by Jen Estes
Kiara clapped her hands together and grinned. “Yay! You want me to run down and get it for you?”
“Oh no, I’ll go. Maybe I can wring a bit more out of somebody. They weren’t real chatty earlier, as you can imagine.”
Kiara nodded knowingly. The game had been a painful loss, a common theme for the Las Vegas Chips as of late. Today was also the first day the clubhouse had been open to the media since Jamal’s death. The reporters had all but thrown punches to get to the miserable closer, who’d blown his first save of the season thus far. Cat had been eager to flee both the journalistic swarm and the room’s petulance, and she must have left behind Yaz in her rush to escape.
Cat entered the clubhouse and stepped over the remnants of a broken folding chair that she suspected was a victim of the closer’s anguish.
Ah, now I get it. Must have been the chair’s fault you kept lobbing fastballs right over the middle of the plate.
“Hello again, Ms. McDaniel.”
She turned to the long bench and saw Dr. Goodall sitting with a couple of players.
“Oh hey, guys. I was looking for Yaz—er, my recorder. I think I left it down here …” She saw the red rectangle sitting on a card table. “Hey, hey. There he is.”
She skipped over to the table, shoved the recorder in her pocket and walked toward the bench. She pointed to the doctor’s black medical bag. “What’s going on here?”
Dr. Goodall pushed his glasses up on his bulbous nose. “Nothing newsworthy, I assure you.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s off the record.”
Brett Hable piped up, full of cheer after going three for three on the day, despite his team’s loss. “Just Vitamin B shots.”
“Vitamin shots? Are you feeling sick, Brett?” She scanned his face for any telltale signs.
“Well no, but all the players do them. Every week.” Brett looked at the doctor and then back to her. “Why? Doesn’t every …”
“Cobalamin, B-12. Nothing unusual, Ms. McDaniel.” Dr. Goodall cleared his throat as he removed the needle from the other player’s arm. She watched as he threw the used syringe in the Sharps disposal bin.
“Of course. I’m familiar with the practice, but I thought players only received B-12 shots when they were sick.” She watched as the doctor prepared another syringe. “You know, like coming down with a cold or something.”
Dr. Goodall’s head snapped up without hesitation. “How do you think we avoid the flu bug in this enormous sandbox of a tourist trap?”
“Oh. That makes sense.” She took another glimpse at the open medical bag. “Well, guys, needles give me the heebie jeebies, so I’ll just leave you and the pointies alone now.”
Brett lifted up his sleeve and plopped down in front of the doctor, giving her a flirty grin. “Sure you don’t need one, too, Cat? Can’t have you getting sick, either.”
“I think I’ll stick with an apple a day, slugger.” She gave him a wink and waved goodbye on her way out of the room. She stepped into the elevator, a thought coming to mind as she whooshed past each floor.
Mr. König:
I’m sorry to bother you while you’re on a business trip, but an issue has arisen here I need to notify you about. The other night, I caught Dustin Carlyle “spiking” a cup of coffee intended for me. When I questioned him, he admitted he has been doing this almost daily since my arrival. While the drug is a non-lethal medication (a laxative, to be specific) this behavior is worrisome to say the least. I haven’t shared this information with any other staff members. I will wait for your response before I take further action.
Cat deleted the message and closed the lid on her laptop. She knew there was no way she could send the e-mail. She had no choice but to wait until Mr. König came back from the Dominican Republic and have that unpleasant conversation face to face. It would almost be a shame. Dustin had come into work today looking like a poster child for Contrition. He’d had the pregame notes ready on her desk, helped her set up in the press box, completed the stats before the Chips left the field and prepared for tomorrow’s matchups before he left. Most importantly, he hadn’t brought her any coffee. She almost felt guilty about drafting the letter. The e-mail had served another purpose, anyway. Drafting it had killed time while she waited for the building to empty.
