Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Olivia Samms

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Skyscape, New York

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477847237

  ISBN-10: 1477847235

  Book design by Sammy Yuen and Susan Gerber

  For Alex . . . who’s held my hand ever so tightly over the years, never letting go in the red-rover game of life. I love you.

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Joshua had known. . .

  He texted me. . .

  6 days 15 hours 55 minutes

  6 days 11 hours 30 minutes

  6 days 10 hours 15 minutes

  6 days 7 hours 55 minutes

  6 days 6 hours 35 minutes

  6 days 4 hours

  6 days 55 minutes

  4 days 12 hours 45 minutes

  4 days 8 hours 48 minutes

  4 days 7 hours 50 minutes

  3 days 16 hours

  3 days 14 hours 15 minutes

  3 days 9 hours 30 minutes

  3 days 4 hours 15 minutes

  3 days 45 minutes

  1 day 11 hours 45 minutes

  1 day 8 hours 26 minutes

  1 day 5 hours 45 minutes

  1 day 4 hours 40 minutes

  1 day 1 hour 12 minutes

  12 hours 55 minutes

  8 hours 15 minutes

  6 hours 25 minutes

  5 hours 45 minutes

  3 minutes

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR SKETCHY

  Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.

  —Emily Dickinson

  Joshua had known where he was going to do it, and how he was going to do it, but had to wait for the spring thaw, after the harsh, icy winter in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

  A senior at Chelsea High School, he had been surprised by the unexpected Christmas present from his girlfriend, Tina. “I’m preggers, Josh,” she had told him between hot and heavy breaths as they parked in front of a nativity scene at the United Church of Christ.

  So, on the first day of the spring season, when Gallup Park began renting out canoes on the Huron River, Joshua skipped his afternoon classes, making sure that he and Tina were one of the first to rent out a yellow fiberglass vessel.

  He hummed to himself as they paddled around the calm, murky water, passing under the shade of tall cedars that lined the muddy banks—their oars in sync, dodging spiky reeds, dipping swans, and quacking ducks delirious with the warming waters.

  Joshua eventually anchored the boat under a great weeping willow—a tree that Tina thought looked like a waterfall with its delicate branches draping, hanging so low they tickled the tops of their heads.

  He placed his wooden oar carefully inside the canoe, reached into his fleece-lined parka, pulled out a purple velvet box, and awkwardly knelt. The boat rocked, prompting Tina to hold tightly to the sides, giggling. “Josh, no, you didn’t, did you? Is this what today was all about?”

  Joshua’s smile gave it all away. There was nothing else to say but “Tina, I love you. Will you marry me?” She gasped. Her hand covered her mouth, her head shook back and forth as she cried, “Oh my god, no. No. No . . .”

  “What? You’re saying no? Are you kidding me?”

  She continued her wide-eyed whimpering as Joshua sank back down on his butt. He contemplated jumping into the water and pocketed the ring box. “You could’ve let on, Tina. I mean, for chrissakes. You saw the receipt; I know you did.”

  Tina said nothing—only lifted her hand off her mouth and pointed a trembling finger toward the muddy bank, her face set in a silent, horrified scream.

  At first he thought it was a rotted, waterlogged tree trunk as it bobbed around in the white, foamy waves at the edge of the river.

  A school of fish rushed in and surrounded it, until a larger small-mouthed bass shooed them away, circled, and nibbled at the bloated body as it rolled up onto the mucky shore—a young African American teen, fully clothed. His wide-open eyes fixed on Joshua and Tina straight on, as if he were the one surprised by the encounter. A diamond stud in the lobe of his ear, much bigger than the one in Josh’s pocket, sparkled, mocking them.

  Josh jumped. The canoe rocked sharply to the right. He tried to correct the jolt, jerking his body hard, port side, and the oars fell out first. Then the boat wobbled, picked up momentum, and flipped over, creating a wake, and dumping him and Tina into the dark, inky water.

