“Thank God no one with money reads the Mirror,” she giggled. “So, we had to go out to dinner afterwards and have a few bottles of wine to recover. How’s your day been?”
I ran through it for her. Towards the end of the story I remembered my promise to T.C.
“I’d better see what I can do with that glove. It’s in the kitchen. Fix us another drink while I get it.”
I could see what T.C. meant. The leather lacing was loose at the base of the thumb, pulled out from the palm piece.
“This is more complicated than I thought. I’m going to have to undo the whole thing and put it back together.”
“Are you sure? T.C.’s not going to be happy if he finds his glove in pieces all over the floor.”
“Well, if I screw it up too badly, I can take it to the ballpark tomorrow and get someone to fix it. Besides, it’s a challenge. The amazing Kate Henry never shirks a challenge.”
“Hear, hear!” Sally raised her glass.
I started at the top of the thumb, where the lacing was knotted. It wasn’t too hard to pull it out, using a nail file. I was halfway across the palm piece when the padding began to come out.
“Oh, shit, Sally, look at this.”
“What?”
Only the very edge of the padding was the grey felt I expected to find. Behind it were plastic bags full of white powder. I had not lived a totally sheltered life.
“If this is what I think, I know what the murderer was looking for in Sanchez’s apartment. And maybe in yours, Sally.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
There was no home number on the card Staff Sergeant Munro had given me, and the duty officer at the office told me he couldn’t be reached.
“I know it’s late, but could you have him call me? It’s Kate Henry calling about the Sanchez case. I’ve discovered something that I think he’ll want to know about.”
“He really doesn’t want to be disturbed tonight, Miss Henry. Maybe I could help you.”
“No offence, but I’d rather talk to the staff sergeant. And it can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“I’ll call him right away. I just want to warn you that if it’s not important, he’s going to be mad.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand, Officer.”
I could hear him stifling a laugh as he hung up.
It was obviously time to switch to coffee. I made a pot and brought a couple of cups into the living room.
“You don’t have to wait up.”
“You think I could sleep?”
Five minutes later, a grumpy sounding Staff Sergeant Munro was on the phone.
“What is it, Ms. Henry?”
“I hope I didn’t wake you up, Staff Sergeant.”
“You didn’t.”
“I think I know why Sultan Sanchez was murdered.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t sound thrilled.
“What about drugs?”
“Ms. Henry, I didn’t call you at quarter to one in the morning to play guessing games. What have you got?”
“I’ve got a glove, Staff Sergeant. A baseball glove that Sultan Sanchez gave to a young friend of mine. A baseball glove packed with what appears to be cocaine. I’m sorry if you think that’s a game.”
“I’ll be right there.”
He took my address and hung up.
“He’s on his way. I’m going to change.”
“Why?”
“You’ll know when you see him,” I said.
I crept into my bedroom and took a pair of linen slacks and a silk blouse out of the closet without waking T.C.—casual but elegant. I put on enough makeup to look good, but not enough to notice. Then I opened a new pack of cigarettes.
I heard a car door shut and went to the window. Munro was locking a Volkswagen Beetle a few doors down the street. Not your average cop. I went downstairs to let him in.
“Thanks for coming,” I said, leading him up the stairs. I introduced him to Sally and didn’t miss her appreciative look. He was wearing a pair of baggy sweat pants and a cotton sweater. So much for dressing up.
“It was her son Sultan gave the glove to,” I explained. “They live downstairs.”
I offered Munro a coffee.
“Black, with three sugars, please.”
I must have made a face.
“It’s one of my few vices.”
I showed him the glove and explained how T.C. had got it, how I had come to take it apart, and about the break-in.
“Who knew the boy had the glove?”
“Tiny Washington was there when he got it. Any number of people on the field could have seen him with it.”
“He was talking to some of the players on Sunday, too, Kate. I think he even got some autographs on the glove.”
Of course. I picked it up.
“Joe Kelsey, Stinger Swain, Alex Jones, Slider Holmes, Gloves Gardiner, Mark Griffin. A lot of the players knew T.C., Staff Sergeant. He’s been down on the field with me a couple of times. He’s a nice kid.”
“I’m sure he is. I’ll have to talk to him.”
“Now?”
“No. Let him sleep. I’ll get together with him tomorrow.”
“Should I keep him home from school?”
“It might be a good idea. Whoever wants that glove doesn’t know we’ve got it. I assume the boy has been taking it with him wherever he goes, right?”
“You know kids.”
“I’ve got a couple myself,” he smiled. Married.
“I see them as often as I can,” he continued. Divorced. I was glad I’d gone with casual but elegant. “My son’s a big ball fan. He’ll be jealous when he hears I’ve met you, Ms. Henry.”
“Call me Kate, for heaven’s sake.”
“All right. I’m Andy.”
“But your name’s Lloyd.”
“It’s an old family name. I’m the fourth generation. My middle name’s Andrew and my friends are kind enough to use it.”
