Collateral Damage (16 page)

"When was the last time the locker rooms were searched?" I ask.

He scratches his balding head, brows lifting. "I can't say they ever have. Not since I've been here."

"I'd like permission to check them. The guy's room," I clarify.

"All right. But they're not assigned to any particular student. They're used as needed."

"But they're being used, right? Bags? Clothes?"

He nods. "There's a home game coming up. We'll get a plan together."

"Okay. And, while I have you, do you know a guy named Vince De Luca?"

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing, thinking. "Name doesn't ring a bell."

"He wasn't a student here or anything?"

"Not that I can recall. Please keep in mind, however, that this is only my third year here. If you're curious, the library has copies of the yearbooks."

"I'll check them out. Thanks."

*
    
*
    
*

The librarian nearly has a coronary when I ask where to find the yearbooks. I nearly have a coronary when I discover Vince De Luca attended Bedford High four years ago.

At the apartment, I log into the station management information system via my Chief Anderson-issued laptop.

Male. Eighteen to twenty-five years old. Union and Carson counties and thirty miles in all directions.

Vince De Luca
pulls up several hits.

There's one that meets parameters.

I click the link.

It's him.

The guy from the party. Twenty-two years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. He's been arrested four separate times, each providing its own mug shot. I scroll through the guy's rap sheet, reading police reports.

Assault afflicting injury.

Assault on a female.

Breaking and entering.

Possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell.

Conspiracy to sell a controlled substance.

Two counts of trespassing.

Possession with intent to sell.

Possession with intent to sell.

"Six to eight months Department of Correction. Twenty-four months of probation," I mutter, half under my breath. "That's
it
?"

I click on the earliest report—the one from four years ago. Vince was arrested in Trenton when a party was raided. They found marijuana on him. There were other arrests that night, too. Underage drinking. Drug possession. I skim the list of names.

One in particular jumps out among the rest.

Daniel McEntyre.

Shit.

McEntyre?

My heart goes silent—stops beating—everything inside growing still. I click the link and a mug shot loads. I recognize him instantly from the family photos. It's him—Jaden's brother.

Jaden's oldest brother was arrested the same night at the same party as Vince De Luca.

Drug possession.

I lean back on the couch, run fingers through my hair as he stares back at me, frowning.

This shit just got complicated.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

I park my bike in a space behind the school. I can hear the crowd in the gymnasium. The chanting and the clapping and the cheers. And I'm reminded how much I hate high school sports—how, at one time, they were all that mattered.

I turn my cell phone off. I don't need any interruptions—not tonight.

Principal Howell meets me at the side door. We slip down darkened hallways until we reach the guy's locker room.

"Be quick," he warns. "I'll wait out here."

I push the door open and call out: "Anyone in here?"

Nothing.

I twist the lock on the door, then pull the handle, just to be sure. I check the bathroom stalls. The showers. The room is empty.

The smell pulls me straight back to the locker rooms at my old school—bleach, corn starch, body odor. Layer upon layer of dirt and sweat.

"Get in and get out," I mutter.

There are hundreds of people packing that gymnasium; time ticks off the game clock. I don't have long. I open the first locker and remove a duffle bag. I tug every zipper, stick my hand in every pocket. I push aside clothes and towels and water bottles. Nothing. I shove the bag back in the locker and move on to the next one. And the next. I check pockets of athletic pants. Jackets. And the next bag. And the next.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I slam the last door shut. The sound pings off cinderblock walls, filling the room. "Dammit!"

I unlock the door, crack it open. "Clear?"

"All clear," Principal Howell replies. I ease into the hallway and follow him to the exit. "Any luck?"

I steal a quick glance over my shoulder. We're still alone. "No. I'll try again soon. If I have reasonable suspicion of a specific player, I can get a warrant for a more thorough search. In the meantime, I need a list of every athlete at this school. I'll be back in Trenton tonight. If I find anything else, I'll let you know."

