Read Online We Know It Was You by Maggie Thrash - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Thrash
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Davenport.
âSorry,â Virginia found herself saying again. âI think I touched your boob.â
âIs she in there?â Corny breathed urgently.
âYeah . . . she was asking for you.â
Without another word Corny whirled past her. Virginia watched her dash on her tiptoes toward the bathroom, the door whooshing open in front of her. Virginia peered in for a secondâand immediately wished she hadnât. It was possibly the saddest thing sheâd ever seen: Angie Montague weeping on the filthy bathroom floor in a puddle of perfume.
The music hall, 2:50 p.m.
Benny leaned his ear against the heavy wooden door. Silence. He knocked lightly. No answer.
In a way he was relieved. He hadnât planned what to say if Mr. Choi had actually answered. The two things detective work required were intuition and authority: the ability to see through your suspect and the ability to make him crack in front of you by trickery or intimidation. But Benny didnât know if he could do that with a teacher. Benny was the kind of guy who said âyes, sirâ compulsively, even to Rick the janitor who was twenty-four years old and always laughed at him. He had been raised to be respectful.
He looked for the appointments roster on the door. It took him a moment to find it, because the door was covered with posters of famous jazz musicians. Mr. Choi was obsessed with jazz. He was in the house band at the Sapphire Lounge, and was always trying to persuade his students to come see him play. But the Sapphire Lounge was in the bad part of town, and Benny knew there was zero chance that his mom would ever let him near it. âMonday through Thursday, Iâm always there!â Mr. Choi was constantly reminding the class. Nobody ever went. It used to make Benny feel guilty, and also kind of embarrassed. It seemed a little desperate, not to mention inappropriate, for Mr. Choi to be inviting his students to a place like the Sapphire Lounge.
Benny found the roster half concealed behind a black-and-white print of Charles Mingus. The roster was blank, except for the hour between three-thirty and four: Marty Robeson. Private lesson. 3 and 3:30.
Benny Flax, he wrote beneath it. Question.
The football field, 3:20 p.m.
Benny felt a little weird watching the cheerleaders halfheartedly doing stretches on the field. He knew he probably looked like some clueless pervert hoping to prey on one of the grief-stricken girls after practice. It didnât help that Gerard Cole, the sappy water boy, was there too, staring at the cheerleaders and periodically weeping.
I wish Virginia would get here already, Benny thought. Sheâd left a note on his locker reading, in bright pink marker, Meet me at cheer practice this aftââimportant clue to discuss. It was just taped to the front of his locker for anyone to see. Virginia had yet to absorb the finer points of investigating a crime, for instance that you donât advertise to the world when you have an âimportant clue.â
Only about half the cheerleading squad was in attendance. The principal had declared all extracurricular activities optional until after Brittanyâs funeral, which kept getting pushed back. It was supposed to be Wednesday, then Thursdayânow people were saying next week. The problem was that the body had been drifting downriver so fast that no one could catch it. It might have been funny if it werenât so grotesque.
Yesterday the immense, waterlogged wildcat head had finally washed ashore, but the body it had encased was proving more elusive. There had been sightings as far south as Troup County. People were calling the police hotline claiming to have seen the body floating right past their backyards. A video had popped up on the Internet of a white, corpselike form floating past the Cherokee Trail Bridge. It already had more than one hundred thousand views. Benny had watched the video himself at least thirty times.
âSorry,â Virginia found herself saying again. âI think I touched your boob.â
âIs she in there?â Corny breathed urgently.
âYeah . . . she was asking for you.â
Without another word Corny whirled past her. Virginia watched her dash on her tiptoes toward the bathroom, the door whooshing open in front of her. Virginia peered in for a secondâand immediately wished she hadnât. It was possibly the saddest thing sheâd ever seen: Angie Montague weeping on the filthy bathroom floor in a puddle of perfume.
The music hall, 2:50 p.m.
Benny leaned his ear against the heavy wooden door. Silence. He knocked lightly. No answer.
In a way he was relieved. He hadnât planned what to say if Mr. Choi had actually answered. The two things detective work required were intuition and authority: the ability to see through your suspect and the ability to make him crack in front of you by trickery or intimidation. But Benny didnât know if he could do that with a teacher. Benny was the kind of guy who said âyes, sirâ compulsively, even to Rick the janitor who was twenty-four years old and always laughed at him. He had been raised to be respectful.
He looked for the appointments roster on the door. It took him a moment to find it, because the door was covered with posters of famous jazz musicians. Mr. Choi was obsessed with jazz. He was in the house band at the Sapphire Lounge, and was always trying to persuade his students to come see him play. But the Sapphire Lounge was in the bad part of town, and Benny knew there was zero chance that his mom would ever let him near it. âMonday through Thursday, Iâm always there!â Mr. Choi was constantly reminding the class. Nobody ever went. It used to make Benny feel guilty, and also kind of embarrassed. It seemed a little desperate, not to mention inappropriate, for Mr. Choi to be inviting his students to a place like the Sapphire Lounge.
Benny found the roster half concealed behind a black-and-white print of Charles Mingus. The roster was blank, except for the hour between three-thirty and four: Marty Robeson. Private lesson. 3 and 3:30.
Benny Flax, he wrote beneath it. Question.
The football field, 3:20 p.m.
Benny felt a little weird watching the cheerleaders halfheartedly doing stretches on the field. He knew he probably looked like some clueless pervert hoping to prey on one of the grief-stricken girls after practice. It didnât help that Gerard Cole, the sappy water boy, was there too, staring at the cheerleaders and periodically weeping.
I wish Virginia would get here already, Benny thought. Sheâd left a note on his locker reading, in bright pink marker, Meet me at cheer practice this aftââimportant clue to discuss. It was just taped to the front of his locker for anyone to see. Virginia had yet to absorb the finer points of investigating a crime, for instance that you donât advertise to the world when you have an âimportant clue.â
Only about half the cheerleading squad was in attendance. The principal had declared all extracurricular activities optional until after Brittanyâs funeral, which kept getting pushed back. It was supposed to be Wednesday, then Thursdayânow people were saying next week. The problem was that the body had been drifting downriver so fast that no one could catch it. It might have been funny if it werenât so grotesque.
Yesterday the immense, waterlogged wildcat head had finally washed ashore, but the body it had encased was proving more elusive. There had been sightings as far south as Troup County. People were calling the police hotline claiming to have seen the body floating right past their backyards. A video had popped up on the Internet of a white, corpselike form floating past the Cherokee Trail Bridge. It already had more than one hundred thousand views. Benny had watched the video himself at least thirty times.
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