We Know It Was You Read online

  Benny and Virginia waved as Mrs. Flax pulled away from the curb. They watched the car until it turned a corner out of sight.

  “Which way are we going?” Virginia asked.

  “That way,” Benny said, pointing to a deserted railroad yard in the distance. It was clustered with seedy storefronts, illuminated by a huge neon light in the shape of a blue jewel.

  The Sapphire Lounge parking lot, 7:45 p.m.

  R.I.P. PERVERT, the sign read. SAYONARA MOLESTER, read another. They lay in a pile next to Gerard’s car. It was “a night of jazz and remembrance” at the Sapphire Lounge, organized by Mr. Choi’s bandmates in honor of their fallen sax player. Gerard had read about it in the paper and immediately sent an e-mail to the entire school announcing that he was staging a protest. He’d hoped Angie and the other cheerleaders would come. Maybe even Brittany would make an appearance, and the local news would send a camera team. He imagined himself on television surrounded by the most beautiful girls at Winship: Local boy is hero to victims of Peeping Tom.

  Except no one showed up—no one but Gottfried the weird German exchange student, anyway. And it seemed like Gottfried had just come for the donuts. He’d eaten four already, and they’d only been there twenty minutes.

  “Slow down,” Gerard told him. “People could still come, and there won’t be any donuts left. Look, there’s someone now!” He pointed down the street, where he could see Scooby-Doo and some skanky girl. Oh my God, is that Virginia Leeds? What the hell was she wearing? It seemed really inappropriate for a protest against perverts. But whatever, better to have a skank at your protest than no girls at all.

  “Hi, guys!” he said. “Thanks for coming! Grab a sign!”

  “Hurrow,” Gottfried said, his mouth full of donut.

  “Hi, um . . .” Scooby was edging away from the signs.

  “We’re not protesting,” Virginia explained. “We’re attending.”

  “You’re attending? You’re attending a night of jazz for a lecher! No jazz for lechers!” He quickly rummaged through his pile of signs and produced one declaring NO JAZZ FOR LECHERS.

  “Gerard, jazz is like the soundtrack of lechery,” Virginia said back. “It’s like saying no ukuleles for whimsical girls.”

  Gerard threw his sign on the ground. “Fine! Fine! Go celebrate the local pervert!”

  “You’re being embarrassing, Gerard,” Virginia said. “Choi’s dead. He can’t visually assault anyone anymore. You need to chill.”

  “Leave him alone,” Benny said. “Let’s just go.”

  “Bye-bye!” Gottfried waved at them, wiping donut crumbs from his mouth.

  Gerard scowled as he watched them walk away. He didn’t need that pair of freaks anyway. Benny was just an uppity Jew, and Virginia looked like a slutty alien, her gold skirt shining and her pale legs glowing blue under the light of the neon sign.

  The bar, 8:00 p.m.

  Virginia crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She hadn’t realized exactly how short her skirt was until she’d tried to sit in it. But she tried to stop squirming. She didn’t want to seem like a child in front of all these scary people. Virginia had envisioned the Sapphire Lounge being full of jazzy flappers and cool lounge lizards. But most of the people here seemed grizzled and sad. She glanced at Benny. Somehow he was managing to look cool, despite his dorky mustard-yellow turtleneck. He was leaning against the bar, gazing intently around the club. There was a ring of shadowy booths against the walls, and a curtained-off stage. They could hear a drum kit being set up and a bass guitar being tuned. A handwritten sign in front of the curtain read Asian Fusion Presents: Remembering Pat “Sax Machine” Choi.

  “So what are we doing?” Virginia asked. Benny was always so tight-lipped about their plans, like he assumed Virginia would ruin everything if he let her in on a scheme. It was annoying, but Virginia was used to it.

  “Looking,” Benny answered, scanning the room.

  “You want a drink?”

  Virginia swiveled around on her barstool, expecting to see a bartender. But it was Gottfried.

  “Dey do not card me,” he said. “I get you somesing?”

  “Um, sure. I’ll have a sidecar. Dry, please, with Cointreau.”

  Benny gaped at her.

  “You got it,” Gottfried said. “Scooby?”

  “Me? Um, just a tonic water?”

  The crimson curtains opened partway, then got snagged on something. A slim, sad-looking Asian man came out onstage and yanked them the rest of the way open.

