by Michael Beck
"I told you. I'll train and protect you but I'm not playing any football."
Decker took the helmet and clothes from my hands and threw them into the corral.
"Don't worry about them. He has to give them out to everyone. It would appear suspicious if you didn't get them. And don't worry about playing. All you will have to do is throw a few passes around at training. You can do that, can't you? Anyway, what's the big deal about joining in some practice match-play? Anyone else would give their eye teeth to be in that position. Liz said you loved playing in high school. What happened?"
"You ready?" I said, ignoring his question. I had changed into the shorts the trainer had given me. Decker and I would be just running laps and doing exercises today.
He nodded once to himself, as if he'd half expected that response, and finished tying up his laces. "Okay, let's go."
The Turbos' training facility was amazing. Set on twenty-seven acres, it comprised five football fields, a full size indoor field, corporate offices, media center and modern off-field training facilities. The team was scattered over the length of the main outdoor field, practicing in small groups. Sam Jeffries was taking kicks at the goal and the offensive line was running through plays on the thirty yard line.
I was surprised and slightly alarmed at the number of media people that were wandering around on the side line and their freedom to ask players questions. It was two days before the team's home game against San Francisco.
Decker and I walked on to the field. Reporters and TV crews turned to watch us, several pointing at me, obviously wondering who I was. Decker was oblivious to them as we commenced running around the field. Coach was working with a quarterback and three wide receivers on the seventy yard line. Decker's face was an interesting study as he watched them, a mix of desire, fear and anxiety.
"Who's the quarterback?" I asked him.
"Joel Hastings," he said, still watching as Hastings threw a forty yard bullet to a receiver with unmistakable blond dreadlocks flowing out from underneath his helmet. Hawk caught the ball without breaking stride.
"He's good," I observed.
Decker stared straight ahead and kept running. His face was tight and the tiny white spots on his cheeks stood out.
"I take it he's been starting since you got injured?" I said.
"Wow, you don't miss a trick, do you?"
"I am a professional," I agreed. "You'll be back in the team soon, so don't sweat it. How's he been going?"
"We've won our last two games."
"Oh. And how many have you missed?"
He glanced sideways at me.
"Oh," I said.
"Yes. Oh."
We ran silently. I watched as Sam Jeffries slotted through ball after ball from the forty yard line. With his scrawny frame and glasses, he looked like the club accountant had pinched a player's uniform. He might look like an accountant, but he could kick the heck out of that ball. As we ran along the side line, I could feel the eyes of the many reporters following us. Despite Decker's absence in the past two games he was still very much the face of the team.
"Do you have any idea who Bugs Bunny and Donald Duck might have been?" I asked him.
"What makes you think I knew them?"
"Why would strangers be out to break your throwing arm?"
"Are you kidding me? I have forty thousand strangers every week who would pay to break my arm. They could have been pissed off fans from any team."
This was true but for some reason I didn't think Decker believed his own words. "Liz thinks someone is out to get you."
"Liz is crazy. No one is out to get me. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Was your car at the wrong place when someone dumped cow shit on it?"
He was silent for a moment. "Okay, that was no accident. But you've got to understand how passionate the supporters are about their football in New York. Fans get angry at me every week. Who knows? I probably cost some guy in New Jersey getting the spread and this was his way of venting."
"How do you think all those rumors of you hitting the bottle are spreading through the media?"
Decker gestured towards the sideline and the cameras following him. "Rumors keep these guys in business. It comes with the territory."
"So what am I doing here, then?"
"Beats me. Ask Liz." He flicked me a searching glance. "You and Liz knew each other as kids?"
"Yes."
"Liz said you went to the same school?"
"Uh huh."
"So you must have been pretty good friends, to stay in touch all these years?"
So Liz hadn't told him about us. I could see this was driving him crazy, trying to work out my relationship to Liz. Hell, I could understand that. It drove me crazy.
"My sister and I went to live with Liz's family when I was fifteen," I said.
"What about your own family?"
"My mom and dad were dead so Liz's family took us in."
"Oh." I could see this pleased him. Not that my family were dead but that Liz and I didn't have a romantic history.
"What about you? Where are you from?" I said.
"California."
"Are your family still out there?"
"No."
"Where in California?"
"Nowhere really. Dad travelled a lot with work so I spent most of my time growing up overseas."
"How did you learn to play football then?"
"We had some good American coaches in the schools I attended."
"What schools did you go to?"
"Way too many. Hey, give me five, will you? I have to pee."
"I better come with you."
"What? You think I can't take a whizz on my own? Don't worry. I'll probably have ten TV stations filming it, so I don't think I'll be in any danger."
He ran back the way we came and disappeared inside. Odd. I could have sworn he went before we hit the field. I replayed our conversation and realized he hadn't told me a thing about himself. Well, no matter what Liz wanted, I wasn't going to hang around holding his dick.
"Hey, Rennat! Over here."
It took a moment before I remembered Rennat was me.
Coach Watkins was waiting for me on the seventy yard line, still working with Hastings, Hawk and the other wide receivers.
