Players: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 7)

by Mike Markel

  “He was really sweet. He never knew that the accusation was false. He told me it was a terrible thing that happened, but sometimes you need to get keep going to get past it. How sometimes if you make a fuss about things, it can create new problems. It can be smarter to just keep your mouth shut and move past it. And I think he was right.”

  “Do you think part of why he said that was because he wanted to protect Lake, so he could keep playing?”

  “I think Mr. Davis loved me and wanted to help me get through a bad time.”

  Alicia wasn’t ready to understand why her father and Carl Davis acted as they did. But I felt I had planted the idea, and if, sometime in the future, she thought about it, she might understand what had happened. “Okay, Alicia, let’s get back to ten days ago. Lake told you he needed help. What did you say to him?”

  “I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said, I want you to tell your father. I asked him why my father. He said my father would be able to help him.”

  “Did you understand what he meant by that?”

  “No, I didn’t. I thought he was just mixed up. I asked him if he’d gone to see the coach. He said he contacted the coach, but the coach told him to go away and never call him again. That Lake was a loser, a junkie loser, and he regretted he ever recruited him. I didn’t know what to say about that. I never had much to do with the coach.”

  “Did Lake say he’d tried to contact anyone else?”

  “He said he tried to reach out to John Freedlander, the athletic director.”

  “What happened?”

  “Freedlander wouldn’t talk to him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “That’s when he asked me again to see if my father could help him. I told him I’d try. But to be honest with you, I was sure my father would say he didn’t know what Lake was talking about.”

  “And you went to your father?”

  “I did. I told him what Lake had told me. He said he’d try to help, see if he could get Lake into some kind of program or something.”

  “Did he say how he was going to do this?”

  “It was a couple of days later that my dad called me. He said he had reached out to Carl Davis, and they were going to work on it. Like I told you before, Mr. Davis is my godfather.”

  “Here’s my problem, Alicia. You’ve told me a very nice story. But the facts are that someone bought some really deadly heroin and paid another person to deliver it to Lake, and he died that night.”

  “All I can tell you is what my father told me. That he was working with Carl Davis to help Lake, then all of a sudden he finds out Lake is dead.”

  “Like I said, Alicia, we know someone wanted to kill Lake. We think it was because he was going to make some problems for the coach or the A.D. or the university. Someone decided to kill him. We haven’t determined who it was. We need evidence. Unfortunately, all you’ve given us is a story about how nice your father and Carl Davis were for wanting to help Lake. But we can’t do anything with your story. It’s not evidence.”

  She reached into a pocket in her sweatshirt and pulled out a folded business envelope, which she slid across the table to me.

  “What is this?” I opened up the envelope. There was a little plastic thing in it, no bigger than a fingernail.

  “It’s the SIM card from my phone. I need it back.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “I shot video of Lake telling me his story.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to have it.” She paused and looked down at the table. “Maybe just to … maybe to remember him.”

  I turned to Ryan. “Would you see if you can copy this?” He took the envelope and hurried out of the room.

  “Do you have any video or audio or anything of your discussions with your father about Lake?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I did.”

  “Did you tell anybody else about Lake coming to see you? Other than your father? Or show them the video?”

  “No, nobody. Well, I showed it to Max.”

  “Max Thomas?”

  “Yeah, he used to be Lake’s roommate. He’s some kind of coach for the team now.”

  I tried to stay steady and not reveal anything. “Why’d you show it to Max?”

  “I thought he might want to know about the problems Lake was having. I was hoping he might work with me to change the coach’s mind about helping him. You know, if my father and Carl Davis were willing to help Lake, then Coach Baxter, too, they might be able to do more for him.”

  I nodded. “Have you stayed in touch with Max since you graduated?”

  “Yeah, I have. Max is a sweetheart. We went out a few times, before I met Lake. In fact, Max was the one who introduced me to Lake.” She shook her head sadly. “That was a long time ago. At least things have turned out well for Max.”

  “Yeah, they have.”

  Ryan came back into the room, handed Alicia the envelope, and took his seat. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, that’s fine,” I said. “We were just wrapping up.” I turned to Alicia Templeton. “All right, thanks for coming in, Alicia. I hope your father gets better fast.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have something to convince you my father is innocent in all this. He was trying to help Lake. That’s all it was. I wish I could have helped you more.”

  “It was very helpful, what you told us.” I turned to Ryan. “Would you mind escorting Ms. Templeton out?”

  A few minutes later, Ryan and I met up at our desks in the bullpen. “You want to take a look at that video of Lake?” Ryan said. “Got it right here.” He held up a SIM card between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Not at the moment. It’s gonna show what she said it shows.”

  “You believe what she told us?”

  “Every word.”

  “Why? She loves her father,” Ryan said. “She thinks he’s wonderful. But she didn’t tell us anything that says he’s innocent.”

  “When she told us how her father and Carl Davis got her to withdraw the rape allegation, she said they were looking out for her, right? Think for a moment, Ryan. Who were they looking out for?”

  He did take a moment. “Themselves,” he said. “They were protecting Lake Williams.”