  He frantically dog-paddled to Tina, then felt something at his back, and turned. . . . The body was now beside him. A finger—gray, wrinkled, and shriveled like a clump of upchucked cat fur—tapped at his cheek.

  He texted me late last night. Told me to meet him at 7 a.m. at our usual place.

  I wake early (having barely slept) and scribble out a note—a lie—for the parents, leaving it tucked under the coffeemaker before I fly out the door:

  Hitting the sunrise AA meeting at St. Anne’s before school. Luv, Bea

  I park on a quiet residential street nearby in Ypsilanti, at the corner of River and Maple, as instructed; get out of my car; and quietly close the door, hoping not to draw any attention to myself. But a friggin’ bird lands on the hood of my car and starts chirping its little beak off—different melodies and really loud for its size. I shush it but must remind it of another song ’cause it flies away, singing a new rendition, in a different key, and even louder.

  I hurry along the sidewalk and startle at a sprinkler spurting on. The smell of wet grass fills my nostrils, and I stifle a sneeze. My spring allergies are on high alert with all the flowers and shit blooming—sinuses spazzing, forcing me to take my nose ring out. And my eyes are all red and swollen from itching. The mascara that I carefully applied this morning is, I’m sure, smeared. Damn, I wanted to look hot for him.

  My pulse quickens, as it always does, knowing that within minutes I’ll see him, get my fix, and feel that buzzy zing race through me like an electrical current.

  I start to jog and then immediately slow my pace as an elderly woman steps out the front door of her house to collect the newspaper from the lawn. Not expecting to see me—or anyone for that matter, I’m guessing, as she is dressed in a pink baby doll nightie—she stops mid-bend and freezes as if she were a lawn statue.

  I kind of do a little wave and smile. She grunts, swiftly tucking the paper under her arm, and scuttles off into her house, pulling the bottom of the ruffled hem down over her ass. You go, girl!

  The white eyelet curtain on the windowed door opens a smidgen, as she spies on the suspicious black girl walking on her street early in the morning.

  I don’t want her calling the police, the neighborhood watch, or to be followed—he’d be pissed—so I’ll just act like I’m out for a brisk morning walk. I raise my arms up and lean over, touching my toes, stretching out my very tight—ow—hamstrings, and peek between my legs, noticing that the curtain is now closed. I stand back up, get a little dizzy with the rush in my head, when my damn phone rings—I forgot to set it to vibrate—and I frantically dig it out of the bottom of my bag.

  It’s my best friend, Chris Mayes:


  Me (I whisper): Wazzup?

  Chris: I need you to draw Ian.

  Me: What?

  Chris: Draw the truth out of him. I don’t know if he’s into me anymore.

  Me: Chris, I don’t really have time for this.

  Chris: But I should be able to use you—your power.

  I trip while rushing across the railroad tracks at Depot Town, fumble the phone, almost dropping it.

  Chris: Where are you, anyway? You sound out of breath.

  Me: I woke up late—trying to get ready for school.

  The stupid bird is evidently following me, singing another song from the maple tree above.

  Chris: Since when do you have a bird?

  I give it the evil eye; it works, and the bird flies away.

  Me: I gotta go. See you first period?

  Chris: Fine.

  He hangs up in a huff.

  I hate lying to him and don’t know how long I can keep up the sham. But I can’t tell him about the secret meetings. . . . He’d never understand.

  I grab on to the budding birch trees as I carefully hike the steep ravine that heads down toward the river. The sun shines brightly through the cedars that drape the gully. I stifle another sneeze, hoping not to wake the sleeping homeless person that lives in a cardboard refrigerator box. I happened upon him once before—he was nice and all, but he scared the shit out of me. He politely asked if I could spare some change. I gave him a five—the only bill I could find in my bag. He seemed grateful, and I think because of my generosity he ignores my occasional hookups here with him—but I’m sure I’ll be hit up for more money soon.

