Die Job(41)

“I don’t want to go back to school,” Rachel said.

“Let’s call your mom,” Mom answered.

“I already tried. She’s in a meeting and not to be disturbed, her secretary said.”

“Well, maybe I can convince them to ‘disturb’ her,” Mom said grimly. “C’mon.” She gave Rachel a hand up and the two of them headed for the kitchen—to refill Rachel’s honey tea, I was sure, and make the call. I felt sorry for any secretary who tried to tell Mom she couldn’t talk to Mrs. Whitley.

A phone call of my own to the GBI netted the information that Agent Dillon was at the high school. Yelling, “I’ll be back soon,” toward the kitchen, I stormed out of the salon without waiting for a response. My anger carried me the six blocks to the high school in less than ten minutes. Spurts of wind dashing dust and pine needles at me matched my mood, and I merely gathered my hair into a ponytail and wrapped an elastic around it to thwart the wind’s attempt to tangle it. Hah!

I straight-armed the high school’s glass door and found myself in an empty hall. Class must be in session. Marching to the office’s Dutch door, I asked the fat woman making copies where I could find Agent Dillon.

“In the gym,” she said, never taking her eyes off the copier. “Damn machine,” she muttered as I left.

I stalked down the hall toward the gym, slamming an open locker door shut with a satisfying clang as I passed. The gym floor was empty, its bleachers collapsed against the wall as I entered. A stray basketball lay under the backboard at the far end. Crossing the slick floor, I turned into the hallway leading to the locker rooms. The sounds of running water and faint laughter, and the scents of sweat, mildew, and soap snapped me back to my high school days. I’d always enjoyed gym class and had played on the volleyball team. I missed volleyball and the camaraderie of a team, I suddenly realized. Maybe after I’d given Special Agent John Dillon a piece of my mind, I’d call around and see if there were any adult volleyball leagues in the area. Passing the locker rooms, I peered into the glassed-in offices that came next. When I reached Coach Peet’s, the door swung open and the coach emerged with Agent Dillon.

Coach Peet frowned when he saw me, and Agent Dillon raised his brows slightly. “Grace? What are you doing here?”

“I’d like a word with you, if you have a moment,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage.

Coach Peet disappeared into his office and closed the door hard, leaving Dillon and me facing each other in the narrow hall.

Wearing a navy suit with a pale yellow shirt and striped tie, he looked tired and severe in the cheerless fluorescent light.

“What in the world do you and your people mean by browbeating a seventeen-year-old girl about Braden’s death? How could you think a teenager would—”

“If you’re talking about Rachel Whitley,” he interrupted me, “she had motive, means, and opportunity, which means I’d be remiss in not interviewing her. Interviewing,” he emphasized. “Not browbeating.”

“She didn’t do it.” I glared at him.

“Fine. But before you rip into me about interviewing poor, innocent teens, who do you think did it? Statistically, it’s likely to be a teenager because there were more of them at Rothmere when Braden was pushed than there were adults. The only adults were you, the science teacher, Coach Peet”—he nodded toward the closed door—“and Dr. Solomon.” He leaned close to me as he talked, keeping his voice low with an effort. “You think I like investigating the murder of a teen? Well, think again.” He pulled back suddenly, walked three paces away, then whirled and came back.

“I’m sorry, John,” I whispered. “I wasn’t thinking. Rachel was crying and upset and I reacted emotionally. Of course you have to interview everyone who was there. And I can see how it looks like maybe Rachel is a likely candidate. But I’ve know her for almost four years, since she started part-time at the salon when she was fourteen, and she couldn’t kill someone. She couldn’t walk into a hospital and smother someone in cold blood! And certainly not Braden. Their breakup was amicable and they were still friends.”

“That’s not what the other kids say.” Dillon crossed his arms over his chest and eyed me grimly, his eyes the cold navy they got when he was angry.

“Well, they’re lying,” I said hotly. “I saw the two of them together that night and they were comfortable with each other—pals.”

“Would you go to dinner with me Friday night?” he asked.