Seconds Away (4 page)

CHAPTER 7

I couldn’t move.

The door to the interrogation room opened. A young officer leaned in and said, “Chief Taylor? Call for you.” With one last hard glare, Taylor left me alone with Dunleavy.

I swallowed. “Is Rachel . . . ?”

For a moment she said nothing. Homicide. She said that she was from homicide. I took Latin.
Homo
meant “human being,”
cidium,
“to kill.” Murder.

I don’t cry much. Almost never, in fact. My dad and Uncle Myron were the kind of guys who cry at sentimental TV commercials. Not me. I shut it down. But right then I could feel tears pushing their way into my eyes.

“She’s alive,” Dunleavy said.

I almost fainted from relief. I started to ask more, but Dunleavy put up her hand to stop me.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss her condition, Mickey. What I need you to do is to help me find the person who did this to her. Do you understand?”

I did. So I told her everything I remembered about the phone conversation, brief as it was. I thought about the bad guys we had helped arrest. Hadn’t Uncle Myron warned me? You don’t just catch bad guys and move on. Actions had consequences.

Had someone taken revenge out on Rachel?

“Tell me more about Rachel,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Let’s start with her social life. Is she popular?”

“Very.”

“What kids does she hang out with?”

“I don’t really know. Like I said, I’m new to the school.”

Dunleavy glanced behind her at the door, as if she expected it might open. It didn’t. Then she said, “How about Rachel’s boyfriend, Troy Taylor? What’s he like?”

Even with all this danger and fear, I could still feel my cheeks redden at the name of the chief’s son. Troy Taylor was a senior, captain of the basketball team, and he had made it his mission to make my life hell.

“I don’t think they go out anymore,” I said, trying hard not to grit my teeth.

“No?”

“No.”

“You okay, Mickey?”

My hands had tightened up into fists. “Fine.”

Dunleavy tilted her head. “Are you her boyfriend now?”

“No.”

“Because you look a little jealous.”

“I’m not,” I half snapped. “What does any of this have to do with what happened to Rachel?”

“I understand you assaulted Troy Taylor.”

That surprised me. “I didn’t assault him. It was self- defense.”

“I see. But there was an altercation?”

“Not really. Maybe a quick one—”

“And was this altercation over Rachel Caldwell?”

“No. He took my friend Ema’s laptop and—”

“And you hit him.”

“No. That’s not how it went.”

“I see,” she said in a way that suggested that she clearly didn’t. “According to Chief Taylor, you’ve had a number of run-ins with the law.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” She looked down at a slip of paper. “It says here you were arrested for trespassing—”

“And released,” I said. That had been at Bat Lady’s house. “I was knocking on a door, that’s all.”

She kept reading. “You also operated a motor vehicle without a valid driver’s license. You operated a motor vehicle while underage. Then there’s breaking and entering, and using a fake ID to enter a drinking establishment and nightclub.”

I decided to keep my mouth shut. I could explain it all, but she’d never get it. Heck, I didn’t even get it.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mickey?”

“Where’s Rachel?”

She shook her head. Once again the door behind her opened. Officer Ball came into the room, and so did my uncle Myron. Myron gave Dunleavy a quick glance and rushed toward me.

“Are you okay?” Myron asked.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Uncle Myron straightened up and faced Dunleavy. Though he didn’t really practice law—Myron was an agent for athletes and entertainers—he was officially an attorney. He cleared his throat and said, “What’s going on here?”

She smiled at him. “We’re done here. Your nephew is free to go.”

She started to rise.

“Investigator Dunleavy?” I said.

She stopped.

“Who was killed?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know—?”

Now it was my turn to hold up the hand. “You said two people were shot. You also said you were a
homicide
detective. That means someone was killed, right?”

“Not always,” she said, but her voice was soft.

Myron stood next to me. We both just watched her.

I said, “But in this case?”

She took her time, looking down, gathering her paper. But then she said, “The gunman also shot Rachel’s mother. And, yes, she’s dead.”

CHAPTER 8

What do you do
after getting news about a friend being shot and her mother being murdered?

