by Karen Young
“I need to go,” she said, and, withdrawing her hand, stood up.
He rose, took money from his pocket and left it on the table to pay the check. “Everything points to Tyson, Rachel. I think I’ll pay a visit to Pete. See if I can get him to poke around in the man’s background a little. He might refuse, but it’s worth a shot.”
See? Totally casual. And she’d better start thinking that way, too, and not let herself get too used to it. If it felt so good having him touch her cheek or give her a hug, she could only imagine how it would be to do much more with him.
Nick, meanwhile, was reaping the benefits of backing away from Tyson’s personal training. That’s how he accounted for the definite disappearance of tension on the field and in the locker room. It was nothing he could actually see or touch or smell, but the guys on the team were suddenly a lot friendlier than they’d been since those special sessions with Coach Monk had started. He’d played ball with some of these guys since grade school and it had been tough when they’d started treating him as if he had a contagious disease. But word had apparently made the rounds that he was, once again, just one of the team.
Proof positive came when Robbie Sims stopped at his locker just to shoot the shit. First off, Robbie played varsity short stop. He was one of Coach Monk’s core elite and Nick had never spent more than five minutes in Robbie’s company except on the playing field. So he nearly fell over on his face in the act of peeling off his dirty socks when Robbie said, “You doing anything special Friday night?”
“Uh, not yet.” Nick straightened up, socks forgotten.
“My folks have a cabin on Lake Ray Hubbard. Some of us guys are getting together Friday after school and spending the night there. I’m driving, in case transportation’s a problem.”
It would have been. Robbie knew Nick didn’t have his license yet, only a permit. And you couldn’t drive with a permit unless somebody was in the car who was minimum twenty-one years old. “Yeah, that’s great,” he said. “Do I need to bring anything?”
Robbie grinned. “Just yourself. There’ll be plenty to eat and, oh yeah, there’s a pool. It’s heated.”
Hot damn. “Who all’s coming, Robbie?”
“It’ll be me and Mack Turner, Leo Smallwood, Kyle Burgess, Jason Pate and Steve Morgan. Maybe a couple others, I’m not sure yet.”
All big dogs, all varsity. Nick was blown away.
“Oh, and you and Will Smythe from junior varsity,” Robbie added.
But not Ward. Nick felt a pang, regret mixed with guilt. He knew as soon as he told him, Ward would guess why he wasn’t included, not that a weekend invitation to Lake Hubbard was enough to make Ward reject special coaching. He was as hell-bent as ever to be right up there with Jimbo eventually. Still, Nick didn’t like abandoning Ward for a whole weekend. He was struck with a thought. If Kristin would agree to go out with Ward, he wouldn’t even notice Nick wasn’t around. Ward had been fantasizing about having a date with her for weeks, but was too shy to ask. Nick vowed to try to talk to her himself. Maybe use a little of his famous Forrester salesmanship. Ward was always telling him how he was full of crap, but maybe he could put his talent to work on Kristin. But he’d have to get with it. Friday night wasn’t far off. Then he’d be able to go to Lake Hubbard with a clear conscience.
It was definitely a plan.
Fifteen
Burnt coffee, stale smoke and disinfectant. All police precincts smelled the same, Cam thought, making his way down the corridor toward Pete Singletary’s office. He’d been inside more than a few in the years since he’d started writing, but mostly for research relating to his current work in progress. Except for his questions about Jack, this was the only time he’d had a personal reason for going. Be interesting to hear the police chief’s take on the coach of Rose Hill High.
He hadn’t called first, telling himself that if Singletary was gone for the day, he’d try again. The dispatcher behind the desk, a pretty brunette, directed him to the chief’s office after offering him coffee, which he’d refused.
“Good decision,” she told him, smiling. “It’s about four hours old and the guys think if they hold out long enough, I’ll give in and make a fresh pot.”
“Wrong?” Cam guessed, admiring her spunk. And her legs.
