Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  “At least get ya some mace or pepper spray. Or if ya don’t have that, carry your keys like this.”

  Otis made a fist and demonstrated a stabbing motion. “The eyes.” He pointed with two fingers at his own stare. “Ya always go for the eyes, Red.”

  Cat swallowed the bad taste in her mouth. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Okay, gettin’ back to the report. I gotta get a description.”

  “I couldn’t see anything. It was dark and he was covered from head to toe.”

  “Uh, small guy, big guy?”

  “He was big.”

  “How tall?”

  Cat was a master at guessing heights and weights, since she spent most days poring over player profiles and stats.

  “Maybe six two, two hundred fifty pounds? He wasn’t as tall, but he was beefy like you.”

  Otis nodded appreciatively and poked at his keyboard’s number pad. “You couldn’t see his hair color neither?”

  “Again, ski mask.”

  “What about eyes?”

  “It was too dark.”

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  Cat paused. “Nope.”

  Otis crossed his arms. “Didn’t say nothing to you?”

  “Uh, just when he demanded my stuff. I thought he was going to say more but uh, th-that’s when the car came.”

  Erich stood up. “Impeccable timing. If we can locate the driver, I will give him first row season tickets. Now Otis, you can take the report from here, correct? I would like to escort Catriona home.”

  Otis looked back and forth at both of them as he helped her out of the chair and led her toward the door.

  “Uh, sure thing, Boss.”

  “You are certain you want to go back to your apartment? I can arrange for you to stay in the penthouse at Hohenschwangau Palace.”

  Cat shook her head. “No, I just really want my own bed.”

  “I understand. You are sure you are not hungry?”

  Cat had been famished when she left Hohenschwangau the first time, but now her stomach was ready to pitch from the windup at the mere mention of food.

  “I’m sure.”

  The gate closed behind them as they entered Villa La Playa. She nodded at her building. “It’s the first one.”

  Erich pulled into a front row spot, oblivious to the handicapped sign or the painted blue stripes. She reached for the handle of the convertible’s door.

  “Well, thanks again for the ride, Mr. König.”

  He turned the ignition off. “I insist on escorting you to your apartment.”

  Any other night, she would've welcomed his company. Cat cursed fate’s timing.

  “Oh, you don’t have to …”

  Erich was already stepping out of the car and activating the car’s alarm. Cat exhaled.

  Here we go.

  Should I invite him in?

  Offer him tea?

  German coffee?

  Some sort of dark, frothy, warm beer?

  They started up the stairs and she stopped suddenly.

  “A key. I don’t have one, I need to pick one up from the apartment manager’s place. You don’t have to wait.”

  “Nonsense. No trouble at all.”

  She bit her lip. “Um, okay. Just a sec.”

  Behind the manager’s door was a man wearing a loosely-cinched blue bathrobe, white t-shirt stained with what she hoped was coffee and well-worn plaid pajama pants. A cigar wedged between his front teeth completed the slumlord look she suspected he was going for.

  “Yeah?”

  Cat double-checked the apartment number to the side of the door. “Hi, sorry to bother you so late but I just spoke to the building manager, Lisa. She told me I could get a spare key to my place.”

  He took the stogie out of his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. She sent me a text.” He pointed the slobbered-on cigar at her. “Two-oh-one, right?”

  Cat nodded.

  “Just a sec.”

  He slammed the door in her face. Cat let out a breath and tapped her foot on the concrete walkway while she waited. She peeked around the corner of the building and saw Erich sizing up the building from his vantage point on the sidewalk. Footsteps scuffled back to the door.

  “Here ya go.” He handed it over, pausing as his hand grazed hers. He eyed her warily. “It’s pretty late. Everything okay?”

  She sighed. “Yeah.” The key shook in her hand. “Just locked out.”

  “Fair enough.” He plugged the cigar back in his mouth. “Take care then.”

  Cat was halfway back to the sidewalk when she heard his door slam shut again.

  * * *

  “Catriona, are you sure there is no way I can persuade you to take a hotel room for the evening?”

  Across the hallway, Benji strained his ear to the door as he repeated the troubling question to himself. “Hotel room?” He frowned and pressed his eye up to the door’s peephole. He watched Cat smile appreciatively at the suited stranger.

  “No, no. I’ll be fine.” She inserted the replacement key into her door.

  Erich peered over the hallway’s balcony and down to the courtyard. “But your address—”

  “I haven’t even had a chance to update my driver’s license. So, as far as he knows, I was a tourist from Porterville.” She pointed at the door jam. “Plus, dead bolts.”

  The man stuck his hands in his pockets. “If you insist. You have my home telephone, ja? Do not hesitate to call if you need a thing. No matter the time. Even if it is late.”

  Cat pointed at the polished watch on his wrist. “Hmm, later at least.”

  “Fret not regarding work tomorrow. Someone else can fill in.”

  “Oh, no way!” She smiled. “I mean, thank you. I don’t want to miss tomorrow’s game.”

  Erich chuckled. “Well, far be it for me to stand in the way. Then I insist, come in at your leisure, should you have more pressing matters to attend to, canceling credit accounts, etcetera.”

