Jersey Dogs: McGuinness/Pedregon Casebook #1

Two cousins. Two mysterious prostitutes. And one biologic father wants both sons dead.

JUNIOR YEAR ARRIVES for Casper and Logan McGuinness with a bloodstained, unexpected birthday contact and an eerie text coming to pass. While adopted parents Enzo and Angela de Francisci stubbornly refuse to explain the boys’ biologic parents’ backstories, the cousins dig into their pasts in stealth to unravel a history bigger than they realized. The first of several attempts on the boys’ lives exposes the school’s desk clerk’s true identity, and conversations with an ex john and respite from a former madam lands Casper in jail and the cousins on the streets of New York. Through an intricate tale of loyalty, humor, first love, and discovering trust and sacrifice, jersey dogs Casper and Logan venture into the personal and collective unknown to stop a brutal killer and a network of thugs from fulfilling a murderous to-do list—and have to trust one another so they’ll stay two steps ahead of alive.

Sneak Peek of KINGZ of CASPAN COUNTY

McGuinness/Pedregon Casebook #2

About the Author

JERSEY DOGS

McGuinness/Pedregon

Casebook  #1

One

Sam Adams Gets Off to a Stiff Start

LOGAN EASED THE SILVER lid of the filigreed de Francisci mailbox closed so it wouldn’t squeak, then passed me a fat bundle of two-day old mail. Look for the name Bazooka Jo Campbell.

Why?

"Just do it."

Okay, okay. I edged us from the door’s flank windows so no one inside would spot us on the brownstone steps.

Forget the junk crap, dude. Pops and Junior are awake. We gotta move.

The breeze licked at a corner of a thick, green envelope I held up. Got it.

Open it!

I spread apart the envelope’s contents and frowned at the sadistically happy leprechaun tossing glittered shamrocks in the air. What, no money?

Just read the damn card. And keep your voice down.

Early bright tiptoed into Brooklyn as I read the squirrelly ink lines semi-slow in a near whisper.

" ‘My deerist Caspir & Lowgun Mcginness—

It bee thyme I tole yoo I new yurr mamas two. They be surr prowd to half berth yoo. Yo mamas wanted yoo both to not never no of they life they chews but did not get out from under of. They baby daddy never give them no peas and they leff the own lee way they figgered—in dyin. Almighty God gives yoo mens a luvlee home and a luvlee life and I be honnered to lern yoo and yurr bruther are growed too be the fein boys yoo post two bee. Happie Berthday!

Frum Yurr Beluved,

Bazooka Jo.’

Who’s Bazooka Jo?

She sent us birthday cards, Gramps.

Writing and spelling this badly?

Get over it, dude.

How does she know us?

Hard to say.

His two-second delay in the reply said he knew more. Like his running away three times and no explanation why. How many did she send, including this one?

Logan pressed the front door handle quietly and we slipped in the house. Three.

Does this have anything to do with Pops de Francisci not letting us see our mail since we were nine?

Maybe.

Some lovely home and a lovely life, considering how he treats us. Strong Italian coffee brewing, frying catfish, and bustling first-day-of-school activity drifted in the entryway. "Who is she?"

Somebody who knew our biologic mothers, evidently, my cousin finally replied. He handed me the card, took its envelope, then went upstairs to finish getting dressed.

Anybody check yesterday’s mail? Junior—Pops’s namesake and our oldest adopted brother—yelled. His footfalls thumping the basement stairs, I scurried the card into my boxer briefs, the rest of the post spilling to the entryway floor.

Anything interesting? Junior leaned his slim frame against the living room doorway, his lazy smile never touching his eyes.

Nope. I unhooked my thumb from the staple fold attached to a sample pack of bluegrass seeds in Pops de Francisci’s issue of Landscaping Today and willed my hands to quit shaking. Nothing special.

Junior tucked the mail he gathered under his arm, crossed both. What’cha up early for, huh?

I shifted my weight from one bare foot to the other, prayed my expression or body language didn’t tell on me. First day of school. Reckon I’m still on summer landscaping time.

A muscle under his right eye twitched. What’s this about a birthday card?

So he knew something, too; I never mentioned finding a birthday card. Who’d send a card in September when my birthday’s not until March?

Junior! Pops’s voice boomed through the five-bedroom brownstone. Saved by the foghorn. Norris and I needed you on that Jersey City site an hour ago! Get moving!

Already call ’im, Pops!

"Then Norris can pay your two hours of my time. Leave. Now!"

Junior never cottoned to Logan or me since the de Franciscis adopted us (neither did Pops de Francisci, for reasons I never understood, and middle kid Bobby kept his distance). The feeling was mutual. He whispered, I think I had about enough of you, bitch, before closing the front door.

I scowled through the door’s side pane as he got in his car. Asshole.

Hey, Gramps! Logan yelled from upstairs (his nickname for me when I read The Great Brain Reforms on my own and his slowest reading group worked through Danny and the Dinosaur when we were six).

Let’s roll! I’m not takin’ a late-on-the-first-day swatting from Mrs. Carson three years running!

TAP THE BRAKES NEXT time, man, Logan warned. You already ran two lights!

Missed ’em. I coasted Pops’s 1982 Ford F-150, rolled to the intersection of Helkimer and Spruce when yellow changed to red. Waiting out foot and vehicle traffic, I sideways glanced my cousin working like a nut to catch a chesty Puerto Rican girl’s attention. He got it and the guy’s with her, too. Logan ducked back in the cab after the dude began to approach as the light clicked to green, and I zipped through the intersection while I tamped down a laugh.

