Mojo (26 page)

“Come on,” Audrey said. “Face it. The case is over. I know you wanted to solve it and get the reward and be a big deal and everything, but really there never was much of a chance of that happening. Just be happy with what you got—some good articles for the school paper. Now it’s time to move on.”

“Yeah,” Randy said. “I don’t see the point if there’s not going to be any reward.”

“But Beto didn’t do this,” I insisted. “I know him. He couldn’t have done it.”

“Do you?” Trix asked. “Do you really know him? You thought you knew Nash too, but look how that turned out.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Maybe you couldn’t ever really know anyone, not deep down. Not what they were truly capable of.

“So that’s it, huh?” I said. “It’s all over?”

Audrey patted my arm. “Sorry,” she said.

The case wasn’t the only thing that was over. It looked like my series of articles on Ashton was finished too. With all the news coverage everywhere you looked, what did I have to add? That is, unless I took a whole new direction and wrote about how Beto couldn’t have really had anything to do with the kidnapping.

That idea excited me. I could go on a crusade. Save an innocent man. Up to now my motives for doing all this investigating weren’t so stellar. Audrey was right—I wanted the reward, the fame, the mojo. I wanted to stop being Body Bag. I wanted a future where I wouldn’t be just a speck of plankton whirling in the ocean. I never would’ve done anything to find out what really happened to Hector Maldonado because there wasn’t anything like that in it for me. I could change that now, though.

The problem was, sitting in front of the computer, I knew I didn’t have any real proof. I met Beto at Hector’s funeral, then again at their grandmother’s house, then again at Gangland, where he could’ve beat the hell out of me but didn’t. None of that would get him off. In fact, the cops might even use it against him. No, I’d have to find out more about Beto before I could write anything that would help him.

Tattoo-head Oscar might be a good candidate to talk to, but I didn’t know how to get hold of him or even what his and Beto’s exact relationship was. Were they friends? Cousins? Brothers? I decided to call Beto’s phone in case maybe his family had possession of it now, but nobody picked up. The phone was probably ringing and ringing somewhere in the police station where the cops stashed it along with everything else they had Beto empty from his pockets before throwing him in a cell.

All stalled out, I was sitting aimlessly looking over the different numbers I had stored in my phone when one jumped out at me—the number for Franklin Smiley. As Mr. Browning’s private detective, he would no doubt want to make sure the police had the right guy—unless, of course, he was part of the conspiracy to put the blame on Beto. Even then, I might find out something useful by talking to him. Or I could also get myself into a whole lot of hot water.

I probably debated the issue for ten minutes before making my decision. There was nothing to do but jump in headfirst. I made the call, and he picked up on the third ring. I almost hung up, but of course, my name had already shown up on his caller ID.

“Well, well, Dylan Jones,” he said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

At first, I couldn’t get any words out, so he’s like, “Come on, son, what’s on your mind?”

“Um, you know how you told me to call you about anything I knew about Ashton Browning?”

“Yeah, I remember that. But you know that case has been solved, don’t you? I believe there’s been a story or two about it on the news.”

After a couple of false starts, I finally got to the point that
I thought the cops made a mistake and arrested the wrong guy. Smiley reminded me that they’d found Ashton handcuffed in their suspect’s bathroom and that she had identified Beto in her statement to the police, but I’m like, “I know, but that has to be some kind of frame-up.”

“Oh, a
frame-up
, is it?” Smiley sounded amused. “I can tell you’ve been watching your detective shows on TV.”

I disregarded that dig. “This isn’t a joke,” I said. “Beto’s not the kind of guy who’d ever hit a girl, much less kidnap her and chain her up.”

But Smiley’s like, “So you call him
Beto
, do you? I didn’t know you two were on such close terms. Maybe we should get together and talk about this.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t have a whole lot to go on. It’s just a hunch. But I thought you and Mr. Browning would want to find out the truth.”

“We do, we do. Mr. Browning would be very interested in that. That’s why it’d be best for you to come over to his place, just like last time, for a chat.” And then he sarcastically added, “You can even bring your
backup
.”

