A Killing Sky by Andy Straka Page A

so I parked along the curb, went up to the door, and knocked.
    A girl with long blond hair answered.
    “Yes?” She wore bell-bottom jeans with bright panels sewn into the legs, the kind a lot of us used to wear years ago. A blue nose ring pierced one of her nostrils. Her halter top left her midriff bare.
    “This where Jed Haynes lives?” I asked.
    “Yeah, but he's not here.”
    “Oh, no.” A mocking voice came from inside. “It's another autograph hound trying to track down Jedi the Great.”
    Over her shoulder I could see two males gripping handles, switching from offense to defense on either side of a foosball table. Crack. The ball slammed into one of the goals.
    “Yea-a-ah!” The winner performed a touchdown-celebration kind of dance.
    “That sucks!” his opponent exclaimed. “I was distracted. Two out of three.”
    I showed my card to the girl. “I'd like to ask you folks some questions, if you can spare a minute or two.”
    “Hey, guys,” she called over her shoulder. “This man's not after an autograph. He's a private investigator.”
    That got the foosballers’ attention. They left their handles behind and came to back up the girl at the door. The taller one, a square-jawed kid with curly hair, spoke first.
    “What's up, man?”
    “Like to ask you all a few questions about Jed.”
    “No shit? What'd he do now, run into some little old lady's car?”
    “Not quite.”
    “Let the man in, let the man in,” the shorter of the two said. “Let's get some real dirt on Jed.” He had dimpled cheeks and hair that was slick with some type of gel.
    His buddy snickered. “All right, Mr. Investigator. C'mon in.”
    The girl opened the door to let me pass. I entered a living room trashed with fast-food wrappers and old pizza boxes. The main furnishings were a lumpy couch and a recliner not unlike my own throne at home, except that this one had several rips and tears in the upholstery.
    “You want to sit down?” the girl asked.
    “That's okay. This won't take long.”
    They all sat down. The girl and the kid with the gel in his hair took the couch while their friend slumped into a torn beanbag chair from which little balls of foam sprinkled onto the carpet.
    “Who are you working for?” the guy on the couch wanted to know. He slipped his arm around the girl. They were obviously a couple.
    “That's why my card says ‘private.’ Sorry.”
    He didn't look happy.
    “What's his name again, Kayla?”
    “Pavlicek,” the girl said. “That's what it said on his card.”
    “Maybe I can start by getting all your names,” I said.
    “You still haven't told us what this is all about.” Gel-head puffed himself up from the couch a little, trying to play the alpha male thing with me. I wondered if he and Haynes took lessons from the same instructor.
    “Yeah, man.” Square-jaw was backing him.
    I saw no reason to embarrass either one of them when all I was after was information. “Pretty routine, really. I'm just trying to establish Jed Haynes's whereabouts last night.”
    “What for?”
    “Look, folks, I'm not here to cause you trouble, if it's not warranted. I'm just trying to keep a private problem from going to the police. You can either give me what I'm looking for, or I'll find out the information some other way. Jed says he was here with you guys last night. He telling the truth?”
    Gel looked at the others and shrugged. “ ‘Course he was here, man. All night. We hung out, played some foos, watched TV.”
    “What time did you all go to bed?”
    “I don't know, man. Maybe one o'clock. It was after Letterman. You remember, hon?”
    She giggled. “It was real late.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “Jed was definitely here. All night.”
    “He couldn't have sneaked out after the rest of you went to bed?”
    “No way, man. I'm a light sleeper.”
    “Uh-huh. You guys been roommates long?”
    “Since the beginning of the year.”
    “You guys know Cartwright Drummond?”
    “Wright?” Square-jaw