To Catch a Killer Page 8

  What I have to go on is the Nike logo in the middle of the sole and the top part of the tread which has horizontal rays piercing a circular design. I move quickly along the row, turning shoes over and inspecting the bottoms until I find what I’m looking for. The print exactly matches the Michael Jordan classic AJ1, a mid-top basketball shoe made by Nike. A white size eight is on display, but it’s clearly too small. From the boxes stacked below, I find a size nine. Also too small. Further down, a size eleven is a perfect match. That’s it. My intruder wears size-eleven Michael Jordan classics. I rummage in my bag for my cell phone to take a picture of the shoe. Then I remember Sydney took my phone. Grrr.

  I spot Lysa wandering toward me, her arms full of shoes. I borrow her phone and take a quick photo of the top and bottom of the shoe lined up next to the print. I e-mail the photos to both myself and to Spam. I add a quick message asking her to save it for me, since I don’t have my computer at the moment.

  I’m done. But to get Lysa to leave Shoe Haven, I have to get her to stop vacillating between three different pairs and to settle on the open-toe pumps in her favorite color of royal blue, which will look great with everything she owns. In exchange, she forces me to buy strappy silver high heels which will look fantastic with absolutely nothing I own. I did save 70 percent off the price. Which means I got a fantastic deal on a pair of shoes I will never wear.

  * * *

  Lysa drops me off at home and I leave my new shoes sitting out on the kitchen table. By the time Rachel comes home, I’m almost done with my homework. She looks surprised at my new shoes. I can tell she loves them, but she’s probably thinking they’re so not me. How great would it be if my current troubles could be managed by a pair of strappy silver heels instead of a pair of size-eleven Michael Jordan’s?

  “You’re going to need a computer for your school work, and I’m pretty sure mine is too old to do you any good,” Rachel says.

  “Spam can probably hook me up with something refurbished from her dad’s store.”

  “Good idea,” Rachel says.

  The words are barely out of her mouth when a knock sounds on the back door. And there’s Spam. She wanders in wearing a pair of short denim shorts, red striped soccer kneesocks, pink paisley rain boots, a red T-shirt, and a black TechNext baseball cap. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail. She drops a heavy red canvas tool bag on the chair and gives Rachel a hug.

  “Hey mamacita, how you doin’?” she asks.

  Rachel hugs her back. “I’m fine, Spam. What are you up to?”

  “Not much, just making a little house call.” Spam opens her tool bag and pulls out a laptop, a cell phone, and a wireless modem, stacking them on the table.

  “Wow. Do you have our house bugged or something?” I ask.

  Spam gives me a wide-eyed look. “I could totally do that and you would never even know. But why would I need to? You already tell me everything. Right?” Her look is more warning than question.

  Spam turns to Rachel. “If you want to know something, don’t ask her. Ask me.”

  Rachel laughs. “You two scare me.”

  Spam throws an arm around my shoulders. “What’s scary is my girl being out of touch. I can’t have that.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Spam. How much do I owe you?” Rachel asks.

  Spam shakes her head. “No worries. These are trade-outs for repair. She can keep them for as long as she needs. I can help you set them up now if it won’t mess with your dinner.”

  “Sydney and I are going out, but you guys can order Thai, if you want,” Rachel offers.

  “Ah, thanks. I can’t stay. I promised my dad I’d make empanadas,” Spam says.

  “Yum. What time should we be there?” Rachel asks with a laugh.

  Spam laughs, too. “Yeah, you don’t want to do that. You’d be lucky to get a crumb with the little monsters at the table. And their manners are disgusting.”

  “Come on, Spam. Your little brothers are adorable and you know it,” I say.

  Spam rummages in her bag and pulls out some cables and a small plastic box of mini tools. “They’re adorable, but they’re still little monsters.”

  “How old are they now?” Rachel asks.

  Spam fills us in on her brothers’ ages—eight, ten, eleven, thirteen, and fifteen—and their various antics. She’s the oldest. We bonded in fourth grade over the fact that I didn’t have my mother and neither did she. Though hers just walked out one day and never came back.

