The Competition

32

The flimsy door splintered and flew open on the first kick. I was behind all the other officers so I stood on tiptoe to try to see inside. No one was there from what I could tell, but I waited for the officers to give us the “all clear.” They gave it in less than two minutes.

I saw that it was just a small single room. The “kitchen” was a hot plate. But as I walked in, I heard movement coming from somewhere overhead. In one swift motion, I turned and drew my gun.

And found a cat crouched on top of the refrigerator, staring down at us. I pointed to the cat. “The thump we heard.”

Bailey glanced at my gun. “You planning to take it down, Knight? I think it’ll probably come peaceably with a piece of chicken. But, your call.”

I glared at her and put my gun away, then scanned the apartment. It was a mess. The kind of mess that said someone had left in a hurry and didn’t plan on coming back. A half-eaten meatball sub-with some cat-sized bites taken out of it-was lying on its wrapper on the coffee table next to a nearly full bottle of beer. The sub was cold and the beer was room temperature. But the sandwich didn’t look stale. A few cockroaches were making a dinner of it, but given the look of the place, they were probably permanent residents. I guessed we’d missed Shane by mere hours. The dresser drawers were pulled out and empty, the only remaining clothing a few stray boxer shorts and socks that had dribbled onto the floor. In the bathroom, the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet hung open, the inside shelves nearly empty except for a couple of rusty-looking razors and an old can of shaving cream. The officers found some stray ammo inside the fold-out couch, but no spent casings or bullets. Nothing we could match to the spent rounds in the school. Still, we asked the officers to bag them up so we could see if they were the same caliber and make as the evidence ammo.

I motioned for Bailey to join me outside. “Let’s get these guys out of here and get the crime scene techs in,” I said. “The one good thing about this ungodly mess is it doesn’t look like he took the time to wipe anything down. We should come up with some usable prints and DNA in here. If Dorian gets anything out of those jackets she found in the Dumpster, we can see if there’s a match.”

Bailey nodded and turned to head back inside, when we heard a shout from the apartment. We ran in and found the lead cop, Rusty, pointing to the refrigerator wedged in the corner. It had been pivoted out a few inches to reveal a yellowed piece of paper taped to the side that faced the wall. “I didn’t want to pull the thing all the way out till the crime scene guys got here,” he said. “But I’d guess those are his email addresses-and passwords.”

Damn if he wasn’t right. They all looked like remarkably unoriginal variations on the name Shane Dolan, like SDol10586 and SHLAN1086. I glanced at the officers. “Ten bucks says his birth date is October fifth, nineteen eighty-six. Anyone?” No takers.

The crime scene techs showed up, so while I copied it all down on Bailey’s notepad, she told them what we were looking for-what Dorian lovingly referred to as our “wish list.” Okay, maybe not so lovingly. Rusty put out an alert with Shane Dolan’s DMV photo, the license plate for his black Ford F250 pickup truck, and his personal description. He assured us that would do the trick in Ventura. “If your guy’s still up here, we’ll find him pretty quick.”

Bailey and I headed back to her car. While she drove, I pulled out the list of email addresses I’d copied down and started to tap them into my phone. Bailey turned on the radio. It’d been a long day, and the freeway was practically empty at this time of night. Easy to fall asleep at the wheel. She tuned in to a classic rock station.

“I kind of prefer jazz,” I said.

“Yeah? You also prefer a head-on collision with that pylon?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

The first three email addresses were defunct, but I got lucky on the fourth: SHDOG68501. “Bailey, turn that thing down.”

“What?” She did-fractionally.

I turned it down the rest of the way and ignored her glare. “Shane Dolan got an email from Logan the day before the shooting.”

“No shit?”

“None at all. Listen to this: ‘Hey, dog, you da man. Thanks for all of it. See ya on the other side! Ha ha.’” I looked at Bailey.

She shrugged. “Well, could be he’s thanking Shane for helping with the guns. But it’s pretty vague.”

“Come on, Bailey. The day before the shooting? Shane’s into guns, Logan thanks him ‘for all of it.’ At the very least, Shane had to be the gun supplier. And he might very well be more.”

Bailey was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Possibly. He sure beat feet out of here, no question about that.”

It was one of the few things we didn’t have questions about. By the time Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore, we were both visibly sagging.

“Get some rest, Knight. It’s only going to get crazier.”

