Night man, p.10
Night Man, page 10
As I scroll through her feed now, I see it’s filled mostly with pop culture stuff from a few different sources: Buzzfeed, E! Online, Hype Scene, PopCultureNerd.com, and the like. My idea gels. Perhaps I can’t pretend to be the police, but there are other professionals who can get certain people to talk.
I reconfigure my phone so that its ID reads HYPE SCENE. Hype Scene is a California-based streaming service focused on millennials and Generation Z, and the account Fara retweets most. Hype Scene gives its audience the inside scoop on all its favorite singers, performers, and social media stars. The service also covers some news and human interest stories. It wouldn’t be entirely out of the realm of possibility for Hype Scene to pick up Marissa’s story.
At least, that’s what I hope Fara will believe.
I call her cell phone.
After the third ring, I begin to worry she’s not going to answer, but then there’s a click followed by a very tentative and slightly confused “Hello?”
“Yes, hi. My name is Calum McLean. I’m wondering if I could speak to Fara Nelson.”
“This is Fara.” Still tentative.
“Oh, fantastic. Fara, I work at Hype Scene. Have you heard of us?”
“Well, yeah. Who hasn’t?” A touch of excitement now.
“Before I say anything else, I want to tell you I’m very sorry about your friend Marissa.”
“Oh, um, thank you.”
“I’m sure this is not an easy time for you. It sounded like she was a wonderful person.”
“She was.”
“That’s what I thought. See, my boss and I were talking, and we believe it would be a great idea to do a story about her. You know, to honor her life.”
“Really? I think that would be great.”
“Then you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, do you?”
A beat. “Oh, um, I’m not supposed to.”
“Not supposed to what?”
“Talk to the press.”
“Who told you that?”
“The police…and my dad.”
“Well, I don’t want to make any problems for you. Maybe you can tell me the name of someone who might be able to talk to me.”
“Are you really from Hype Scene?”
I’m not starting to feel guilty at this point; I’ve been feeling guilty since the moment she answered. But I’m fooling her for a good reason, and I’m sure if she knew what it was—which she never will—she’d understand.
So, it’s with a clenching of my stomach that I say, “I am.”
“I guess I could answer a few questions, then,” she says, but quickly adds, “You can’t tell anyone you got anything from me, though.”
“You mean you want to be off the record.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Off the record.”
“I promise. Our conversation will only be between us.” I’m relieved to say something that’s true.
“Okay. What would you like to know?”
“From the news stories I’ve read, I take it Marissa was a good friend of yours.”
“She was my best friend.”
Check. “Then this is extra hard on you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s…awful.”
“I’m sure it is. If any of these questions are too difficult for you to answer, just say so.”
“Okay.”
I ask her several questions about the type of person Marissa was, hoping it will ease her into being more comfortable with me. Her answers align with pretty much the picture I’ve already pieced together. Marissa was a happy, kind, well-liked teen who should still be going to school and hanging out with her friends. Fara tells me about a trip she took at the beginning of summer with Marissa and her family. They spent three days in a rental house near the ocean in Monterey, visiting the aquarium, spending some time on the beach, and generally goofing around.
“I saw this cute shirt in a shop one day,” she says. “I really wanted it, but I didn’t have a lot of money with me so I couldn’t buy it. When we came back to Jenson and I was unpacking my things, the shirt was sitting right on top. There was no note or anything, but I knew Marissa had bought it for me. I have no idea when she could have done it, we were together all the time, but she made it happen. That was Marissa.”
“She sounds like she was special.”
“She was.”
I spent a couple more minutes asking her general questions about Marissa and their friendship before turning to what I really want to know. “The night of the accident, Marissa was apparently walking down the street alone. Do you have any idea where she was coming from?”
“No. I wish I did.”
“Did she have a job? Could she have been coming home from that?”
There’s a slight hesitation before she says, “She quit her job a while ago.”
“I see.” I pause for a moment. “I understand that the police don’t have any suspects yet. Any thoughts on who you think it might have been?”
“I have no clue. Probably some drunk driver who doesn’t even know what he did.”
“Or she,” I say.
“What?”
“The driver could have been a woman.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She doesn’t believe it was a woman, which makes me think that even if she doesn’t know who did it, she has her suspicions.
“I guess that’s all for now. Thank you for giving me some time.”
“No problem.”
“If I have more questions, can I call you again?”
“Yeah, that would be okay.”
“Great. Oh, there was one other thing. I was planning on calling a couple of Marissa’s other friends. Julia Torres and Luke Reed. I understand he was Marissa’s boyfriend.”
“Luke wasn’t her boyfriend.”
“Really? The story I read—”
“They broke up.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him.”
“Whatever he says would probably be a lie. He was pretty hurt when they split.”
“That’s good to know. I appreciate the info. Was Marissa dating someone else when she died?”
“No, she wasn’t.”