  “That’s right. She didn’t realize it, but she just told us her father and Carl Davis were douchebags. She still doesn’t realize it. She’s a child. She’s telling the truth.”

  “So her father spun the story for her. How does that make him innocent?”

  “Her father is innocent. She told me who the killer is. Want to come with me and pick him up?”

  He looked at me, slack-jawed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You must’ve been out of the room when she told me.”

  Chapter 31

  “Go onto the DMV site,” I said. “Find out what kind of vehicle Max Thomas owns.”

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “Now, please.”

  Ten seconds later, he spoke. “A Hyundai Elantra. White. 2015.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “What kind of vehicle would you like him to own?”

  “A big goddamn dually pickup truck.”

  “He’s the one who delivered the drugs to Kendra at Ten Mile Park?”

  “There you go.”

  “Alicia told you that?”

  “No, Alicia told me she told Max about Lake coming to see her. You know, the SIM card?”

  “So we’re chasing the football guys because we think they killed Lake and the two others, but you think Max Thomas did it?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Why did Max kill them?”

  “Because he’s in love with Alicia. Has been all those years. Plus, he’s batshit crazy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding. It’s a hunch. Cory’s body at the construction site? That’s a frame. Max framed Ronald Weber for selling out his daughter to keep Lake on the
field. First he killed Lake for raping Alicia—”

  “Which he didn’t really do.”

  “Focus, Ryan. Then he killed Kendra, because she could identify him and he knew she was talking to us. Then he killed Cory, because he was the only one left who could identify him.”

  “Not to be disrespectful,” Ryan said, “but do we have any evidence to support any of this?”

  “Not yet, but if you’d stop asking dull questions and help me, maybe we could get the evidence.”

  “Okay, sorry. What do we need?”

  “Explain how Max Thomas got Cory’s body to the construction site in a Hyundai Elantra and drove it into the materials-storage area.”

  Ryan thought for a second, then pulled the skinny notebook out of his sweatshirt pocket. “Just a second.” He started tapping some keys on his desktop. “Remember Max’s father runs a tree service? It’s Thomas Trees, out on Centennial Parkway. They might have a big goddamn dually pickup. Want me to call them?”

  “No.” I stood. “He might warn his son we’re onto him. I want you to come with me in the cruiser.” We rushed down to the parking area behind headquarters. “What’s the address on Centennial?”

  Ryan navigated me there, and thirteen minutes later we pulled into the parking lot behind a small cinder-block building that housed Thomas Trees, plus a pest-control service and a furniture-stripping place. We walked around to the back. There it was: a Ford 250 dually in dark green with the name of the tree service on the doors.

  “Can you access the case file on your phone?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Robin’s photos of the tire tracks at Ten Mile Park.”

  Ryan hit his screen a few times, then started swiping. “The inside right rear tire was underinflated; it’s worn down on the outsides.” He got down on his back and took some shots of the tires, then stood up and showed me the screen. “Just like this one.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Shoot the license plate, too.” I walked around to the bed. The plastic tarp was big enough to cover up a body. I lifted the tarp, and there it was: a three-foot length of electrical cord. I had my hand on one end when I heard a voice.

  “Can I help you?” It was a black man, about fifty-five, wearing work clothes. He had the same beefy build as his son. He didn’t look happy.

  I dropped the cord. “You must be Mr. Thomas.” I gave him a smile and walked toward him, my hand extended. “Danielle Hampton, State Farm.” We shook hands, and I pointed to Ryan. “This is my partner, Leonard Santoro. Sorry for stopping by unannounced. We got a report that a truck with your plate was involved in a hit-and-run this morning. We get reports like that which, quite often, they turn out to be inaccurate. So we always check before proceeding. The report says the right front of the truck was smashed in. But I looked; your truck doesn’t have any damage on it. I’m just gonna note that the plate number must be wrong. So that’s good news. We’ll be on our way.”

  Mr. Thomas nodded. “No problem.”

  Ryan and I got back in the Charger. I started driving us back toward headquarters.

  “Shit, I was this close to getting the cord.”

  Ryan held up the electrical cord in his right hand. “This one?” Then he opened the palm of his left hand: it was filled with what looked like concrete dust.

  “Very nice.”

  He pulled a couple of evidence bags out of his jacket pocket and placed the items in them. “Not so nice, really.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “They’re inadmissible. No search warrant. The cord was not visible. Besides, we were on private property, uninvited.”

  “Well, Max Thomas might not know that. Anyway, it confirms my hunch.”

  “It’s evidence for your hunch. Plenty of reasons a tree guy could have electrical cord and concrete dust in the bed of his pickup. And we’d have to do more work to confirm that the tire treads are a match.”

  He was right, so I gave him a nasty look. “Okay, if the electric cord is inadmissible—even though I bet it has Cory’s DNA on it—we’ll just get Max to confess.”

  “Darn, I should have thought of that.”

  “Yeah, you should’ve. Let’s go visit Max. Any idea where he is?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I know exactly where he is.” He just looked at me.

  “Well?” I looked at him. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

  “It’s three o’clock on a balmy Saturday afternoon in the fall.” He paused. “Just to be clear: That’s a hint.”