  When we were young, we used to pretend our mothers had very important jobs as princesses. They couldn’t just go to work in the morning and come home at night. A princess had to work the whole time and they had to do it for a lot of years. One day our moms would be promoted to queens. Then they would come back and take us to live with them and we would become the new princesses.

  Around sixth grade, we grew out of the princess stage. Since then, Spam has refused to talk about our mothers at all. “Live in the now” is her motto.

  I wish I could.

  A light tap comes from the back door. It’s Sydney. Instead of inviting her in, Rachel grabs her purse and blows me a kiss, saying she won’t be late.

  I can’t help thinking Rachel is intentionally keeping Syd and me apart—not a good sign.

  14

  Written documentation is so critical that my personal notebook is part of the official evidence in every case I work on.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  Spam scoops up the new equipment and charges up the stairs toward my room. I follow, even though my mind is still focused on what’s up with Rachel and Sydney.

  Spam sits at my desk and silently plugs in cables and powers up the laptop. Tapping keys, she focuses on linking everything together. The silent treatment combined with the tight pinch to her mouth suggests she’s in a bad mood.

  I perch on the edge of the desk.

  “Spam, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to ask you the same question.” She swivels the chair to pin me with a hard look. “I looked at the print you sent me. You do realize the love of your life was stalking you in your own bedroom.”

  “I never said he was the love of my life.”

  “Yeah. But you act like it.” She goes back to pecking at the keys. “And it’s affecting your judgment.”

  “Just because the print is a basketball shoe doesn’t mean it’s Journey’s. And, for the record, I’m not in love with him.… I just find him interesting.”

  She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and slams it on the desk. “Then maybe you’ll be interested in this.”

  I unfold the paper. It’s an order form from the athletic department of Copper South High School—our school—for forty pairs of white Michael Jordan classic AJ1 basketball shoes, in various sizes. I scan down the list and see it: Journey Michaels, size 11.

  “How did you get this?”

  Spam’s gaze is drawn to an imaginary spot on my ceiling. “You remember when my dad’s store donated a bunch of computers to the school, right?”

  “Of course. The library would still be in the dark ages if it wasn’t for your dad’s store.”

  “Yeah, so we set up the system over there and part of the maintenance agreement is that he checks it every now and then. To make sure they don’t have any viruses or anything.”

  I happen to know that Spam’s been hacking her father’s computer security walls since she was ten. I gasp. “You can spy on everything our school does on computer?”

  She gives me puppy dog eyes. “I don’t. I wouldn’t. I only did this to save your life,” she adds, reacting to my widening gaze.

  I roll my eyes because what I know is that in third place—right behind Spam’s dream jobs of hacker and professional gamer—is working for TMZ, the online gossip site. She’s addicted to drama. “Saving my life is a little extreme, even for you.”

  “Okay. Fine. Don’t focus on that,” she says. “The point is he and his shoes were in your bedroom.”
<
br />   “Wrong. Anyone on the team could’ve been in here, or even anyone with the same shoes. We don’t know every person in Iron Rain who owns these shoes.” I scan down the order form. “Look. The school ordered four pairs in size eleven. One of them was Principal Roberts. Why don’t you accuse him of being in my room?”

  Spam pushes a few keys on the keyboard, bringing up Skype. Melodic beeps signal she’s calling someone. Within a few seconds, Lysa’s face appears on my screen.

  “Did she listen?” Lysa leans into the camera.

  “What do you think?” Spam shakes her head.

  “You guys were talking about me?”

  “Yes,” Lysa says. “And now we’re trying to talk some sense into you.”

  I flop down on the end of my bed. Spam adjusts the angle of the laptop so that we’re both visible on Lysa’s monitor.

  “What I need is your support and help finding Miss P’s killer.”

  “Whoa. See? Right there. That’s the crazy train,” Spam says.