It was difficult to gauge the exact time Dr. Goodall clocked in and out at Hohenschwangau Stadium every day. His office light was always on first thing in the morning, and he’d been there to perform her patch job after the late night mugging. The game had ended hours ago, and Cat hoped the doctor had followed his players out the door shortly thereafter. Hope was not enough, though. She had to make sure.
Being the last employee left on the fourth floor, she wasted no time strolling out to the cubicles. Taking a quick look around, she slid behind Dustin’s desk and dialed Dr. Goodall’s three-digit extension. Four rings and straight to voice mail.
Good sign.
She carefully placed the phone back on Dustin’s desk and wiped her fingerprint smudges off its plastic. Her coworker’s desk emitted the same Arctic chill as its owner. There wasn’t a paper out of place and not even a scribble on the desk calendar. His phone, stapler and digital recorder were spaced an equal two inches apart. Unlike everyone else in the office, he had no memorabilia, not even a baseball cap sitting on his monitor, nor a treasured ball next to his keyboard.
Creepy.
His desktop didn’t appear to be cluttered with pictures of family or friends, either.
Adds credence to my newest theory: Dustin is the result of an experimental laboratory and a Petri dish.
She placed a hand on his file cabinet.
I should probably check for a voodoo doll with auburn hair and really cute shoes.
Cat hesitated and removed her hand.
No time. His days are numbered, anyway.
She went back to her office and packed her laptop in the tartan Burberry case, throwing the strap over her shoulder and taking a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
Cat expected reason to kick in on the ride down to the clubhouse. Reason had departed at five o’clock along with the rest of the front office staff. She was left with reason’s ugly cousin, lunacy. The elevator doors opened with a chime, and she took a step toward the soon-to-be crime scene. She grimaced when she saw the lights were still on. Usually the clubhouse manager was the last to leave, and he always shut the lights off on his way out. Hoping the wasted electricity was an oversight, she carried on. She poked her head through the doorway and batted her eyes with mock innocence.
“Hellooo?” Cat took one step inside. “Ernie?”
A welcome silence greeted her. Her heels hit the thick hardwood with resounding clomps as she entered the players’ sanctuary. Its familiar smell of sweat and aftershave did nothing to calm her nerves; her nervous system associated that scent with postgame frenzy and overeager colleagues. She eyeballed the syringe disposal mounted on the south wall. She stopped en route, chiding herself for her carelessness.
Always be prepared, eh Cat?
She chewed at her bottom lip as she scoured the room for the item that might stand in for the one she had forgotten. With a mischievous gleam in her emerald eyes, she surveyed the clubhouse lockers.
Or more appropriately, cubbyholes.
They were termed lockers, but with the exception of a small safe on the top shelf, the players’ belongings were exposed to every clubhouse visitor. All their uniforms and equipment, including their batting gloves.
Leather batting gloves. Just what one might want if she were going to root around in a pile of dirty needles.
Cat took one more glance around the clubhouse before she reached into Nathan Shumway’s locker. The theft was nothing personal; the infielder’s batting gloves just happened to be hanging on the closest hook within snatching distance.
Besides, at ten million a year, he can afford to buy a new pair.
“Hey, Cat, what’s up?”
Cat’s
stomach hit the lacquered floor. She snatched her thieving hand back from the locker and spun around. Behind her, Brett Hable stood in the doorway, chuckling.
“Sorry, sugar, didn’t mean to scare you.”
Still clutching her chest, she exhaled. “Well, you did. What in the world are you still doing here?”
He rolled up the sleeves on his t-shirt and flexed his biceps. “Working the guns. Those vitamin shots always give me a little extra energy to get ripped.”
She kept her expression carefully neutral, wondering if Brett’s batting helmet was custom made to accommodate his head, which was swelled even by professional athlete standards.
Brett began to unwind the tape around his wrists. “What about you? I thought you found your recorder thing.”