"No one's going to believe we picked you up unless you can throw. Were you any good at throwing?" Coach said.
"Not bad."
"Hey, Hawk, go long," he said and Hawk took off. "Here." He handed me a ball. "Throw when I say."
Hawk had gone twenty...thirty yards. At forty Coach yelled, "Now."
I turned and waited a beat. You know how some people can just do something well? I don't care if it's Lebron James dunking or Slater on a surfboard. Some things just come more naturally to some people. For me, it had always been throwing a football. I'd loved it like nothing else all my childhood. When I stopped playing it was like killing part of myself. So I waited a beat, savoring the feel of smooth leather in my hands, my fingers slipping into the gaps between the laces like an old friend. I felt my body relax; I was fifteen again and none of that shit had ever happened.
I threw.
The ball spiraled barely fifteen feet above the ground for fifty yards and struck Hawk's outstretched hands. He dropped it.
Coach stared at me for a moment and spat again.
"Well, you can throw. Too bad I don't have anyone who can fucking catch. Here, do it again." He threw me another ball. Another receiver took off and then another. Coach kept handing me balls and I kept throwing. We did this for several minutes. Despite myself, I began to have fun. The pure, simple thrill of throw and catch, throw and catch. The receivers ran every possible passing option: posts, slants, hooks and flags. And I just kept throwing. I turned to catch the next ball from Coach and he was just standing there, watching the receiver I'd just hit return from the twenty yard line.
"When did you say you last played?"
"Back in high scho
ol. My sophomore year."
He nodded. "That's what I thought."
"Bob Sakomma wants to talk to you," said Decker, who had returned while I was throwing. He was watching me with an odd expression.
"Who's Bob Sakomma?" I said.
"Reporter for the Times."
"I don't want to talk to any reporters."
"Sanderson set it up. He thinks it will be better if you give them something. They're more likely to leave you alone that way. If you don't give them something they'll start digging or wondering why the fuck we've drafted a nobody from high school."
"He doesn't throw like a nobody," said Hawk. "Did you see him?"
"All I saw was you drop one. You better not do that in two days' time or you'll be picking splinters out of your butt," Decker said and, without another word, ran off and recommenced his laps.
"What crawled up his ass?" Hawk mumbled.
I wandered over to the sidelines where most of the reporters stood. None came towards me.
"Hi, I'm Bob Sakomma." The familiar husky voice came from behind me.
Bob had long dark hair, lips that appeared as soft as a peach and a willowy, come hither body.
"Sure you are. And I'm Mary Rennat."
She laughed. "No, really. It's short for Bobette. But shouldn't you know that? Wouldn't the stars tell you that?"
The stars? Oh. The reporter outside of Decker's house.
"I'm not really an astrologist," I said. Duh?
"No fooling? I sort of guessed that already after seeing you throw. I thought you said you weren't a player?"
"No, I don't believe I said that at all."
"Come on. You didn't even know that was Troy Decker's house. And now you're playing for the Turbos? That's hard to believe. What's the real story?"
"There is no real story. The Turbos are struggling with quarterbacks and they have put me on the roster to help them out. That's all."
Bob raised one eyebrow at me. Her skin was so white her eyes seemed like two perfect, blue marbles lost on a summer beach.
"The Turbos are struggling, all right. The past two games snapped a four game losing streak. I hate to ask this but why hire a twenty-nine-year-old untried quarterback to help them out?"
I smiled at her. "Bobette, I don't think there is anything you would hate to ask."
She grinned. "You got me there. So how about it? You owe me a story after leaving me standing in the rain the other night. It would really help if you could give me something." She scanned the reporters near her and then leaned so close to me I could smell the peppermint on her breath. "All the men here are just waiting for me to fail. Do you know how hard it is to make it as a woman in this field?"
"Does this normally work?"
She considered me for a moment and then smiled bashfully. I was sure there was not a bashful bone in her toned body. "You got me again."
"Bob, I bet you my life-story, that you're the best reporter here and that all of these guys are running around trying to keep up with you. How about I ask one of them if that's true?"
She eyed me, the flirty, sexy look gone, replaced by something cool and evaluating. "Looks like you might have some of that astrologist in you after all, doesn't it?" she said after a pause. "Okay, forget what I said. These other guys might believe that drivel that Sanderson is spreading, but not me. I know Coach. No way is he going to draft a quarterback, no matter how damn well he can throw the ball, if he's never played college or pro ball. It's just not going to happen. Ever. Well?"
She held my eyes with hers; the same cold, deep blue I imagined I would find at the bottom of the Cayman trench.
"You thought I threw damn well, huh?"
She stepped back, clearly trying to keep the annoyance out of her face. "You know I will find out, don't you?"
"Yes. And I'm going to have a heck of a time watching."
Sanderson suddenly appeared at my shoulder. "Mark, you have a phone call. In the club rooms."
"Who is it?"
"Someone named Fulton."
