Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder (23 page)

On the short walk to the field, I pretty much convinced myself the Camry could be exactly what I needed. They had a reputation for being reliable, and they tended to last a very long time. I decided it was high time something went my way, and if the price was right, something would.

The car looked almost perfect both inside and out. There were no oil drips beneath the car and no signs of heavy wear and tear on the body. Other than a pair of small dents near the bottom left front fender, the creamy-white, gold-trimmed Camry appeared to be in what used-car dealers would call showroom condition. I peeked through the windows. The carpets and upholstery were immaculate. From what I could see in the fast-fading light, there wasn’t even a speck of dust on the dashboard or a smudge on the windows.

The FOR SALE sign was still in the window, along with a number to call. With newfound determination born from either desperation or stupidity, I pulled Sara’s phone from my pocket.

Da Silva answered on the third ring with an abrupt “Hey” as a greeting.

“It’s Colleen Caruso, Stanley,” I said. “I’m at the field looking at the car you have for sale.”

“Well, I’m asking eighteen thousand for it,” he answered cautiously.

I almost dropped the phone. “Eighteen thousand? You’re joking, right? I could buy a new one for that!”

“That’s the price,” he insisted.

I thought of apologizing for wasting his time but something else came to mind. “Your asking price isn’t flying, especially with what I know about the trunk.”

He hesitated so long that I looked at the phone to see if we were still connected. I thought Sara had it wrong about the sour milk, but I persisted anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time I looked like an idiot, and I knew from past experience it wouldn’t be the last.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Da Silva finally said, but he had waited too long, and I certainly knew a bluff when I heard one.

“Why don’t you come over so we can talk?”

“You mean now?” he asked. “Tonight?”

I looked around. The light was fading, and I didn’t want to postpone the meeting, afraid I’d lose my newfound nerve. “Yeah. Tonight. And please hurry.”

Da Silva sighed “Okay. Fine,” he said.

I did a fist pump to celebrate my small victory. I had finally taken charge, and I thought I could really get used to the feeling.

* * *

Stanley arrived in less than five minutes. I thought he must have run all the way to the lot. He was still dressed in his coaching clothes—a Pirates shirt and jeans that were nearly as pristine as his car. I walked around the Camry and leaned against it behind the driver’s side near the trunk—a clever ploy I hoped to use to my advantage.

“How many miles are on it?” I asked, getting directly to the point before I lost my nerve.

“Around fifty-seven thousand. Not exactly low mileage, but not bad,” he said with an odd, quizzical expression on his thin face. I straightened up and resisted the urge to wipe off any smudge I might have put on the car’s high-gloss finish.

“It’s not great either,” I told him, feeling my confidence beginning to falter. I knew nothing about cars. Neil had always taken care of that. Still, I wasn’t willing to cave so soon. I reminded myself that I needed a dependable car and I’d be using Bobby’s skateboard to run errands if I didn’t buy one in the very near future.

Da Silva tentatively unlocked the driver’s side door. “Did you want to look inside?”

I couldn’t imagine what was going on inside the teacher’s head. Who wouldn’t want to get in and take a test drive when they were buying a car—especially a used car? I thought maybe he never sold a car before and wasn’t sure of the finer points of marketing. Actually, I wasn’t up on sales etiquette either. Neil had always traded our cars in with the dealer.

I slid into the driver’s seat and was immediately impressed with the interior. “It looks very … tidy.”

“I had the seats and carpeting steam cleaned,” Da Silva explained. “Every inch of it.”

I knew he was trying to take away my bargaining advantage, but I also realized if the milk smell was totally gone, he wouldn’t be selling the car. I stepped out of the Camry and looked him straight in the eye. “Really? Even the trunk?”

The color completely drained from Da Silva’s face. “How did you know?”

I refused to rat out my own daughter, so I went for a nice, vague explanation. “You know, people talk. The custodians. Other teachers. Things come up.”

“What, exactly, do you want from me?” he asked.

“I’d like a
really
good price,” I told him.

“You want the car? I should just give you my car?”

I began to get a little concerned. I thought maybe, drunk with power, I had pushed him a little too hard. I wondered how much of a price reduction I could really expect for a smelly trunk.

