Half Court Press

by A. J. Stewart

  “Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I said.

  Ronzoni rolled his eyes. “He’d love you.”

  “Many do,” I replied. “So why don’t you want her to know?”

  “She’s got other things to think about, you know? She’s gotta prepare for the season, not be bothered with all the termites crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “You mean this isn’t the first letter?”

  Draymond shrugged. “It’s the first letter I know of, but what I’m saying is, when you start to make something of yourself, like Tania is, people want a piece of your glory, you know?”

  I nodded. I knew. It was a phenomenon known to many a young athlete. It started in college—at least it did for me. Other students on campus wanted to be around the student-athletes—the ones that were winning, anyway—as if a little of that golden hue might rub off on them. When the lucky few got picked up by professional teams, then things ratcheted up several notches. Family and friends and people who’d nodded to you once in the hallway appeared out of nowhere, not just to bask in your supposed glory, but often to claim their share of the money.

  It never got that bad for me because I never got that good. Six years in the bus leagues getting paid a thousand bucks a month didn’t satisfy too many gold diggers. But for those who hit the big time—like an NFL or NBA or even MLB draft, the grifters could descend like a swarm of mosquitos, and be twice as annoying.

  “Has anyone made any kind of threat against Tania before?”

  “Like I say, I don’t know of one.”

  “What about gold diggers?”

  “Them I seen. Old friends from school or college, and even a few people Tania says she don’t even remember that well. Then there’s the relatives. First cousins, second cousins, third cousins . . .”

  “But no threats, per se?”

  Draymond shook his head and then his attention was whisked away by Tania sinking another basket.

  “So, Draymond,” I said. “What about this letter?”

  “What about it?”

  “It mentions you.”

  “You asking me if I committed some kind of fraud?”

  “I’m asking why someone would think that.”

  “I don’t know. I’m straight-up, man. If I wanted to roll you, I’d do it to your face. I leave that fraud stuff to you guys.”

  By you guys, I was assuming he meant white folks, rather than private investigators or former baseball players, but I left it, because either way he wasn’t necessarily wrong.

  A whistle blew and the players stepped off the court for a drinks break. I watched Draymond watching his daughter towel off.

  “What is it you do, Draymond?”

  “Do?”

  “For work?”

  He nodded. “I’m in the restaurant business.”

  I had a few questions about that, but I left them for another time, or another person. I glanced at the court, where Tania had a towel around her neck and was looking in our direction. Her face was stern. Perhaps she was curious about who her father was talking to, or maybe she was just concentrating on her game. She was the tallest of the girls on the sideline, and as I looked more I came to the conclusion that girl didn’t really sum her up at all. She was a touch older than I had assumed, early twenties. She was lean and athletic.

  One of her teammates said something that made Tania nod and then smile. It was a megawatt smile, and it changed the nature of her face completely. Then she tossed her towel onto a bag by the wall and jogged onto the court.

  I nudged Ronzoni, and he told Draymond we would be in touch. I shook Draymond’s hand and stepped down from the little bleachers and watched the game continue as we walked around the sidelines.

  “So, will you do it?” asked Ronzoni.

  “You really want me to investigate this thing?”

  “Yes, and protect Tania from, well, whatever.”

  “I can’t do twenty-four-hour detail—that’s beyond your budget.”

  “You haven’t even told me your rate yet.”

  “Lizzy looks after that stuff.”

  “Just do the best you can, then. I don’t think she’s in imminent danger, do you?”

  “The threat wasn’t against her, strictly speaking, so for now, no, I think she’s okay.”

  “So?”

  “Does he live nearby?” I asked Ronzoni.

  “Draymond? Yes, here in Riviera Beach.”

  “And the mother?”

  “Camille lives out in Crescent Lakes.”

  “She likely to be home?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Chapter Three

  Camille Hamilton lived in the Crescent Lakes community just west of I-95, where you might have still been in Riviera Beach or you might have slipped through into Palm Beach Gardens, but it was hard to know without looking at her FPL bill. It was the kind of place that most people pegged for a white enclave: guarded front gate, well-tended gardens and lawns, and rows of peach- and coral-colored homes gathered around small man-made dams that were always referred to in the sales brochures as lakes, but whose sharp lines defied nature.

  The problem with the enclave assumption was that it wasn’t even close to accurate. Ronzoni flashed his badge to the sweaty gate guard and we then rode through immaculate streets, past a clubhouse and a pool and a small water park for the kids. There were no cars parked on the streets—a rule of many gated communities—but the vehicles parked in driveways and open garages were recent models in excellent repair. And every resident I saw was black.

  Ronzoni pulled into the driveway of a pastel-yellow house and shut off the ignition. We stepped up to the front door, the humidity growing the way it did away from the coastal breeze.