“Totally wrong. If I start making the coffee, next thing they’ll expect me to bring it to them. Pretty soon, I’d be dusting and mopping.” She gave him a sassy wink. “Instead, I’m working on an application to the police academy. I can’t wait to see their faces when I show them my acceptance.”
“No doubt about that happening—” he paused, reading her name plate “—Angela?”
“None.”
He found himself grinning. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” She made a motion toward the corridor. “Chief Singletary’s down the corridor, last door on the left.”
The door was open and Singletary was at his desk, squinting at a monitor sitting on the right-hand corner. The office was neat. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. It was so completely opposite to the way Cam worked that he simply stood for a minute, admiring a level of organization that was beyond him. The only area he kept neat and orderly was his garage, and that was mostly for safety’s sake. There wasn’t even anything in the chief’s in and out baskets. That could mean one of two things, Cam thought. Policing a town the size of Rose Hill presented so little challenge that Singletary finished everything as it cropped up, or nothing much happened that the cops on the force couldn’t handle and he didn’t have anything to do.
He gave a little tap on the open door and Singletary looked up. Pete smiled, recognizing him, and rose from his chair. “Cameron Ford. Hey, what a coincidence. I was just thinking about you.” He extended a hand across the desk and they shook. “Sit down. Did Angela offer you some of our famous coffee?”
“Yes, but I passed, remembering your opinion of it.”
Pete smiled. “Definitely the best thing, this time of day. It’s got to be thick enough for shoe polish right about now. And Angela refuses to make a fresh pot. Ever.” He waited until Cam sat down, then reseated himself. “What can I do for you, Cameron?”
“It’s Cam. And I’ll tell you up front, what I’m asking might put you on the spot. I won’t be offended if you tell me flat-out to get lost.”
“And I won’t be offended if you say the same thing when I explain why I was just thinking about you,” Pete said, settling back in his chair. “You go first.”
Cam relaxed enough to manage a smile…of sorts. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I need information about a prominent citizen. I get the feeling he may not be what he seems, but I’m going on gut instinct alone. However, it’s served me well in the past. When word gets out that there’s a hint of suspicion about this guy, there are definitely some folks in Rose Hill who’ll be ticked off. It may cost you.”
Pete grinned. “Goddamn, that was one helluva opening statement. What a teaser. Makes it impossible for me to say no thanks, I don’t want to know any more and have a nice day. Were you a lawyer before you started writing true crime?”
Cam’s smile was now more genuine. “No, I was a stockbroker.”
“Huh.” Pete lifted a brow, his eyes shrewdly assessing. “That’s interesting. And who is this prominent citizen?”
“Before we go there, I need to explain where I’m coming from.” His gaze strayed to the wall behind Singletary. Citations. Commendations. A photo with George Bush when he was governor. Another at the White House with a Christmas tree in the background. Hell, this guy was as connected as Tyson, but Cam hadn’t decided yet if he had as much ego as Tyson. “I lived in New York when my wife and I were divorced,” he went on. “Afterward, I stayed there. It was her decision to return to Rose Hill and she took our son with her. Jack was just fourteen then and a promising athlete. Making the team at Rose Hill High was important to him. But he did it. After less than two years, he was playing varsity baseball.”
Cam paused
, looking at a signed photo of Pete and fellow DPD cops standing at the ruins of the WTC towers in New York with Rudy Giuliani. “Then, one night I had a call from Jack. He said he needed to talk to me about ‘some trouble with the guys on the team.’ His exact words. I was working on a tight deadline and I told him I’d get back with him as soon as the book was done. He hung up and later that same night, Cara—my ex-wife—called to tell me that Jack was dead. He’d killed himself.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Singletary said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Cam bit at his bottom lip, cleared his throat. “I’ve relived that phone conversation in my mind until it’s etched forever. So—” his voice firmed “—that was five years ago. I’m doing now what I should have done then. I made a stab at it then, but I know now I wasn’t in any shape to be rational. Now I want to know why. Jack’s suicide took everyone by surprise…or at least that’s what they all said, the people I spoke to then. But I learned nothing to explain it. Everywhere I turned, I heard the same thing. Everyone assumed he was just a troubled teenager, pointing to the divorce, the move from New York to Texas, the stress of a new school and his ambition to play sports. I rejected that then and I reject it now.”