“Well, I guess I’ll get to bed,” Sally said, subtle as a crutch. “Nice to have met you, Staff Sergeant.”
“Someone will be in touch with you in the morning.”
“If I’m not at home, I’ll be at the gallery. I’ll take T.C. with me. Kate can give you the phone numbers.”
After she left, we sat for a few moments in awkward silence.
“More coffee? Or could I offer you a drink? Unless you can’t drink on duty.”
“Well, I’m off duty, technically. I’d love a Scotch, if you’ve got some.”
“With water?”
“Just a bit. And one ice cube.”
“No sugar?”
“Not in Scotch, thanks.”
When we had settled in with our drinks, we both started to talk at once.
“You first,” I laughed.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.
“Oh?”
“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about, but I don’t want it all over the papers.”
“I won’t print any of it until an arrest is made, as long as I get an exclusive.”
“You’ve got a deal. Do you have a cassette recorder?”
“Yes, in my study. Why?”
“I’ve got a tape for you to listen to. See if you recognize any of the voices.”
“Where does it come from?”
“Sultan Sanchez’s answering machine. It’s the messages that were recorded on Saturday night.”
I got my portable recorder. The sound quality wasn’t great, but I had no problem with the first caller.
“Hi, honey, it’s Ginny. It’s seven o’clock. I’m at the Fillet. Where are you? If you’re listening in, get your sweet buns down here. Bye bye.” Kissing noises followed.
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“Sultan had a number of friends in town when his wife wasn’t here,” I said. “I ran into that one on Saturday, as a matter of fact. She was pretty drunk by midnight.”
“Yes, I could tell. She called back several times.”
The second call was a man’s voice.
“I’ve got the money. I’ll be at Brandy’s at eleven.”
“He called again, too. Is the voice familiar?”
“I’m not sure.”
He rewound it and played it again.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
The next call was in Spanish, a woman speaking.
“This is from another I um, friend of his,” Munro said. “She’s telling him she wants his body, approximately.”
“Popular fella. Do you speak Spanish?”
“No. One of the translators at headquarters listened to it for me.”
“I would imagine Alex Jones might be able to tell you who she is.”
The fourth call was a crank call, some drunken fan telling him he was a bum for striking out.
“How do they get these guys’ unlisted phone numbers? I had to work my butt off to get them.”
The fifth was from Ginny again.
“Hi, honey,” she said, sounding a bit frail. “I’m still at the Fillet. We’re holding the champagne and cake until you get here, so hurry.”
There was a lot of background noise on the next call.
“I’ve been at Brandy’s for half an hour. I’m tired of waiting. I’ll get to you after the game tomorrow.”
“I still can’t recognize it. It’s hard with all the noise.”
“Just one more.”
“You bastard,” Ginny’s voice slurred. “You don’t stand me up and get away with it. We’re through.” The phone was slammed down.
“That’s it. I was hoping you’d recognize the man’s voice.”
“Was it a drug deal, do you think? That would explain the large sums of money going into his bank account.”
“Perhaps. We’ll know better tomorrow. We found a safety deposit key in his valuables drawer at the ballpark. We’ll see what he’s got in it.”
“Why don’t you ask at Brandy’s and find out if any ballplayers were in there on Saturday.”
“We did actually think of that all by ourselves, Kate.” He fought the smile. “That’s assuming it’s a ballplayer. There was a full house at Brandy’s that night, including no less than five Titans and seven Red Sox.”
“Right. Who were the Titans?”
“Stinger Swain, Moe Grabowski, Eddie Carter, Joe Kelsey, and Slider Holmes.”
“Not all together, I assume.”
“Nope. Like you said. The whites were in one group and the blacks in another.”
“Did anyone notice who was in there for just half an hour?”
“With that mob, we’re lucky anyone noticed anything.”
“I’m trying to figure which of them might be into drugs.”
“I think you might be barking up the wrong investigative tree, Kate.”
“You mean drugs? What’s that right there on the table?”
“Drugs. And where did the drugs come from?”
“Sultan Sanchez’s glove.”
“Which he gave away to an eleven-year-old boy. Which suggests what?”
“That he didn’t know the glove was full of drugs.”
“Bingo. Your average drug dealer seldom gives away close to a pound of cocaine.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Thank you.” He stood up. “I think I’ll leave while I’m ahead. Past my bedtime.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Do you want a bag for the glove and stuff?”
“No. I’ll take it like this. Tell the boy I’ll get the glove back to him as soon as I can. And call me if you remember that voice.”
I stuck out my hand. He shook it solemnly.
“Thanks for the coffee. And the drink. And the suggestions.” At the door he turned. “And don’t forget to lock the door. Good night.”
While I made up the couch in the study, a surprisingly small part of my mind was engaged in thinking how good the staff sergeant looked in sweats. Most of it was worrying and wondering.