“I don’t expect you to
give
me the car. I’m a reasonable person. I could be even more reasonable if you’re amicable about payments,” I told him, hoping to shrink the amount of the loan from my parents. “We could do it over the span of a year or so—depending on the agreed-upon amount, of course.”

Da Silva stood there staring, his mouth in a grimace. “Okay,” he finally said, “let’s talk money.”

“First pop the trunk,” I told him, wanting to see how bad the smell actually was. Of course, if the price was good enough, the smell wouldn’t much matter. What I needed to know was what I’d be dealing with.

He pointed his keychain toward the back of the car and pressed the button.

The trunk popped up, and I dutifully went around to the back of the car to check it out. As expected, I saw the usual breakdown items—a jack, a tire iron, jumper cables, and a first aid kit. Stanley had also stowed the Little League equipment bag in the trunk. From where I stood, I didn’t detect a sour smell. I pushed the bag aside and leaned in to get a good whiff.

That’s when I saw the briefcase with the initials
JW
.

And a laptop.

And suddenly it came all together. Jason Whitley’s missing briefcase, a white sedan, baseball bats …
Oh my God
 !

“Are you happy now?” Da Silva asked, sticking something sharp against my ribs.

A knife.

“You knew I stole your laptop, and the standardized tests are still in Jason’s briefcase—just like you thought they’d be. You’ve known all along, Mrs. Caruso. Ever since that night you saw me at the beach. I would have thrown it all in the bay, but I figured you were determined enough to wade in and get everything.”

The papers with penciled-in circles
! I thought, remembering my conversation with Johnny Lynch, the head custodian who I’d spoken to near the recycling bins.

It was hard to concentrate with a knife poking me in the side. There had been someone else on the beach that night, the same someone in a baseball cap who had run to his car with a package as a gull deposited good fortune on my head and who had forced me drive my Escort into Raritan Bay.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he whispered.

When normally asked this, my sarcastic nature would have made me ask if the question was literal or figurative. I figured with the tip of his sharp knife threatening my ribcage, Da Silva would be in no mood for banter. I bit my lip and shook my head no, so adamantly that I practically declared him a genius.

“I’m not paying you one thin dime. Why should I? I’ve been a good teacher for eleven years, and then they come up with this mandated testing crap? With the state pushing for performance, the Board of Ed would have been all over me once those test results came in!
Me
? Like it’s my fault these kids can’t pass a test?”

I wanted to tell him how wrong he was, but the knife convinced me to keep my mouth shut.

“It’s not like I had a choice,” he hissed. “So I replaced a few real tests and threw out the duds. What’s the big deal? I just made sure some of the failing students would pass. Does it matter that much? It’s not like these kids need to solve algebra problems the rest of their lives. When are they going to use it? Whitley was all worked up about having my former students. He didn’t think he’d win the Teacher of the Year award if he couldn’t get them up to speed. Eventually, he figured out my trick, and he was going to talk. It would have cost me my job, my teaching certificate, my pension—everything I’ve worked for!”

He paused and looked around the lot. I knew he was sizing up the surroundings.

“Now you have the whole story,
Ms. Reporter
, for all the good it will do you. You’ll never get to write it. Like I was going to give you my car to pay you off!” he snorted. “You’re not blackmailing me.”

He pressed the knife harder, and I felt the sharp steel touch my skin.

“I want you to reach up and shut the trunk now,” he ordered me. “We’re taking a little stroll into the woods.”

Da Silva stressed the urgency of his request by poking me slightly. I looked at the neighboring houses to see if anyone was watching. The drapes were all drawn, and there wasn’t a soul outside on the entire block. The drone of central-air units filled the night. Everybody had their doors and windows shut tight to keep in the cool air. For once in her life, Mrs. Testino wasn’t peeking through her living room curtains to gather dirt on the neighbors.

Just my luck.

Da Silva took hold of my arm. “Now start walking, or I’ll gut you like a fish,” he whispered.

I knew he meant business and did exactly as I was told. I hoped to buy some time to figure out a way to escape. Even in the now-dark parking lot, I knew Stanley was leading me to the concession stand next to the little jogging path that had become the most dangerous spot in Tranquil Harbor.