“No drugs were involved?”
Cam let out a short, unhappy laugh. “The autopsy revealed that he did have drugs in his system.”
“Drugs can cause bizarre behavior,” Pete said, using a cautious tone.
“I’m aware of that, and of course, it’s the most logical answer.” Cam’s gaze was steady on his face. “He was not a druggie. I can’t explain how he came to be stoned that night, but it was not usual behavior for Jack.”
“What do you need from me, Cam?”
“Two things. First, I’d like to see the file on Jack’s suicide. The whole file, everything. I don’t know what your rules are, but I’m hoping you’ll bend them…under the circumstances when you hear my second reason.” He shifted in his chair and said, “Something about the sports program at Rose Hill High just doesn’t smell right to me.”
“Something? Can you be more specific?”
“No. And I don’t have a scrap of evidence to make that judgment, only a hunch. Jack’s statement to me on the phone that last night still haunts me. Something’s going on in Monk Tyson’s little kingdom, Pete. I can’t prove it and I can’t identify it, but my suspicion is stronger than ever.”
“Holy smokes, your prominent citizen isn’t Monk Tyson, is it?”
“See what I mean about pissing off some of the citizenry?”
“Yeah, shit.” Pete straightened and squared himself at his desk. “And don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re leading up to asking for Tyson’s file.”
“Is there one?”
Shaking his head, Pete gave a heavy sigh and sat for a minute thinking. “So, why are your suspicions stronger now?”
“Jimbo Rivers was Jack’s best friend at school. He’s at UT now. I spoke to Jimbo briefly after Jack died, and, of all the people I talked with, I had the strongest impression that Jimbo knew something, or suspected something. But he was up for a major athletic scholarship at UT and he wasn’t talking. Now he’s being courted by the majors for a ticket to the pros. I don’t think he’ll want to talk now, either, for fear of screwing that up.”
“But you have no proof? You can’t even identify the nature of whatever’s going on?”
“Right.”
“Is it drugs? You think the athletes themselves are using? Are they selling? You think Tyson’s running a drug cartel and the kids are the soldiers?”
“Let me put it this way. I don’t think it’s impossible.” Cam got up and strode to the window. “To tell the truth, I don’t have a clue what he’s doing. Could be drugs, but somehow that doesn’t feel right. Tyson has a no-tolerance rule and I haven’t seen anything to make me think otherwise. Could he have a substantial business going and keep it away from his boys? I guess, but I don’t think so. Could he use the kids in a drug operation and keep all of them clean? Not likely. On the other hand, Rachel says one of Tyson’s prime kids is into booze in a big way, not drugs. He’s bingeing on the weekends, even bringing a flask to school so that he’s drunk by noon. This is a kid who had no hint of an emotional problem last year. I’m thinking the kid’s drinking is a symptom.”
“Of what?”
“I wish I knew,” Cam said, staring straight out. “I haven’t talked to the kid personally. Yet. But he’s got a fabulous future and he’s hell-bent on destroying it before it ever begins. Why?”
“Problems at home?”
“Could be, I guess. There’s trouble there. Then again, my gut tells me—”
“That Tyson’s driving the kid to drink?”
“I know it sounds like paranoia.” Cam had turned from the window and now faced Pete. “Like I said, this could reflect badly on you, Pete, and just when you need to be making friends, not alienating them.”
Pete dismissed that with a look and asked, “Is there anything else?”
“This is more gut feeling,” Cam said, “but Tyson has singled out Nick, Rachel’s son, and his friend, Ward, for special one-on-one coaching time. Ward is Jimbo’s younger brother and is intensely focused on getting a leg up from Tyson, hoping it’ll propel him into pro sports by way of a college scholarship.”
“Following in his brother’s wake?”