She blanked for a second. “My recorder …” Of course—the perfect excuse. “Oh um, yeah. It was the damndest thing. That recorder wasn’t mine. It was Dustin’s. So I’m back down here, trying to find the one that belongs to me.”
Brett wadded up the tape and shot the ball across the room. “Three-pointer.” It fell right into the trash can, and he thrust his arm into the arm in triumph. “Let me help you look.”
“No!” She winced at her inadvertent shriek. “I mean, no, no. You go home. You’ve had a long day.” She could see Brett getting ready to protest and, in a fit of desperation, made a bold decision that would surely strip her of every strand of dignity.
This one’s for you, Tams.
Cat sauntered over to the players’ bench. She sat down and swung a leg to the other side, straddling the wooden plank. She batted her eyes and followed that ploy with a shamelessly slow lick of her lips. “I mean, you were three for three, including a home run. Just how deep did you take that?”
He grinned.
Bingo.
“Oh they had it measured to about four thirty. I thought it looked more like four eighty.”
She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and giggled. “Look out, Mickey Mantle, here comes Brett Hable.”
Brett beamed and pointed to his uniform. “Number seven, baby.”
“Now you’re standing here, all glistening muscles. How much more can a girl take, Mr. Hable?”
Brett’s smile widened. “How much more do you want?”
“Now, now.” She wagged a playful finger in his face. “Who’s supposed to be asking the questions? I’m still waiting for my post-shower interview.”
He kicked off his shoes. “I’m hitting the tile now.”
Cat nonchalantly swung her dangling legs back and forth on the bench while he searched his locker. He shot her a grin, produced a shower caddy and strolled through the archway. When he turned the corner, she tip-toed to the door and waited. She heard the water turn on and hurried to Shumway’s locker. She nabbed the first baseman’s batting gloves off the hook. They were a little big, but she didn’t have time to play Goldilocks. She studied the syringe disposal container. She poked the bottom and fiddled with the top, hoping the lid would pop off. When the plastic didn’t budge, she groaned.
Why in the world do these things lock? Who’s going to break into a baseball stadium and steal a used syringe?
She paused.
Well, besides me. And maybe the really, really obsessive fans. I don’t even want to think what this would go for on eBay.
Cat shook her head and focused on the task at hand. She continued to pry at the container while constantly monitoring the drone of the shower. She examined the syringe slot.
No way out, one way in.
The inch-wide opening was not big enough for her hand, but there was enough room for something.
What?
Cat inspected the clubhouse again, hoping that the perfect device would present itself. Then the brainstorm hit. Once again, Shumway’s locker became her personal toolbox. She slipped the canvas belt off his uniform pants.
Time to put those years of watching MacGyver to work.
Fastening the buckle to make a loop, she slowly worked her contraption through the slot. She dangled the canvas into the plastic container and moved it from side to side until the loop caught on something. Slowly, she pulled the belt back through the slot.
Yes!
The top of a syringe tottered at the opening. Cat reached her gloved hand out to grab it. She flinched just before the teetering syringe fell back into the container, hitting the pile with a flat clink.
No!
Aware that time was running short, she repeated the process in the same way, sliding the loop through the opening. The belt didn’t catch. Frustrated, Cat pushed her hair off her forehead. She glanced around the clubhouse and tried again.
Come on, come on, come on …
The calming swish of the showers stopped. Cat pulled the belt up.
Retreat! Retreat!
Shooting a panicked look toward the bathroom, she stuck the belt through the slot once more, praying she was correct in her hunch that Brett was the type to dawdle in front of the mirror. She wiggled the loop with more force than before. It hooked. Steadily she pulled the belt up through the slot.
Almost, baby …
As the top appeared, she reached for the syringe and clenched the leather glove around the tube. Brett whistled the Chips’ fight song only a few yards away. She inspected the syringe to determine if it contained what she was seeking. Sure enough, a few droplets of the distinct amber liquid remained. This was the B-12 she’d seen Dr. Goodall administering to the players. She wrapped Shumway’s stolen belt around the syringe and shoved it in her bag. Throwing the batting gloves back in his locker, she scurried out of the clubhouse.