Missed ’em, Bobby mocked from the driver’s side backseat. "Lucky I’m already licensed. You’re not even supposed to drive since you don’t have enough class hours. Five months older than Logan and me, I’d convinced Bobby to let me take the wheel, since he’d had her on several spins, and I wanted a turn. His glower on me could’ve fried eggs. Run one more light, Casper, I’m telling."

So you’re good with the folks knowing about your Hot Legs app? I made sure he spotted my knowing expression in the rearview. Logan snickered.

Bobby sunk deeper in the backseat. Nosy ass.

I grinned at the dash and red mud crusting the floor mats but obeyed and eased off the gas. Logan let his meaty left arm drape the seat, and he dropped his voice to the lion’s purr timbre he used on females. Aww, man, chill. We’re ridin’ in style.

That’s what subways are for. Bobby turned his scowl on the other McGuinness, but his reply sounded far away when the birthday card’s contents bubbled to mind. Almighty God gives yoo mens a luvlee home and a luvlee life and I be honnered to lern yoo and yurr bruther are growed too be the fein boys yoo post two bee. Happie Berthday!

Logan . . . my brother?

Who were these women? Had they been our biologic mothers?

They baby daddy never give them no peas.

If they had been our biologic mothers, what had happened to them they’d never contacted us? What about our biologic fathers? Did they—or he—harm them?

They leff the only way they figgered.

In dyin.

Dying. How, when, why? Was it murder? Suicide? Who’d been responsible?

Had Mom and Pops de Francisci known this? Does Junior? If so, why? Why not tell us?

Perspiration glazed my armpits. Nudging aside shivers from the groundswell of questions, my voice shook while pacifying Bobby. In this sweet ride, we’re Santa Claus.

"Aaaaannd, Logan added, tipping a wink as I drove to the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Westchester Streets, females can’t resist sweet rims or a dude with good hair."

A ghost smirk plumped Bobby’s tanned cheeks. Ever since the girls at Sam Adams Freedom Academy tripped over themselves over his forest-thick locks at the Spring Fling dance I’d been invited to earlier this year, the middle de Francisci kid let his inner chick up for air. His older sisters’ portable dryer practically glued to his hand, he’d been neck deep in Paul Mitchell products this past summer, preening for his lion’s share of selfies to upload to Instagram. Bobby made a production of tying a sneaker lace to keep from meeting our eyes, then hopped through his back passenger door before the truck reached a full stop a half block from school. Catch youse later. Casper, don’t forget to lock up.

I got this.

Logan leaned through the shotgun window after my near-perfect parallel park. You ain’t hangin’ with us?

Don’t need a wet nurse, Bobby said over the din as he neared two females and another guy clustered near the building’s medieval-styled, four-paned doors. Other kids of every size and in varied states of uniform dress lounged on stone benches, sat on the hoods of their rides, or lay on the grass of the gated, sun-covered schoolyard after leaving school buses or coming from the subway.

I’m driving after, Logan declared once back in the cab.

Let’s pin this card business. I fished the wrinkled greeting from my right hip khakis pocket. You said this Jo sent us mail before. Why’s she contacting us now?

Not sure. And to answer your earlier question, I know who she is, so leave it alone. He inspected the card’s back panel, then thrust it my way. "What in the sweet chocolate Jesus is this?"

I flipped the card over. Not noticing this green glitter-flecked blotch earlier, the stain covering half the American Greetings logo appeared smeared, as if somebody wiped their fingers clean from it before sending it out. It might be . . . blood.

Whoa, Logan breathed while reading the card again, it says, ‘you and your . . . brother are growed to be the fine boys you were supposed to be.’ Glinting like blue isotopes, his eyes found mine. "We could be blood brothers instead of cousins?"

It wouldn’t be unheard of. I cracked a dry grin. You obviously know who she is, so you’d know that, too, right?

Logan tucked the card in his backpack, then gazed at the windshield, expression thoughtful. In the unsettling silence despite other kids’ amped excitement when a series of electronic beeps sounded, I forced myself to watch a clutch of girls cross the street and squeeze in single file between our ride and a parked school bus to the school grounds’ sidewalk.

A second set of electronic chime beeps sounded—in concert F that went "so-do-mi-so-do"—and students streamed in the building. We exited the truck, the alarm chirping when I locked the doors. Logan gripped my shoulder, a slight tremor holding his voice. It’ll be cool, Gramps. We’ll just figure this out like we always do.

My gut knotted at his overconfidence wrapped in secrecy. Ribbing Bobby about his salacious phone app visits, typical junior year hassles over the drama of practice SATs, vacillating to attend college or skip it, tolerating spaz sophomores, and crushing on an out-of-my-league female or two was one thing.

But this budding mystery gnawing at me wasn’t my world.

Was that bloodstained mail intentional?

Report it, dude.

Yeah, okay. But who’d have reason to care?

Logan and I, brothers? Not cousins? Could this be a mistake, a sick joke the de Franciscis were in on . . . or . . .

Was it true?

Worse yet—why had my biologic mom died?

Even more worse: Why couldn’t I let myself return to the familiar hell of Pops and Mom de Francisci’s years-long parental complacency?

You better be right, dude.

I always am.

