killed her?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”
“Knives can be planted,” I said.
“Why would I kill her?”
“You tell me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a
lot.”
“Maybe you were jealous.”
“Of the nigger?”
“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda,
and you didn’t.”
“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make
sense.”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to
his front door.
“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”
Without turning, he flipped me the bird.
Kids these days. They grow up so fast.
15.
Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the
Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant
owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his
security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him
that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it,
but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a
warning. He obliged.
When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he
handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone,
mumbling under his breath.
“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.
“Nope.”
“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our
diligent investigative work?”
“Slim to none.”
We both leaned back in a worn leather love
seat, the only seating available in the back room.
“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said
Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know
it yet.”
I had the remote control and was fast
forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right
corner was the time.
At seven thirty I let the tape play in real
time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.
“Should have brought some popcorn,” he
said.
“They have some in the store. I think Phuong
might be inclined to give us some on the house.”
“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse
of power. We would be on the take.”
“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”
“But only if buttered.”
We watched the comings and goings of many
different people of many different nationalities, most of them
buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down
on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s
shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.
“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.
“The brunette?”
“No, the blond.”
“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?”
he asked.
“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty.
There’s a difference.”
“You’re blond.”
“There always an exception to every
rule.”
At seven thirty-eight a young man approached
the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and
lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the
kid’s money.
“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.
“Yes.”
“The time of death was seven thirty?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”
“No,” I said.
“The kid didn’t do her.”
“No, he didn’t.”
I stopped the tape and we sat back on the
sofa.
“Which means someone was waiting for her at
her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be
leaving the party early?”
We were silent. Two great investigative minds
at work.
“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Maybe she was followed home.”
“Or just a random killing.”
Sanchez looked at me and grinned. “Seems like
you’ve got your work cut out for you, kiddo.”
16.
It was a late April morning in Huntington
Beach, California, which meant, of course, that the weather was
perfect.
Why the hell would anyone want to live
anywhere else?
I was sitting at my desk, reviewing a
sampling of the San Diego Chargers playbook, a sampling that Rob,
Cindy’s brother, had just faxed to me. Rob let it be
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”
“Knives can be planted,” I said.
“Why would I kill her?”
“You tell me.”
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a
lot.”
“Maybe you were jealous.”
“Of the nigger?”
“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda,
and you didn’t.”
“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make
sense.”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to
his front door.
“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”
Without turning, he flipped me the bird.
Kids these days. They grow up so fast.
15.
Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the
Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant
owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his
security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him
that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it,
but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a
warning. He obliged.
When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he
handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone,
mumbling under his breath.
“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.
“Nope.”
“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our
diligent investigative work?”
“Slim to none.”
We both leaned back in a worn leather love
seat, the only seating available in the back room.
“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said
Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know
it yet.”
I had the remote control and was fast
forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right
corner was the time.
At seven thirty I let the tape play in real
time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.
“Should have brought some popcorn,” he
said.
“They have some in the store. I think Phuong
might be inclined to give us some on the house.”
“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse
of power. We would be on the take.”
“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”
“But only if buttered.”
We watched the comings and goings of many
different people of many different nationalities, most of them
buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down
on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s
shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.
“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.
“The brunette?”
“No, the blond.”
“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?”
he asked.
“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty.
There’s a difference.”
“You’re blond.”
“There always an exception to every
rule.”
At seven thirty-eight a young man approached
the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and
lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the
kid’s money.
“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.
“Yes.”
“The time of death was seven thirty?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”
“No,” I said.
“The kid didn’t do her.”
“No, he didn’t.”
I stopped the tape and we sat back on the
sofa.
“Which means someone was waiting for her at
her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be
leaving the party early?”
We were silent. Two great investigative minds
at work.
“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Maybe she was followed home.”
“Or just a random killing.”
Sanchez looked at me and grinned. “Seems like
you’ve got your work cut out for you, kiddo.”
16.
It was a late April morning in Huntington
Beach, California, which meant, of course, that the weather was
perfect.
Why the hell would anyone want to live
anywhere else?
I was sitting at my desk, reviewing a
sampling of the San Diego Chargers playbook, a sampling that Rob,
Cindy’s brother, had just faxed to me. Rob let it be
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