  “Hey, people,” he said, standing at the edge of the stage. “Welcome to Choi’s night.” There was a smattering of hesitant applause. “We’re here to remember our pal Choi. Not because he was the greatest guy on earth, but because he was our friend. Nobody’s perfect. But everyone deserves to be remembered. So we’re gonna play some of Pat’s favorite tunes tonight. And everyone gets a soju on the house, ’cause Pat made the bar stock it, and now there’s like twenty bottles, but no one else will drink it.” He paused.

  “Is he crying?” Virginia whispered to Benny.

  “The music will probably suck tonight,” the guy onstage went on, “because we don’t have a sax player anymore. It’s just me and Lucius. So, you know . . . give us a break.”

  And with that, the other guy, Lucius, banged his drumsticks together and then started playing. The first guy picked up his bass and began soberly plucking the strings.

  “Were you showing Zaire the bridge video? I saw you,” Benny said loudly over the music. “I’m not going to yell at you. I just need to know. Your actions affect me.”

  “Benny, I swear I didn’t. She asked me to fix the Internet, and I fixed it.”

  Benny looked at her. He didn’t say anything. He kept seeing the weird note in his mind. Don’t get so close to her. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that Virginia had been in the position of having to deny something—first with the boyfriend and now this—which was enough to raise a red flag in Benny’s estimation.

  “You don’t trust me,” Virginia said. It didn’t sound like an accusation, just a statement. You don’t have any milk in the refrigerator. You don’t trust me.

  “Well I mean, I barely know you. If you think about it.”

  “Um, if you think about it, we’ve gone to the same school since we were thirteen, and I’ve been in Mystery Club for a month,” Virginia said.

  “But this is our first case together,” Benny shouted over the band. “You know what I mean. I don’t know what I mean. Just . . . forget it. I think you should go look around backstage. You’re less suspicious than me.”

  Virginia glared at him. Benny was in charge of everything, wasn’t he? Even the conversation.

  “Just go,” Benny ordered. “Poke around. Maybe Mr. Choi left some stuff back there.” He pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “Use the flashlight app if you need to. It might be dark back there.” As soon as the phone was in Virginia’s hand, Benny kind of wanted it back. It felt too personal, sharing his phone with her. But it was too late now.

  “Okay,” Virginia said, taking the phone. She slid off the barstool, but then hesitated. The bar was the only moderately well-lit area in the whole seedy place, and now she was leaving? It seemed willfully stupid. But she forced herself to move. She could almost feel the darkness on her skin as she stepped into it.

  Backstage, 8:15 p.m.

  Virginia stood motionless in the dark, cramped space. She was terrified that at any second someone would barge in and yell at her. She reminded herself that as long as she could hear the music, it meant Asian Fusion was onstage and couldn’t catch her. And if a bartender or someone walked in, she could just pretend to be lost. But she was so nervous she hadn’t even started looking.

  Look, she commanded herself. She flicked on the flashlight app and shined it around. Dingy walls with water damage. Half-drunk drinks sitting on a plywood bench. Dirty carpet, a beige lamp. A large bass case on the floor. Virginia crouched down next to it and carefully ope
ned the lid. The case was lined with green velvet, with some clippings stapled to the top. She moved the light across them. LOCAL JAZZ TRIO PLAYS 24-HOUR JACO PASTORIUS MARATHON. ASIAN FUSION VOTED BEST HAPPY HOUR LIVE ENTERTAINMENT.

  Then she froze. The last clipping wasn’t about the band. It was a photocopy of a print picture, like from a yearbook or a newsletter. A young, bright girl in a Winship cheerleading uniform. But it wasn’t Brittany Montague, or even Angie.

  Virginia stared at it, assuring herself that she was seeing what she was seeing. She didn’t want to go back to Benny with bad information. The image was fuzzy, so Virginia leaned in close with the flashlight, her face inches away.

  It’s her. It’s definitely her.

  The bar, 8:20 p.m.

  Gottfried sauntered over with two drinks in his hands. “For da lady,” he said, setting down the sidecar, “and for da gentleman.” He handed Benny the tonic water.

  “Thanks,” Benny said, reaching in his pocket for some money. He didn’t know how much a sidecar cost, but he assumed it was expensive.