Logan slung his right arm across my quaking shoulders and gave me a wide, we-got-this grin. I chuckled, swallowed my unease, inhaled deep of first-day-of-school smells of new clothes, sports gel, flowery perfumes, and virgin loose-leaf paper, and melded with the last of the student body heading inside

Samuel Adams Freedom Academy wasn’t a typical high school—what else would you call a place gathering hormone-hopped teenagers in LeBrons and sporting Neutrogena-treated zit faces?—but a trade school/collegiate prep charter school dedicated to vocational and academic excellence, according to the mission statement-embossed mail sent home. Like it played second runner-up to the pageantry of higher education, only with more choices. Students could learn trig and calc, or gain a trade apprenticeship in a hands-on training mecca before its graduates descended on an unsuspecting world. Be it a carpenter, electrician, nurse, car mechanic, attorney, or musician—my backup vocation if Constitutional Law didn’t pan out—Samuel Adams Freedom Academy served as a one-stop educational shop representing a cross section of mid-to-older teen life.

"Good morning and welcome, collegiates-in-training!" announced Dr. Benjamin Weiss, Dean of Students, after the Pledge. A jowly, corpulent guy in half-moon spectacles on his squarish face, a patch of sable black in his styled steel-grey hair, his midsection appeared as wide as he was tall. He framed one side of a huge projection screen while he spoke through a headset microphone. If owls could be human, no contest he’d fit that bill; I half expected him to start hooting.

Samuel Adams Freedom Academy operates as a charter co-op, ladies and gentlemen, the first of its kind in New York City. Such freedom carries responsibilities, and I expect each of you on your best behavior within these walls. You hold your spot based on your academic standings, behavior, and community contributions. All these are not finalized until progress reports, sent via encrypted emails, will be issued during the first weeks of December, March, and June. Your seats are several wait-listed names long.

He rocked on his heels, expression expectant we’d bask in his dramatic pause, but a kid ripped long, deep belch and many giggles and whispers followed instead. A girl snapped her gum. A seat behind me, another girl played Ninjatown: Trees of Doom on her phone. Dr. Weiss crossed the stage to frame the other side of the projection screen and cleared his throat, probably tired of an audience of crickets. Your progress reports are hack-proof. We’ll have a master copy of your marks in the school’s intranet system—and your parents or guardians shall be emailed those reports before you receive these hard copies to prevent grade alterations. This information is outlined in your student handbooks. I think you gnome sayin’ about that.

Several of us groaned. Adults using teenspeak screamed loser. Bored, I slouched in the seat and tried not to fall asleep.

"You are six hundred twenty-three students strong, a tiny establishment by New York City Board of Education school standards, continued Weiss, and the only student body in the state to benefit from trade school settings and college-prep courses in our little-engine-that-could institution. Two students of this year’s junior class arrive with exceptional grades: a transfer from Benjamin Cardozo High, Casper McGuinness, and former homeschooled student, Jay Vincent Pedregon! A hearty round of applause, everyone, please!"

That snapped me alert.

A silver hoop through his right eyebrow, a lanky guy maybe a buck eighty soaking wet and in cinderblock boots, stood. Bowing deep and fast several times to the tepid response, he shook his clasped hands over his head of dark reddish-gold, partially corn-braided Appaloosa hair like he’d discovered Hoffa’s final resting place. Meanwhile, an electron became my universe and I sank lower in my seat. Logan snickered and nudged me.

Weiss eats this shit for breakfast. Show some respect, dick-lick, a voice whispered through a Rudy Giuliani-esque lisp three seats over behind me. The guy bore a flat nose and generous stubble on a face shaped from old clay. I gave him the stink eye, shot up as if I’d been launched, then sat again, cheeks burning with embarrassment. A purple-streaked blonde female a few seats down from me winked and smiled.

The dean, indicating the screen after he resumed order, said bathroom passes were monitored, so take care of that business between classes, as Sam Adams Freedom Academy adhered to five-minute grace periods after classes began. Tighter rule enforcement than Cardozo ever had, yet Freedom was in this school’s name? I wondered if anyone else caught the irony.

After more lame PowerPoint slides about notes home, school trips, dress code policies, fire drill protocol, and zero tolerance on fights, drugs, alcohol, weapons, tobacco, and other activities considered illegal, Dr. Weiss concluded with a wide smile and hand flourish, I wish us all an exquisite, productive year!

During a robust applause and limp cheers from students thrilled his presentation ended, a horsefaced, slender woman in a white blouse and long, green plaid skirt adjusted the projector. PowerPoint instructions flashed onscreen, displaying where in the auditorium surname lines would be. I inched closer to the stage in the H-P line with juniors who knew one another. Not in a yakkity mood, I counted the number in Bobby’s A-G queue; his stood longer than the other two groups by sixteen students.

Lemme in here, bub, Silver Eyebrow Hoop said. Logan stepped aside and zeroed in on a Taiwanese gal in the Q-Z line, and I found a wry smile. He’d have her number in his phone faster than geese mapped migration patterns, declaring his unbridled lust for her by eighth period.

Jacob Vincent’s the name my folks cooked up for me. I’m good with J.V., Pedregon, or Jay Vincent, the guy said. Just don’t call me Jake or late to dinner. He gave a sheepish grin at his threadbare joke Groucho Marx might’ve hooked him on piss-poor delivery. "Glad to know you. Gonna be a detective with my own agency, but no Sam Spade cases for this cat. I want strange stuff to figure out. Like unexplained disappearances, time travel, wormholes, paranormal and lucid dreaming cases to solve, even uncover why some scientists are bumped off for the intel they knew. You ever see the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark? That shit, man." He pulled his hand back when I didn’t take its grip.