  Lysa agrees emphatically. “Right. You are not a police officer or a detective. You need to stand down.”

  My face twitches. “Stand down? Lysa, you’re not a hostage negotiator, either, but you’re trying to sound like one.”

  “I’m trying to talk some sense into you.” She makes a grumpy face.

  “Here’s some sense. We’re really good at this stuff and we do it for silly things like Cheater Checks. Why would we not give our best for Miss P?”

  Spam shakes her head, stands up from my desk, and gives me a quick hug. “I have to go. Hungry monsters await.” Spam moves toward the camera and her face fills the screen. “Make her listen.”

  While Spam packs up her tools, Lysa knits her fingers together and straightens her shoulders. “Here’s the problem, Erin. When you get like this, we’re not sure if you need stern words or facts.”

  I choke on her words. “Get like what? What are you talking about?”

  Lysa leans close to the camera, her hands imitating the shape of a small box. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  I glance over at Spam, who suddenly refuses to make eye contact. “Is this about the box, Journey Michaels, or investigating the murder?” I refuse to hide my irritation.

  “It’s about all of it and keeping you safe,” Lysa insists. “That box got you into this, and as for Journey, well, Spam has already given you sufficient information—”

  Oh my god. Really? Sufficient information? Lysa is channeling her mother.

  “Lighten up with the psychobabble,” I say.

  Lysa huffs. “It’s not psychobabble.”

  “Maybe not when your mom says it. She’s a trained therapist. But you’re just … nosy and butting in.”

  As Spam grabs her bag and heads for the door, I slam the laptop closed and go after her. “Spam, wait.”

  She stops at the top of the stairs and tosses me a loaner cell phone. “I’m speed dial numero uno,” she says.

  I follow her. “Yeah? I hope you keyed your name in as Loca because that’s what I look up when I want to call you.” With a grin, she flips me off over her shoulder. I follow her into the kitchen. She pauses at the back door.

  “What do you guys want me to do?” I ask.

  “Tell Rachel everything so they’ll lock Journey Michaels up and you’ll be safe,” she says.

  “But—”

  “Just do it,” she says.

  “I’ll think about it.” She gives me a hug and slips out the back door. But I’ve already made my decision. They don’t know about that strip of fabric, and how all of this circles back to my mother’s murder. I’m not saying anything until I figure out what the connection is.

  15

  Every murderer has a tell, and where it usually shows up is in their unorganized behaviors.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  I roll through morning classes on autopilot because all I can think about is how everything has changed. Before I know it, it’s time for lunch.

  When Spam and Lysa arrive to hijack me from my spot on the cafeteria stairs, I’m waiting for them … with Journey Michaels in tow.

  Spam gives me a half laugh, but poor Lysa’s eyes are about to fall out of her head.

  I get it. Journey looks especially cute today. His snug sweater shows off his abs, and the dark gray color sets his eyes to stun.

  “We need to talk.” Let them try and say this is all about Journey with him sitting right there.

  Spam doesn’t look happy about my surprise lunch guest, but she turns and heads down the stairs with a motion for us to follow. She leads us to what is becoming our favorite table behind the cafeteria.

  Clearly I didn’t think this through in advance. With only two sides to the table, I’m not sure where to sit. I busy myself brushing leaves and dirt off the benches to avoid picking a side. Spam and Lysa settle it by sliding in next to each other.

  I offer Journey a shy smile and take a seat opposite them. Then he sits down next to me. We leave a noticeable space between us.

  “So, the rumor must be true, huh?” Spam says.

  Confused, I glance at Journey.

  Spam waves her index finger between us. “That you two are now…” She wraps two fingers tightly together.

  Journey and I squirm.

  “No,” he says.

  “Nothing like that,” I say at the same time.

  “Really. Did you not cut class together earlier this week?” Spam’s mouth twists into a smirk. I forgot how addicted she is to gossip. Inquiring minds definitely want to know.

  “We did. But it’s not what you think,” I say.

