“I know.”

“How . . .” Then he remembered. He’d called Win’s cell when he heard the click at the door. He’d hung up as they headed down to the kitchen.

Win said, “Did you do her?”

“Yes. Many times. But not in the last seven years.”

“Good one. Pray tell, did she stop by to shag for old times’ sake?”

“ ‘Shag?’ ”

“My Anglo ancestory. Well?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. But yes.”

“And you refused?”

“I remain chaste.”

“Your chivalry,” Win said. “Some would call it admirable.”

“But not you.”

“No, I’d call it—and I’m breaking out the big words here so pay attention—really, really moronic.”

“I’m involved with someone else.”

“I see. So you and Miss Six-Point-Eight have promised to shag only one another?”

“It’s not like that. It’s not like one day you turn to the other and say, ‘Hey, let’s not sleep with anybody else.’ ”

“So you didn’t specifically promise?”

“No.”

Win held up both hands, totally lost. “I don’t understand then. Did Jessica have BO or something?”

Win. “Just forget it.”

“Done.”

“Sleeping with her would only complicate things, okay?”

Win just stared.

“What?”

“You’re a very big girl,” Win said.

They walked a little more.

Win said, “Do you still need me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be in the office then. If there’s trouble, hit the cell.”

Myron nodded as Win headed off. Harry Davis got out of his car. There were clusters of cliques in the lot. Myron shook his head. Nothing changed. The Goths wore only black with silver studs. The Brains had heavy backpacks and dressed in short-sleeved button-down shirts of one hundred percent polyester like a bunch of assistant managers at a chain drugstore convention. The Jocks took up the most space, sitting on car hoods and wearing leather-sleeved varsity jackets, even though it was too hot for them.

Harry Davis had the easy walk and carefree smile of the well-liked. His looks landed him smack in the average category, and he dressed like a high school teacher, which was to say poorly. All the cliques greeted him, which said something. First, the Brains shook his hand and called out, “Hey, Mr. D!”

Mr. D?

Myron stopped. He thought back to Aimee’s yearbook, her favorite teachers: Miss Korty . . .

. . . and Mr. D.

Davis kept moving. The Goths were next. They gave him small waves, much too cool to do more than that. When he approached the Jocks, several offered up high-fives and “Yo, Mr. D!”s.

Harry Davis stopped and started talking to one of the Jocks. The two moved a few feet away from the cluster. The conversation appeared more animated. The jock had a varsity jacket with a football on the back of it and the letters QB for quarterback on the sleeve. Some of the guys were calling to him. They yelled out, “Hey, Farm.” But the quarterback was focused on the teacher. Myron moved closer for a better look.

“Well, hello,” Myron said to himself.

The boy talking with Harry Davis—Myron could see him clearly now, the soul patch on his chin, the Rastafarian hair—was none other than Randy Wolf.

CHAPTER 29

Myron considered his next move—let them keep talking or confront them now? He checked his watch. The bell was about to sound. Both Harry Davis and Randy Wolf would probably head inside then, lost to him for the day.

Showtime.

When Myron was about ten feet away from them, Randy spotted him. The boy’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition. Randy stepped away from Harry Davis. Davis turned to see what was going on.

Myron waved. “Hi, guys.”

Both froze as though caught in headlights.

“My father said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Randy said.

“But your father never got to know the real me. I’m actually quite a sweetheart.” Myron waved to the confused teacher. “Hi, Mr. D.”

He was almost on them when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s far enough.”

Myron turned around. Two cops in full uniform stood in front of them. One was tall and lanky. The other was short with long, dark, curly hair and a bushy mustache. The shorter one looked like he’d just stepped out of a VH1 special on the eighties.

The tall one said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“This is public property. I’m walking on it.”

“Are you smarting off to me?”

“You think that’s smarting off?”

“I’ll ask you again, wise guy. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To class,” Myron said. “There’s a bitch of an algebra final coming up.”

The tall one looked at the short one. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis stared without saying a word. Some of the students began to point and gather. The bell rang. The taller officer said, “Okay, nothing to see here. Break it up, get to class now.”

Myron pointed at Wolf and Davis. “I need to talk to them.”

The taller officer ignored him. “Get to class.” Then looking at Randy, he added: “All of you.”

The crowd thinned and then vanished. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis were gone too. Myron was alone with the two officers.

The tall one came up close to Myron. They were about the same height, but Myron had at least twenty or thirty pounds on him. “You stay away from this school,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t ask questions.”

Myron thought about that. Don’t ask questions? That was not the kind of thing you say to a suspect. “Don’t ask who questions?”

“Don’t ask anybody anything.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“You think I should be more specific?”

“That would help, yes.”

“Are you being a smart guy again?”

“Just looking for clarification.”

“Hey, asswipe.” It was the shorter cop with the VH1-eighties look. He took out his nightstick and held it up. “This clarification enough for you?”

Both cops smiled at Myron.

“What’s the matter?” The shorter cop with the bushy mustache was slapping the nightstick against his palm. “Cat got your tongue?”