  I wrap my long, crocheted ecru sweater coat around my body and scoot along a rickety wooden bridge; climb a wet, grassy hill (dampening the bottom hem of my flared bell-bottom jeans and soaking my fringed moccasin sandals); and reach the abandoned, more than 150-year-old original City Hall in downtown Ypsilanti, Michigan, six miles southeast of Ann Arbor. The stone squat building sits nestled in a woody thicket, bordering the Huron River.

  I crawl through a boarded-up window in the back. Scaffolding leans against the crumbling plaster of the graffiti-covered walls. Yellowed, torn architecture plans lie scattered on the wide, wood-planked floors. In the corner, a chained-off spiral staircase leads to an old jail cell. And he’s there, sitting on a high-backed bench in the middle of the room, looking a little peeved.

  “You’re late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Just an old lady, but I think she’s more concerned about me seeing her—the way she looked.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Chill.” I take a step toward him. “You said you got something for me?”

  He nods, pats the bench, gesturing for me to join him.

  I do, and I am hit, walloped with his smell—a woodsy, spicy, eucalyptus-y smell—and my sinuses clear; my tummy, as always, does a flip-floppy thing.

  Sergeant Dan Daniels from the Ann Arbor Police Department stands, paces. He’s wearing a light brown Windbreaker over faded Levi’s—frayed, ripped, worn through in places down to his skin. Jeans that have probably grown with him over the years, scarred with life’s experiences. And being in the police force for nearly a decade, working himself up the ranks rapidly to sergeant—ever since he was out of high school—he, too, is worn in places.

  “I got a case for you. It’s troubling me. Dealing with a kid your age.”

  “I’m not a kid. I’m almost eighteen.” I check the timer app on my phone and flaunt it in his face. “It says here, it’s only six days, sixteen hours, and forty-five minutes till my birthday.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right. Sorry.” He scratches the blond sandpaper beard on his cheeks and chin. “Well, anyway, this guy, he’s just seventeen.”

  “So, what did he do?”

  “My theory? A lot less than what he’s copping to. I’m questioning him at the station this afternoon.” He stops. Looks at me. “You think you could help me out?”

  I jump up. “Oh my god. You’re messin’ with me, right? You want me to do my thing at the police station?”

  He blows through his lips, sits back down on the bench, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Shakes his head no, but then says, “Yeah, I do. It’s crazy, but I do.”

  “This is so cool.” I lift my fringed suede bag up and over my shoulder and sit cross-legged on the floor, barely able to contain the revved-up feeling that motors through me.

  “His name is Junior. A senior at Skyline High.”

  “The high school across town.”

  “Yeah.”

  I take my Moleskine out of my purse—a sketchbook that I am never without—turn to a clean page to take notes, grab the pen that’s tucked behind my ear. It catches on a curl—pulls. “Ouch.”

  I never should have had my mom cut it last fall—long story why: my hair is half Afro frizz from my dad’s side, half a thick, tangled Italian mess from my mom’s. It was great at first, having it short—freeing—and it was so easy in the morning not having to think about it. But I wasn’t totally down with how I looked. I like variation, changing things up. So I’m growing it out now. My curls aren’t tight enough for a classic ’fro—the four inches or so (of mayhem) sort of flops flat, like ungroomed poodle fur, parted in the middle.

  The only product that keeps my hair in control—less frizzy and super shiny—is olive oil. In particular, my mom’s expensive imported virgin oil. (And, oh my god, if she found out, she’d kill me.) She’s not a cook—far from it—but I think the oil somehow keeps her connected to her Italian roots (not talking hair here), and she sprinkles it on everything as if blessing it. I’ve been sneaking the oil into a spritz bottle. So far she hasn’t noticed—fingers crossed, because you don’t want to tap into my mom’s fiery temper, for sure.

  I finally get the pen detangled, ready to take notes, and look up into his Caribbean Sea green eyes.

  “This one’s tricky, Bea. Maybe you’ll be able to get something out of him. We’ve had an undercover at the school for a couple weeks now, suspecting some major dealing going on. He did a random bag check after school yesterday when the teams were practicing and found a few pounds of brick weed stashed in this kid’s gym bag.”

