Chapter Two

Part 3

“It’s not that. It’s the fact that even though he’s dirt-poor and on scholarship, he’s always walking around with all the same toys the other Hereford kids have,” Tad explained, leaning both elbows on the table. “PalmPilot. . . iPod . . . laptop computer and on and on.”

“So where’s he getting the money?” I said, my brain starting to come to life. I felt like I was beginning to hone my investigative skills right here. My level of confidence mounted, and I shifted forward in my seat.

“Exactly,” Tad said with a satisfied smile. “Could be drug money.”

I laid Marshall’s picture on top of David’s and grabbed the next one. This kid had juvenile delinquent written all over him. Pallid skin, a furtive expression. You could practically feel the tension in the picture, like as soon as it had been snapped he’d bolted for the nearest door. He had dark, shaggy hair and a bit of stubble around his chin. He sported a leather jacket over the requisite shirt and tie.

Even though he was rough around the edges, I thought he was totally hot. His green eyes were intense, and I’ve always liked the bad-boy type. Or, more accurately, the guys that looked like bad boys but underneath were simply misunderstood tortured-artist types just waiting for someone who really gets them. You know, like James Dean or Pacey Witter or Angel.

Of course, he may not have been a bad boy. I’d made assumptions on the last picture that had proved to be fallacious. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

“Who’s this guy?” I asked.

“Jonathan Wisnewski,” Tad replied with a sneer. “In my opinion, he’s your number one. He hangs out with the only rough crowd at Hereford and he’s always looking over his shoulder. He just has that quality, you know?”

“Wait, so no arrests, no suspicious behavior?” I asked.

“Nah. The administrators just think he’s hiding something,” Tad replied.

Great. It looked like I wasn’t the only one judging books by their covers around here. Still, I couldn’t help it. I was just a peer of these kids, and we always jump to conclusions about each other. But Tad was an adult and a police officer. His behavior seemed a bit precipitate, to say the least.

“Can a person really be a suspect based on their appearance?” I asked.

He opened a folder and read from it. “Student exhibits persistent exhaustion, paranoia and shiftlessness. His eyes are often glassy and rimmed with red. He is sullen, withdrawn and lashes out when provoked.”

I blinked. “You just described half my graduating class,” I told him.

“Well, we decided he’s a suspect, so he’s a suspect,” Tad shot back, eschewing the issue.

“All right, all right,” I said, not wanting to get into a big blowout. “So it’s just those three? No other possibilities?”

“These are the three suspects we’ve weeded out after a careful review,” Tad said. “It’s one of these guys. Don’t waste your time elsewhere.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

At that moment Quincy walked in and handed me a brown folder with an ID clipped to the top. I smiled when I saw that it was a Hereford Academy ID, complete with my senior-year photo and a whole new alias—Kim Sharpe.

“Cool,” I said, yanking the ID free. With it came a freshly laminated Connecticut driver’s license and an ATM card, both with Kim Sharpe’s name. “Wow, you guys are good,” I said, impressed.

“Thanks for the compliment,” Quincy said, blushing. “Now, in that file is your new history. You’ve gotta learn that backward and forward.”

“No problem,” I said, opening the file and flipping through the pages.

“He’s not kidding, Kim. Backward and forward,” my mother said, appearing in the doorway. “Sideways wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

I took a deep breath and placed the folder down in front of me. “I got it, Ma,” I said. I didn’t want her to treat me like I was just her kid around the office. It undermined my credibility—if I had any.

“This isn’t a joke, Kim,” my mother told me, walking into the room. “There’s someone at that school dealing a whole hell of a lot of Ecstasy, and they’re going to be on the lookout for anyone out of the ordinary.”

I straightened up at my mother’s tone and pulled the file toward me again. “Okay,” I told her. Then, noticing her scolding expression, I added, “I’ll study it tonight. I’m going to be a paradigm of an undercover officer. I swear.”

“All right, then, good,” my mother said. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her back pocket and opened it before laying it in front of me. Quincy smiled and placed a fatherly hand on my shoulder. My heart started to pound frenetically as I looked down at the certificate.

This certifies that Kimberly Ann Stratford is hereby instated as a Deputy Officer of the Law in the town of Morrison, County of Morris, State of Connecticut.

It was really happening. I was about to become an Officer of the Law. Kickass!

“You’ll have to sign this before we can dispatch you on any assignment,” Quincy said, clearing his throat in an official way as he handed me a pen.

I grinned at all of them, feeling like some kind of maverick young lawmaker—the type of woman they made bad Lifetime movies about. Any doubts I had about my abilities were allayed as I saw the confidence in their eyes. There was no way I could walk away from this now. I signed the certificate with a flourish.

David, Marshall and Jonathan had better watch their backs, I thought. Deputy Kim Stratford was on their tails, and they were never going to see me coming.