Shatter Read online

  “Their fingerprints are on those keys, and so is blood. That’s so creepy.” After a sufficient amount of time shaking her head, she digs through her bag, bringing out a notepad and a pencil. Its eraser is badly chewed. “Listen, the second I’m home, I’ll record the tape. Then we can hand the original over to the police and figure out—”

  The metal bleachers thunder with the steps of someone running up them.

  I lean into AddyDay. “Sh!”

  AddyDay rattles on. “… which growers don’t have alibis—”

  I raise my hand to cover her mouth, stopping her mid-sentence.

  Slate sits in front of us. “You were in a house burglary?” he asks me.

  “I’m—I’m fine.” I can’t think what to do in the face of his worry.

  “What happened?” He looks from me to AddyDay. Her huge eyes don’t keep secrets well. Frowning, he looks back at me. “What’s going on? Alibis? Weren’t you talking about the mock trial?”

  In a hundredth of a second, I take stock of what I want. I want Slate to approve of me, like his approval means Carrie would have approved of me. But more than that I want to be understood by him.

  I glance at Officer Haynes and Rick, the two men who were with me Saturday night at the break-in, each surrounded by a group of students.

  “Before the break-in, I found a tape of the peach grower’s meeting,” I say quietly. “It’s from the night Juan Herrera died.”

  Slate looks from me to AddyDay in utter shock.

  “We both found it,” AddyDay adds, taking some blame. “By accident. And then …”

  He shakes his head. “You took something that could be evidence? Promise you’ll stop. Getting involved in this—that’s what’s making you a target. Stop.”

  “I …” Why can’t I feel satisfied by whatever the police say about Carrie—like he is? Like all of Carrie’s friends and Dad? Almost no one around me but Cordero is on a personal mission to figure anything out. Of course Carrie was murdered, Cordero told me that day at the festival. Of course she was murdered.

  AddyDay twists her fingers in her lap. “You’re right, of course. I just … I really, really want to listen to what those growers said. I never thought about it before … but Carrie dying … finding out how it happened—it’s research. I’m good at research.”

  “The recording is important for my Dad’s alibi,” I say. “Police think he killed Juan.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Then turn it in to the police. What if you’ve made it inadmissible in court? How could you have even touched it?”

  “Mr. White,” AddyDay snaps to us in warning, leaning to write in her notebook.

  Slate glances at the teacher making his way to us. “Scoot over.”

  I make room for him, hitting the touchpad on my laptop to wake it from hibernation.

  “So, what research are we delving into?” Mr. White asks as he approaches.

  Slate peeks at the open document of witness questions on my laptop. “Uh, Silvia Odia, one of Oswald’s potential co-conspirators.”

  I attempt to focus on anything other than the grower’s tape, which I can’t imagine handing over without analyzing no matter what Slate says. He leans to scroll to the top of my notes of Silvia Odio, a witness in the JFK case.

  “What’s the weakest part of Ms. Odio’s testimony?” Slate asks me. Mr. White watches.

  “Her timing,” I answer. I believed her story myself until I read about the mistake she made. “She said Oswald came to her house in late September but there are pictures of him in Mexico City at that time.”

  Slate points at my laptop screen. “Perfect. But you ask about the timing here, and you should ask about it last. It should be your main point.”

  “So what questions should we start with?” AddyDay asks, scribbling notes. “We need to get every idea we can, and there are only ten minutes of class left.”

  “Ten minutes?” I lose my smile, glancing at the double doors again. Twin rectangles of sunlight pour in from the double doors’ windows. Doubt fades to certainty.

  Cordero isn’t coming.

  “Salem?” Mr. White asks.

  “What?” I say, bringing my attention back to our group.

  Slate’s focus is just leaving the doors as well. He clenches his jaw and refuses to look at me. He must realize I’ve been waiting for my partner all this time.

  “Salem, I want you to run your witness affidavits to the defense team before class ends,” Mr. White says. “You’d better leave now.”

  Slate leans into me right in front of Mr. White. “Are you working with Cordero off campus?”

  “Of course not,” I say, blushing.

