The Quick Fix (8 page)

“What makes you think these have something to do with Melissa getting popped?”

“Do you know who makes them? The Thompsons,” she said. “They look like they'd pop their own grandmother for a couple of nickels.”

“Or a piece of wood.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“If the Thompsons were the ones who put Melissa in the Outs—” she started.

“You're afraid they're going to go after the rest of the squad, now that they're no longer buying.”

She nodded.

“And you're here to protect ‘your girls'?” I asked.

“This,” she said, pointing to the cheerleading patch on the jacket hanging off the back of her chair, “is a sisterhood. We look out for each other.”

“Oh yeah? Like you looked out for Gretchen Jacobson? She was on the squad last year, wasn't she? Yet when Vinny
and his crew put her in the Outs, your ‘sisters' knocked her off the squad, then took turns kicking her around. That ‘sisterhood' garbage may work on the parents and new recruits, but it doesn't fly with someone who's been around.”

“Yeah … but I'm in charge now,” she said. “If I say we take care of our own, then we take care of our own.”

I shrugged.

“You don't believe me?” she asked.

“Does it matter to you what I believe?”

“Not yet, but it might.”

I didn't believe her on that point, either, and I gave her a look that told her so. “Why do you do it?” I asked.

“What?”

“Cheerlead. It's a status grab. Nothing more. But you don't seem like that type of girl. So what gives?” I asked.

“What ‘type of girl'? You mean stupid and shallow?”

“You said it, I didn't.”

“But you were thinking it.”

I didn't deny it.

She sighed. “Look, I'm not going to lie. Status wasn't the main reason I joined the squad, but it was definitely in my top five.”

“You keep a list?”

She shot me a sarcastic smile, then continued. “But there is also this feeling of performing … of dancing … of getting people excited and cheering and pumped. The adrenaline rush is addictive. Plus, I get to be part of something that's bigger than me … a sisterhood with traditions and—”

“Come on,” I said, cutting her off. “Some of those girls would be hard to take if you were related to them and you had no choice. You're either in denial, or you have a high tolerance for being around really annoying girls.”

“Again, why are you angry with me? Is it because I don't fit in to one of your neat little boxes?” She leaned in close. “Is it because I scare you?”

“Look, I know this whole ‘flirty' act is just to get me to do what you want, but I'm not buying it. You're probably going to leave here and call your basketball-player boyfriend.”

“I don't have a boyfriend … yet.” She stared into my eyes. I tried to look away but found that I couldn't.

“Here,” she said, and slid a five-dollar bill across the table. “I believe that's your usual deposit.”

“I didn't say yes.”

She brought her face inches from mine. “Do these look like the eyes of someone who just gives up?” she asked.

I swallowed hard, then slowly shook my head no. Her face lingered in front of mine for a moment longer, as if to say, “If you take my case, you'll be able to look at this face more often.” It was a convincing argument.

“So what would you be hiring me to do?” I asked.

“You know who did this to Melissa. Do whatever it takes to keep it from happening to anyone else on the squad.”

“People who say ‘Do whatever it takes' usually have no idea what that actually means.”

“That's why I'm hiring you,” she said. “I have a feeling you do.”

She stood up. I stood up with her. She held out her hand. I shook it. She held on. “I'll check in with you tomorrow,” she said. I was going to say that I still hadn't taken the case, but there was no use. We both knew I had, just not verbally. Our eyes locked. We both blushed. She let my hand go, then turned, swept her jacket off the back of the chair, and walked out the door. I slumped back down into my chair, exhausted.

Sal came over with another cream soda. “On the house,” he said, and winked. I didn't argue.

• • •

Twenty minutes later, I was riding my bike home, trying to think of something other than Cynthia Shea holding my hand, saying that she'd see me tomorrow. I wasn't doing so hot. The only thing I could come up with was wondering how “Sucker-for-a-Cheerleader Detective Agency” would look on a business card.

It was around eight when I got home. My mom was still a good six hours from the end of her shift at the restaurant, so I went down to my office to examine the block of wood. Before I took it out it, I checked the dark corners of the basement for anyone who might be hidden there. I even opened the door to the outside and checked the bushes, then went back inside and locked the door behind me. I opened the drawer to the filing cabinet. I half expected it not to be there, but it was. Right where I had left it.

I went back to my desk and sat down. Apparently, I had forgotten to put the sheet of paper with my father's clue back in my desk drawer because it lay on the desk. I turned the block of wood over in my hands, noticing the grain and wondering what was so important about this thing that kids would splash each other to get their hands on it. I gave it a little shake. Something
rattled. I felt like an idiot for not thinking of that sooner.

It wasn't a block of wood; it was a box.

