by Rob Thomas
Veronica had met Coach Zabka that afternoon, a wiry man in his mid-sixties who wore a trim-cut suit. He’d greeted Otis without fawning—he was businesslike and polite, asking questions about Otis’s game and his goals, all of which were answered in mono- and duo-syllables.
“So Coach Bellamy’s the good cop?” Veronica asked.
“Yeah, I guess.” Art shrugged. “I mean, I want to get better, you know? You gotta have the bad cop around too. But we hear about every little thing we do wrong, so you learn to appreciate someone like Coach B.”
“He ain’t always good cop,” Josh said, eyebrows raised significantly. “Remember Tucson?”
“What happened in Tucson?” Veronica asked, putting her fork down.
The boys exchanged glances. It was Josh who spoke.
“Two years back, we went to a Thanksgiving tournament in Tucson and played Northern Arizona in the championship game. Well, when we all went back to the hotel, Coach B was just fine—but the next morning, he came down to the bus beat all to hell. Black eye, broken nose, the works. We were all ready to go find who’d jumped him but he told us he’d been out getting a beer the night before, and on his way home he saw a guy beating up his girl in an alley. He said he just kind of…snapped. Went berserk on the dude. He kept saying, ‘Guys, it wasn’t heroic, it was stupid, I should have just called the cops,’ but we were like, Coach B’s the man, you know?”
Veronica mentally filed Northern Arizona game; 2013; Thanksgiving tournament final. She took a sip of water, struggling to keep a neutral expression. It could be nothing, of course—a drunken brawl with a stranger, just like Bellamy said. But she pulled out her phone and texted Mac. Maybe she can check the game date on the 2013 schedule, pull up the Tucson hospital admits and police statements from that night, see if there’s another side to the story.
The waiter drifted up with the water pitcher, refilling all around the table. Otis put down his fork, his plate scraped clean, and stared longingly at a passing dessert cart.
Veronica’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Mac.
Veronica took a deep breath and settled in for another course.
—
Campus was dark when Veronica pulled into the arena’s parking lot. It was almost eleven, and she’d just dropped Wallace and Otis off at the San Diego Hilton. Wallace had given her a resigned wave as she pulled away from the curb. By now they’d be in their room, watching SportsCenter and getting ready for bed.
It was time for Veronica to clock in.
The Castillo Center loomed as she approached. Through the windows she could see the pale security lights that lit the halls. She stepped lightly up the walk to the plain glass door where Dwayne had swiped them in earlier. Some key cards were attached to timers and wouldn’t work past certain hours. She held her breath, hoping this wasn’t one of them.
The red light on the reader turned green as she touched the card to it. She heard the lock click softly.
Veronica’s footsteps echoed with unnerving loudness as she made her way up the hall. She’d been half afraid she’d run into janitorial or security, but so far there was no sign of anyone.
Thanks to the tour Dwayne had given them that afternoon, Veronica knew the coaching offices were in a large suite on the third floor. If she could get into Bellamy’s office, she should be able to find a stray hair on his chair, a used tissue. Something. She started up the stairs, not wanting the ding of the elevator to alert anyone to her presence.
A few steps from the top, she froze. Somewhere, muffled and distant, she could hear voices. She clutched the railing with one hand, listening hard. The sound wasn’t getting closer or farther away. Someone was stationary, maybe behind closed doors, in conversation. She crept up the last few stairs, listened for a second at the stairwell door, and slipped into the third-floor hallway.
The sound was louder here, though still muffled. She hugged the wall as she stepped toward the open reception area. A lamp on the secretary’s desk was lit, its downturned shade diffusing mottled green light through the room. She paused at the corner and once again tried to gauge where the voices were coming from. The doors, labeled with names etched in brass, were all closed.
The team had two assistant coaches besides Bellamy, along with a “Professional Development Coordinator.” Coach Zabka’s office was in the back of the suite, a personal assistant’s desk sitting in front of it. From where Veronica stood, she could see light under his door.