  “Thanks, Mr. König.”

  “I will have a cell phone and laptop waiting when you arrive.”

  “That is so generous. I really appreciate everything.”

  “Please, this is the least I can do.”

  “Well … thanks again.”

  She stepped into her apartment, and the man said, “Good night, Catriona.”

  “Good night.” She watched him round the corner.

  Before she could shut her door, Benji rushed outside and bounded across the concrete on his bare toes. “Hey, you.”

  Cat ran her hands through her disheveled hair. “Hi.”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but, uh, I did. So who’s the handsome Prince Charming, who I might add is entirely too old for you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Erich König. My boss.”

  “Yowza. Erich König as in the casino? As in the handsome Prince Charming with his own palace?”

  “More like King Charming, but yeah. He’s the Chips’ owner.” She leaned her back against the door frame and winced.

  “Oh, that’s right. He owns so much I can’t keep track.” Benji glanced down the empty stairwell. “Does he usually give you rides home from work? Are you two, like, carpool buddies?”

  “Only on the days when I get mugged walking home from the stadium.”

  Benji’s jaw dropped, and he searched her up and down, reaching for her arm. “Mugged? Cat, holy shit. Are you okay?”

  She tilted her head and placed her hand on his. “I’m not hurt, but I’m light years from okay.” She met his eyes with a grave stare. “I have a much bigger problem than just canceling my credit cards. This mugging was not random.”

  Benji studied her for a second, waiting for her to burst out laughing and gloat about getting revenge for his foam finger prank. When she didn’t, he reached for her arm. “Why don’t you come over to my place and tell me everything?”

  32

  Benji stayed quiet for a minute as her allegation sank in. Finally, he broke the silence. �
��Not random?”

  “That’s what I said. It wasn’t random. I think I was targeted.”

  “Are you sure you’re not overreacting? I mean, people probably get mugged in this city every day.”

  She tucked her legs under her on the oversized love seat and studied his apartment. While the floor plan was identical to hers, Benji’s home was uniquely his. Two mismatched sofas faced a flat screen television overshadowed by a lively aquarium. The coffee table held back issues of The Nation and sat atop a zebra-printed rug. A bookshelf along the wall held textbooks, novels and a row of encased action figures.

  “How many muggers do you know who wear BMW driving gloves?”

  “I don’t think I know any muggers period.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “They’re just gloves. It doesn’t mean he drives a BMW. What about baseball hats? You can wear those without being able to hit a ball. I’m living proof of that.”

  “I guess. Still seems like a pretty expensive choice for a petty thief.”

  “Maybe he stole them,” he said with a cheesy grin.

  They sat for a few moments, as the gurgling of his aquarium filled the void in the room. Cat watched the two fish dart through their glowing underwater castle and chase each other around a reef.

  “You really think you were specifically targeted? Seems like a long shot.”

  “So is getting mugged.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed. “I know how it sounds, but you have to trust me.”

  They were sitting side by side on the couch. He tugged her foot playfully and said, “What gives? I get the feeling there’s more to this than you’re telling me.”

  There was more. The mugger specifically demanded a watch, coincidentally only a couple of days after she’d received a six thousand dollar timepiece. But she couldn’t tell Benji that little tidbit without divulging how she’d received the watch and worse, who had given it to her.

  “Let me ask you a question. Did you know about the team reporter who was here before me, Brad Derhoff?”

  “His name sounds kind of familiar but, as you know, I don’t really follow sports.”

  “Well, he killed himself.”

  “Yeesh.”

  “Yeah. Except …”

  “Except?”

  “Except apparently the team was even more hush-hush about his death than they are about Jamal’s heart attack.”

  “Okay, so they don’t like deaths. They have poor mourning management. Or maybe they plain don’t give a damn. None of those are a crime.”

  “Not a crime, but the handling has been unusual.”

  Benji chewed on his lip. “Yeah?”

  “So, just out of curiosity, I was trying to find out more about Brad’s death. I can’t. There’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “All of his files have been wiped. His personnel files, his memos, old articles, any information pertaining to Brad Derhoff has been wiped from the team’s Intranet site.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you unusual on that one.”

  “So I’m saying, what if Brad didn’t kill himself?”

  Benji’s eyes doubled in size. “Cat, what exactly is it you’re implying?”

  “Maybe there was a missed sign on the suicide squeeze.”

  “You lost me.”

  Cat looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. I’ve given that some serious thought.” She shot him a small smile, which he returned. Fiddling with the bandages on her knees, she said, “It’s just a theory. You like theories, right?”

  “I like theories formed through the application of logic. Keyword being logic.”

  “Okay then, Spock. Hear me out through those pointy ears.”

  He grinned approvingly.

  “First, the successful team reporter—who by all accounts is as happy as a clam—offs himself, leaving behind a soaring career and a family he adored.”

  “Well, maybe he didn’t kill himself. Intentionally, that is. Maybe he just OD’d. What was the drug of choice?”

  “No clue. Just like with everything else on Brad Derhoff, there’s not a lick of public information about drugs in his system at the time of his death.”