In my case, you go to school.

Myron asked me a hundred questions, making sure I was fine, but in the end, what was I going to do—take what my classmates call “a mental health day”? I checked my phone and saw two texts from Ema. The first one had been sent early in the morning:
I found something about your dad’s paramedic that makes no sense.

Normally, I’d be all over that, but about an hour later, Ema’s next point was much more urgent:
OMG! RUMOR THAT RACHEL WAS SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU?

The mood at school was both somber and surreal. There were counselors on hand for kids who were having trouble dealing with the news of the shooting. Some students were openly weeping in the hallways—the ones you’d expect to get overly emotional. It didn’t matter if they knew Rachel well or not, but, hey, people react differently to tragedy and it wasn’t fair to judge.

Rumors were flying all over the place, but nobody seemed to know how seriously Rachel was injured. Two days ago, Rachel had told me that her parents were divorced and that her mother lived in Florida. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her mom visiting.

So what was Rachel’s mother doing in New Jersey?

I found Ema sitting alone in the cafeteria. Some would say that we sit at the outcast or “loser” table. That may be, but to me the cafeteria is more like a sports stadium. The so-called cool kids get the boxes and suites while the rest of us sit in the bleachers—but I always have more fun when I sit in the bleachers.

“Wow,” I said to Ema.

“Yeah. Where were you this morning?”

I told her about the police asking me questions. As I did, I spotted Troy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Troy sat, to keep within my sports metaphor, in the “owner’s luxury box.” Our fellow students came up to him to pay their respects or offer condolences.

I looked over at his table and frowned. “They weren’t even dating.”

Ema gave me the flat eyes.

“What?” I said.

“That’s what matters to you now? Troy Taylor’s past with Rachel?”

She had a point.

“And just for the record, Rachel didn’t sit here. She sat with them.” Ema pointed toward Troy’s table. “Once she graced us with her presence to unload some baked goods. That’s all.”

“She helped us,” I said.

“Whatever.” Ema waved her hand dismissively. Her dark nail polish was chipped.

We ate in silence for a few moments.

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“Do you think the shooting is connected to what happened at the nightclub? I mean, are we in danger too?”

“I don’t know. But we should probably be more careful.”

“How?”

She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and hope. I flashed back to Wednesday, to the knife against her throat, how close Ema came to dying. My heart crumbled anew. I was about to offer up some lame statement about not worrying, that we’d come up with some answer, but I was mercifully interrupted.

“Hello, comrades. Even on this terrible day, it gives me great pleasure to see you.”

It was Spoon. He always held his tray close to him, afraid that someone would intentionally knock it out of his hands. This was our table in the farthest corner of the “bleachers”—Ema, Spoon, and yours truly. Spoon put down his tray and pushed up his glasses. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying.

“So,” Spoon said, “do we take on the case?”

Ema frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Rachel was shot.”

“We know,” Ema said.

He looked at her, then at me, then at her again. “So it’s agreed then?”

Ema again asked, “What are you talking about?”

“Rachel. She’s part of our group.”

“No, Spoon,” Ema said, pointing toward the table of varsity jackets and cheerleader sweaters. “She’s part of that group.”

Spoon shook his head. “You know better.”

That silenced Ema.

“We have to act,” Spoon said.

“Act how?” I asked.

“What do you mean how?” He stuck out his chest. “We need to find out who shot her. This is too important. We cannot rest until we find out who committed this terrible deed. We should make a pact—we do not quit until we know the truth and Rachel is safe.”

Ema sighed. “Ready to rescue the pretty girl, I see.”

Spoon wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m a hero to all the babes.” He turned to me. “What do you say, Mickey?”

“We don’t even know where she is,” I said.

Spoon smiled. “I do.”

That got our attention. Ema and I leaned forward. Spoon just smiled. We waited. Spoon smiled some more.

Finally I said, “Talk, Spoon.”

“Right, sorry. My father. You know he’s the head custodian at this school, right?”

“Of course we know,” Ema snapped. “Get on with it.”

