Pop Goes the Weasel by James Patterson Page A

of detectives and continued to work
     on the investigation.
    Early the next morning, Sampson and I met at Stamford, the high school that Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal had attended.
     The murdered girls were seventeen and fourteen years old.
    The memory of the homicide scene had left me with a queasy, sick feeling that wouldn’t go away. I kept thinking,
Christine is right. Get out of this, do something else. It’s time
.
    The principal at Stamford was a small, frail-looking, red-haired woman named Robin Schwartz. Her resource officer, Nathan
     Kemp, had gotten together some students who knew the victims, and had set aside a couple of classrooms for Sampson, Jerome
     Thurman, and me to use for interviews. Jerome would work in one room, Sampson and I in the other.
    Summer school was still in session, and Stamford was busy as a mall on a Saturday. We passed the cafeteria on the way to the
     classrooms, and it was packed, even at ten-thirty. No empty seats anywhere. The room reeked of French fries, the same greasy
     smell that had been in the girl’s apartment.
    A few kids were making noise, but they were mostly well behaved. The music of Wu Tang and Jodeci leaked from earphones. The
     school seemed to be well run and orderly. Between classes a few boys and girls embraced tenderly, with loosely locked pinkies
     and the gentlest brushes of cheeks.
    “These were not bad girls,” Nathan Kemp told us as we walked. “I think you’ll hear that from the other students. Tori dropped
     out last semester, but her homelife was the main reason. Marion was an honor student at Stamford. I’m telling you, guys, these
     were not bad girls.”
    Sampson, Thurman, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with the kids. We learned that Tori and Marion were popular, all right.
     They were loyal to their friends, funny, usually fun to be around. Marion was described as “blazing,” which meant she was
     great. Tori was “buggin’ sometimes,” which meant she could be a little crazy. Most of the kids hadn’t known that the girls
     were tricking in Petworth, but Tori Glover was said to always have money.
    One particular interview would stick in my mind for a while. Evita Cardinal was a senior at Stamford, and also a cousin of
     Marion’s. She wore white athletic pants and a purple stretchy top. Her black-rimmed, yellow-tinted sunglasses were propped
     on top of her head.
    She started to cry her eyes out as soon as she sat down across the desk from me.
    “I’m real sorry about Marion,” I said, and I was. “We just want to catch whoever did this terrible thing. Detective Sampson
     and I both live nearby in Southeast. My kids go to the Sojourner Truth School.”
    The girl looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wary. “You won’t catch nobody,” she finally said. It was the prevailing
     attitude in the neighborhood, and it happened to be mostly true. Sampson and I weren’t even supposed to be here. I had told
     my secretary I was out working the murder of Frank Odenkirk. A few other detectives were covering for us.
    “How long have Tori and Marion been working in Petworth? Do you know any other girls from school who work over there?”
    Evita shook her head.
“Tori
was the one working the street in Petworth. Not Marion. My cousin was a good person. They both were. Marion was my little
     doggie,” Evita said, and the tears came flowing again.
    “Marion
was
there with Tori.” I told her what I knew to be the truth. “We talked to people who saw her on Princeton Place that night.”
    The cousin glared at me. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mister Detective. You’re
wrong
. You ain’t got the straight.”
    “I’m listening to you, Evita. That’s why I’m here.”
    “Marion wasn’t there to sell her body or like that. She was just afraid for Tori. She went to
protect
Tori. She never did nothin’ bad for money, and I know that for a fact.”
    The girl started to sob again. “My cousin was a good person,