I hear a voice in the background.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’ve got to go.”
“Of course. Thank you again.”
“Uh, when do you think the story will be online?”
“I’m still not sure if there will be one, but if there is, then I would think it would be up pretty soon.”
“Okay. Cool. Maybe I’ll talk to you later.”
“I hope so. Goodbye, Fara.”
“Bye.”
I type some notes into my computer. The call was a lot more informative than it seemed on the surface. A) Fara thinks the driver was a man. B) Marissa had been working but she’d quit. C) Fara’s slight hesitation could mean Marissa had another job. D) Marissa and Luke had definitely broken up prior to the accident.
Among the many things I’m still not sure about is whether or not Marissa was dating someone new. I couldn’t tell if Fara was being truthful about that, but I didn’t have time to push her on it. If she was lying, maybe it was because Marissa wanted to keep the relationship secret.
There’s an obvious answer to this potential mystery boyfriend: could be Adam Nyland/John Smith. That would also explain why she didn’t want anyone to know. I doubt it’s much of a secret that Adam is a bad boy. If Marissa’s parents had found out, I bet they would have forbidden her from seeing him. I doubt it would have mattered to them that he was going to college on the sly.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
I check the tracker and see the Camaro is still parked behind Adam’s apartment. I’m starting to feel I need to switch my attention back to him, but only in regard to how he fits in with Marissa, not because of his work for Linderhoff. Before I do, however, I put in calls to Julia and Luke.
Julia is not quite as starstruck by my Hype Scene caller ID. She’s even less interested in answering questions about her deceased friend. I get a couple of short responses from her before she tells me she doesn’t want to talk anymore. Our conversation isn’t long enough for me to get a sense whether or not she has any secrets that could help me.
Luke is a different story.
I don’t use my Hype Scene ID with him. Instead I change it to read MCD CORP and hope he fills in the missing letters.
Either he doesn’t even look at the caller ID or he does and it springs him into action, because before the first ring is even done, he answers, “Yes, hello?”
“Luke Reed?”
“Yes. I’m Luke.”
“This is Richard Cruz. I’m from human resources at McDonald’s Corporate.”
“Oh, um, hi. What can I do for you, Mr. Cruz?”
Boy, does he sound nervous. And, yes, I am feeling guilty again.
“I’ve received a report about an incident at our location in Jenson, California, where you are employed. Are you familiar with what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, sir.”
Not only is it Sunday but it’s nearing seven p.m. here in California, which means it’s almost nine p.m. in Chicago, where McDonald’s Corporate headquarters are located. Why someone from the HR department would be calling a teenage restaurant worker at this exact moment should be the first question on his mind. His second should be why would corporate deal with a petty altercation involving said teenage restaurant worker in the first place. But he lacks enough real-world experience to realize either. As far as he’s concerned, he probably thinks it’s normal for the higher-ups to get involved in something like this.
I recount enough of the incident to let him know I am aware of what went down, then say, “I’m sure you understand that this doesn’t look good. But I’m told, outside of this altercation, you’ve been an outstanding employee. What I need you to do is explain to me why you felt the need to attack some of our customers.”
“I-I’m so sorry.” His voice wavers as he tries to keep from crying. “I made a bad mistake. It’s all my fault.”
“I’m happy to hear you take responsibility. That shows maturity. I would still like to know why it happened.”
“My, um, girlfriend was killed a week ago. Someone hit her with a car.”
There’s no need for me to fake sympathy. “That is horrible. I’m sorry to hear that. What a terrible tragedy.”
He sniffles something that sounds like yes.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I say. “Did these people you fought with have something to do with her death?”
A pause. “I’m not sure.”
“Please, son. Help me understand.”
He takes several seconds before saying, “The main guy I fought with…he…well, my girlfriend and I…” Another breath. “She broke up with me not long ago and-and started seeing him. I know it was wrong. I should have just ignored that he was there. But her funeral was yesterday morning, and when I saw him last night, I just…I just lost it.”
Huh. Contrary to what Fara said, Luke seems to think Marissa and Adam were an item.
“Did he provoke you?” I ask.
“Other than just being there? .... No.”
“Has he ever provoked you?”
“This is the first time I’ve seen him since Mar—my girlfriend left me. Well, and that morning at the funeral.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Not really. Just someone I’d see around sometimes.”
“Sounds like you got yourself wound up and decided to take it out on someone.”
Luke says nothing to this.
I let the dead air hang for another couple of seconds and then say, “It’s not been a good few weeks for you, has it?”
“No, sir.”
“While I can understand your desire to lash out, you can’t behave like that, whether you’re working for us or just walking down the street. You don’t want to do something stupid that could get you into worse trouble than talking to me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, Luke, you weren’t.”
“Am I…fired? Mr. Kendall sent me home to cool off and told me not to come back until next weekend.”