“Ah,” Spoon said, raising his namesake in the air, “but do you know about the custodial network?”

“The what?”

“The custodial network. It’s probably too intricate to explain in detail, so let me give you the basics: Janitors talk to one another. They are the eyes and ears of any establishment. See?”

Spoon stopped and waited for a reply.

I said, “No.”

Spoon sighed. “Another janitor in the custodial network is friendly with my father. This particular janitor—his name is Mr. Tansmore—works at Saint Barnabas Hospital in Livingston, New Jersey. He told my dad that’s where Rachel is currently residing.”

“Did he say how bad her injuries were?” I asked.

“Negative. But he did say she had a gunshot wound. Here’s what I suggest: We go to the hospital after school and visit her.”

I looked back at Troy Taylor. He was studiously ignoring me, but his best buddy, Buck, was giving me the stink-eye. Buck pounded his fist into his palm and mouthed the words
Dead man
in my direction.

I reacted by yawning back at him, patting my mouth in full pantomime.

“Tired?” Spoon asked.

“No. That was directed at Buck.”

Spoon frowned. “Buck’s tired?”

Yep, Spoon could be maddening.

“Just forget it, Spoon.”

“Forgotten,” Spoon said. Then he leaned in and said, “Well?”

“Well what?” Ema replied, clearly irritated.

“Do we go to the hospital after school? Do we try to figure out what happened to our fallen comrade?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Ema said. “You don’t just waltz into a hospital and visit a shooting victim. You don’t even know if she’s allowed visitors or wants visitors—and if she did, she’d probably want her close friends, not us. On top of that, the police, including Troy’s father, are working on the case. Real, live law enforcement officers.”

Spoon wiggled his eyebrows again. “The police weren’t the ones who brought down Buddy Ray at the Plan B nightclub. We were.”

“And we were almost killed,” Ema said.

“Fear not, fair maiden.” Spoon slid his chair closer to her. “I saved you once. I can do it again.”

“Don’t make me punch you,” Ema said.

I said nothing.

Ema looked at me. “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Suppose we can help.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We may be in danger too,” I said. “We can’t just stay on the sidelines. You said it yourself. We’re all a part of this.”

“No, I said you and I are a part of this. And I was talking about that paramedic and the Butcher of Lodz and maybe Bat Lady. I wasn’t talking about Rachel Caldwell.” Ema rose. “I gotta go to class.”

“What? Lunch isn’t even over yet.”

“It is for me. I got things to do.”

She started to walk away.

Spoon said, “What’s up with her?”

“Got me.”

“Women.” Spoon nudged me with his elbow. “Am I right, Mickey?”

“As rain, Spoon.”

“Right as rain,” Spoon said. “While no one is sure, the expression probably derives from our days as an agrarian society. See, most agriculture relied on rain since other means of irrigation were not yet available—rain was, well, right. Others though believe it’s just a good alliterative, what with the two
r
s . . .”

I was no longer listening because I was watching Ema. When she walked past the “luxury box” table, Troy Taylor, who was supposedly mourning his injured girlfriend, cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Hey, Ema. Mooo!”

Troy started laughing. So did a couple of his buddies.

Buck, also known as Mr. Follower, said, “Yeah, Ema. Moooooo!”

Someone else at the table joined in as Troy accepted high fives.

I stood up, feeling the anger rise. I started to move toward Troy and Buck. My hands clenched into fists, readying to do battle. But when Ema turned and looked back at me, I pulled up. There was something in her eyes, some sort of defiance and sadness.

Our eyes locked. I saw something there, but I really couldn’t say what exactly. It moved and confused me at the same time.

Ema mouthed the word
Don’t.

I stood there for another second, but now I knew. I had to sit back down.

Ema turned and walked away, ignoring the cruel cackling behind her. I thought about that look in her eyes, the hurt, and something told me that it had nothing to do with Troy or his immature name-calling.

“Mickey?”

“Yes, Spoon.”

“Contrary to popular belief, cows do not have four stomachs. They have four digestive compartments.”

“Thanks for clearing that up for me,” I said.