  “No matter how careful you are around him, be more careful. And Salem, just … think about trying to be safe about the other thing too.” He gives me a significant look, obviously referring to the recording AddyDay and I have.

  Face hot, I nod at Slate and grab my things. He didn’t make me commit to anything specific. AddyDay shoots me the call-me-later sign as I head for the exit.

  I wade through oppressive sunlight. Campus is deserted.

  The heat makes my cheeks burn more fiercely. Why didn’t Cordero come to class? He does trust me, right?

  Frowning, I knock on the door to Mr. White’s classroom. It’s a mock trial rule.

  Envy pokes her head out of the room, black braids jangling with beads. “Yo.”

  “Affidavits,” I say, holding out a manila envelope.

  “Girl, check you out.” She opens the door all the way. “Come on in.”

  “I’m supposed to be your enemy.”

  “Well, time to get our consorting on.” She comes outside, letting the door fall shut. Her soft brown eyes become suspicious. “Mmph.” She looks at me for a long moment, arms folded. “I was gonna talk to you anyway. You still a member of the Students for Strike club?”

  “I paid my dues.”

  “But are you trustworthy? Kimi is starting to not be okay with sharing our plans with just anyone and you didn’t come to our last meeting. But I’m going to tell you something. If you want to be in, you’re going to come Saturday morning to the Laborer’s March. It’ll still be in Verona, you know. The marchers are going to camp here.”

  “I know.” The organizers picked a state park smack in the middle of peach orchards.

  “Now there’s going to be something special there,” Envy says. “It’s a secret. So that’s why you’re gonna come see for yourself.”

  “Does it have to do with Carrie?” I ask, one hundred times more focused now that she’s mentioned the word secret.

  She shakes her head. “How come you want to know so much about what happened to Carrie, but you don’t want to support the cause she loved?”

  The question hits me hard.

  The bell rings and students pour out of the classroom next door, probably hoping to get a head start on lunch.

  “See you Saturday.” Envy disappears inside the classroom.

  Wandering away, I get out my phone and cover it to see the screen against the brightness. I don’t go to the club meetings because I can’t face them. I can’t hear Kimi poking fun at Envy for some lapse in judgment and not ache that Carrie’s voice isn’t right on its heels, sassing Kimi for being bossy.

  I want to know what happened to Carrie. I have to know. I could pour myself into supporting the union if I could just know.

  Sunlight pounds my hanging head. As I slowly walk, I’m overtaken by two mock trial students, Marissa and a guy named Philip. They’re in the middle of a heated exchange.

  “The growers planted Saturday’s bomb,” Marissa says.

  “Nope. Gangs did,” Philip answers. “I work there. We’ve never had any problems with anyone but gangs.”

  I perk up somewhat, speeding my pace to keep Marissa and Philip within hearing range. Philip works at the Taco Shop? Does he know the two workers who were injured by what the bomb police are now calling an amateur IED? Improvised explosive devices are
n’t used by street gangs, certainly not in small-town Verona, California. News crews are flocking to cover the unusual crime. I want to shake them. What about Carrie, blown to bits?

  I can’t wait around and do nothing. I can’t. If Cordero won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.

  I snatch my phone from my backpack and type.

  Me: Meet me in the orchard behind AddyDay’s house at 5.

  No answer. What if he’s hurt?

  What if he’s dead?

  I trip as I put my phone away. That’s … impossible. Of course he’s not dead.

  After classes end, I speed to cross-country practice to get there early. Coach Johnny is setting up cones for relays on the grass field.

  “Can I do today’s run on my own?” I ask him.

  He looks up and frowns when he sees me. Apparently my stress shows on my features. He nods kindly. “Get in five miles.”

  I duck my head in gratitude and text Dad a lie—that I’ll be at a mock trial practice until after dinner. Tucking my phone into a zipped pocket of my running shorts, I run. I cut through orchards, going slow since the trees have created a minefield this year. Massive pits hidden inside rotting peaches—an ankle injury waiting to happen.