I dragged my feet and wracked my brain as we walked down the path. I knew I could never outrun Da Silva—even with his bony, blown-out knee. I was slow, clumsy, and way too short. I certainly couldn’t out-muscle him.

I stepped on a branch and made it crack in two. Da Silva stopped abruptly, startled by the sound, but he waited only a second before nudging me forward. The full moon failed to penetrate the dense tree canopy. Stanley had to feel his way down the path.

Dry pine needles crackled beneath our feet, so many that I had a good mental picture of our location. We were close to the spot where I had tripped over Jason Whitley’s body only a few months ago. Several young saplings had sprung up at the edges of the path—pliant growth with a whole lot of give. Their thin, low branches had the elasticity of a slingshot. I grabbed one and bent it back as far as it would go.

“You have to feel for the trees,” I said, then ducked and let go. I heard rather than saw the branch that whipped against Stanley’s face and made him yelp.

The knife fell as Da Silva reached for his face with both hands. I took advantage of the opportunity. I turned and kicked out as hard as I could, connecting with Da Silva’s bad knee.

“Eeeek!” Stanley screamed—a strangled falsetto that gave a good indication of the excruciating pain he must have felt.

He hit the ground hard, and I scampered past the ailing killer. But pain or no pain, Da Silva wasn’t about to cave so easily. He reached out and grabbed at my ankle, which tripped me up and sent me flying. I landed hard on my left leg and heard a sickening snap, followed by a flash of white-hot agony.

Behind me, Stanley moved closer. I half-dragged, half-crawled along the path, grasping at tree roots and young saplings to pull myself faster toward the parking lot. My arms ached, and my leg was on fire. Still, it was either him or me—and I had two kids. It knew it would have to be him.

Though I was familiar with the path, the blessed sound of police sirens helped guide me back to the Little League parking lot. I crawled out from the woods and onto blacktop, near smelly garbage bins and the splintered picnic tables. The parking lot was ablaze with the glow of high beams and the lovely, flashing lights atop the Tranquil Harbor squad cars. A young, uniformed cop ran toward me. He dropped down on his knees and gently helped me to sit up.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Caruso?” he asked.

I was beginning to grow very fond of the familiar face. “Officer O’Reilly. How nice to see you again. I think I broke my leg, but other than that, I’m fine. Just fine.”

Then I passed out.

24

Ron Haver winced as the doctor maneuvered my leg in the ankle-to-thigh splint.

“Ow! That must smart. Lucky for you that old lady saw Da Silva take you into the woods. This could have been much, much worse.”

I sat upright on an examination table in Harbor Medical Center’s emergency room, afraid to move a muscle for fear a fresh wave of pain would shoot up my leg.

“I still can’t figure out how Mrs. Testino saw the whole thing and called the police,” I said. “I looked directly at her house, and she wasn’t in her usual spot at the window. The entire block was shut up tight, and there wasn’t a soul around anywhere. Absolutely no one.”

“But Mrs. Testino saw everything. That snoopy old woman actually uses binoculars to spy on everybody in the neighborhood. She was upstairs with the lights off, peeking out her bathroom window. You couldn’t have seen her, but she saw plenty.”

“No wonder she knows so much about what’s happening in town. Binoculars! Who would have …
Oh my God
 !”

“I told you not to move. I will give you a Dilaudid injection for the pain, but it would hurt much less if you stay still,” the small Indian doctor told me in precise English. “You moved, Madam.”

“Right,” I said.

“Da Silva said you knew all along what was in Jason Whitley’s briefcase. He said you figured out he was replacing standardized tests.”

“Yeah, the briefcase you never told me about,” I reminded him.

“This is my investigation, not yours. We started to question Da Silva, but he lawyered up. I don’t know how much he’ll admit to. I guess it doesn’t make much difference right now. We have some DNA and, of course, your testimony.”

The doctor gave me a shot, and I waited for the pain meds to kick in before speaking. “So Whitley found the real tests in the recycling bins at the high school and tried to blackmail Da Silva?”