Blood Ties by S. J. Rozan Page B

had never crossed his mind. Well, why should it have? When you’re fifteen, the way the world is is the way the world works.
    â€œAll-star seniors,” I said. “After a week at camp. You have a chance?”
    â€œYou kidding?” A stupid question, obviously, but what could you expect from a grown-up? “Whole thing is to lose by less than last year’s team lost by.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œThis year, twenty-two points.”
    â€œYou have a chance?” I repeated.
    â€œTotally. I’m starting quarterback,” he said, as if that explained it all.
    â€œGood luck,” I said. “About Gary: Tell me this—except for now, does he usually show up?”
    â€œYou mean, for practice?”
    â€œPractice, games, class. Is he dependable?”
    â€œYeah, I guess. When I’m looking for somebody to hit with a pass, he’s always there,” he added, defining dependable in the way that mattered most.
    â€œThanks, Morgan. One more thing. Who else is he friends with? Is he interested in any girls you know about?”
    Another shrug.
    â€œDidn’t you tell me he’d asked Tory Wesley out?” Morgan’s mother said.
    â€œOh, Mom!” Morgan flushed deeply, whether with anger or something else, I couldn’t tell. “She’s a geek. That was before he knew anybody.”
    â€œKnew any other girls?” I asked.
    â€œKnew anybody,” Morgan said, and what that meant was clear: before he knew the guys, knew who was cool and not cool, knew whom you could ask out, whom you’d better avoid.
    I had Tory’s name already, from my sister. I added Wesley to it, asked Morgan, “What about friends?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    I gave Morgan a long look. He went back to his magazine. I checked the list I’d gotten from Helen. “His mother said Randy Macpherson.”
    â€œYeah,” Morgan said, uncaring. “Randy’s a senior, he’s a starter, but him and Gary hang out. Receivers, I guess they got stuff to say to each other.”
    â€œRandy’s at camp this week?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I looked at the list again. “How about Paul Niebuhr?”
    â€œOh, shit!” Morgan shook his head and laughed.
    His mother said, “Please watch your mouth.”
    â€œThat kid is a total freak,” Morgan said, not responding to his mother’s words, as though she were not in the room. “Nobody hangs out with him. Just the other freaks.”
    â€œHe’s not a friend of Gary’s? I heard they skateboarded together.”
    Morgan’s look was pitying: How could anyone be so dumb? “Football players don’t skateboard,” he explained. “Coach Ryder says it’s a dumb way to get hurt. You get hurt, Coach says, it better be because some SOB was between you and the hole.”
    â€œOh, Morgan,” his mother objected, but Morgan was untouchable, because he was quoting his coach.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Anything else about Gary you can think of?”
    Morgan shook his head.
    â€œThanks. You do think of anything else, here’s my card.”
    He took it, read it, laughed again. “Private investigator. Too fucking much.”
    â€œMorgan!” said his mother.
    â€œSorry,” Morgan dismissed her. He stood. “Later,” he said, and that clearly dismissed me, too. He grabbed the handrail, took the stairs two at a time. I heard a door open upstairs, and slam.
    I asked Mrs. Reed if she knew where Tory Wesley lived, and she told me. “But I think they’re away.” I thanked her and left her to her house and her son. From the car, I called the Wesleys’ number, got a machine, left a message. I called the police again, but Detective Sullivan still wasn’t available. I called Lydia and got her voice mail. I called my sister. She answered on the first ring, as though she’d been sitting by the phone.
    â€œIt’s