He thanks me, and I slip into the night. I'm circling the gym, heading toward my bike, when the crowd cheers.

The basketball game.

It's no coincidence that Brandon Garrels, basketball player, was at that party. That he spotted me talking to Vince. That he asked me to put in a "good word" for him—like I have more connections than he does.

If Vince De Luca is dealing....

I pull the door handle and enter the gymnasium. The noises are amplified—the clapping and cheering and stomping, the squeak of new shoes scraping the gym floor. My eyes instantly find Blake Hanson. He dribbles the ball down court and makes a quick lay-up for two more points. The crowd roars.

Mr. Perfect.

And suddenly I realize.... I know what Jaden finds so appealing. What did I call him? Safe? Boring? Whether she loves him or not isn't the issue. He's nothing like Daniel—that's what matters.

I spot her sitting at a table near the snack bar, chatting with Savannah.

Four years ago, she would've been a freshman. Old enough to know her brother was arrested. Old enough to understand why.

It explains a lot, actually. The focus. The determination.

I get it. I get
her
.

The third quarter buzzer rings and I jump, the noise catching me off guard. The players jog toward their respective benches.

I glance back at Jaden, and, even across an entire gymnasium, her eyes find mine. She quickly averts her gaze, turning her attention back to whatever she was doing.

Ignoring me.

My muscles tighten, tensing.

I can't blame her. She's heard the rumors. It's just...the problem with rumors? They aren't necessarily true.

I'm not like that,
I want to tell her.
I am nothing like you think I am.

And then, as if I spoke directly to her mind, as if she heard me above the conversations and the cheerleaders and the chanting…. She lifts her head again, and our eyes meet. Connecting. And when they do my heart stops crashing against my ribs. For that second, everything stops. She tucks her hair behind her ears and waves.

I nod in reply, unable to hide my smile.

She smiles back—a gloriously beautiful smile—then turns toward Savannah.

I feel that smile everywhere.

It doesn't have to be like this. I could march over to her table right now. I could say hi. We could talk about our project. We could talk about anything.

It's not a big deal.

I sat on her bed, for God's sake. I saw her third floor attic. I know her house isn't a restoration. I saw her sink faucet. Watched her almost cry.

But something keeps me rooted in place—prevents me from crossing that invisible boundary. That line that divides—splitting our territories. Because girls like her don't associate with guys like me.

My eyes drift, pulling me away from her.

And there's Vince, huddled with a group near the bleachers, hands in his pockets, watching the game, laughing at something one of them says.

Shit.

He's here.

He heads toward the exit, entourage following. And for a moment I'm torn. Part of me wants to stay—to find a reason to ease closer to that table by the snack bar. But Vince is leaving.

When I glance back at Jaden, Blake is standing in front of her, blocking my view.

At this, I slip through the door and step back into the cool night.

I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and move around the side of the gymnasium, following the sidewalk. Streetlights flicker overhead, struggling to illuminate the dark corners of the building—the courtyard shaded by trees.

I hear them coming before I actually see them. I grab my lighter, remove a cigarette from the pack, light it, and inhale.

I'm gonna need some serious detox after this assignment is over.

They cross the parking lot, pausing by a motorcycle, talking—laughing.

Miracle of all miracles, the door practically opens for me.

I check the driveway, step off the sidewalk, and flick the ash from my cigarette.

Another deep drag. "Nice ride," I say, approaching them. "Hayabusa?"

"Yeah," one of the guys says.

"First generation?"

"Got her used."

"She's nice. She top at one-eighty-five? One-ninety?"

He eyes me curiously. "You know bikes?"

"I have a seven-fifty parked around back."

"For real?"

"Bought her last year."

"Brand new?"

"Yep," I reply. "You can come check her out if you want. I'll let you hear it."

The guy looks to Vince for approval. "We got time, Vin?" he asks.

Vince nods, so we head to the back lot.