by Alex P. Berg
We wandered around for a while in search of the scrummage coach, but the only person we chanced across was a minimum wage mop jockey doing his best to keep the wooden floors shiny. He glared at our feet as we asked him about the coach’s whereabouts and pointed us in the direction of a nearby practice field—though part of me wondered if he did so simply as a way to remove us and our grimy shoes from his presence.
Nonetheless, we followed his advice, crossing the street and bearing left at a field house before arriving at the fields in question. There, about three score young men, most of them of admirable size and all of them clad in muddy uniforms and brown leather skullcaps, ran wind sprints back and forth across a wide expanse of what at some point in the summer must’ve been grass. Now it was a mixture of dirt, pulverized hay, and unearthed roots interspersed with the occasional hearty weed. At least someone had painted lines of chalk over the filthy blend at thirty foot intervals, giving the broad dirt lot some semblance of structure.
At the nearest sideline, an immensely fat middle-aged man wearing a purple and yellow sweatshirt barked a mixture of encouragement and insults at the young men. A whistle hung from a lanyard around his neck, a large section of which was enveloped by the man’s ample flesh and multiple chins. A quartet of younger men of varying degrees of better health stretched along the sideline to the man’s left and right, clapping and whistling and pointing at the student athletes.
I approached the morbidly obese man, Shay at my side. “Excuse me…are you the head scrummage coach?”
The man took a quick glance at me before turning his eyes back to the field. “No open practices until the spring, so get lost. And no, I won’t sign an autograph.”
I shot a look at Steele. “You know, I’m starting to get the impression people at this university aren’t very friendly. Good thing you went to Morton’s.”
The corpulent one spared me another glance. “Are you still here? Don’t make me run you off.”
I didn’t think the man was capable of such a thing, but Shay’s quick response prevented me from saying so.
“We’re not fans. We’re with the NWPD. We’re investigating a murder.”
“Murder?” That last bit caught the man off guard. His eyes widened, though they still appeared small compared to the rest of him.
“Precisely,” I said. “So if you don’t mind returning to my first query—you’re the head scrummage coach?”
The man passed a hand through his short shorn hair, which set his chins to jiggling. “Um. Yeah. That’s right. Head coach Phillister Choke, but you can call me Phil.”
I suppressed a snicker. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to go by Coach Choke.”
The man frowned. “Trust me, I’ve heard every joke in the book about that, so don’t waste your breath. Just a moment, though.” He waved a hand and called out to his apprentices. “Standemüller! Levert! Take over, will you?”
The two assistants in question laid into the athletes with a renewed verve as Coach Choke led us to some flimsy metal bleachers at the side of the practice field. He took a seat and helped himself to a cup of water no doubt intended for the students currently sweating buckets under his lackeys’ yells.
“So, uh…what did you say your names were?”
“We didn’t. I’m Detective Steele, and this is Detective Daggers.” Shay performed some finger gymnastics. “Mind if we ask you some questions?”
“Sure, sure,” said Phil. “But I’ve got to let you know—whatever happened, I knew nothing about it. I’ve been fully compliant with all the ICAA’s guidelines. The gods know I have! If one of these knuckleheads got into a fight and killed somebody, then by all means, throw the book at him—the biggest one you can find. But try to make it quiet, and please leave the rest of the team out of this. I mean, it’s almost playoff time, for Pete’s sake!”
I blinked. “ICAA?”
“Relax, Mr. Choke,” said Steele, ignoring me. “We’re not investigating any of your student athletes.”
Choke sighed in relief. “Oh, thank the gods.”
“Rather we think the victim of our murder might’ve been a former player.” Shay drew the ring and sketch out of her pocket and handed them to Choke, who accepted them with his sausage fingers. “We found that ring on the victim. NWU class of twenty-nine. I don’t suppose you recognize the man?”
Phil talked as he absorbed the drawing. “Twenty-nine? That’s almost forty years ago. No, no. I only arrived a decade ago. I’ve no idea who this is.”
