13.

According to homicide investigators, Amanda Peterson had been returning home from a high school party on the night of her murder.

Returning home at 7:30 p.m.

Isn't that about the time most parties get started? Perhaps she was going home to fetch something she had forgotten. Perhaps not. Either way, I sniffed a clue here.

Thanks to Mrs. Williams, vice principal extraordinaire, I now had a small list of Amanda Peterson's known friends from high school. To help facilitate my investigation, Mrs. Williams gave me the home addresses to the three names on the list. I thought that was a hell of a nice gesture on her part, and reminded myself to repay her with one of my most winning smiles.

The first house on the list was a massive colonial with a pitched roof, numerous gables and a wide portico. I pulled into the wrap-around driveway.

The doorbell was answered by a cute teenage girl wearing matching sweatshirt and sweatpants that said UCLA. A girl after my own heart. She was blond, pretty, and quite small, no more than five foot two. Her big blue eyes were filled with intelligence.

"Can I speak with Rebecca Garner?" I asked.

"You got her."

"My name's Jim Knighthorse and I'm a private investigator."

She smiled broadly, and her eyes widened with pleasure. I turned around to see who the hell she was smiling at. Turns out it was me.

"A real private investigator," she said, clapping.

"In the flesh."

She turned somber on a dime. "You're here about Amanda."

"Yes."

"Mrs. Williams called and asked if it was okay to give out our address. So I knew you'd be coming by."

"Are your parents home?"

"No, I'm alone, so maybe we should talk out here." She stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind her. "My parents said it would be okay for me to talk to you."

She led me to a wooden rocking bench facing the street. Rebecca, utilizing the full use of the bench, rocked us back and forth. A minute later, I was feeling seasick. I stopped the rocking.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just a little nervous. I've never talked to a real live detective before."

"Well, you're doing a great job of it so far." I pointed at the UCLA logo. "Obviously you're highly intelligent and wise for your age if you intend to go there."

She looked down. "My dad went there."

"He must be highly intelligent and wise himself."

"He's a doctor. Intelligent, but I don't know about wise. Anyway, he's never home, so I really wouldn't know."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"You're a junior?"

"Yes."

We were silent. She started rocking again, and I put my foot out to stop it again. She ducked her head and said, "Oops."

"Were you with Amanda on the last day she was alive?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about the party."

"We got there around seven. Amanda and I went together because Derrick was working out at the gym, as usual. He's so boring. He never likes to party. All he ever did was work out, play sports and hang out with Amanda."

"Did he love Amanda?"

She shifted her weight. The bench creaked slightly. I kept my foot firmly planted. No more swinging today. Rebecca looked away, brushing aside a blond strand that had stuck to her shiny lip gloss.

"Oh, yeah. He loved her a lot."

"You think he killed her?"

"No."

"You say that pretty quick."

"He loved her so much. He would have done anything for her."

"Was Amanda seeing someone else?"

"No. But at the time, there was another guy who wouldn't leave her alone."

"Who?"

"Chris, the guy who threw the party. He's always liked her."

"Did she fool around with Chris?"

"No. She never cheated on Derrick. They really did love each other. It was sweet watching the two of them together. They were always together and holding each other and kissing."

"Tell me about Chris."

"He's a senior. Used to play football, but got kicked off the team because he's an asshole. You like football?"

"Yes," I said.

"I don't understand it. Just a bunch of boys jumping on each other."

"That about sums it up."

"They kicked him off the team because he was a partier and did drugs and probably never showed up for practice."

"That'll do it."

"He always had it pretty bad for Amanda. I mean, you've seen her picture. She is - was - so pretty. A lot of guys at school liked her."

"Especially Chris."

"Especially Chris. He hated Derrick. Hated him."

"Why?"

She looked at me as if I were the beach idiot. "Because Derrick had his girl, and because Derrick was black. He was always making comments to Amanda."

"Racially insensitive comments?" I offered.

"Yes," she said. "Those kinds of comments. Everywhere she went, he let her know it. It was horrible."

"Then why go to Chris's party?"

She shrugged. "It's high school, it was the only party being thrown that night. Plus Amanda said that Chris personally invited her and had apologized for being such a jerk."