I looked at each side, trying to find an obvious seam, but there wasn't one. It was a trick box, designed to prevent people from taking whatever was inside. I shook it. It rattled again, but this time I noticed that it only rattled on one end. I tapped that end, but nothing happened. I tapped the bottom. Nothing happened. I tapped the other end. Something inside clicked, and a small piece of wood slid out. The grain of the wood had hidden the seam.

I looked inside, expecting to see something small but solid, like a coin or a plastic trinket … something to explain the rattle. I was wrong. The rattle was caused by the magnet that served as the latch for the hidden door. Inside there was only a small slip of paper. I turned the box upside down, and the piece of paper fluttered onto my desktop, like a moth that had croaked mid-flight. There was something written on the paper, something I recognized, but at first, my mind wouldn't accept it as real. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was real.

There were now two pieces of paper on my desk: one
from my desk drawer, which I had never shown anyone before, and one from the wooden box I got in school that day. The pieces of paper were different in every way, except one … they both had TMS136P15 written on them.

not possible,” I said out loud, as if hearing it would make me believe it more. I had never shown that sheet of paper to another person. No one. It wasn't possible. And yet, there it was.

My mind was racing, running through every possibility as to how and why a clue to my father's disappearance had ended up in a wood box that caused my most recent client to gt banished to the Outs. The first thing I did was check my desk drawer, the one where I kept the original clue. I didn't keep it locked, so there wouldn't be any signs
of forced entry. But I've had people go through my stuff before—mostly in my locker at school—and no matter how much they'd try to hide it, there was always a feeling like something was off … like my mind was carrying around a subconscious picture of the inside of my locker, and someone's digging, regardless of how careful they were, always screwed that picture up. I wasn't getting that feeling about my drawer.

I got up and checked the lock on the outside door. It was intact. No one had tampered with it. I could have left it unlocked. Locking a door is something you do thousands of times, so that you never really notice if you remember to do it. But you do remember if you come home to an unlocked door, and I hadn't had any moments like that in the recent past.

Could someone have gotten this information from an outside source? Who? And from where?

I kept coming back to one name, the one kid who ended up being involved in every dirty deal that went down at the Frank … the one kid who always seemed to be five to ten steps ahead of everyone else. I grabbed my address book, picked up the phone, and punched in the numbers. He picked up on the third ring.

“Biggio residence, Vincent speaking.”

“I found it.”

He paused. I heard him exhale slowly. “Did you, now?” he asked.

“I did, but there's a problem.”

“Is there, now?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and it's even worse than you putting ‘now' at the end of all of your questions. Did you know it isn't just a piece of wood? It's a box.”

“Matthew, I do not wish to discuss this over the ph—”

“What am I saying? Of course you knew it was a box. Didn't think to tell me, though, did you?”

“You didn't need to know.”

“Really. Because from where I'm sitting, the stakes for a piece of wood are vastly different than the stakes for a box … especially when what we're
really
talking about is what's inside that box. And that's what this is all about, isn't it? What's inside the box.” I picked up the piece of paper that had fallen out. “The Thompsons knew it was a box … probably even knew what was inside it, which is why you sent your thugs after them.”

“And now you have it.”

“I do.”

“And you want something.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Vinny sighed. “Well, this is surprising. I must say, Matthew, I never expected this from you.”

“Never expected what?”

“Oh, come now. We both know what this is about. It's actually a momentous occasion. Finally, something valuable enough to make Saint Matthew Stevens step down off his high horse.” He laughed. “For once, I wish this line wasn't secure, so someone else could bear witness to this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“I understand. You don't want to say the word. It's too dirty. Fine. I'll say it for you. Blackmail.”

“Wha— Blackmail?”

“Yes, Matthew. Blackmail. Maybe you're calling it something different in your head,” he said, “hoping that a different label will allow you to hold on to the pristine image you have of yourself. But blackmail under any other name is still blackmail.”

“I …,” I started, but I had no idea how to continue. I picked up the piece of paper I had found in the box, hoping that it would give me some clue as to what
Vinny was talking about, but it only brought up more questions.

“Relax, Matthew. As I mentioned before, this is a secure line. So, since you've never done this before, let me tell you how it works. Now is the time when you tell me what you want. Then I decide whether to give it to you or just destroy you and take my chances. So tell me, Matthew … what is it that you want?”

“I want to know what this piece of paper has to do with
you
and why you would possibly think that I would use it to blackmail you,” I said.

“Piece of paper …,” he said, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice and mostly succeeding.

“You thought it was something different,” I said.

He paused before answering. “Perhaps.”

“What did you think I'd found?”

“I'd rather not say,” he said. “What did you actually find?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“Interesting,” he purred. “Matt Stevens has some secrets of his own.” His voice was hopeful and greedy. “So now what?”

“So now nothing,” I said. “You hired me to find this piece of wood. I found it.”

“That's not the deal anymore.”

“What, you think you can just renegotiate whenever it suits you?”

“Yes. I do. Forty dollars says I can.”