  I kept looking at him. “What the hell does the weather have to do with anything?”

  “Where might a college football coach be at three o’clock on a balmy Saturday afternoon in the fall?”

  “Okay, glad I saved it up: You’re an asshole.”

  Heading over to Cougar Stadium, we worked out our strategy.

  The closest we could park was about a hundred yards from Entrance D. The lot was filled with hundreds of cars, pickups, and RVs of all shapes and sizes. Interspersed among the vehicles were portable picnic tables sitting under shade tents on four metal poles. People were cooking on grills, drinking beers from coolers, and watching TVs. Kids were tossing footballs. It was like the city was holding a giant cookout in a huge parking lot, and everyone came.

  We shielded our way into the stadium at Entrance D. Ryan led me toward the field and out into the sun. The stadium was full, the noise deafening. The phony plastic grass under my feet was vibrating from twenty-eight thousand people shouting and stomping their feet. The marching bands in the stands played little bursts of music. Cheerleaders did their acrobatics and whipped up the crowd, which obediently cheered on cue. After each play, a booming baritone voice on the PA system announced what had just happened. Then, the big video displays in the two end zones showed the play, and the crowd cheered or booed a second time.

  Shirtless college-age boys with their faces painted blue and gold shouted and whooped and high-fived each other. There were dozens of Darth Vaders, Spidermen, Batmen, and even a few Wonder Women. Foam fingers and plastic picket fences were everywhere. Guys shouted through long plastic horns; some fans blasted air horns. Everyone was eating something. There were nachos covered in cheese. Hot dogs, bags of peanuts, sodas. Tall plastic cups of beer. Thousands of cups of beer.

  Ryan shouted in my ear. “Follow me.” We walked along the edge of the field, where the artificial turf met the base of the concrete stands. The CMSU football staff were clustered around the forty-yard line. “There he is.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Your phone’s ready?”

  Ryan retrieved his phone from a rear pocket in his jeans and slid it up the right sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Yep.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” We approached Max Thomas, who was talking with another staff member and a couple of hulking players. He jabbed at his tablet and yelled something to the players, who were leaning in. I tapped Max on the shoulder. He looked up and recognized us.

  “Mr. Thomas, we need to talk to you.” I kept it clipped and official.

  “You gotta be kidding.” He put his hands out in a gesture of exasperation. “This really isn’t a good time.”

  “It’ll take just a couple minutes.”

  “After the game?”

  “No, now. Here or at headquarters.”

  “Let me tell the coach.” He wove his way through the mass of players and staff, equipment boys and girls with water bottles with long straws, and a small cluster of VIPs with plastic visitor badges around their necks. I spotted A.D. Freedlander chatting with Carl Davis. Max Thomas sidled up to Coach Baxter and spoke into his ear. The coach turned and craned his head. When he spotted me and Ryan, he gave us a really nasty look. The two talked for a moment, then the coach waved his hand dismissively to tell Max to go with us.

  Max made his way back to me and Ryan. “This way,” I said, pointing to the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms. Max walked alongside me, with Ryan following.

  The crowd let o
ut a huge roar. Max stopped, looked up at the video screen, and waited for the replay. A Cougar linebacker had tackled the other team’s runner for a big loss. The runner was lying on his back. When he finally moved his legs, the crowd applauded because he was apparently okay. Trainers trotted out from the sidelines. Max smiled.

  We started walking again and made it a few yards into the empty tunnel. “You’re busy, so I’ll get right to it. We figured out who killed Lake, and we’re gonna arrest him this afternoon. When we do that, the shit’s gonna spray all over the football program. We know you’re a good guy, so we wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “My God.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty upsetting. There’s some bad guys in the program and, unfortunately, it’s gonna screw up some good guys like you.”

  “Who killed Lake?” Max Thomas said. The noise in the tunnel wasn’t quite as loud as it was out on the field, but an annoying echo made it hard to understand him.

  “First we thought it was Kendra Crimmons, but we determined she was just a courier. She needed money. That was all she cared about: money to buy dope. That’s how she got into this. She actually liked Lake, used to sleep with him off and on. She didn’t have a motive for killing him.”

  “Then someone killed her.” Max leaned in to make it easier for me to hear him.

  “Exactly. We thought it was Cory McDermott, your old teammate. We figured he killed Kendra and Lake. You know, so nobody could finger him for supplying the drugs. But that didn’t set right, for the same reason: He didn’t have a motive to kill Lake in the first place. He was a drug dealer. He didn’t want to kill his customers; he wanted to keep them alive.”

  “Then someone killed Cory,” Max Thomas said. “One guy killed all three, right?”

  I smiled at him. “Yeah, one guy killed all three of them.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Ronald Weber. You know, Alicia’s father? He confessed to us that he’s been the team’s fixer for years—this is where you come in.”

  His expression darkened. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to suggest you’re involved in that. I meant this is the part that’s gonna mess you up. We’ve discovered that A.D. Freedlander and Coach Baxter have been working with Weber all these years. They know all about Weber supplying drugs and girls to the players. They’re going down. It’ll take a few days, but it’s gonna break big. I don’t mean Rawlings big; I mean nationally.”