She took a deep breath, then edged her way along the line of doors until she was at Bellamy’s.
She pulled a hairpin from her wallet and snapped it in half. It was a simple lock, pin-and-tumbler. All you had to do was line up the pick just so; a few minutes of fiddling usually did the trick. She wiggled the hairpin back and forth, probing for the pins.
From down the hall, she heard furniture dragging across a floor and the click of a door latch opening.
The reception desk was right behind her. She dove underneath it, pulling the chair in front of her to block her from view. The light from the desk lamp above her swayed a little. She caught her breath in her throat as Zabka’s door opened.
Footsteps came toward her, down the hall. A pair of brown leather loafers shuffled into view. She couldn’t tell who they belonged to, but she could hear a low murmur down the hall—there were more than two people in Zabka’s office. The loafers stopped right in front of her, so close she could see their fraying tassels. The man seemed to be looking through a stack of paperwork on the desk over her head.
Veronica pressed her knuckles to her lips, breathing as shallowly as she could. Above, she could hear things being moved around on the desk. She waited.
Finally, the man heaved a sigh, turned, and walked back down the hall. A moment later, the door opened again. This time she could make out the sounds of dribbling and courtside noise. They’re watching game tape, she realized. A moment later, the door shut, and the sound was muffled.
Veronica sat very still for several long moments, listening. Then slowly, carefully, she crawled out from under the desk and went back to Bellamy’s door. After a few more quick twists of the hairpin, the door swung inward with a soft groan. She stepped through and closed the door behind her.
She snapped on her penlight and swept it over the dark room. The office was immaculate. She could make out a leather loveseat against one wall, a green plaid throw folded over one arm. The desk was almost Spartan, with nothing but a computer and a container of pens. A framed photo of two teenagers, a boy and a girl, sat on a bookshelf. The walls were covered in roster photos, all of them signed by former players.
THANKS FOR EVERYTHING COACH!
YOU’RE THE BEST, COACH B!
YOU’RE THE MAN.
She started to open drawers, moving quickly but carefully. In one there was nothing but a pair of scissors and a roll of tape. In another, a small assortment of screws and nails rolled on their sides. There were almost no personal effects—no sweater draped over the back of the chair, no hat hanging by the door. The wastebasket was completely empty.
Of course he has to be a neat freak. Of course.
She ran her hands over everything, looking for something she could use. Her frustration mounted. And then she saw it. A small smile spread across her face.
There, tucked behind the photo of his children, was a blue toothbrush case and a small tube of Crest.
Looks like Bellamy likes to stay minty-fresh throughout the day. Here’s hoping he really works that gum line hard.
She picked it up and slid it into her purse. That was when the door swung open again, and light flooded the room.
It was Mitch Bellamy, plainly as stunned to see her as she was to see him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rage blew across Bellamy’s features like a storm cloud moving in. When he stepped toward Veronica it was fast—faster than she’d have thought a man his size could move. She’d just gotten her fingers around the Taser in her bag, when another voice came from down
the hall.
“Hey, Mitch, I was thinking we should look at the Oregon State tapes too…” Coach Zabka appeared in the doorway behind Bellamy. He came up short as he saw them. “What the hell is going on here?”
Bellamy didn’t seem able to speak, the veins in his neck swollen in sharp relief. He didn’t look away from Veronica, and it was clear he was fighting for control, breathing fast, clenching his fists at his sides. Zabka looked from him to Veronica once or twice.
It was hard for Veronica to tear her eyes away from Bellamy, but instinct told her Zabka’s presence was keeping her safe. She forced herself to look at the head coach and held up the toothbrush.
“Coach Zabka, I have to apologize—I haven’t been entirely honest with you. My name is Veronica Mars. I’m a private investigator. I have reason to believe that Coach Bellamy was involved in a sexual assault in Neptune on the night of March sixth. I broke in here trying to find some DNA to prove it.”