  I swallow. “Whoa. That’s not just an afternoon high. Sounds like a dealer to me.”

  “Yeah, but he has no priors, squeaky clean from what we’ve found out. He was basically looking at a misdemeanor until Cole started digging around, asking him questions.”

  “Detective Cole? Your partner, that doofus pig?”

  “Bea. I’m a police sergeant. You don’t say pig in front of me.”

  I laugh. “You didn’t object to the doofus part. Tell me something . . . does Junior still have his fingernails?”

  “Cole didn’t torture him.”

  “You sure about that? What does he look like? Is he black?”

  He nods.

  “Then of course Detective Cole thinks he’s guilty.” I finger twist my hair.

  “Stop that,” he scolds. “He’s a good cop.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen. And would you doubt these? Huh?” I point at my eyes, open them wide, teasing the Sarge.

  Daniels stands—turns away. “Don’t you dare, Bea.”

  “Don’t I dare what?”

  “Draw me—what I’m thinking about.”

  “I wasn’t. Jeez.” But I was. I’d already put it down on the page—a rough sketch. It flashed in front of me like a neon sign as I studied him: my eyes. I saw my eyes in his, as if I were staring into a mirror. My almond-shaped, kohl-lined, mascara-smeared hazel eyes.

  He likes me. I know he really likes me, and it’s mind-blowing, stupid crazy weird—the thought of the two of us together. He’s a cop, twenty-eight, and I’m a seventeen-year-old (almost eighteen) recovering addict who spent a substantial amount of time running from the police. We shouldn’t even be thinking of each other in that way, and we haven’t
done anything about it—haven’t even admitted it . . . yet.

  But one thing I’ve learned in the past year is to give up all the shoulds and shouldn’ts. The “you-should-do-this” and “you-shouldn’t-do-that” crap: graduate high school, go to college, meet a frat boy, get married, and have a family. Yeah, I think a lot of peeps live by the shoulds on the outside, but not on the inside.

  On the inside it’s all about secrets and lies.

  “Back to the case.” He grumbles and sits on the bench, avoiding eye contact. “I need you to draw the truth out of him.”

  “Well, like . . . duh.”

  He chuckles.

  I love getting him to laugh. He’s so serious all the time, his blond, fluffy caterpillar eyebrows always pushed together with grown-up worry. But the humor fizzles away—it lasts a second, and he rubs his big paws together. “We pulled a body out of the Huron Monday.”

  I slam my sketchbook shut.

  “A teen—troubled . . . in and out of gangs. His name was Jamal. Classmate of Junior’s. Was shot dead and then dumped.”

  I shiver. “Holy crap, that’s gruesome.”

  “Yeah, I know. So here’s this kid, Junior, denying the pot was his, insisting he didn’t know where it came from, why it was in his bag, when Detective Cole brings up what happened to Jamal. He asked Junior if he knew anything about it, and then, out of the blue, Junior suddenly changes his mind and confesses—says yeah, the weed was his. He’s been dealing, and—get this . . . he says he killed Jamal.”

  I sit up straighter.

  “Said he tossed the murder weapon, the gun, in the river along with the body.” Daniels massages his temples. “So there you have it. The evidence is somewhere at the bottom of the Huron—a 130-mile-long river. Not easy to prove, and he knows it.”

  “Why do you have to prove it? He confessed.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Cole says.”

  Damn. Not cool, me thinking like Detective Cole.

  The sergeant walks over to the stairs and jingles the rusty chain.

  I’ve been tempted to venture down those steps. Evidently the old jail cell leads to one of a series of tunnels that runs under the Huron. The tunnels were originally built for drainage, but urban legend has it that escaped slaves from the south hid in them. They’d wait till night, and then in the darkness, board boats that took them down river, eventually escaping to Canada. But now the tunnels, when not flooded, house taggers, drug dealers, and ballsy teens. . . . I wouldn’t have hesitated to explore them a year ago.