Another explorer to explain the Bermuda and Michigan Triangle’s riddles. Oh, yay! I snapped my fingers. Betcha you’ll find the Ark of the Covenant, the Lost City of Atlantis, or the Purple Diamond of Madagascar and gain yourself fortune and glory.

Unfazed over my sarcasm, he spun the eyebrow hoop earring. Probably.

What’s your name again, dude?

Jay Vincent Pedregon, Silver Eyebrow Ring answered.

I nodded, gave a shrug. Logan returned, he and Pedregon dude hugged, then my cousin squeezed my right shoulder so deep his nails bit skin. I reached around to score a bruising nip under his left wing.

You gotta excuse my alleged blood relative. He ain’t known for his manners, he said before unleashing a string of profanities in Italian and English at me for the pinch. Jay Vincent dropped to his knees, spellbound over Logan’s well-stocked thesaurus of insults. Master!

He’s Logan. I’m Casper. I helped Pedregon stand, then we shook hands, but only because I almost saw the guy’s miasma of desperation for a handshake. Hmm. Pedregon could work in some private eye training over who this Jo was, what Logan knew that I didn’t, and what that atypical birthday card meant. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted him tight with me just yet.

The other McGuinness good-naturedly gave me the finger to my sucks-to-be-you smirk after the horsefaced student coordinator brayed him sixty decibels of nag for his language. He tucked his violation in his khakis pocket, then went to talk with the Taiwanese female again after the student coordinator issued another Code of Decency red card to a heavyset senior lying under the Q-Z registration table, his turbo penlight aimed up a teacher’s dress.

I waited for the usual ribbing whenever I introduced myself, but Pedregon only said, Lotsa people have geographical places as first names. I knew a girl named Jupiter from a homeschool playgroup when I was seven. She liked eating paste and raw macaroni. Guess somebody dug you enough to tag Casper on you.

I guess. His response muted my standoffishness a little. Dunno, though. I’m adopted.

The line nudged forward a few steps. Yeah?

Don’t know much about my biologic folks, and only know Logan’s my cousin, I added. Or brother, the card’s contents reminded me. And my biologic mom was dead by homicide or suicide. I shivered again and crouched to reorient and retie a bootlace.

My dad’s an IT guy for a satellite cell phone company, and my mom’s an oncology nurse. A head taller than my five-eleven, Jay Vincent ducked somebody’s thrown paper airplane and dragonfly drone of prehistoric proportions behind that. My mom’s parents don’t contact us much, but my paternal grandmother is retired Smokey. First female captain in the 51st barn in the South Bronx during the Koch Admin.

I reached the table where the H-P class schedules were issued. NYPD?

You know it. I’m an amateur digital photographer, too. It’ll help heaps with the sleuthing, but I’m saving for a film-loading Nikon with a high-powered lens. He shifted his weight. You into anything, apart from being a full-time caustic cynic?

Acoustic guitar, I replied around a loud yawn. How the hell did he sense this about me?

You hitting up the jazz ensemble they got here? I’m hearin’ they’re badass, Jay Vincent said.

I’d gotten pretty good with fretwork, harmonic, chromatic, and pentatonic scales with learning Satriani and Chet Atkins stuff over the summer, on the days I wasn’t fried after work in Pops’s landscaping business for his tri-state area customers. Though I scored great paychecks, my social calendar went tits up, most especially in seeing females, but that was the trade-off life often was. Nah. Enrolled in Acoustic Guitar II, though. Between practice and homework and stuff, I won’t have time.

McGuinness, Casper, said somebody behind me.

The seated guy had friendly brown eyes and possessed a bear caterpillar of a moustache snoozing on his upper lip that might’ve done his dome a world of good. I’m Professor Mitchell. You’re in my Biology-Forensics class. I’m also your homeroom instructor. See you in thirteen minutes.

He handed me a large, green computer-printed index card. I noted his voice held a big catlike growl and I did a double take.

It’s a tracheotomy, a girl said in my ear. And don’t stare, it’s rude.

My schedule card fluttered to the floor when I faced the purple-streaked blonde from earlier. Her braces shone from the sunlight streaming in the auditorium windows, and she cinched her pack higher. Hi. We share a few classes, you and me. Three, I think.

Yo, they’re calling you and Logan to the dean’s office. Jay Vincent sent a poke to my ribs. A quizzical expression passed over his shamrock green eyes while he cleaned his lenses with his shirttails. Man, first day of school’s twenty minutes old and you’re already busted? Can’t imagine what for.

I tucked the schedule in my backpack’s side pocket. Neither can I.

Catch you at lunch, dude! Jay Vincent yelled.

I tossed him a thumb’s up and jogged to catch up to Logan, who was some twenty yards ahead of me. My cell vibrated from a hip pocket as I galloped up the stairs. Reading its face, I fell, knocking myself stupid when my temple hit a step lip.

Although the number listed private, the text lay widescreen-clear: Tune out the iced dude under the window or you & Logan are next.

Two

Shark Grins and Sawdust

HEY, DUDE! THE EFFORT calling Logan made me dizzy as kids shoved over, elbowed around, ducked under, and otherwise turned me into a human football while they hustled to classes. "Hold up! Now!"

My cousin’s solid build redirected a swift people current around him until he hopped out the path of two guys practicing lay-ups and Globetrotter-esque dribbling. I shoved my phone in his face when we reached one another and drew quivering breaths to steady my nerves and hold the rising nausea down.

What the shit? he said to the screen.

First the card’s timing and contents, now a threatening text. In spite of suffering decent vertigo from the fall, adrenaline dammed the waterworks. We gotta hide.

Logan finger-combed his near jet-black curls. Chill, man. We’ll just go home.