  Eventually I hit the section of the orchard Dad cleared last fall. There are no peaches littering the clumpy dirt dotted with holes, which will be filled with saplings in a few months. The dirt itself is left in the sun for a whole season, to kill off mold. Juan Herrera must have been so easy to bury. Just hollow out a pre-made ten-gallon hole, dump in the body, and scoot loose dirt on top.

  I reach the end of Dad’s property, cut through a dozen more rows, and enter the mayor’s orchard. His mature trees form a three-dimensional canopy of green above me. AddyDay’s house appears from behind the trees just as I hear a branch snap behind me.

  I whirl.

  My invitation worked.

  Cordero is twenty feet away, stepping free from foliage so I can see him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Cordero’s appearance is so altered it’s shocking. His black cap is gone. Filtered sunlight falls on two days’ worth of stubble and eyes dark from the lack of sleep. His expression is hesitant, almost vulnerable as he stands a quarter mile from the spot where Juan Herrera was buried.

  I’m so relieved to see him I hurry to meet him. Breathing deep from running to catch me, he approaches as well, until dust floating on rays of sunlight are the only things separating us. His temple is still bruised from where he collided with the hutch.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I accuse.

  “I couldn’t.” He reaches for the back pocket of jeans hanging well below the line of his hips and produces a phone. The screen stays blank when he hits the on button, proving it’s out of battery. “It died when I got your message.”

  I breathe in relief. “I thought something happened to you.”

  “You were worried?”

  “Come on,” I say softly.

  He pauses with his phone half-tucked in his back pocket, and we share a look. I don’t know what it means, but it feels significant and makes me breathe faster.

  “Salem, is that you?” AddyDay’s voice calls through the orchard from the direction of her house.

  Cordero steps back from me as AddyDay ducks between trees to get into our row. “Holy—holy Cordero. Wow,” she says, pausing with her hand on a branch.

  I wonder how AddyDay will feel about my plan to bring Cordero into our sleuthing party. Granted, she trusts everyone.

  AddyDay lifts a laptop bag off her shoulder. She’s also wearing a purple backpack. The tape recorder with audio of the grower’s meeting is partially visible in the outside pocket.

  Cordero glances at me.

  “I already told her everything,” I say.

  He nods and then steps toward her, demanding. “Who did you tell that I was searching for Carrie’s killer?”

  “What?” AddyDay asks with a step back.

  “Cordero,” I say, trying to get him to look at me. What is he doing?

  He’s watching her like he’s hungry. AddyDay’s eyes will probably start watering soon, staying so wide for so long. Cordero finally switches his focus to me.

  “When I went to my home Saturday night, El Payaso and Tito were waiting with knives to attack me,” he explains. “Carrie was right. Someone is hiring gang members. The man who killed her, I guess. Tito was stupid, so I heard them talking. He said they were hired to make me stop talking to anyone connected to Carrie. They don’t seem to know who killed her, but whoever is hiring them is protecting her killer. I couldn’t stay to hear more. They started coming down the hall. I took off through a window.”

  My mouth goes dry. “How would they have stopped you from getting involved?”

  Cordero won’t look at me. “Make me want to see things their way. I’m one of them. They won’t kill me.”

  I eye the thin cut going through the V tattoo on his cheek. “But those knives weren’t just a threat.”

  “You don’t understand us,” he tells me flatly. He turns to AddyDay. “Sorry to accuse you.”

  I grab AddyDay’s arm, picturing Cordero in a face-off after dark with El Payaso and Tito in that banger house full of switchblades and guns. “You’re sure you didn’t say anything about Cordero being at Elena’s?”

  “No—I swear,” AddyDay says.

  I turn back to Cordero. “I know I didn’t. I told police …” What did I tell them? “I told them it was a masked guy inside Elena’s. Dad asked about you, though, because I’d seen you at the festival. I told him it wasn’t you.”

  He shakes his head. “Someone knows I want to learn about Carrie.”

  My skin is clammy. “I’m the one going around making it obvious I’m investigating, not you. But maybe someone knows Carrie hired you.”