“Mr. Kendall. Let’s see, that’s your manager.”
“Assistant manager.”
“I’ll tell you what, Luke. I think this is one of those situations we’ll leave up to our local management team. If he says you can come back next weekend, then you can come back next weekend.”
“Thank you,” Luke says, relief pouring through the phone.
“I wouldn’t mention anything about talking to me unless your manager asks you specifically. Sometimes, if they think we’re looking over their shoulders, they won’t be as lenient. Know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate that.”
“You take care.” I hang up.
I’m a damn good judge of character, and everything I know tells me Luke had nothing to do with Marissa’s death. He didn’t slip out of work and secretly drive over to kill her. He didn’t arrange for someone else to do it. He’s just a poor, brokenhearted kid whose girlfriend dumped him, and then she went and died before he had a chance to try to win her back.
I feel like a complete asshole for questioning him like that, but at least now I can officially cross him off my suspects list.
I need a beer, but the night is still young so I settle for coffee.
From McDonald’s, of all places.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When I’m ready to hit the road again, I check to see if Adam has gone anywhere. The Camaro hasn’t moved, so I decide to drive by his place.
Since it’s still relatively early, lights shine in the windows of several apartments. Among these is the window to the unit I’ve pegged as Adam’s. But an educated guess is not the same as definitive proof.
I park my car and grab a few items out of my bag before I walk over to the building. Why waste a chance to increase my surveillance on him, right?
The individual apartment entrances are off an interior hallway on each floor, reached via a small lobby. Within the lobby is a directory board listing who lives where.
On the line for apartment 209 are white capital letters spelling out NYLAND. There’s no other name next to it, which I hope means Adam lives alone. I take the stairs to the second floor and pause on the landing to listen. I hear the muffled sounds of voices and TVs coming from inside apartments. The hallway itself sounds empty.
I enter and take a left toward the apartment I think is Adam’s. Thankfully the unit numbers back up this assumption, and before I reach the end of the hall, I know that the last door on the front side of the building is indeed 209. I examine the wall opposite his door, and pick out the perfect spot for one of the mini cameras I have in my pocket.
I need to make this fast. The last thing I want is to have him or one of his neighbors step out and catch me in the act.
I pull the camera out and stick it above the frame surrounding the doorway of the apartment opposite Adam’s. I adjust the lens so that it’s pointed correctly. The camera is designed to be used in plain sight. It resembles one of those ant traps. You know what I’m talking about—black, two-inch square, raised on one side like a dome, with openings for ants to walk into. The micro camera’s lens is on the raised section and looks like part of the design. The person who dreamed it up deserves an award, if you ask me. It’s a work of art.
I’m making my way back to the stairs when I hear a door open behind me, on the side of the hall Adam lives on. I hear some clinking, like bottles knocking together, and other rustling sounds that I identify as garbage in a bag.
I keep walking, not turning my head even a little, to prevent the person behind me from seeing any of my face. When I approach the stairwell, I angle my path so that I enter it without having to turn until the wall is between me and my follower.
The stairs are built with a switchback halfway down, which means if the other person is coming down the top half while I’m still on the bottom portion, I’d be seen. I double-time it so that I’m already off the stairs and entering the lobby by the time the follower starts down. I head straight outside and move off the path, into the relative darkness of the lawn in front of the building. But I go only far enough that, when I look back, I can still see into the lobby through the windows on either side of the door.
The other person has reached the last of the steps. It’s Adam, all right, and he’s holding a couple of trash bags.
Talk about a close one.
When he reaches the bottom, instead of heading out the front door, he turns right without looking my way and disappears down the hallway.
Though I can see the light is still on in his apartment, I’m hoping he’ll head out in his car after he dumps his trash. That way I can let myself into his place, hide another bug there, and have a look around.
I hear Adam leave through a side door and, a few moments later, the squeaky sound of a lid being raised on a trash bin. Unfortunately, I also hear him return to the building. So much for the easy way.
After he disappears upstairs, I walk around to the carport. The flattop roof that shields the cars is high enough to accommodate a truck with a camper shell. The structure is L-shaped, the shorter end extended over to the building at the other side of the parking area but not actually touching it.
The apartment windows on this side are mirror images of those along the front. Pretty awful view if you ask me. Two of the apartments have lights on, but their drapes are closed. The rest of the units are dark.
Using one of the trash bins, I climb onto the carport’s roof and quietly move around to where it meets the main building. There’s a difference of about seven feet between the top of the carport and the top of the apartment building. I’m a tad over six feet tall, so I easily reach the lip and pull myself up onto the larger structure.
The roof is sloped though not drastically, and is covered in asphalt shingles. I ease across it to not cause any noise that might be heard below. Right before I reach the apex, I get onto my hands and knees and crawl from there. Seconds later, when I reach the front edge of the roof just above Adam’s window, I lower myself to my stomach.