“According to Nick, yeah,” Cam said. “Meanwhile he—Nick—has just decided to back off from Tyson’s freebies. He told me it makes him uncomfortable that his teammates think he has an unfair advantage. But I sense there’s something else and it has to do with Tyson.”
“Can you get him to tell you more?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Huh.” Again, Singletary sat thinking. Then he turned to his computer and tapped out a few keys, sat still while information loaded, then stared at the monitor. “Just looking at Tyson’s record,” he said after a few minutes. “Reputation’s spotless. You’ve picked a doozy here, Cam.”
“The man’s been here more than five years. Seems if there was anything it would have shown up by now.”
“Yeah, but after nineteen years in this business, I’ve learned things aren’t always as they appear to be.”
“This may be a dry hole,” Cam said. “I could be seeing things where there’s nothing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Pete said, and turned away from his computer to gaze out the window in deep thought. He wore the same expression Cam had seen on his face when he’d first appeared at his door when Singletary was studying his computer monitor. He had something in his hand, working it. A stress ball, Cam realized, watching the compulsive squeeze and release, squeeze and release with growing respect. Chief Singletary talked like a homespun son of Texas, but Cam sensed that behind the mask was a man with shrewd and effective law enforcement skills. Cam had interviewed similar types in his research. How, he wondered, had Rose Hill managed to snare a lawman of Pete’s caliber?
“I have a rich uncle,” Pete said in a reflective tone. “He’s a wildcatter, almost eighty years old now. Started out drilling for oil in West Texas. Had his share of dry holes, too. Made and lost his fortune several times. There’re no guarantees when you drill for oil, but that doesn’t mean you don’t drill.”
“You don’t think I’m a grieving father looking to pin my son’s death on something vague and shadowy when it was mostly my own failings that drove him to take his life?”
Pete was now studying the stress ball in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of grieving parents, some who were eager to blame anything, anybody. You’re saying you never felt that?”
“I felt it and worse, I’ve carried it around for almost five years. It’s just lately that I’ve begun taking a more honest look at myself.” Honesty meant he’d have to take his place in the lineup now.
When Pete remained silent, Cam decided to shoot for the moon. “You don’t need me to tell you how to do your job, but for starters, I wonder whether or not Tyson has
more income than might be expected for a high school coach. We both know that if word of an official investigation leaked out, you’d have Tyson’s fan club on you, big time.”
“On the other hand, thanks to the politicians, we’ve now got the Patriot Act,” Pete said, tossing the ball into a side drawer. “What you suggest would have been a lot trickier before nine-eleven, but in today’s suspicious climate, Tyson’s secrets are my secrets, so to speak. It’s still dicey, but doable. And it’s the logical place to start. Good suggestion.”
“One more thing,” Cam said, going back to his chair. “While Nick has backed off from Tyson, Ward hasn’t. He’s still too hungry for what it could mean to his future to tell Tyson to kiss off.”
Pete waited, sensing Cam hadn’t reached where he was headed.
“Nick told me Ward is depressed lately. He’s up and down, whereas he’s always been a level kind of guy. Doesn’t laugh as much anymore.”
“He’s a teenage boy with raging hormones, Cam. Or it could be girl trouble.”
“He’s interested in a girl—Kristin—but so far no luck with her, so it’s not like they’ve been a couple and she’s dumped him. No, this is deeper than that.” He was squinting at Singletary’s trophy wall, but his thoughts were focused on that last conversation with Nick. “All the books tell us to watch for changes in behavior. It’s a basic danger sign.”
“You think he’s going down the same road as your boy?”
“Not really, but how about this? The other kid I mentioned who’s poised for the big time seems troubled to the extent of drinking to excess, which could jeopardize the future Tyson’s set him up for. Now here’s Ward, who’s also getting special treatment from Tyson that’ll set him up, too. And he’s also showing signs that he’s unhappy, depressed…whatever. Is there a connection?”
“I’ll be honest, Cam. It’s a stretch.” Both men were again silent, thinking. “Nick may know something even if he doesn’t know he knows it, if you get my drift,” Pete said.