  “Take it easy,” Ronzoni said, as he rang the doorbell.

  “What does that mean?”

  “She can be hard work.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that.

  The door opened to a tall woman with a strong chin and large hoop earrings. Her face was indifferent until she clocked eyes on Ronzoni, whereupon her features dropped to a look I could only describe as disappointed. I often developed the same look when Ronzoni appeared at my door.

  “Hello, Camille,” said Ronzoni. “I wonder if we might have five minutes of your time?”

  “I already did this with the other guy.”

  “I understand, but I’ve brought in some private help.”

  “Private help?” She looked at me. It wasn’t a look of endearment. Maybe she didn’t dig palm tree-print shirts. “He’s here to save us, is he?”

  “No,” said Ronzoni. “Just—”

  “Detective, I don’t have time for this. I have work to do.”

  She made to close the door but I stepped forward.

  “If it were my daughter,” I said, “I’d want the whole world looking for whoever was threatening her.”

  The door stopped halfway shut and she glared at me.

  “And you think you can do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t have enough information to know what I can and cannot do, yet. But, again, if it were me, it would be worth five minutes of my time.”

  Camille looked me up and down, and then opened the door an inch.

  I took that as a sign we had gained admittance, so I touched Ronzoni on the shoulder and he stepped inside past Camille’s eagle eye.

  The home was Florida new build: tile floors, open plan with sliding doors opening out to a view of the lake, so-called. The furniture was modern and the place smelled of lavender.

  Camille didn’t ask us to sit. Ronzoni introduced us and then the room fell silent.

  “So?” she asked.

  It was going to be one of those conversations.

  “Tell me about the letter,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  Camille huffed like this whole thing was a chore. “It was on regular paper, like
inkjet paper. Printed. It said—have you read it?”

  I nodded. “I have.”

  “So you know what it said.”

  “I do. How did you receive it?”

  “It was slipped under the door.”

  “Not in your mailbox outside?”

  “You see a mailbox outside?”

  “No, actually I didn’t. You have those little mailboxes in the clubhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, so it didn’t come through the mail. Didn’t have a stamp or a postmark or anything?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A postmark might give us a clue where it came from.”

  “There was no postmark, no stamp. It was a plain white envelope.”

  “No name on it?”

  “It had Tania’s name on it.”

  I nodded. I wanted to ask the next question carefully.

  “And you opened it?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t have a point, Mrs. Hamilton. I’m simply trying to understand the chronology of things.”

  “It’s Ms. Hamilton, and yes, I opened it.”

  “Okay. When was this?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “What time of day?”

  Camille thought for a moment. “Maybe about two? No, it would have been about one forty-five.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I was at a business lunch in West Palm, and I was supposed to head to Miami for a meeting.”

  “What time did you leave for the lunch?”

  “I guess about eleven thirty.”

  “And then you were going straight on to Miami?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t go?”

  “I did, but I came here first. I’d forgotten my iPad, and I use that to take notes in meetings. How come the other cop didn’t ask me about that?”

  Ronzoni shrugged. I wasn’t sure if it was professional courtesy not to throw another detective under the bus.

  “He was useless,” said Camille. “If it was a white boy gets a threat, he’d be all over it.”

  “I’m sure they’re looking into it, Camille,” said Ronzoni.

  “You’re sure? Then why did you bring this guy here?” she said, shooting me a look. “If that cop is all over it, why does he need backup? And why’s he doing nothing about my money?”

  “Your money?” asked Ronzoni.

  “Yeah, my money.”

  “What money?”

  “Somebody stole five hundred dollars.”

  “From where?”

  “From my dresser, that’s where.”

  “Did you tell Detective Crozier?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, he didn’t even write anything down. He doesn’t care.”

  “When did this money go missing, Ms. Hamilton?” I asked.

  “Yesterday, maybe the day before.”

  “Around the time the letter arrived?”

  “Before. I noticed my lingerie drawer had been disturbed before I went to lunch.”

  “Any sign of a break-in?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone at home?”

  “Before I noticed it, sure. We were all home at some point.”

  “Who is we all?”

  “Me, Tania, her cousin Rami.”

  “Rami?” asked Ronzoni.

  “Yeah. A cousin who is here for a visit.”

  “Ms. Hamilton, where was Tania when you came home to get your iPad?”

  “Where do you think she was? At that good-for-nothing gym.”

  “You mean the Boys and Girls Club?”

  “Where else?”

  “You don’t like the Boys and Girls Club?”

  “It’s a bad influence.”

  “Camille, the Boy’s and Girls Club helps a lot of kids,” said Ronzoni. “It gives them somewhere to go, somewhere structured and safe.”

  “Exactly my point,” said Camille. “They’re kids with problems, kids who spend half their time on the streets. Tania isn’t one of those kids. Tania is a winner. They’re a bad influence.”

