as love’s young dream.
When she had recovered enough to speak, she said, “Can I help you?”
I smiled engagingly and showed her my investigator license.
A hell of a picture.
“Doesn’t look like you.”
“It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose, turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same full wattage smile. “See?”
She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is cuter.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy cute.
“So you’re a private investigator?”
“Yep.”
She nodded, but her interest was already waning.
“I give autographs, too,” I said.
“I don’t want your autograph.”
“Of course not. Who would I see about gaining permission to access your school?”
“You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”
“Great.”
“Let me see if she’s in.”
“That would be fantastic.”
“Are you always this cheery?”
“Yes!”
“Hold on.”
“Super!”
She removed herself from her post, snatched up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the windows.
“Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“Keen.”
“Keen?”
“I was running out of superlatives.”
9.
The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah,