  “Probably street. Maybe prescription. I think it’s safe to say it wasn’t over-the-counter.”

  “For sure. The thing is, this is a guy in the same line of work as me, and we’re drug-tested almost as often as the players. I doubt he was some kind of closet junkie.”

  Benji furrowed his brow in an adorably inquisitive way. “There’s never been documentation of a dirty test?”

  She shook her head. “I mean, I can’t say a hundred percent, but the commissioner’s office gets the results, not the team. There’s no way they’d stand for any degree of drug abuse.”

  “Zero tolerance, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’ll give you strange, but I don’t know we need to send out the Mystery Machine just yet.”

  She cleared her throat. “There’s more. Tonight, with the mugging …”

  “Yes?”

  “It was after he demanded my stuff.” She sighed. “I was fumbling to get the purse to him, you know. My hands were shaking. I was scared and the strap kind of got caught in my hair and he shouted—” her voice wavered.

  Benji placed his hand on hers. “You’re okay now.”

  She took a deep breath. “Now, or you’re going from the byline to the headline, ball bitch.”

  “Ball bitch, huh? Hmm … you’d think a felon wouldn’t have a PG-thirteen sensor.”

  “It wasn’t the second syllable that got me.”

  “Ball? As in base?”

  “Plus the comment about the byline. How would he know I work with the team?”

  “Well, you were coming from Hohenschwangau Park—or is it Field?”

  “Stadium. I was, but this was hours after the game. If I’d been at the game, I wouldn’t have been wearing a pencil skirt and mules.” She held out her foot for his examination. “Wear these in the stands? I don’t think so. Do you know what beer does to suede?”

  Benji ignored the question and frowned. “So you think he knew who you are, that you’re the Chips’ reporter?”

  “I do. Again, we’ve got this random mugger who, in addition to sporting designer driving gloves, just happens to recognize the city’s newest sportswriter walking down the sidewalk?”

  “Well, you do work for a major team. Don’t they have your picture next to your byline?”

  “Nope. They do the team photo shoots at spring training. Since I wasn’t around, my byline just reads Catriona McDaniel. No picture. No description. Heck, I’ve hardly even been seen outside the press box.”

  “Not even in the minors?”

  She offered a wry smile. “Benji, they didn’t even let us have a hot dog on the house. They weren’t about to spring for staff photos.” She looked down. “Maybe the whole mercenary attacker is a stretch. The more I think about Brad …”

  “What are you saying, Cat? You think he was murdered?”

  She brought her eyes up slowly to his. “I think maybe someone wanted him out of the way.”

  “Out of the way of what?”

  They locked eyes. “Like for his job.”

  Benji smiled and shook his finger at her. “Ah, I see. ’Fess up and if you promise to never kill again, maybe we can get you a plea bargain.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cute. Keep that up and I’m gonna need one.”

  “Okay then, let’s say for a second you’re right and this whole discussion isn’t an understandable reaction after a stressful, traumatic event.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “If Brad’s death wasn’t a suicide, and the person responsible is now after you, what would they have to gain from hurting the team’s reporters?”

  A chill ran through her body. Her eyes widened. “Not the team’s reporters. The team’s senior reporters.”

  Benji cocked his head. “What’s the dif— Oh. Oh! You mean
… are you talking about that guy at work, the one you were complaining about?”

  “Dustin Carlyle, the junior reporter.”

  “Junior looking to become senior?”

  “Oh yeah. It stood to reason Dustin should have been next in line for my job. In fact, he would’ve been my logical choice.”

  Benji finally removed his hand from hers to push the hair out of his eyes. “Well, forgive me for asking, but why’d they pick you, then?”

  “That’s the million dollar question. I’ve been asking myself that for a month.”

  Benji leaned back in. “Maybe you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

  She brought her head closer to his and whispered, “Maybe.”

  The room fell silent.

  She scooted back a few inches and cleared her throat. “Or Erich König realized Dustin is a fungus. Either way, put yourself in Dustin’s clodhoppers …”

  “I’d be pissed.”

  “So pissed, right?”

  Benji raised an eyebrow comically. “If I’d already murdered once …”

  “He did kind of threaten me earlier today.”

  “Define kind of.”

  “I was nosing around for information, but he saw right through it and shut me down. Then he followed it up with a stone-faced ‘curiosity will kill you, Cat.’ ”

  Benji dropped his amused expression.

  Cat shook her head. “No. Dustin’s a weasel. A giant weasel. The biggest weasel in the entire Weaselia family.”

  “Mustelidae family, and even the biggest weasel would be pretty small in comparison to its cousin, the giant otter.”

  “Whatever. I don’t think Dustin Carlyle is seriously capable of murder. I think you’re probably right about the stress. I’m just freaked out right now.”

  Benji tilted his head. “People can be capable of a lot of things if they want something bad enough.”

  They were both quiet again.

  “Just be careful.”

  She stood and took a step toward the door. “I should get going. It’s been a long night.”

  “Do you want to, uh, stay here?”

  She stopped and turned around. “H-here?”

  “I just thought, you know, you might feel safer. Until you get your locks changed. If you want.”

  “Um …”