  “I hope so,” Lysa says. “Because you two getting together after Miss Peters’s murder is creepy.” Lysa retrieves a sandwich from her bag and nibbles on one corner of it.

  “We actually only met two days ago.” I glance at Journey.

  “Really, only two days ago?” A slow, simmering fury builds up in Spam. “Should I mark that on my love calendar? Because yesterday you let us lecture you on what a lurker he is and never told us you were seeing him.”

  “Who says I’m a lurker?” Journey says.

  “We’re not seeing each other,” I say at the same time. “But we have figured out that together we have information we didn’t have separately.”

  I’m relieved that Spam is dressed sedately. I need Journey to take her seriously. She’s her usual impatient self, though, patting her hand on the table for me to get to the point. “Like what?” she says.

  I need to lead into this delicately. “The kind of information that says we have to investigate Miss Peters’s murder.”

  Spam opens her bag and pulls out an orange. She digs her fingernails deep into the skin, releasing the citrusy scent. It immediately brings up a flood of memories. I picture Miss P in lecture mode—which she liked to call inspire mode—telling us how in science, like everything else, we have to dig deep to get to the truth.

  “Nope. Disagree,” Spam says. “I’m not in favor. Cheater Checks is one thing. Murder is a whole new level. I vote we leave it to the police.” Spam proceeds to peel her orange.

  I realize that I didn’t bring any lunch and it looks like Journey didn’t either. Spam notices and sets a few segments of orange in front of each of us.

  He looks at Spam. “Hi. I don’t know your name. Let me just say that I don’t trust the police.” He pops a piece of orange in his mouth. I’m content to hold my piece and inhale the fragrance.

  “The problem is the police don’t know what we know,” I say.

  “Then maybe you should tell them,” Spam says. “Miss P obviously didn’t do that and look what happened to her.”

  “Okay. We don’t know what Miss P knew,” I say. “But I am worried that what happened to her could happen to us. Or, me at least.” I go around the table making eye contact with each one of them. “I’m not going to lie. This is serious.”

  “Have you received a threat?” Lysa asks.

  “Not directly. But ind
irectly, yeah, I think I have.” I look to Journey. “These two are the best people to help us figure this out.” I gesture across from me. “Spam’s a tech rat: computers, cell phones, servers, flash drives, spy cams, anything electronic. She can hack it, and if she can’t, she knows who can.”

  Spam shoots me a bug-eyed “WTF” look.

  “No worries,” I say, attempting to soothe her. “He’s cool.”

  She and Lysa exchange some wary side-eye.

  “Lysa’s father is a lawyer and her mother’s a psychologist. So she’s great for legal stuff or anything having to do with human nature.”

  Lysa holds her hands up like balancing a scale. “I try to be the voice of reason, but these two almost never listen to me.”

  Journey smiles politely.

  “Evidence is my thing: fingerprints, hair, ink, lipstick. Anything forensic. We’re like the Three Musketeers.”

  “Yeah. We’re exactly like them,” Spam says, tossing her hair and sounding chipper. “Except, oh right, when you decide to go off on your own.”

  I give her a harsh glare. “Not now.”

  “Look, I get it. You guys are all organized and into this.” Journey rakes his fingers through his hair and clasps his hands around his neck. “So, no offense. But none of your tricks or techniques can compare to investigating a murder.”

  His words are like a giant thud in the middle of the table. “What?”

  “I’m not trying to be demeaning or anything,” he says, reacting to my crushed expression. “But you can’t compare nailing a cheating boyfriend with catching a killer.”

  Lysa narrows her eyes at him. “Maybe you’re afraid of what we’ll find. Hmmm?”

  I put my hand up. “Easy, Prosecutor. He’s innocent.”

  “So, who called this meeting?” Spam asks, her face devoid of all emotion.

  “I did.” Journey and I say it at the same time and then look at each other like Did you really just say that?

  “Dude, I thought we were on the same page,” I say.

  Lysa and Spam exchange a look.