I left Bob without another word, pushing my way through the reporters and players who crowded the edge of the field. I had spoken to Detective Fulton on the phone every month for the past fourteen years. Fourteen years. But every time I had called him. Not once had he called me. Not once.
The players' locker room was empty except for miles of discarded tape, water bottles and hanging clothes. The phone was in a small office behind a glass partition in the corner of the locker room.
"Fulton?"
"Tan? I've just had word of a murder in Dyker Heights, Brooklyn. A forty five-year-old male killed at home. He was found at 3:00 p.m. today. You might be interested in this one, as something was stolen."
Disappointment coursed through me. I'd felt sure that Fulton had finally come across something concrete.
"Why would I be interested in a robbery?" The words were ashes in my mouth.
"Even if the heart was stolen?"
CHAPTER 7
I pulled my street clothes on over my training gear and hit the road. I punched a number into my cell as I drove.
"Sanders?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Mark Tanner."
She was silent for a moment, probably debating whether to hang up or not. "Who've you killed?"
"Detective, you've got me all wrong. I haven't killed anyone in two years."
"Congratulations. I'll strike a medal. I know I'm going to regret this but what do you want?"
"There's been a murder in Brooklyn. The body was found about an hour ago. Can you tell me anything about it?"
"I didn't know you'd joined the force. Is that another one of your secrets?"
"It's important. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't."
"What's so important about this murder? What's the victim's name?"
"I don't know."
"Then why are you so interested?"
"It's not who was killed that's important, it's what was taken."
"And what was taken?"
"The victim's heart."
She took so long to answer I thought she'd dropped out. And then I heard only one whispered word. "Cupid."
I didn't want to jinx it so I said nothing.
"Where and when was the killing?"
"In Dyker Heights about an hour ago."
"I haven't heard anything about this, Tan, so I can't tell you a thing. The responding team would only have just arrived at the crime scene."
"Okay. Thanks anyway."
"Tan, you need to stay away from there. Let the cops work it. They know what they're doing. If you want us to catch this guy you don't want to compromise the crime scene."
"What makes you think I want you to catch him?"
Before she could answer I hung up.
Sanders told me to stay away but that was like telling a crack-head to forget his next fix. I had been waiting fourteen years for this. Stay away? May as well stop breathing.
The victim's house wasn't hard to find. Police cars, TV vans, forensics and coroners' cars lined Eleventh Street in Dyker Heights. I parked a block away and walked up the one hundred and four foot hill that was the feature of Dyker Heights. A light drizzle had begun to fall from the heavy, low clouds, but it would take more than that to discourage the prurient curiosity of the onlookers.
At least thirty people stood behind the police tape that skirted the boundary of the victim's property. What they hoped to see was beyond me. What was so enthralling about seeing a dead person? Besides, there was no body visible or anything interesting to be seen here.
They could have been looking at any house in the street. Most of them were Queen Anne dwellings and built over a century ago. Abrahams' home was a two-and-a-half-story, one-family Queen Anne set on half an acre of pristine lawn and immaculately trimmed hedges. No dead body. No blood. Not even a kid's bike to mess up the scene.
I surveyed the onlookers for a moment, and then went and stood next to three kids, who couldn't have been more than twelve. They leane
d on their bikes, raptly watching two men with MEDICAL EXAMINER on their white jackets wheel a gurney into the house. If you want to know the gossip in a neighborhood talk to the kids. They know everything. Nobody notices them or pays them any attention. People say and do things around kids they wouldn't do in front of adults.
"Hi, guys. Do you know what happened?" I said.
The tallest one, dressed in a New York Knicks jacket, barely looked at me. "Mr. Abrahams has been killed."
"How do you know?"
He gestured at the gurney being wheeled in. "Mister, they sure aren't delivering pizzas."
His two friends giggled.
"No. How do you know Abrahams is the victim?"
"We heard the cops talking on their radio."
"Yeah? What else did you hear?"
He gave me a sharp look. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'm a reporter with the Times. Did you guys know Abrahams?"
"Yeah. We see him around a lot. He runs every night near the park where we play ball."
"Was he married?"
"No. He lives by himself. He was a nice guy."
"Why do you say that?"
"He bought our team uniforms last year and he doesn't even have a son in the team."
"I heard he gave old Mrs. Wyatt a stack of money when she was going to lose her house," said his freckle-faced friend.
"Do you know what he did?"
"No," said the Knicks' fan. "But he was rich. He owns like three cars and in summer he has this enormous boat parked in his driveway."
"Did you hear the cops say how he was killed?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Thanks."
I pushed away from the crowd gathered around the police tape and walked past the nearest TV van. Everyone's attention was glued to the house so I felt quite safe in opening the door and picking up the jacket that lay on the front seat. In the pocket was a wallet with a press pass. I walked along the side of the house until I found a hole in the hedge and slipped quietly through into the back yard. A forty foot catamaran resting on a trailer was parked next to a tennis court.
As I approached the boat, the back door opened and a short, good looking, tanned guy, in a suit way too expensive for a cop, stepped out.
"Hey, who are you?" he said.