With the used syringe nestled in her new plaid case, Cat snuck down the hallway. She was almost to the parking lot tunnel when she heard footsteps. With each clomp on the concrete, they gained on her. She picked up her pace. Best-case scenario it was Brett, wanting to pick up where they left off. Worst-case scenario it was … not something she wanted to think about. A cold hand grabbed her arm from behind. The color drained from her face as she whirled around.
Busted.
36
“There you are! Dang, I’ve been looking all over this place for you.”
“Dustin? What are you—you’re still here? I thought you left hours ago.” She wondered if he’d caught her clubhouse act.
“I came back. I was hoping you’d still be here. I have to talk to you.”
“What do you want now?”
He assumed a chastened expression—like a puppy begging forgiveness for having piddled on your rug. She let out a deep sigh of relief which she hoped he would interpret as a sigh of annoyance.
“McDaniel, I mean, Cat, I’m begging you. About the whole coffee thing. Can’t we keep that between us? I promise I won’t ever do anything like that again. I swear.”
She shot a fleeting look toward the clubhouse and back to his pleading eyes. “I hear you, but I really, really don’t have time for this.”
He put his hands up defensively. “I know, you’re busy. I haven’t been helping very much, but I promise, I’ll start. You won’t even know what hit you. I’ll be so helpful.” His eyes scanned her face for forgiveness. “I’m a really good writer and I know this team like the back of my hand. I’ve been here since we started. Please give me another chance.”
She motioned for him to stop with an upraised palm. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about this later. Okay?”
She walked off, and he followed her down the tunnel, matching her footstep for footstep.
“There won’t be a later if you rat me out.”
She stopped and pointed her finger in his face. “Dustin! I said I’d think about it, but that’s all you’re getting from me tonight. Mr. König’s out of town until the day after tomorrow anyway. I’m definitely not going to bother him with this mess over the phone.”
“You’ll think about it?”
She sighed again. This time the deep exhale was all annoyance and no relief. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?
I really have to go now.”
She hurried out the double doors and left Dustin to squirm in the tunnel.
Cat sped home, jerked her Jeep into the first parking spot she found, sprinted up the stairs and pounded on Benji’s door. He opened the door, a toothbrush in his hand and his mouth foaming with minty bubbles.
“Cat!” He waved her in and went over to the kitchen sink to spit. “What’s the matter?”
She opened her bag. “Maybe a new box for your Al-Gore-a-ma-jig.” Handling the belt-wrapped syringe as though it were a sacred relic, she offered him the purloined garbage. “Is there any way you can analyze what’s in this?”
“What it is?” He grabbed a towel to wipe his mouth.
She lifted the syringe up to the kitchen’s light. “A sample of the injections the team physician routinely administers to every player, supposedly B-12.”
He took the syringe from her and examined the contents under a squinted eye. “B-12? How often is ‘routinely’?”
“Weekly. That’s unusual, right?”
“Hmm.” He tilted the syringe from side to side and the droplets rolled across the tube. “Kind of. Cobalamin injections are only given regularly to someone with a deficiency, like a patient with pernicious anemia or hypothyroidism. The human body stores several years’ worth of B-12, so deficiencies are rare.”
“What would an overdose do?”
“An overdose? You can’t really O.D. on B-12. You can O.U. on it.”
“O.U.?”
He smiled. “Overuse, that is. All that can do is cause a few dermatological issues.”
“Not heart attacks?”
He shook his head. “That would be a first.”
They remained silent. Benji’s focus shifted from her tunic dress and chic leggings to his biology department Staph Only tee and a pair of pajama pants adorned with Hulk fists. He cleared his throat, concentrating once again on the syringe. “Strange.”