  “Nein, no no no,” Gottfried said. “Do not sink of it.”

  “Please,” Benny insisted, but Gottfried shook his head. Benny let it go. He was awkward with money; all those Jewish stereotypes made him self-conscious. Mrs. Flax had always told him never to let his classmates pay for him, or else they wouldn’t respect him or see him as an equal. But Benny had found the opposite to be true—the best way to blend in at Winship was to treat money the way they did, like it was pretend, and like there was so much of it, it was petty and pointless to keep track of the tab.

  “So you’re feeling better?” Benny asked him.

  “Hm?”

  “On Saturday you were quite ill.”

  “Ah yes. I am very sensitive. When I’m stressed, my body just falls apart, you know?”

  “What are you stressed about?” Benny asked casually.

  Gottfried cocked his eyebrow. “Hm? Stressed? No! I am having a wonderful night! Wunderbar, we say!” Gottfried slapped Benny on the back, hard, and then strode across the club to join a pair of heavily made-up women in a corner booth. They had to be at least forty years old. They squealed when he sat down, and pinched his cheeks. Gottfried looked completely delighted.

  “Benny!”

  Benny swiveled around on his stool. Virginia was sprinting toward him like a dog with a squirrel in its teeth.

  “What?”

  “There’s a picture in his guitar case. Of Corny.”

  “Really?” Benny exclaimed, amazed that she’d found something so fast.

  “I opened the case and it was there. Oh my God.”

  “People are stupid,” Benny said excitedly. “They leave evidence everywhere. It’s not like on TV where everyone’s a criminal mastermind.”

  “Ooh, is this my drink?” Virginia grabbed the sidecar. She took a sip, wrinkling her nose. “It’s good!” she said, unconvincingly.

  Benny studied the bass player. He had long hair and looked younger than Mr. Choi by about ten years. His face was intelligent, but not very serious. Like the kind of guy who has a high IQ but sits around smoking pot all day.

  “So what do you think?” Virginia asked.

  “Maybe Mr. Choi’s bandmates knew about his peeping tendencies. Maybe he’d bragged about all the hot girls at Winship, and they wanted a piece of it.”

  “Couldn’t they just watch cheerleader porn on the Internet?” Virginia asked.

  Benny shook his head. “This would serve a different desire than porn. Porn invites you to watch; this would be the thrill of seeing bodies that are forbidden to you.”

  “Wow. Did you, like, read a book about perverts or something?”

  Benny shrugged. “It could be him in the video,” he said, nodding toward the bass player. “The person standing at the edge of the bridge.” He stirred his tonic water, thinking. “This is going to be easy. All we have to do is dangle the video in front of him and see if he bites. I’ll tell you exactly what to do.”

  Virginia took another sip of her sidecar. “God, look at Gottfried.” He and the two older ladies were laughing uproariously in the corner booth. The fatter of the two appeared to be giving Gottfried an innuendo-filled palm reading. There were about ten drinks on the table in front of them.

  “You know, I think he’s still hooking up with Zaire,” Virginia said. “Did you see his face earlier? He had a brown smudge on his cheek. Zaire wears a shit-ton of makeup. I think it smudges off on him when they make out.”

  Benny looked at her. The quality that made Virginia an amazing gossip also had the potential to make her an amazing detective: She paid attention. She cared what other people did. Which was kind of rare in a world where most people cared only about themselves.

  9:00 p.m.

  Virginia had seen enough movies to know how to hold a drink. That was easy: Pinch the stem, extend the arm lackadaisically, like you couldn’t care less if it spilled. But of course it won’t if you’re holding it right. What was hard was knowing how to walk. She couldn’t see what she looked like, she just had to feel it. “Flirt with them,” Benny had said, as if it were a foregone conclusion that Virginia could just be a world-class flirt on command. As if her feminine wiles were a tried-and-tested asset. Which they definitely weren’t.

  “You flirt with them.” Virginia had balked.

  Benny had rolled his eyes. “Do you want to contribute or not?” he’d asked. “We use what we can use.”

  “You can’t just flirt with people to get what you want!”

  “Yes you can, if you look like that.” He’d given a quick nod to her skirt, then shifted his gaze unnaturally to the ceiling. “You look great. Use it.”

  Virginia stood a little straighter, hearing that. Benny was always factual; if he said she looked great, it had to be a fact.