My left temple surged pain through my jaw. Wouldn’t you think that might be the first place they’d look? And what bullshit story could we concoct to stay with Mom there? We’d only have to come back tomorrow.

Could be Junior sent it. He hates us anyway.

"He did tell me, ‘I think I had about enough of you, bitch,’" I said.

When?

When you were upstairs getting ready and Pops de Francisci told him to get moving.

Okay, then. Dickhead did it.

Despite Junior’s feelings about us, Logan’s accusation bugged me. No concrete proof de Francisci’s namesake sent the text as a creepy joke or even committed a homicide—even sewer sludge like him is presumed innocent, yadda yadda—but I filed this for reference. "What purpose would Junior have to kill somebody and send us the text about it? Hating us is one thing, but that level of bragging goes to another level."

Okay, fine. Logan thumbed 911 as he hitched his khakis. We call 5-O and they sort it out.

Like they’d offer us ice creams with rainbow sprinkles as reward? I powered off his call. The text’s marked private. They might as well interrogate a cloud.

Then we tell Weiss. We’re headed there anyhow.

"Now why didn’t I think of that?"

My cousin branded me a scowl as a librarian pulling a half-filled book trolley passed us. Ease off, Gramps. You don’t hold exclusives on bein’ scared shitless.

I had to admit I was grateful somebody might help, but hated the instinctive shift in the familiar emotional purgatory I wanted to stay hidden in. Sorry.

You think the card is connected with the text? Logan wondered.

No sooner than my saying Dunno, a sunbeam blasted through the inner murkiness; he clearly knew more about Bazooka Jo than I, yet sought my take on this high strangeness. How about we hang at Jay Vincent’s? Dude said his grandmother’s retired NYPD, so no one’ll dare try anything with us at his place.

Traffic thinned as we neared the main office. Not necessarily, Logan whispered. The GPS in our phones would still track us.

I switched my phone’s location feature to off. Done.

Expression split into a slick grin, Logan did likewise to his phone, then held up a black, flip-closed version. Plan B is officially in effect.

Dude, the hell? I asked in a stunned whisper as I shouldered open the partially frosted glass door as Logan stopped suddenly.

Can I help you? asked a copper-haired female at a workstation. An iMac monitor to her left, her slender, manicured fingers never stopped moving over the compact keyboard. A chubby guy, possibly early twenties, with a mop of platinum-frosted curls over a baby face, bore a generous splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He sat before his terminal importing student data, his speakerphone bellowing a tinny ’80s tune throughout the office, and passed curious glances and sly winks to Logan and me. Although a little touched he thought me hot, the gesture added to my jitters—I definitely didn’t float that way.

Dr. Weiss sent for us. I hoped this delicious model for Victoria’s Secret lingerie paid no heed to the wobble in my voice.

Names? she chirped. I also hoped she ignored Logan ogling her totally natural, smooth-like-buttermilk C cups. She slid us a coy smile and fluffed her peach blouse from her neck a few times, her high beams and subtle perfume making me drool and almost forgetting I knocked myself silly.

Melody, I’ll take over, said a light-skinned Black woman, her beads in primary colors stacked on her micro-braids matching her multicolored dress. She pressed a button under her desk, and the chest-high metal gate swung inward with a click. Dr. Weiss’s office is the second door on your right, boys.

I inhaled deep of the desk girl’s perfume, a dynamite blend of honeysuckle and some other flowers I couldn’t place to calm my galloping heart. Jasmine? No, freesia. Didn’t matter. Girls were annoying, bossy, demanding know-it-alls who shrilled and talked too much . . .until puberty and hormones took over when I was twelve and since. Before this card business distracting me from the de Franciscis’ emotional indifference, although I didn’t have one to call my own, lately it was nonstop thoughts of soprano and mezzo-soprano voices, soft lips, darkened basements, and one lucky female’s warm breath and gentle hands tickling me as she sighed my name over pleasant possibilities.

Sweet threads, Baby Love. All this for me on the first day? What’ll people think? my cousin asked the lady, his tone laced with pineapple caramel drizzle. With two fingers of my left hand, I rubbed my temple to coax the throb (and semi hard-on) away. The desk girl giggled when I rolled my eyes and mouthed Oh, brother.

"That’s Mrs. Carson, Logan. Laughing, the Black lady dismissed him with a sheaf of papers in the manner she’d shoo off a persistent biting fly. To me, she said, Welcome to Samuel Adams Academy, Casper. I wish you the best for this coming term."

Thanks, Ma’am.

"Oooh, girls! Tell me if that short guy’s build isn’t screaming Chuck Norris realness! And the Heath Ledger lookalike with him werkin’ those dreamy grey eyes? The curly-haired dude fanned himself. Don’t tell my man I said this, but if lovin’ them is wrong, I don’t wanna be right."

Back to work, Daniel. Mrs. Carson pointed at his desk speakerphone while we passed by. I told you about fraternizing like that around here.

‘Bout time somebody did, Logan muttered behind me.

I let five soft raps fall on Dr. Weiss’s ajar door. You sent for us, sir?

No answer.

I checked the phone’s face again. Tune out the iced dude under the window or you & Logan are next. Instead of feeling cresting panic, adrenaline rocketed through me with fresh bolts to my left temple. Though my lack of fear bothered me, it didn’t bother me as much as it should’ve bothered me. Impatient, Logan nudged my spine, forcing me farther in.