“But surely you can point us toward someone who might,” I said. “Or show us a roster of players from that year’s team.”
“A roster, sure,” he said. “I can dig one up in my office. Or heck, if your guy graduated in twenty-nine, then he must’ve been on the twenty-eight championship team. We’ve got a plaque commemorating that group of guys back in Champion’s Hall. But you won’t be able to identify him from a plaque. You’d have to talk to someone who knew him. His coach, maybe. Unfortunately Coach Heath, who was the head of that twenty-eight team, passed away some six or seven years ago.”
Phil massaged his primary chin with his free hand. “Let’s see… You could talk to a position coach. Problem is you don’t know what position this guy played. I mean, they might recognize him, even if they didn’t coach him specifically, but, man… Forty years.”
More chin stroking ensued, culminating with a meaty snap of Phil’s fingers. “I’ve got an idea.” He held out his hand and, after a few seconds of inactivity, gestured to me with it. “A little help?”
I planted my feet and grasped the man’s hand. With simultaneous grunts, Phil rose to his feet, though his exertion clearly dwarfed my own.
Phil headed in the direction of Champion’s Hall, and though I initially tried to follow him, I quickly realized my feet couldn’t possibly move any slower than his, so I joined the man at his side and engaged him in some light chatter.
“So…were you a scrummage player yourself back in the day?”
Phil gave me a sour look. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re getting at. I wasn’t always this fat. Hurt my knees my senior year. Couldn’t move around much, and I ballooned as a result.”
“I’m not sure there’s a direct correlation between those two,” I said.
“There is when you’re a center,” said Phil.
Steele walked at the man’s other shoulder. “How’s the team this year?”
“Lousy,” said Phil.
“Yet you’re concerned about the playoffs?” she asked.
“Everyone else is lousier than we are,” said the coach. “Whole world’s gone soft, if you ask me.”
“We didn’t,” I said.
The man ignored me. “I blame the ICAA. Time was nobody would bat an eye if you whipped a five-eighth for running into his hooker on a hit-up, but now if you even look at a pile of yard sticks sideways, likely as not some ICAA pencil-pusher’ll slap you with a fine and a bowl ban.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I literally have no idea what you just said.”
Phil gave Steele the fisheye. “Where’d you find this guy?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He grew up under a rock. If you check closely under his jacket, you can still find patches of moss.”
I grunted and stuffed my hands in my pockets as Shay asked Coach Choke a number of additional scrummage related questions, everything from the quality of the half-backs to the kicking game. Even if I didn’t understand the queries, I at least recognized the vocabulary, which was a step up from Choke himself.
As I pondered what Steele’s superior knowledge of a sport played by burly individuals of the male variety implied about my masculinity, we reentered Champion’s Hall and stopped in front of a weathered display.
Phil jabbed his finger at the glass triumphantly. “That’s it! Jeremy Droot!”
I blinked and looked up. “Say what?”
“Jeremy Droot,” repeated Coach
Choke. “He was the star forward on that championship team back in twenty-eight. A legend. I couldn’t remember his name back at the practice field.”
“You think he might know our deceased?” asked Steele.
“If anyone would, it’d be him,” he said. “He was one of those super charismatic types. Even now, he’s still involved in the athletic program. Became a hotshot lawyer and a big time donor.”
I groaned at the mention of the word ‘lawyer,’ but even that simple action drew a look of ire from Choke, as if I’d spoken ill of his mother.
“Know where we can find him?” asked Steele.
“Not exactly,” said Choke, “but I know he has an office downtown. Couldn’t be that hard to track down.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Daggers—you ready?”
“To get the run around from a seasoned slinger of legalese?” I asked. “Ready as I’ll ever be. He probably won’t be any less pleasant than the last two people we’ve talked to.”
Choke growled and stared at me with his beady eyes, but I didn’t break a sweat. If worst came to worst, I could always outpace him with a languid jog.