  “Just remember, you control the conversation. Don’t let them run over you like Angie did.”

  Control, Virginia repeated to herself. She walked up to the bar.

  “Anyone sitting here?” Her voice was a little too high. But she reminded herself that they didn’t know what her voice was supposed to sound like, so it didn’t matter.

  The two men gawked at her. Virginia hopped onto a stool next to them and set down her sidecar. It was her second one. “I loved your set,” she said, trying to act like it wasn’t weird that they hadn’t said anything to her yet.

  “Thanks . . . ,” the one with long hair said. “You one of Choi’s students?”

  “Ha!” Virginia said. “Maybe ten years ago I was.”

  “So . . . when you were two?”

  Virginia forced herself to laugh. “It’s the light. It’s very flattering. Even you two look pretty good.”

  The drummer laughed loudly. He was shorter than the bass player, with a round face and a trad, Republican side-part haircut that either his mother gave him or was supposed to be ironic.

  “I’m Lucius,” he said, waving.

  “I’m Min-Jun,” said the bass player.

  “I’m Virginia,” Virginia said, and then she immediately wondered if she should have chosen an alias of some kind. Oh well, too late now.

  “You look like a Virginia,” Lucius replied. The other one, Min-Jun, punched him in the chest. “Ow!”

  “So do y’all have a lot of groupies?” Virginia asked, opening her eyes really wide, trying to look fascinated.

  “Um, no. Big no,” Min-Jun said.

  “Well you do now,” Virginia said back.

  Lucius and Min-Jun exchanged a look.

  “Just kidding,” Virginia said, seeing that they were laughing at her. Damn it, she thought. She took another gulp of her sidecar, finishing it.

  The bartender, an old man with an Afro, pushed three glasses across the bar. “Soju, on the house.”

  “Have you ever had soju?” Min-Jun asked her.

  “No,” Virginia said, happy he was talking to her. She could feel Benny watching her from across the bar, and she didn’t want
to disappoint him. “Do you sip it, or down it like a shot?”

  “Sip it,” Min-Jun said. “Actually there are a lot of rules for drinking soju. Like, you hold the glass with two hands, like this.” He reached for Virginia’s hands and gently arranged her fingers around the glass. His hands felt warm but tough, his fingers calloused from the bass strings.

  “And you bow your head to your elder,” Lucius added. “How old are you again?”

  “Ignore him,” Min-Jun said.

  “And you never pour a glass for yourself. Everyone pours for everyone else.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, taking a sip. “Wow. Very . . . alchoholy.”

  Min-Jun nodded. “You clearly have a refined palate.”

  Virginia sipped again. Her head was starting to feel sort of cloudy. She caught Min-Jun glancing at her legs, and she uncrossed them slowly. She leaned back and took a long look at him. Suddenly she didn’t feel like she needed to talk anymore. It was as if the arrival of the soju had reorganized the power somehow. Like the moment in a game when you realize you’re going to win.

  “So you like jazz?” Min-Jun asked her.

  “I adore jazz,” Virginia said.

  “We need a new sax player.”

  “Hopefully one who doesn’t turn out to be a child molester,” Lucius chimed in.

  “Christ, Lucius don’t bring that up.”

  “Well I’m devastated about Mr. Choi,” Virginia sighed. “He was such a promising talent. Did you know about his burgonine—bourgenineg”—she was having trouble pronouncing the word—“emerging interest in documentary filmmaking?”

  The two men stared at her. Min-Jun had frozen, his soju glass halfway to his lips.

  “I have the pleasoore—Jesus—pleasure of being in possession of his final cinematic work.”

  “Whaaa . . .”

  “It’s very artistic. Do you want to see it?”

  Neither of them moved. “Um, who are you?” Lucius asked carefully.

  Virginia smiled brightly. “It’s okay! I’m Choi’s little helper.”

  “You’re his little helper,” Min-Jun repeated.

  Virginia leaned in and poked Min-Jun’s chest. “And maybe you could be my big helper. There’s a character in the film that I don’t understand. I call him Mysterious Person at the Bridge.” She tried to read Min-Jun’s face, but it was expressionless. “I’d love to sell it to you. You could watch it, or maybe just throw it on a bonfire. Whatever suits you.”