The office held a professional air. Vased chrysanthemums in purple, green, and yellow adorned the L-formed desk. An iMac computer shared the space with heavy-framed photos of Weiss, his wife, and three grown kids at a wedding reception. His grandkids had his or her own school picture in a trifold frame, some more pics of the same grandkids in Halloween costumes, and a couple shots of Weiss with political and educational officials graced the walls. Two plaques of citizenship excellence and a faded red-and-silver 1966 NYS Regents 2nd Place Finalist ribbon flanked the open window behind his desk. An oversized pale green mug of steaming coffee sat on a cork coaster. Next to this lay an unlit cigar. On our left was a closed door, a brushed copper plate with EXECUTIVE WASHROOM etched on it. My quiet groan undertoned a sigh; how self-important could one guy get? "Dude, if Weiss called for us, where is he?" I whispered.

No clue. So we wait. Logan bent, inhaled deep of the stogie. Guy lives large on a principal’s gig, Gramps. These Colombians ain’t cheap.

Too wired to sit or to ask how he’d know about South American tobacco, I neared the unscreened window, cranked it wider, gazed around. Morning sunlight glinted from windshields, bumpers, rims, and grills. Greenery against a whitewashed sky and a hint of fall in the slight breeze made for a spectacular back-to-school morning—except for the slender, bearded male in janitorial greys in the bushes below. That had to be a three-story drop . . . but if the fall didn’t end his life, what appeared to be a dagger or spade deep in his jugular sure did. His still-open eyes lay fixed and glassy on the Brooklyn sky.

Ignore the iced dude under the window . . .

Jesus! My stomach squeezed in on itself. I expected Logan’s gaze to meet mine and withdrew my head when it didn’t. Dude, I stammered, slumping against the window’s inside edge, "wha—who—the text . . . dow-down there! Look! Holy God, look!"

He did, and pulled himself in quicker than I did. Blue Oxford shirtsleeves pulled over his hands, Logan worked Weiss’s desk drawers, then crouched to peek at the desk’s underside, which got me wondering anew about what he wouldn’t tell me. No idea, Casper, he replied, emotion in his words. "But outside is a Jack not returning to his Jill. Could be Weiss knows who that was. And being nosy’ll help us not make this text an actuality."

I darted to Weiss’s bathroom door, knocked, called for him. Paper towels snatched from a dispenser and running water carried, but he didn’t emerge or say he needed another moment. That twisted my gut more than the dead guy outside did. Did he know what or who lay out there?

EMS wails and NYPD siren clips loomed . . . then stopped. Strange. Stranger, still, Logan used actuality correctly in a sentence. I returned to the window, glanced down. But for the wind ruffling his uniform collar, the object in the neck and the body in the shrubbery stayed put. The widening pool of blood under his head, the card’s contents, no breakfast, my earlier fall and pain after, the text, and being singled out at assembly slammed home. The world blurred, slid upside down. Rainbow dots washed in my eyes and I felt myself pressing against the outside brick wall. Strong arms seized me as a female’s repeated "Ay, Dios mio!" screams from below pierced my pea soup thoughts.

I got you, Logan said, words straining as he hauled me in. I gripped his right shoulder and the base of the window, insides becoming hot tar, tears blurring my focus. Both of us breathed hard and a slender ribbon of piss flowed down my right leg, soaked my sock, and puddled in my boot. Burberry for Men and the breeze roused me some, but I couldn’t quit shaking or take in enough air. The screaming lady across the street jabbered in Spanish and pointed at Weiss’s third-story window to any passersby she could stop. None did. Only in New York.

Logan’s strangled tone forced me to face him. Shit, Casper, you almost—

Fear pumiced my heart. His night-meets-day blue eyes were super bright in his pale face; he was scared green. "Does Weiss know . . . what almost . . . ?" A sandbag pressing on my Adam’s apple, I clamped my lips and willed my knees not to crumble.

The dean’s bathroom door stayed closed. No Weiss. No office staff came in or wondered about us, either.

Either he knows and doesn’t care, or knows and ain’t plannin’ to say. Logan’s words shook despite his soothing-away-a-nightmare timbre.

I helped him hitch his pack, grateful my shaking hands were busy, but my voice cracked anyway. What were you under the desk for?

He strode for the inner office door. Might’ve found something interesting, not sure. But cops are on the way, you almost took a one-way trip, let’s am-scray.

An object glinted on the floor near the room’s coatrack. Wait a minute.

Boys, Mrs. Carson called through the intercom. It appears Dr. Weiss is indisposed. Return to the reception area to wait for him, please.

I found the green TALK button on the box, forced calm in my voice. Sure thing, Mrs. Carson. Then I mouthed, Cover me.

Logan narrowed his eyes.

Go!

While he left, I neared Weiss’s polished standing rack, its varnish stinging my nose. The gleaming, carved mahogany seemed the same as the weapon’s wooden handle still in the dead guy, but like hell I’d brave a third look to know for sure.

A small metal key poked from under the rack’s base, the kind that opened trick handcuffs, a young girl’s journal, or some jewelry box locks. Fingers still slightly trembling, I pocketed the key, then I stood to a framed photo of Weiss sharing warm handshakes and wide smiles with the governor of New York and the Board of Regents chairwoman, per the captioned New York Times-Review clipping. I’d seen that rapscallion expression on Governor Jiau before, but couldn’t remember from where or why.

Casper. Mrs. Carson’s rich alto held a warning through the intercom. When the dean’s private bathroom door hardware rattled, I got scarce.

We’ll reschedule, Logan said to the female clerk when I reached him.