  “It gave her a place to train and play when she was in high school,” said Ronzoni, a little defensively.

  “She was so far above their level, then and now. I blame her father.”

  I wanted to get the conversation back on track, so I butted in. “So you came home and found the letter when you were supposed to be down in Miami?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “And Tania was playing ball and should have been home before you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where was this cousin Rami?”

  “Out. I don’t know. Maybe watching Tania. She follows Tania around like a lamb.”

  “So we can assume you intercepted a letter Tania should have found.”

  Camille thought for a moment. “Yes, you could say that. But I don’t want her knowing—has her father told her?”

  “No, Camille,” said Ronzoni. “Draymond hasn’t said anything.”

  “He better not.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why keep it from her? She’s a big girl.”

  “She needs to focus.”

  “On what?”

  Camille looked at me like I was insane.

  “On her game, of course. She’s not going to get an overseas contract if she’s distracted.”

  “She’s trying to get an overseas contract?” I asked. “I thought she had just been drafted into the WNBA.”

  “She has, but the season doesn’t start until summer. She has a few months where she can play internationally, for good money.”

  “Where?”

  “She hasn’t committed yet.”

  “And do you handle those agreements?”

  “I’m involved, but she has an agent.”

  “Who’s her agent?”

  “Mark Kressic from Bannerman Associates.”

  I gave my impressed face. “Big agency.”

  “Of course. She’s the number one draft pick.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “Of course I’m proud. We’ve been working for this for ten years.”

  “Who drafted her?”

  “Atlanta.”

  I nodded but said nothing. I hadn’t even known Atlanta had a WNBA team, but I didn’t think Camille would appreciate that little bit of ignorance.

  “Let me ask you, who do you think might have sent the letter?”

  “You mean apart from her father?”

  “Her father? But he’s named in the letter.”

  “Great cover, I would think.”

  “You believe this business about the fraud?”

  “I don’t know about fraud, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s always got some deal or other going on. Always one hustle away from the big time.”

  “What is his relationship like with Tania?”

  Camille snorted. “Of course they get on. I’m the one who raised her, I’m the one who had to discipline her, make sure her homework was done, tell her to go to bed. He was fun Dad, movie Dad, shoot hoops Dad. When he could be bothered to be around.”

  “And you think he could do something to harm her?”

  “He’s always short of cash. I think he could get desperate, yes. And I think there’s a difference between harming someone and threatening to harm them.”

  It was a fair point.

  “You actually going to do something about this?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “Well, you do it, then. And find my money, while you’re at it.”

  “Cash can be hard to find, I’m afraid,” said Ronzoni.

  “You’re a big comfort.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “But I’d recommend not leaving cash around the house for now.”

  “You’d recommend that? You’re a genius.”

  I thanked her for her time, and Ronzoni and I walked outside. It was warm but pleasant, a typical spring day. I thought of the guard in
the gatehouse, sweating in his uniform. I wondered if he had some kind of condition, the opposite of whatever ailed Ronzoni.

  We drove back out and stopped at the gatehouse. The guard slid open a window and peered down into the Taurus.

  “Officer,” he said, and I felt Ronzoni fighting the urge to correct him.

  “Do you log everyone who comes through this gate?”

  “Log them?”

  “Take down their details, check that they’re supposed to be here?”

  “Oh, yeah. I do that.”

  “Were you on duty between eleven and two o’clock the day before yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you log anyone through at that time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You said you had a log.”

  The guard’s mouth fell open. “Oh, yeah, the clipboard. Hang on a sec.”

  He ducked inside and then reappeared at the window with a clipboard in hand. He ran his finger down it and then nodded.

  “Between eleven and two o’clock, day before yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” said Ronzoni.

  “Yeah, I logged someone in.”

  “Who?”

  “A few people.”

  This was looking to take a while, but fortunately Ronzoni nipped it in the bud.

  “Can I take a look at your clipboard, please?”

  The guard hesitated like he was breaking some kind of confidentiality code but then handed the clipboard to Ronzoni.

  The clipboard held a form with several columns: time in, time out, vehicle license plate, residence being visited, reason for visit. Most of the reasons simply read personal, which I took to mean visits from friends, etc. All of the other visits were services of some kind: cable guy, pest control, pool cleaner.

  There was no entry visiting Camille Hamilton’s residence between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., day before yesterday. Not even Camille.

  Ronzoni glanced at me to see that I was done looking and then handed the clipboard back to the guard.

  “You don’t log residents?” Ronzoni asked.

  “No.”

  “How do you let them in?”

  “I don’t. They have an electronic tag on their windshield. It’s like one of them SunPass tags for the toll roads. The gate recognizes it and opens up.”