“Terrance ever talk about his father with you or any of his teachers?”
“Not to me, but if he did talk, it would have been to his coach.” He reached for the phone on his desk. “This is Coach Wagner’s planning break. He should be able to join us.” A quick call and the principal arranged for the coach to come straight to the office.
While they waited, Sharp couldn’t help but remember his days in this school. He’d been an average student, but his interest had not been in the books, which he’d considered a necessary evil until he could enlist in the marines. It wasn’t until his midtwenties that he’d started taking online college classes. It had taken him nearly a decade of taking classes part-time before he could cobble together enough credits for a degree.
A knock sounded at the door, and he rose to see a sturdy man with a short haircut at the threshold. He wore a golf shirt in the school’s trademark burgundy along with khakis and athletic shoes.
Sharp shook his hand and introductions were made. “Did anyone carry a grudge toward Terrance?”
“The kid had no enemies. Easygoing. One of the kids I pictured with a real future, despite the fact his father wasn’t worth much.”
“What do you know about Jimmy Dillon?”
“That Terrance wanted to please him. The kid loved his father and wrote to him while he was in prison. He was excited that Mr. Dillon was about to get out of prison. The kid thought they could be more like father and son.”
“You sound skeptical,” Sharp said.
“The man made promises in his letters that he’d come to the kid’s games, but he never showed as far as I know. Hard to see a good kid spurned by his father.”
“Would Mr. Dillon have killed his own son?”
“I don’t know. But I know the guy’s been in prison and wouldn’t be surprised if he introduced the kid to someone who did kill him.”
“Any names?”
“None. Sorry.”
“What about Terrance’s friends?”
“He hung out with Ronnie and Garcia,” the coach said.
“Either of them here?”
The principal entered the names into the computer. “I can pull them from class if that will help.”
“It would. Thanks,” Sharp said.
The principal made calls to the boys’ classrooms, and minutes later they appeared. Both looked worried, nervous.
Sharp rose as the principal introduced him. “I’m here to ask you about Terrance.”
The boy on the left—tall, lean, and well muscled, with pale skin and red hair—spoke first. “We still can’t believe it.”
“And your name?” Sharp asked.
“I’m Ronnie. Ronnie Tolley.”
“Okay, Ronnie. Did Terrance hang out with anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”
The kid shifted his stance. “No, he was clean. He was easygoing. Never pissed anyone off.”
The other kid, shorter, thicker, had raven-dark hair and large brown eyes. He had to be Garcia. “Everyone liked him.”
“Garcia, right?” Sharp asked.
“Joey Garcia. I’ve known Terrance since the sixth grade.”
“Did you ever see Terrance with his father?”
“I never saw him, but I know they talked on the phone. Jimmy started calling Terrance a couple of weeks ago.”
“Do you know what they talked about?”
“Terrance never would say,” Garcia said. “He was a little nervous about talking to Jimmy. He was afraid his grandmother would be upset.”
“Did Terrance have a girlfriend?” Sharp asked.
“He did,” Garcia said. “But they broke up six months ago. Terrance’s grandmother didn’t want him dating anybody. She wanted him focused on school and football.”
“You sure about that?” Sharp asked. “When he was found, he was dressed nice. Did he always dress up?”
“He liked to look nice,” Garcia said.
“Did he have a date?” Sharp asked.
The boys looked at each other, then back at Sharp. It was Ronnie that said, “He never told us.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes talking about Terrance. He learned the kid often went to a diner in town named Bessie’s with the other players. Nothing else the coach, kids, or principal had to offer amounted to a lead.
“Thank you for your time,” Sharp said. “Call me if you hear anything.”
Outside in the bright sunshine, he put on his sunglasses. He couldn’t do much to fix his personal life, but he sure as hell could find justice for Terrance.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday, October 4, 10:00 p.m.
Sharp had spent the rest of the afternoon visiting with Terrance’s neighbors. The door-to-door visits took time and energy, but he’d learned as a cop that there was no substitute for the footwork. Forensic science might sway television juries, but in reality, knocking on doors solved more cases.
In the end he only confirmed what he’d heard so far. Terrance was a good kid, who not only had played football but also had been one of the stars in the region. He’d had a shot at a scholarship to an NCAA Division II school—not the big leagues, but it would have been a full ride and likely his only ticket to a better life. Terrance, or Terry as his neighbors called him, had dated a girl named Stephanie earlier this year, but as his friends had indicated, they’d broken up in mid-February. He had a host of friends and all liked the kid. Everyone was shocked he’d been stabbed.
A few old-timers remembered Jimmy Dillon, and they all agreed he had been a deadbeat before he went to jail. For a time Jimmy, his wife, and Terrance lived with Mrs. Jones, and once or twice the cops had been called when neighbors heard screams. The neighbors said it was flat-out domestic abuse, but when Sharp returned to the office and checked Jimmy’s arrest record, he found no charges of domestic abuse had been filed.
Jimmy had still not checked in with his parole officer, and so far there’d been no sightings of him. Sooner or later, rats like Jimmy had to crawl out from under their rocks.
By the time Sharp arrived at his town house, he was tired and in a foul mood. As he dug out his keys, he spotted several boxes piled in front of his door. He reached for the lid of the top box. A glance at several pages told him they were Kara’s files. Douglas Knox had found his personal address. Once a cop, always a cop.
Sharp rolled his head from side to side as he closed the lid. The knot in his gut tightened.
He wanted all the questions around Kara’s death answered, but he wasn’t the man to find them. His lack of objectivity coiled around too much emotion meant he could easily screw it all up.
He pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed Clay Bowman’s number.
Bowman picked up on the second ring. “Sharp.”
He wasn’t any good at calling in favors. Rather chew on broken glass. “I hear Shield is organizing a cold case group.”
“It’s in the works.”
“I have a case.”
“Riley told me.”
“I’ve a half-dozen boxes full of files.”
“Good. I’ve already spoken to Garrett Andrews, our tech guy. He’s ready for them.”