  Cordero ponders that idea. “Maybe. I don’t think Tito ever knew Carrie hired me. Not at the time. Definitely El Payaso did not know. He was still in prison. It started in May, a few weeks before she died. She gave me two hundred to go to Kelly Farm. To figure out who was intimidating the union workers. Names. Who hired them. But no one would talk.”

  “Kelly Farm is a corporate farm—lettuce, tomato,” I explain in a hollow voice to AddyDay, remembering how Carrie talked about it. “Someone attacked three union pickers for wanting to go on strike.”

  Cordero nods. “Carrie wanted me to try again and I made her a deal. For one thousand, I would talk to workers at ten farms. If I discovered who was hiring the gang members, I got another thousand. But I only got the first.”

  I nod. That fits exactly with what I already know. There were twelve hundred dollars missing from her account.

  “Slate made her cut off the deal,” Cordero continues. “Not because of Juan. Juan died afterward.” Cordero’s face hardens as he speaks about Slate. “Slate talks about protecting family, but he protects no one.”

  AddyDay protests before I’m able to. “He was trying to protect Carrie.”

  Contempt flashes in his features, but he says no more about Slate. “The biggest thing Carrie wanted was for no violence to happen.” He continues, saying something in Spanish.

  “Violence is for the unimaginative,” I translate.

  That’s exactly the kind of thing Carrie would say. She paid attention to things like that because she was imaginative. She had dreams. Dreams she can’t pursue anymore because one of the unimaginative, violent people she worked so hard to outsmart killed her.

  “Then what happened?” I ask.

  Cordero pauses. “One night … Carrie called me, very upset. It was May 24. She said the strike was in trouble. She asked me to come to the orchard behind her house. She said she might need an alibi.”

  Cordero clenches and unclenches his jaw. His breathing seems more rapid. My own breathing keeps pace with his. He’s talking about the night Juan died.

  AddyDay nods. “That’s why you were yelling your name at the restaurant that night.”

  He doesn�
�t continue. The sunlight and the sticky sweet air press into us despite the shade of orchard trees.

  “An alibi?” I echo gently to prod him. “What does that mean? You got there at 10:30. Juan was murdered between 6:30 and 8:00. Besides, Carrie wouldn’t need an alibi.”

  “I didn’t ask why Carrie wanted an alibi,” Cordero says flatly. He pulls the keys out of his front pocket. “That’s when I got these.”

  AddyDay leans in to see better. “Juan’s car keys.”

  I look too. The keys are inside a clear plastic bag. They appear shinier than before, like they’re no longer stained by blood. I suppose he and Carrie’s fingerprints are gone now too. Which is probably why he cleaned them—to erase evidence that might implicate him.

  “But what … what happened?” I ask.

  Cordero won’t look at me. The stubble on his face should darken it, but he looks pale. A sheen of sweat makes his V tattoo shiny. “By the time I got there, all Carrie would say was, ‘He said he’d kill me if I don’t get rid of it.’ I didn’t know what she meant. Then I saw the flies … the body.”

  I step toward him. “The body—Juan? Carrie saw Juan?”

  He looks at me. “Carrie and I buried Juan.”

  AddyDay cries out. I hold my stomach and lean over, unable to make a sound. Carrie buried Juan? She was with his body? Was she in on his murder? No, then she wouldn’t have had to die herself. I force myself to stand straight. I feel dizzy. My skin is hot all over.

  How could she have seen Juan’s body and not told me? How?

  Cordero looks to see if I can handle more. “She wouldn’t tell me who the killer was. It wasn’t until later I knew why the killer left—it was to move Juan’s car from your house. The killer must have moved it hoping that no one would know for a while that Juan was dead. But instead, someone found the car right away. That’s how the police knew the time of death.”

  “Carrie buried a body,” I say, forcing myself to accept the idea. Fear washes over me. “What did the killer do to her to convince her to bury a body?”

  “I don’t know, but he was already planning to blame the gang. I saw the symbol on Juan’s shoe. He put XII for Primero and a V, probably because it’s a traditional union symbol. He wanted to intimidate anyone planning to go against the union. He probably didn’t know I’d just gotten a V tattoo myself.”