5
We could’ve tracked Droot down with a quick trip to the city’s Taxation and Revenue office, but rather than risk the ire of yet another disgruntled public servant, we settled for the known commodity and dropped by the admissions and records office on our way out of the university. After some surly looks and general grumpiness on the part of Ms. Next in Line, Shay and I hitched a ride on a rickshaw with Droot’s business address in hand.
That led us to a slender, six-story building just outside of the city’s swanky Pearl district. A placard affixed next to the staircase at the base of the first floor lobby listed the Law Offices of Droot, Miller, and Starchild as occupying the penthouse suite. I died a little at the prospect of so many stairs, but I surprised myself by cresting the peak without breaking a sweat.
I attributed my newfound athleticism to the pounds I’d shed since I became romantically interested in Steele. I’d dropped from a high of about two twenty-five down to a svelte two and change. I’m not sure if my partner had noticed—goodness knows I’d pointed it out on more than one occasion—but even if my new slender physique didn’t entice her, at least I could placate myself with the other benefits to my weight loss. Nebulous things like my ‘health’ and ‘not dying before the age of forty.’
I found the glass-paneled door with the trio of lawyers listed on it and cranked on the handle. Inside, a beautifully furnished waiting room greeted me: plush chairs upholstered with checkered velvet, mahogany tables with selections of periodicals spread into fans, neatly manicured potted plants adorned with pale green moss, a polished reception desk replete with flowers and business cards, and behind it, the loveliest, best crafted design element of them all. The secretary.
Confound it if I knew why lawyers always attracted such head turners to man their reception desks—I assume because they paid well and because working for a lawyer was at least marginally less degrading than removing one’s clothes for a living—but regardless of the reason, the beauty at Droot, Miller, and Starchild’s didn’t disappoint. Long blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders and over a white blouse stretched tight by an ample bosom. She crossed her legs primly underneath the desk, legs shrouded to the knee by a pleated black skirt. Shiny four-inch black stiletto heels pierced the air beneath her feet.
She smiled her perfect whites at us as we approached. “Good morning. Welcome to Droot, Miller, and Starchild, attorneys at law. How can I help you?”
I tried not stare or ogle or even peek aggressively—for crying out loud, Shay was right at my side!—and I think I mostly succeeded, but only because I found a brown fleck in the secretary’s otherwise pristine green irises that I was able to focus my attention on.
“Uh, yes,” I said. “We’re looking for Jeremy Droot. Is he in?”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“No,” said Steele, and without a hint of latent jealousy, thankfully. “We’re detectives with the NWPD, investigating a murder.”
“Murder?” said the secretary with raised eyebrows. “Oh, my. That’s different.”
I took that as a good sign. “I assume you don’t specialize in criminal defense?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “We concentrate on property, probate, and patent law. The three p’s we call it. That’s a little lawyer humor for you.”
Given that humor contained an element of something funny, I couldn’t really agree with her on that point, but gosh darn it, she was gorgeous and she smiled as she said it. I couldn’t help but smile back and force out a chuckle.
Shay noticed, but rather than adopt a miffed look, she gave me one of those amused, knowing smiles of hers. Perhaps my struggle to keep my eyes above the secretary’s neck was more obvious than I’d thought.
“So,” said Steele. “Mr. Droot. Can we meet him? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Of course,” replied the secretary. “Follow me.”
She stood and headed off down a hallway, her pointed heels click-clacking across the polished wooden floor. Shay and I followed, but we didn’t have to go far. After a bare dozen paces, the blonde bombshell stopped before another glass-paneled door and knocked.
A strong, warm voice responded promptly. “Come in.”
The secretary smiled as she opened the door for us. “He’s all yours, detectives.”
I walked into an office that matched the front of house in lavishness. Plush chairs, mahogany furniture, potted topiaries crafted into perfect spheres. If anything, the details had been lent an even more discerning eye. I spotted gold inlay along the perimeter of the desk at the far side of the room, and a rich rug of an earthy orange brown color sprawled across the floor.