Not a problem. Melody tucked a strand of orange-gold hair behind her right ear. She penciled us in on her desk calendar for the Wednesday after Rosh Hashanah. A Tinker Bell pendant lay against her right breast, gently rising and falling as she breathed, steadying my nerves a touch. Do you boys have an email to send a reminder?

Yes, I answered over Logan’s, No, we’re good.

Still bent low, Melody bounced a confused glance between us while Daniel, the chubby dude, kept slipping smiles and tiny air kisses at me until a dirty look and flipping him off made him quit it. He upturned his nose, and with a pout, resumed his work.

I gave Melody my contact, then she handed over a hall pass and fresh appointment card. Don’t lose that. Even with the new appointment, you won’t get a replacement pass.

Got it. I pushed Logan out of the office suites. Before the door closed, Mrs. Carson told Melody she wasn’t authorized to issue hall passes, as they were copyable Get Out Of Jail Free cards for students to roam campus. Just like we were about to do. Grinning, I tucked the slip in a khakis pocket.

Let the reindeer games begin.

AN ANALOG CLOCK SOMEPLACE around the corner ticked loud in the otherwise quiet halls. Off to homeroom, Logan said low.

Not so fast, I said. You heard the sirens, right?

And your point is . . .

Not strange the office staff acted nonchalant about . . . especially after . . . ? I shut my eyes and inhaled deep to force my nerves and emotions to conform. At least the pain to my temple had eased off.

Gramps, sirens go off nine times a minute in Brooklyn, said Logan through a tired sigh. "Maybe Weiss didn’t want a big deal made about the hombre in the shrubbery. Or maybe the office staff and he didn’t know about him in the first place."

Possible. Not like we’d heard their reactions while in Weiss’s office or during our rescheduling. Still . . . too many variables for comfort, including where Logan and I’re possible blood brothers. You up for an adventure?

Eyes still bright, he backed up a step at my change in gear. Couldn’t blame him; I was surprised at it myself. "You almost faint out of a third-floor window on top of everything else this morning, and you still didn’t shit your knickers? No offense, dude, but you’re freakin’ me the hell out."

Ignoring my damp crotch and sock, hell, yeah, I had this. I haven’t cried since I was three. Not even when I was eleven and had my right arm stung and scarred good from a pod of sea nettles while innertubing off Long Island Sound, or even when Logan ran off earlier that year (but I almost busted a vocal cord screaming at the moon a whole lot while he stayed gone). "None taken. You never said what you found under Weiss’s desk, or who this Jo is to us, yet I’ve flipped?"

Like a coin toss at the Super Bowl.

Our homerooms think we’re still in the office.

So?

The office thinks we’re headed for homeroom.

"Again—so?"

"We’ve ten minutes to learn about that dead guy, and if that fucked up text and the card holds a connection. If someone’s after us, why be sitting ducks in homeroom?"

That’s how we’ll stay on the low.

I turned slow, ambled off. Okay. ’Bye.

Logan rubbed his right eyebrow and spun in a nervous circle when he caught up with me. But you don’t know where to start.

The beginning’s always a good place, don’tcha think?

He gave a resigned sigh to the ceiling. I hate your zoo, Gramps.

Excitement flooded me like seeing my first-ever Hayden Planetarium sky show when I cut school on my thirteenth birthday. Though Logan’s never been, far as I knew, the memory of breaking four dozen rules that day roused a grin. From the diva who poked through Weiss’s gear. C’mon.

I showed the hall pass to half-asleep security guards we walked past. Up three flights of stairs to the sixth floor, two left turns and three rights, we neared the open classrooms of the Home Ec wing. From the kitchens came a heavenly mix of bacon and sausage, sautéed onions, bell peppers and mushrooms with Tabasco sauce, and fresh pumpkin and banana nut muffins. Wishing I were nose blind, we skulked past the goodies, a water fountain with its compressor on, student restrooms, and a janitor’s closet. On instinct, I stopped before a door marked WOODSHOP, Rm. 606.

"Man, I smell trouble all over this, and it ain’t bacon and sautéed onions. Logan gripped my upper left arm when I eased open the unlocked door. Let’s move it, dude."

I shook him off. Called it. You’re scared.

You wish.

Fresh-cut cedar and pine hulled away my unease and the last of the Home Ec’s goodies. The shop sat empty. We’re staying on the low like you said.

Not in a woodshop.

Don’t see you leaving, do I?

We crept past two miter saws, three sanders, one a spindle sander, a couple of drill presses, a laminating machine. A standing blade press, katana long and guillotine-sharp, glinted mute in the strong sunlight. Dust devils eddied and whorled around our ankles from the two-inch-thick wood dust blanketing the floor as we looked around.

And we’re here, because . . . Logan whispered in a faltering voice.

Yeah, he was right, we’d chewed up five minutes already—

Amid the dozens of sneaker and boot prints in the dust, a set of high-heeled prints coursed a trail on the floor. Seven total, they were the pointy-toe kind leading to a table saw closest to an open casement window. And I only knew this because of our adopted oldest sisters Pia and Michaela forever bickering over who wore the Mary Janes or pumps better.

Check it out. I moved around the machine, seeing it went missing its two diamond-headed blades in the carousels. Not that chicks in carpentry isn’t hot, but in heels? With safety issues galore over that sort of thing?

"Okay, so a RuPaul U grad is stealing tools, let’s move," Logan said through clenched teeth.

That blade’s fifteen or twenty pounds, easy . . . probably hard as hell to carry in heels, I said to myself, perplexed. Why would she need it—?

