A Good Killing Read Free Page A

and dilapidated. Witheach auto factory that closed, the town took a hit. And the commerce that still remained in Holly Grove was in the suburbs. Cooper continued out there, passing subdivisions anchored with strip malls, big-box stores, and massive parking lots. He turned onto a smaller cross street, leaving the commercial strip behind.
    As they came up to the curve before Holly Grove High School, Anna noticed an acrid smell, growing stronger. The football stadium came into sight, and she stared at it in shock.
    A burned-out car was smashed into the center of a blackened circle at the bottom of the stadium’s cement wall. The ground beneath it was an oily scab of scorched earth. The top of the stadium appeared unscathed, with the word BULLDOGS still gleaming in blue and silver. Yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the area. A few police officers lingered around the perimeter.
    Cooper pulled the bike to the shoulder, put down the kickstand, and took off his helmet. The roar of the engine was replaced with the chirping of insects. She took off her helmet too, smelling fresh-cut grass, ashes, and gasoline.
    “What happened?” she asked.
    “This is where Coach Fowler died,” Cooper said.
    “How?”
    “He came around this turn. Guess his car was going pretty fast. Crashed right into the stadium. His car went up in flames. He didn’t make it out.”
    She climbed off the bike and walked to the edge of the yellow tape. A cop on the other side glanced over but didn’t shoo her away. She guessed the crime-scene work was done and they were just waiting for a tow. Cooper stood next to her.
    The car was a classic Corvette. A few spots of blue paint were still visible, but most of the outside was burned black. The hood was smashed in so far, the car looked like a pug. A circular web cracked the windshield in front of the driver’s seat.
    Anna looked at the ground between the road and the stadium. There was a dirt shoulder, a section of grass, and then a cement apron abutting the concrete wall. There were no skid marks.
    “You know what’s weird?” Cooper said.
    “Other than Coach Fowler crashing right into his stadium, without making any apparent attempt to stop?”
    “Cars don’t generally explode on impact. I mean, it happens sometimes, but it’s not like the movies. It’s rare. And when cars do catch fire from a crash, there’s usually a more heavily burned area where the fire started, like around the battery or gas tank, and then some less burned parts. But the coach’s car is blackened all around. To me, cars look like this when someone has taken serious steps to make it happen.”
    “How do you know so much about burning cars?”
    “I saw a lot of them in Afghanistan.” Cooper ran a hand through his short black hair. “I was in one.”
    Anna glanced up at his face. He was looking at the stadium, but seeing something else. Before she could respond, a police officer came up to them. “Help you?”
    “Actually, yes, sir.” Cooper straightened and put a hand on Anna’s shoulder. “We’re looking for my friend’s sister, Jody Curtis. I understand you are, too. Do you know if she’s been located?”
    “She’s at the station now.”
    “Is she okay?” Anna said.
    “Seems so.”
    “Thank God.” She was flooded with relief. “What’s she doing at the station?”
    “Being interrogated,” the officer said. “In connection with Coach Fowler’s death.”
    That made Anna pause. Questioned was one thing. Interrogated sounded a lot more adversarial.
    “Thanks, Officer.” She turned to Cooper. “Can we head to the station?”
    “Let’s go.”

4
    M om always told us not to use the word hate. “Hate is a very strong word,” she said. “Save it for the very worst things.” We could say we “disliked” something, or we “didn’t care for” it. But let me tell you: I hated Wendy Weiscowicz. Not like cleaning the toilet or global warming, which I merely disliked. I hated her.
    We’d never been