“We don’t have any interviews scheduled for tomorrow, do we?” Bailey shook her head. “Then I’ll have to check in at the office.” I got out of the car and patted the roof. “But call me if anything’s shaking.”

Bailey nodded and drove off. Angel pulled open the door for me. “Long day, Ms. Knight? You look tired.”

“Very, very long day, Angel.”

He wished me good night. I wished I could’ve had one. I fell asleep like someone knocked me on the head with a club, but nightmares with children crying and a stalker with a high-pitched laugh kept me thrashing most of the night.

When my hotel phone rang, I groped for the clock, sure it was three a.m. It was seven thirty. And only two people ever called me on that phone. I knew who it wasn’t: Graden wouldn’t dare call me at that indecent hour.

I picked up the phone. “What is it, Keller?”

“Morning, Ms. Daisy.”

“I know you think that’s funny-”

“Want to talk to a witness?”

I sat up. “Who?”

“Just get down here.”

The Police Administration Building is walking distance from the Biltmore, and the streets between them are filled with churro stands. I love churros so much it’s embarrassing. Just the smell of the hot cinnamon makes my mouth water. I picked up four and ate one on the way, congratulating myself on my restraint.

Bailey was on the phone. I put two down in front of her, and she smiled her thanks. I got my coffee and sat down at an empty desk to savor my remaining churro, careful not to get the sugar and cinnamon all over me. But when Bailey ended her call, she reached out and dusted off my chin. Oh, well.

“We’ve got a kid coming in who says-” Bailey stopped as a woman in a long gray wool coat led a tall, rumpled-looking young guy toward us. Bailey stood up. “Mrs. Ester?”

“Hello, Detective,” she said. “I thought it’d be easier for you if I brought Jeremy in instead of having you out to the house.”

“That was very kind of you,” Bailey said. She introduced me and we all shook hands.

“Please call me Amy.”

“Amy, why don’t you and Jeremy follow me,” Bailey said. Every pair of eyes in the bull pen watched as we headed to the interview room.

We might not ordinarily do a witness interview in private, but we were keeping everything about this case as much under lock and key as possible. The chief had tried to appease the press by giving updates, but he couldn’t say much without compromising the investigation, so the updates basically consisted of “We’re following up on leads.” The press wasn’t fooled. They hounded him and complained-in person and in print-about the lack of progress. So the mood at the station was tense.

Jeremy was an earnest-looking kid. Tall, with tight blonde curls-like his mom-and well-spoken. My guess that he was a basketball player panned out: he was a power forward on the Fairmont varsity team. In his spare time he worked as a bagger at the local grocery store. He hadn’t been in the gym at the time of the shooting. But he had seen something he thought might be important. He started by apologizing.

“I know I should’ve told you guys about this right away, but I was freaked-out.”

His mother pursed her lips. “He didn’t even tell me until this morning, or I would’ve dragged him in right when it happened. Gave me some cockamamie story at first about a drunk driver.”

Jeremy hung his head like a puppy who’d peed on the carpet.

“So this happened when?” I asked.

“Monday,” he said.

It was Thursday. Had it only been three days since the shooting? It was hard to believe. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters. Tell us what happened.”

He spoke in a rapid, shaky voice. “I was late to school. My car battery died, and Mom had already left for work, so I had to wait for Triple-A to come and give me a jump.”

“About what time did you get on the road?” Bailey asked.

“Triple-A didn’t get to me until after eleven. So, maybe eleven thirty? And I was just a couple of blocks away from school when this car comes around the corner. Heads straight for me, just like, flying. I thought I was dead. I yanked the wheel to the right just in time. He sideswiped me pretty bad. But he just kept on going, seemed like ninety miles an hour.” Jeremy rubbed his palms on his thighs as he relived the moment.

“Can you describe the car?” Bailey asked.

“A white Corolla. Looked kind of new. Or…maybe just in good shape.”

Not so much anymore.

“Where’s your car now?” Bailey asked.

“Here. I thought you’d want to see it.”

Smart boy.

“By any chance were you able to see who was driving the car?” I asked.

Jeremy pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No. I think they were wearing black ski masks, the kind that go over your whole head.”

“They?” I asked. “There was someone in the passenger seat?”

“Yeah. That I’m sure about. There was definitely someone in the passenger seat.”

“Did you happen to see the license plate?” Bailey asked.

“I only remember the first part. I wrote it down. It was 4JHQ.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s all I could get.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “You did great.”

Jeremy had gotten only half the numbers, but it was enough. That was Logan’s car.