Exactly what I wondered, Mr. McGuinness, came another voice behind us.

I became a professional skater with wood shavings on a buffed concrete floor, and the table saw broke my fall. Unfortunately, the machine’s corner connected hard with the small of my back, and pain detonated all over. It even pinged my earlobes.

You gentlemen lost? said Dr. Weiss, jowls bobbing enthusiastically at finding students where they shouldn’t be.

Not . . . really, sir, I gasped.

Guess we’re keeping our missed appointment after all, huh? Logan quipped.

Dr. Weiss produced from his right tweed pocket a twice-folded sheet of paper, his copy of our schedules. You men missed homeroom. Logan, you’re now with Professor Serio, Intermediate Car Mechanics. Casper, you’re—

Biology-Forensics . . . Professor Mitchell, I replied, an enraged lump of charcoal pressing my spine.

Why aren’t any cops here, sir? Logan leaned on my right shoulder, slid a strip of gum in his mouth, chewed slow. Flavored wintergreen waltzed with cut cedar and pine.

The dean fit himself between the window and table saws, obliterating the high heel prints under his fringed wingtips. Why, lad, would the police trouble a first day of school?

Plenty, sir, I said. The digital change-of-classes reminder tootled through the halls. There was a bod—

Still advancing, Weiss turned his wide, sharklike grin on me, and I felt like a cornered sea bass. A what?

Whoops.

A bold move regarding school trips this year, according to your presentation, Logan finished while sliding his phone in a pocket. When’s the first one, exactly?

Sweet save, cousin.

Tuesday after Yom Kippur. A tour of the Guggenheim for the art students. Others follow when the year unfolds. Weiss clapped our shoulders, steering us through the carpentry lab’s doorway. Time for learning, boys! Have a splendid day!

Kids entering the woodshop cast us odd or indifferent glances. The instructor following in the final student squinted an eye at us, shrugged, then hollered at three guys to grab brooms and clean the shavings before somebody fell and broke something.

Gramps, Logan said while we headed in the opposite direction of the dean, check out how Weiss dusted those prints from the floor.

Mesmerized at Weiss’s gliding gait defying his impressive girth, he offered how-dos and friendly banter with the Sam Adams passersby. I watched until he rounded a left corner.

Logan poked my ribs. Dude . . .

Uh-huh . . .

Did you catch Weiss dustin’ away those heel prints as we left?

I slapped my forehead, recalling the hung photos in the dean’s office. "And I didn’t get pictures, damn!"

No worries. Logan held up his phone. Got the slew of ‘em here.

A kid some six inches taller shoved past us, adding, One side, hos, as I handed back a dropped spiral notebook to a geek freshman, the pain in my lower back biting in effort. Channeling your inner Columbo?

So I’m nosy. Sue me.

We reached a class labeled 621 under its Intermediate Car Mechanics title, and Logan rested a hand on the door handle. When’s your lunch?

I found my schedule in the backpack side pocket, gave it a glance. Fifth period. Twelve thirty. Incidentally, where’d you get the other phone?

Tell ya then, he said before the door swung closed.

Tailbone still smarting, I waddled two flights down an up staircase. If I were lucky, I’d score good notes for another half hour—and maybe a cute girl would share hers via Skype later tonight. Yeah, right, like that’d happen. I wasn’t Logan.

My phone rang to Men at Work’s "Overkill."

Make it fast, I said as Mitchell saw me. Students peeked his way, wonder on their faces to what he frowned at. I leaned on the nearby wall, out of sight of the professor’s scrutiny.

You ain’t gonna believe this, Gramps . . .

Try me.

The carpentry lab, right?

I was there, remember?

The heel prints . . . Logan went on. Anyway, check it . . . girl’s four months pregnant!

I sighed.

Overheard her bitchin’ about sawdust and wood glue streaks on her Kate Spades, he continued, thrill in his hushed words. And also—

Later, Scooby.

But, Gramps—

Mitchell opened the door when I tapped the call off. You’re free to cross the imaginary crime scene tape anytime, McGuinness.

Sorry. I ducked past him, my face crimson hot from the students’ snickers and giggles, and found a vacant spot near a window that wouldn’t close. The seat’s black vinyl top seeped crumbling yellow foam through half-assed duct-taped rents. A lost coaster on a leg made the stool wobble. Only thing new about this school was its name, apparently.

Gang, said Mitchell around a broad smile, say hello to a tardy, but studious, Casper McGuinness, a transfer from Cardozo High.

I offered a weak hand wave and wry grin to the turned heads muttering, Yeah, we’ve met. My reply earned a few scoffs, smirks, bored yawns, and I’m supposed to give a damn, why shrugs.

The professor pointed to the word FORENSICS printed in blue on the white board with a dry erase marker. This word, around since 500 BC, was originally used to encourage evidence discovered after the fact to be discussed in public debate. Recent technological developments in pathology helped clear the Boston Strangler, Albert de Salvo, of a murder he had been the main suspect of in 1964. But the term, whether to investigate past uses of a dead computer or the study of past weather occurrences, opened a new dimension of fascination during a 1995 trial, still in spirited debate within some circles to this day despite his paroling. Most of you either weren’t yet born or were still in diapers during the double homicide the media called The Crime of the Century. Know what I’m referencing?

Some trial for a homie named Orange Julius, yelled a kid from the middle row.

Nigga ran faster through airports than he drove that Bronco, another one in the back row jibed.

Orenthal James Simpson, Mitchell corrected between quieting students’ laughter. Resuming his lecture, he directed our attention to two books on his desk