Bellamy made a sputtering sound. Veronica glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was fighting to master his anger and look of outrage. “This is crazy. Tommy, you can’t—”
“A nineteen-year-old girl was attacked in the Neptune Grand.” Veronica spoke over him. It was a desperate move, blurting out the truth, but she didn’t have many options. Zabka could call security any second and have her hauled off campus, maybe even report her to the police. She had to give him a reason not to. “She was raped, beaten, and left in the rain to die. Luckily, she didn’t.”
Zabka looked at Bellamy, then back to Veronica. “And she’s accused Mitch?”
“If she had, you’d be talking to the cops instead of me.”
Zabka stiffened. Veronica registered the fact with satisfaction; he obviously didn’t want the police anywhere near his department. In this situation, she was the preferred option.
She continued. “She doesn’t remember who attacked her. There was some brain trauma, and her memories are compromised. But I was hoping to get some DNA evidence and quietly find out if Coach Bellamy is a match.” Her inflection on the word quiet was featherlight but obvious. Quiet, without press, without scandal. Without Zabka’s name becoming synonymous with Paterno. “If he’s not, that’s great. I get to cross a name off my list, no fuss.”
“I’m calling security.” Bellamy moved toward the phone, but Zabka grabbed him by the arm.
“Hold on just a minute, Mitch. I want to get to the bottom of this myself.” He peered at Veronica through his wire-frame glasses. “Are you testing everyone who was at the hotel that night, or just Mitch?”
She hesitated. “Only a few for the time being. We know Coach Bellamy wasn’t on the bus with everyone else. He was in a car, by himself. Which gave him an opportunity to dump the girl on the edge of town.”
Bellamy’s face was deep purple. “I was scouting, you fucking…” He checked himself, taking a deep breath and turning to Zabka. “That was the day I went to Neptune High to check out Jensen and Rodriguez. I was in a separate car. Damn it, Tommy, this is absurd. This…woman broke into my office and went through my things. She needs to be arrested—tonight.”
Zabka looked at Bellamy for a long moment, his face unreadable. Veronica waited. Her lungs felt tight.
“Do you have a swab?” Zabka said, turning to look at her. His mouth was a tight line, but he seemed more focused on developing his own plan of action than yielding to Bellamy’s angry demands.
Veronica nodded. Zabka turned to Bellamy. “Give her a sample.”
Bellamy looked as if he’d been socked in the stomach. “What?”
“Come on, Mitch, give her a sample. She’ll see it wasn’t you and we can all move on from this.” He looked evenly over at Veronica. “I just want to make clear, I have perfect faith in my colleague. I’m letting you do this so we can clear his name. Once that’s happens, I’ll expect an apology. Then we’ll put all of this behind us.”
“Can’t get any fairer than that,” Veronica said. She pulled a sterile-wrapped swab from her purse and ripped off the end of the wrapping. “Please open wide, Coach Bellamy.”
At first she thought he’d refuse. His lips were closed tight together. But after a moment, he grabbed the swab from her and ran it inside his cheek. She held out the little plastic tube. He didn’t break eye contact as he dropped it in.
“You’ll let us know when you get the results?” asked Zabka.
“Provided it’s negative?” She turned back to him, dropping the tube into a plastic bag and placing it in her purse. “You’ll be the first person I call.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“So then we were out past the floats and the lifeguard made us get out for the rest of the day. It wasn’t fair because the big kids can go all the way out to the other side of the cove and I can swim better than most of them.” The little boy on Veronica’s computer screen gave an indignant frown. “Some of them can only doggy paddle. I can do the crawl!”
Veronica sat on the sofa in her apartment, laptop propped on the coffee table. She’d taken the afternoon off to Skype with Hunter, her half brother.
“But other than that, camp was fun?” she asked.
“I guess so.” Even at seven, Hunter had a somber, studied nonchalance. Veronica guessed it was a side effect of growing up in a house with so many secrets. She knew from experience that a quiet kid who could eavesdrop and stay mum about what he’d overheard could find out way more than a noisy one. “I didn’t like canoeing. But I was the best scout for Capture the Flag. And I learned how to play the guitar.”