Of course, that was not what I wanted to do. “I don’t really think it’s necessary to get together, you know? I just wanted to give you a heads-up over the phone, maybe so you could investigate Beto—I mean
Alberto’s
—background more. The cops aren’t going to do it. All they see is a Mexican from the wrong side of town.”

Smiley was quiet for a moment, then said, “Would it be easier for you if Mr. Browning and I came over to your place? Or just to keep things on the up-and-up, we could talk at the police station.”

Now it was my turn to pause.

“Uh, no,” I said. “That wouldn’t be easier.”

“Good, good,” Smiley said. “How about this evening around seven? You know the way to the house. I’ll meet you at the front gate. We’ll have a nice chat. I’m sure I can help you get your friend off if he’s really innocent.”

He had me. No way did I want him coming to my house or, worse, getting the cops involved.

“Okay,” I said. “But I can’t stay long.”

My backup this time would have to be Audrey. Randy was working at the grocery store, and besides, I needed Audrey to drive. She wasn’t exactly eager to go, but I explained how I just wanted to make my case in defense of Beto to someone who might actually be able to do something about it, and she decided if that’s what I needed to get this whole ordeal out of my system, then she couldn’t say no.

So there we were that evening right in the middle of Richville again. It’s kind of weird riding in a Ford Focus through a neighborhood like that. You feel paranoid, as if the cops might pull you over for driving a car that isn’t expensive enough.

“Wow,” Audrey said. “Why does anyone need a house as big as these? I mean, like, what are all the extra rooms for? Just to prove you can have extra rooms?”

“Maybe they don’t like to use the same bathroom twice in the same month,” I suggested.

And she’s like, “This is ridiculous. Twenty minutes south of here there are homeless missions with every bed full so they have to turn people away, and there must be a hundred empty rooms on this block alone. If this was France during the revolution, the guillotines would be pretty busy around here.”

“Hey,” I said. “Don’t forget Trix doesn’t live too far away.”

“She’s different.”

“Why? Because you like her?”

“She doesn’t care about this kind of stuff.” Audrey sounded pissed at me for bringing Trix into the picture. “And besides, her house isn’t near the size of these.”

“Right,” I said. “Her house could only fit three families in it.”

Audrey glared at me. “I didn’t have to take you out here, you know.”

And I’m like, “I’m just saying—cutting people’s heads off might be a little drastic.”

“Maybe,” Audrey said. “Just a little.”

Finally, we made it to the Brownings’ mansion gate, and Smiley was waiting there just as he said he’d be. He climbed into the backseat, and I introduced him to Audrey, and he’s like, “Well, I see you made an improvement to your backup muscle.”

We pulled back to the same place as last time, but when Smiley and I got out, Audrey stayed in the car. That was our plan—she’d wait outside with her cell phone ready in case I didn’t come back safe and sound.

In the guesthouse, Mr. Browning was already waiting for us. Instead of sitting behind the bar like before, he sat, legs crossed, in a chair that, in a pinch, could’ve made do for a throne in one of those French palaces just before the heads started to roll.

He stood up to shake my hand and motioned for me to sit on the hard-cushioned sofa. Smiley sat in a chair across from me.

“First,” Mr. Browning said, “I’d like to thank you again, Dylan, for the interest you’ve taken in helping to get my daughter back and, of course, for the positive articles you wrote about her in your school paper.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“But”—he brushed some invisible something from the knee of his expensive slacks—“I hear you’re not completely satisfied with the outcome.”

“He thinks it was a
frame-up
,” Smiley said, but Mr. Browning’s like, “Let’s let Dylan do the talking for the moment, shall we?”

I shifted in my seat, but those sofa cushions were too hard to find any comfort on. There were a couple of things I still didn’t want to let on about, so I just went with the vague stuff I’d already given to Smiley.

None of this had much of an effect on Mr. Browning. He was more interested in how I got to know Beto in the first place. This gave me a chance to make Beto seem more sympathetic. I explained how I met him at Hector Maldonado’s funeral, making it sound like me and Hector were closer than we really were. Beto was really broken up over his cousin’s death, I said, but I didn’t mention how Hector died.