Shay noticed it too. “Is that—”
“A gryphon rug, yes.” The same warm voice from before responded, coming from behind the desk. It belonged to a man in a striped seersucker suit, a man with a bright yellow tie and suede shoes with a freshly raised nap. Perfectly coifed silver hair topped his head, matched underneath by a trim beard of a similar color. He stood as we entered and approached us, broad of shoulder and firm of step.
As he reached us, he gestured at the rug. “Do you like it? Sourced from the highest peaks in the Castellian Range. Cost me a pretty penny. The buggers are hard to find.”
“Gryphon? Really?” I said. “You must be joking.”
He looked at me seriously for a good three seconds before breaking out in laughter. “Ha! Oh, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. It’s my go-to anytime anyone asks. It’s actually dyed sheepskin, but it does look the part, doesn’t it? And boy, is it soft. I could curl up and take a nap on it—and I have, on slow days. Sorry, where are my manners. I’m Jeremy Droot, attorney at law. You are?”
He held out his hand, and despite my curmudgeonly tendencies, I felt compelled to shake it. His fingers gripped mine tightly, coursing with hidden strength that belied his age.
“I’m Detective Daggers, and this is Detective Steele,” I said.
Droot bobbed his head at my introduction and moved his handshake to my partner, who he dealt a much gentler touch.
“Excellent,” he said. “Excellent. Wonderful to meet you.”
A flash of something shiny from his non-dominant hand caught my eye, but I stored it for later. Instead, I let my gaze wander to a shelf at the side of his desk, where an oblong cream-colored object, spotted and covered in fine cracks, sat on a bronze pedestal. “I hesitate to ask, but what is that?”
Droot followed my finger and adopted a look of mock seriousness. “Would you believe…a dragon egg?”
“After your gryphon ruse, no,” I said.
Droot snapped his fingers. “Smart man. It’s a fossilized ostrich egg. If you think gryphon hides are hard to come by, try dragon eggs. But you’d be surprised how many people believe me when I tell them that.”
“
So, let me get this straight. You’re—” I glanced at the lettering etched into the front door of his office. “—a real estate lawyer, a jokester, a connoisseur of the rare and fantastic, and beyond all reason, you appear to be a jovial and pleasant human being.”
Droot shrugged and spread out his hands. “Guilty as charged?”
I turned to Steele. “Don’t you dare tell anyone back at the precinct, but…I’m not instantly repulsed by this man.”
She smiled and gave Droot a knowing nod. “It may not sound like it, but that’s high praise coming from him.”
“Hey, I don’t blame you,” said Droot. “If I were you, I’d hate me, too. Given your line of work, I gather you’re used to the sorts of lawyers who make your lives miserable and put dangerous criminals back on the streets, but as you’ve already surmised, I work in property law.”
“So the criminals you work with are well-mannered and wear suits and ties?” I asked.
“Police work hasn’t jaded you at all, has it?” said Droot. “Come on, have a seat. And tell me what I can do for you.”
Droot headed behind his desk, and Shay and I helped ourselves to the plush chairs in front. As she sat, my partner dug the sketch and class ring out of the pocket of her shearling jacket. She talked as she handed the pair over.
“Well, I hate to ruin the mood, Mr. Droot, but Daggers and I are homicide detectives. We’re investigating the murder of a man we believe might’ve been a teammate of yours on the twenty-eight scrummage team. That’s his ring, and a sketch of his likeness. Do you by any chance recognize him?”
Droot’s face fell, and his smile melted as he took in Boatreng’s drawing. “Yeah. That’s Randall. Randall Barrett. He was the starting prop back on our championship team.”
“Prop back?” I asked.
Droot looked up. “I’m guessing you don’t follow scrummage.”
“Not a bit,” I said.
“The prop back is the big guy in the middle of the field who you don’t want to mess with.” Droot glanced at the drawing again. “Is he really dead?”