Specifically, worrying about Joe Kelsey and wondering whether I should have told Andy that it was Joe’s voice on the tape.
Chapter 15
Sally woke me with a cup of tea in hand.
“It’s almost nine,” she said. “Don’t you have to be somewhere at ten?”
“Thanks. How’s T.C.? Did you tell him about the glove?”
“I didn’t know how much I should tell him. I just said the police needed it for evidence and he’d get it back when they were through. He’s so excited about skipping school that he hasn’t asked any questions.”
“Good. I’m going to have to rush.”
I gulped the first cup of tea in the shower. Sally brought me a piece of toast and marmalade while I dressed and T.C. nattered at me while I put on makeup. I was out of there in twenty-five minutes with a half-hour drive ahead of me, if there wasn’t too much traffic.
The Thorsons lived in the same waterfront condominium complex as half a dozen other players, a modern tower poking out of several acres of parkland. The concierge stopped just short of asking me for my mother’s maiden name before he let me in.
I could hear a child crying as I knocked nervously on the penthouse door. Karin Gardiner let me in. Sandi Thorson was on her knees, comforting her sturdy little two-year-old, kissing away his hurt.
“Stevie fell,” Karin explained.
I made sympathetic noises and looked around. The view of the lake was spectacular, but otherwise it looked like any other dull modern apartment.
“Come on, Pooch,” Sandi said. “I’ll get you some juice and you can watch Sesame Street. You want to see Big Bird?”
The kid’s face lit up, and he ran down the hall, shrieking “Sesame, Sesame!” in delight.
His mother filled a bottle with apple juice and handed it to Karin, who took it to the boy. She cut short my apologies for disturbing her.
“Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen?”
“That’s fine.”
Looking into the living room, I could see why. It was filled with trophies and framed newspaper clippings, a shrine to her husband. The kitchen was her turf, filled with cheerful domesticity. There were letter magnets on the fridge at Stevie level and cartoons and lists at grownup height. We sat on padded stools at a counter in the corner that had a fresh pot of coffee at one end. Sandi poured into three flowered mugs.
“How’s Stevie doing?”
“I don’t think he really knows what’s happened. He thinks his father’s just on another road trip. I’m doing my best to keep things as normal as I can.”
“That can’t be easy.”
She looked at me as if I were crazy.
Karin came into the kitchen and sat down.
“Stevie’s fine.” Sandi nodded, and the three of us sat for a moment in awkward silence.
“I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Can you tell me about Sunday night?”
She used both hands to push her streaked blonde hair off her face. It wasn’t clean and looked as if it hadn’t been brushed. She was dressed in jeans and a man’s rugger shirt, striped in green and blue. She was washed out without makeup, and her eyes were puffy. The diamonds in her ears and on a gold chain around her neck looked harshly frivolous against her skin.
“We got home about six and had dinner with my folks. After we heard about Sultan we didn’t feel much like celebrating. Just after we finished, Steve got a phone call from Tony Marsden, a friend of ours. He runs the car dealership we lease from.
“He invited Steve to go fishing on the off day. He said it was p
robably the last chance of the year and the weather was going to be good. Steve had been to his cottage before. He really wanted to go, but there was a players’ meeting. So he called Ted Ferguson to ask permission and told him he wanted to play the rest of the season.
“Ted said he could go, so Steve left at about seven-thirty. He had left his gear at the stadium after his last trip, so he was going to pick it up and drive from there up to the cottage to get an early start.
“And that’s the last time I saw him. Alive.”
She stopped and stared into her coffee cup.
“We had a fight before he left. His folks were arriving in the morning and he expected me to take care of them all day while he was fishing. I don’t get along with them very well. They didn’t approve of our marriage. I was divorced when I met him, and he was a big star. They think I’m after his money.
“It was one of those whisper fights, you know? I didn’t want my mom and dad to hear us. I try to hide any problems when they’re around.”
She paused again, and her eyes filled with tears.
“The last thing I said to him was that if he went to Tony’s cottage he shouldn’t bother to come home. But I didn’t mean it.”
She began to cry in earnest.
“I lay in bed that night thinking up ways to get even. And he was probably dead by then.”
Karin put her arms around her sobbing friend and glared at me. I tried to look blameless.
“I’m sorry,” Sandi said, fumbling at a box of tissues. She blew her nose, then pushed the hair off her face again.
“I just can’t help spilling my guts out these days.”
“I understand. I’m sorry I have to make you go through it again.”
“It’s not your fault. Let’s go on.”
“Is there anything you can think of that could explain what happened?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out, and I just can’t. I know that Steve didn’t have a lot of friends, but he didn’t have real enemies either, not ones that would want to kill him. He could be difficult, sometimes, but he wasn’t harmful. All I keep coming up with is Sam Craven. Did he hate Steve enough to kill him? I don’t know. I like Sam, but he was real angry at Steve. He was in Toronto that day, too.”
The Dead Pull Hitter Page 11