“And on top of that,” I added, “there was this time he saved me from getting the hell beat out of me by this enormous dude with a huge tattoo on his scalp. That’s what kind of a good guy Beto Hernandez is.” No reason to bring up how this had happened next door to one of the houses on Ashton’s FOKC route. Still, I noticed Smiley writing something down about it in a little notebook.

Mr. Browning rubbed his chin and goes, “I appreciate how that might make you feel obligated to Mr. Hernandez, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take my daughter’s word over your character reference. However, I would like to hear whatever else you might know about him.”

His eyes narrowed, and across from me Smiley sat with his pen ready to take down what I might say next. It was clear
to me now—they hadn’t asked me over to find out how Beto might be innocent. All they wanted was extra evidence they could use to hang him with.

“Hey,” I said. “If you want me to say something bad about Beto, you have the wrong guy. I’m on his side. But if you really want to find out what happened to Ashton, you need to take a close look at some of her Hollister friends. I think there’s a good chance she’s being coerced into accusing Beto. I mean, do you even know what goes on in their so-called rec hall?”

And Mr. Browning’s like, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Gangland—you know, the place you ripped off from Rowan Adams’s dad so your kid would have his own playpen? What do you think they’re doing there on Saturday nights, drinking ginger ale and playing pin the tail on the donkey?”

You could tell Mr. Browning didn’t expect a guy like me to talk to him like that, but he kept his cool. He goes, “I don’t see what the social activities of my son and his friends have to do with any of this.”

I hadn’t meant to talk about Gangland, but I was pissed about how they were trying to trick me into screwing over Beto, so I kept going. “
Social activities?
Is that what you call it when your son and Nash Pierce go around hiring strippers to laugh at or guys to beat each other to bloody messes just for entertainment? They probably enjoy seeing a good guy like Beto thrown in jail for something he didn’t do. Who knows—Tres and Nash might even be the ones who made Ashton give him up to the cops.”

Mr. Browning stood up. “That’s enough,” he said. His face had gone red. No more Cool Mr. Rich Man for him. Strangely, though, Smiley seemed to be enjoying himself.

“I won’t have you drag my son into this,” Mr. Browning said, pacing in front of his chair. “He’s been through enough.”

Then Smiley goes, “If I could interrupt for a second, sir, I think it might be interesting to find out a little more about these purported fights.” He looked at me. “Is it possible Alberto Hernandez was involved in one of them?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” I said, but I could tell Smiley didn’t believe me.

Mr. Browning was too busy being pissed that I brought up his kid’s bad behavior, though, so he goes, “Of course he doesn’t know anything about it, because he’s making it up.” He walked over to where I sat and looked down on me. “What you need to tell us is how much you knew about Alberto Hernandez and his involvement with my daughter. When did he start seeing her? And when did you realize he wouldn’t let her go?”

And Smiley’s like, “Hold on, sir. I don’t think we need to get into that.”

It was too late, though. Big Daddy Browning had spilled something he didn’t mean to—that he thought Ashton and Beto were an item. That seemed like as good a motive as any to railroad Beto off to prison.

I stared up at him, and one side of his mouth twitched with anger. He was so close I couldn’t stand without my stomach brushing up against his, but I got up anyway.

“I don’t have anything else to say.” It was funny—I thought he’d be taller, but we were the same height. “You’d just twist what I said anyway.”

Then I squeezed by him and headed for the door.

“You’ll have plenty to say,” he called after me, “when the police come to interview you about your involvement in this.”

Without turning around, I’m like, “Well, you have my
address. Send them on. I’m sure they’ll want to hear all about Gangland.”

Practically my whole body was shaking when I stepped onto the front porch. I’d never been through something like that, and truthfully, if someone had told me I’d talk back to the big banker man the way I did, I wouldn’t have believed them. But somewhere along the way you get tired of being bullied.

My mind was so wired as I passed the swimming pool, I didn’t notice someone sitting in the dark on the far side, but I nearly jumped out of my shoes when a girl’s voice called my name.

I’m like, “Who’s there?”