“Oh yeah? Are you going to play me something?”
“I don’t have a guitar yet. Mom said maybe for Christmas. They’re expensive.”
Lianne and Hunter had gone back to Tucson that April, after the legal fallout from Tanner and Aurora’s con had dissipated. Tanner was currently serving out a two-year stint in Ironwood State Prison for extortion and obstructing justice. Aurora, meanwhile, had gotten parole with mandatory therapy. Lianne had won custody, though Veronica wasn’t sure why she’d want it. At the tender age of sixteen, Aurora had not only agreed to fake her own kidnapping for a cut of the ransom money but had double-crossed her dad in order to make off with the cash and stick him with the blame. Lianne had put her in a residential treatment facility for teens with “antisocial behavior,” which sounded about right to Veronica; the kid had shocked Veronica with her own Taser before debating the merits of killing her and dumping her body in the desert.
Since they’d left, Veronica had only been able to visit Tucson once, but she tried to Skype with Hunter at least once every couple of weeks. Then in July he’d gone to sleepaway camp for a fortnight, an experience she’d quietly helped pay for. Lianne was barely making ends meet. And between the debt caused by Tanner and Aurora’s legal fees and the cost of Aurora’s treatment, there wasn’t a lot left over for Hunter.
Veronica made a mental note to discuss guitars with her mother. She might be able to find a used one and send it to them, maybe prepay a teacher for lessons. Even after all this time, Veronica wasn’t about to cut a check to Lianne.
“Well, you want to know what I’ve been doing the last few weeks?” she asked.
“What?”
She scooped up Pony from where she was snoozing in her dog bed and held her up to the camera. The puppy blinked sleepily. “Trying to convince my new roommate to stop pooping on the rug!”
Hunter’s eyes got very round. “You got a dog?”
“We got a dog,” Veronica confirmed.
He turned to look off camera. “Mom! Mom, come here, they got a dog!”
Even now, Veronica instinctively tensed up when Lianne appeared on the screen. Old habits die hard. But the Lianne who’d haunted her adolescence was gone. The woman who’d drained Veronica’s college fund eleven years ago was different now. She smiled almost shyly at Veronica.
“Hi, hon—Veronica.” Lianne interrupted herself. “Oh my goodness, who’s this?”
“This,” Veronica said, “i
s my Pony. And I was thinking…maybe when this case I’m working is over I’ll take a few days, drive out for a visit. I can bring the puppy. Maybe Logan can get leave and come too. I’d like you to meet him, Hunter. I think you’d like him.”
Hunter looked up at his mother. “Can they, Mom?”
“Of course, honey. Any time,” Lianne said softly.
It was strange to see Lianne and Hunter, side by side. They favored each other, in the same way Veronica favored her mother. They all had the same light hair, the same delicate features. She’d always been closer to her father, even as a little girl, but Hunter’s existence somehow brought home that she was Lianne’s daughter as much as Keith’s, no matter how strained things were between them.
Her phone suddenly trilled from where it sat on the sofa next to her. She leaned over to see who it was.
NEPTUNE LAB CENTER.
She lowered Pony back to the floor. “Mom, Hunter, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to get this call. It’s work.”
“That’s no problem,” Lianne said. “Maybe we can talk next weekend.”
“Bring the dog to see me!” Hunter yelled, waving.
“Bye!” She smiled into the camera until she was sure the call was disconnected. Then she grabbed her phone.
“Hi, Ms. Mars. This is Phil Curtis with Neptune Labs. We just got the results for the swabs you sent us this week.”
“And?”
There was the briefest of pauses. Then:
“It’s a match.”
—
Veronica blasted down I-5 to San Diego, her windows down and the radio turned off so she could think. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. They had him. None of the intangible, circumstantial evidence—the bag, the bus, the car—mattered. DNA evidence didn’t lie.
It was almost three when she arrived at the San Diego Police Department headquarters. Detective Leo D’Amato stood waiting for her just outside the main entrance. He was holding two cups of coffee.