"So what happened at the party?"

"Chris was drunk when we got there. He was being a real dick. Usual Chris, you know."

"Oh, I know."

"You know him?"

"No, I'm just being supportive."

She smiled and shook her head. "You're kind of funny."

"Kind of."

"So anyway, we get to the party and almost immediately Chris hits on Amanda. You know, puts his arm around her and tries to kiss her, just being an asshole."

"What did Amanda do?"

"She pushed him away."

"How did Chris react?"

"Same old shit. Put her down, put Derrick down." She grinned. "Derrick's already kicked Chris's ass once for giving Amanda a hard time."

"Sounds like Chris needs another ass kicking."

"Hard to do that from jail."

I nodded. "So what happened next?"

"Amanda was pretty upset and left the party. I offered to go with her, but she refused, saying she wanted to be alone."

I didn't add that if Rebecca had been with Amanda, that Amanda stood a better chance of being alive today. Then again, there might be two dead teenage girls instead of one.

"That was the last time you saw her?"

She was looking away, blinking hard. "Yes."

"After Amanda left, what did Chris do?"

"I don't know. He took off in his car."

Oh?

"Did you tell the police this?" I asked.

"The police never came by."

"The police assume Derrick did the killing," I said.

"I don't blame them," she said. "But I think someone set Derrick up."

"I do too."

"Someone who doesn't like him very much," she said.

"I agree. Where does Chris live?"

She told me, and I gave her my card.

"Nice picture," she said.

"Like I said, you are obviously a bright and intelligent young lady."

I left her rocking alone on the bench swing.

14.

According to Rebecca, Chris's house was three streets down. Look for the broken garage door and red mailbox. Turns out the house was seven streets down. She was close. Okay, not really.

There was no one home, so I waited in my car, which really was my home away from home. I had wasted more time sitting in it than I care to dwell on. One of these days I was going to wise up and keep an emergency novel in the glove box for just such an occasion. I turned on the radio and listened to various sports radio programs. There had once been a time when I was the subject of sports radio. At least locally. Maybe again someday. I looked at my watch. An hour of my life had passed. I turned off the radio and put my seat back. The police hadn't investigated Amanda's murder very thoroughly. That much was obvious. They were confident the killer was Derrick. They had no reason to believe otherwise, and they did not look for a reason. Looking for a reason made their job harder than it had to be, especially when a kid with a knife was looking them straight in the face. According to the homicide report, an anonymous caller had tipped the police that the knife was in the backseat of Derrick's car. Convenient.

Two hours later, after a fitful nap, a silver Corvette squealed around the corner and bounded into the driveway. A lanky kid hopped out and stared at me.

More than ready for a little action, I leapt out of my car and, perhaps a little too eagerly, approached him. The kid backed up a step.

"Chris Randall?" I asked.

He was about an inch shorter than me, about half the width of me, and certainly not as good looking. Not everyone can be me.

"Who are you?" he asked.

I told him.

"You have a badge or something?" he asked. There was mild humor in his voice, and a whole lot of cockiness. I've been told the same.

"Or something." I showed him my investigator's license. "Can I talk to you about Amanda Peterson?"

His shoulders bunched at the mention of her name. He recovered and walked around to the Vette's trunk and popped it open with the push of a button on his keychain. He reached inside and pulled out a ratty backpack. His hands were shaking. When he spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice, although there was still an underlying tone of arrogance. My question had unsettled him. "Sure. Go ahead."

"She was last seen leaving your party."

He slung the pack over a bony shoulder. "Probably should have stayed, huh?"

"Probably. You were also seen leaving the party shortly thereafter."

"Yeah, so."

I smiled broadly, just your friendly neighborhood detective. "So where'd you go?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Have you talked to the police yet?"

"No."

"Then they would be interested to know that prior to Amanda leaving the party that you had verbally abused her and made racially insensitive remarks about her boyfriend Derrick."

He looked at me some more, then shrugged. "I went on a beer run."

"Where?"

"Corner of Eighth and Turner." He leaned a hip against the Vette's fender. The mild amusement was back. His eyes almost twinkled. "You think I 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.