Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  “What?”

  “Well, the dosage of B-12 on a weekly basis would be a matter of micrograms, much less than the droplets left in this syringe.”

  “I saw an injection. The full amount was like this much.” Cat’s index finger and thumb measured an inch.

  “I wonder what the inactive ingredients are. Probably sodium chloride and glacial acetic acid.” He held the needle back up to the kitchen light. “This amber hue sure is peculiar.”

  “You can dissect the stuff, right?” Cat said.

  “I have classes all day tomorrow until four thirty, but if you can meet me afterwards, I happen to know the chem lab is free until seven. You do know I’m not a chemical analyst, though?”

  “Yeah, but you’re a biology professor. Doesn’t that mean you’re like a utility man in all science positions?”

  Benji laughed. “Seriously, I don’t know how much help I can be.” He drummed his fingernails on the countertop. “You know, my college roommate married a girl who does chemical engineering for a big pharm in Phoenix. I could give him a call. She could deformulate the liquid down to the nanograms, probably by next week.”

  “No!” She shook her head emphatically. “I mean, thank you.” She delayed while she collected her thoughts. “I just can’t take the risk that … Y-you’re the only one I can trust. I could be in serious trouble if anyone knew I stole the syringe.”

  “Well then, I accept the challenge and hope to provide you with mediocre results.”

  She smiled. “I would be utterly grateful.”

  He cocked his head. “Utterly? So utterly you’d consider dinner afterwards?”

  “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  “There’s a restaurant off the Strip that has the best sushi this side of the Pacific.” Cat wrinkled her nose. “No Tobiko? Fair enough. How about an Italian restaurant that claims its pizza tastes like it came from Rush Street?”

  She licked her lips. “Well I’d have to be a fool to turn down a man in Hulk pajamas.”

  “Oh uh, yes.” He blushed and looked down at the flannel pants. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  “Well that’d be a change.”

  “So tomorrow then?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll come find you on campus?”

  “My office is on the second floor of the Biological Sciences building.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Benji took her hand and lured her into his cologne scented aura. “You’re not staying?” He pretended to pout.

  “It’s late.” She crinkled her nose. “I have to be at work super early.”

  “I’ll be good.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He smiled and brought his pouting lips toward hers. Cat melted and allowed herself to crumble into his arms.

  He pulled his head back enough to whisper, “Sure you can’t stay?”

  Cat was sure. The next road trip would take the club to Miami, and she was overdue for a night of beauty rest.

  Before I’m known as “that reporter with the halitosis … and Chia legs,” or worse, “that neighbor with the Chia legs.”

  She ran her fingers through his soft hair and caressed the nape of his neck. “Oh … I really can’t. I promised myself I’d finally finish unpacking tonight. But tomorrow, four thirty.”

  “At your service.”

  37

  Cat twirled on the metal stool as she observed the university’s chemistry lab. Humming fluorescent lights were reflected in the freshly waxed floor tiles. There were emergency wash stations every ten feet and fire extinguishers hanging at the end of each six-foot lab table. The walls were papered with lab rules, safety warnings and periodic tables.

  “It’s not what I expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gave him a onceover, head to toe. “Well, for starters, aren’t you supposed to be wearing one of those white lab coats?”

  He looked down at his clothing. “Are you not getting the professional vibe? I’m wearing a jacket and tie.”

  She giggled and pointed at his shirt. “A tie with monkeys.”

  “Apes.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  He opened his mouth to protest, and she laughed. “Just kidding.”

  Dimpling in appreciation for her humor, he stuck a prepared slide under a microscope. “Okay, remember my disclaimer. I’m not a chemist. I did study a little deformulation in college, but my group got a B on our final project.” He looked up from the lens with a wry grin. “We tried to decipher the recipe to New Coke.”

  “Any luck?”

  Pretending to zip his lips, he whispered, “Sworn to secrecy.” He removed the slide and hopped to his feet. “Ready or not, here we come.”

  She followed him to a metal box in the back corner of the lab. “What is this thing?”

  “This thing is a chromatograph.”

  “Oh.” She peered behind the large machine. “It looks like a microwave.”

  “Yes. It’s an eighty-five thousand dollar microwave.” Benji pressed a series of buttons on the keypad and inserted the sample through a small slot on the side.

  She peeked over his shoulder. “Neat.”

  “Very much so. See, the chromatograph does all the heavy lifting. It will separate the liquid into its compounds and analyze the fragments against a database of, well, everything.”

  She nodded. “So, whattaya got?”

  “Again, it’s not a microwave.” He tugged on her arm playfully. “It’ll take a little bit longer than warming up a Hot Pocket.” The machine grunted and squawked before settling into a low buzz. “It’ll probably go for about an hour. Would you like a tour of the Biological Sciences building?”

  Cat hooked his arm with hers as they walked to the door. “Benjamin Levy, you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  Benji unlocked the door, and they walked into the silent lab.

  Cat surveyed the room. “It’s quiet. Does that mean it’s done?”

  He placed a couple of chairs next to the chromatograph’s screen. “Looks like.” Cat tapped her foot on the tile.

  Flipping back and forth through a series of windows on the monitor, he said, “Okay. This … this is weird.”

  She squinted at the screen. “Weird? Is that a good weird? Or an ‘I’m about to learn something that will cost me my job’ weird?”

  He retrieved the sample out of the machine, spun his chair over to a lab table, and stuck it under a microscope. “Definitely job-weird.”

  She watched as he focused the lens and peered in.

  “According to my calculations …” Benji trailed off to shoot her a smile.

  “Yes?” She held her breath.

  He bit his lip sheepishly. “I always wanted to start a sentence like that for the benefit of a pretty girl in need of my expertise.”

  She pointed to the microscope and frowned. “You’re killing me here.”

  “Oh, sorry. First off, this isn’t B-12. Or B-8. Or B anything. In fact, this isn’t something the chromatograph can recognize.”

  Her shoulders slunk. “I thought that was its job.”

  “Well, the machine can’t analyze something that’s not in its database, things with an inexplicable makeup.”

  “Inexplicable? You mean like a Twinkie?”

  “More like things that don’t exist.”

  “Don’t exist? It exists.” She tapped the table. “Benji, it’s existing right in front of you.

  “Not according to the chromatograph.”

  Cat frowned. “So that’s it? Nothing?”

  He wheeled back over to the machine as she hurried behind him. He scanned the results again and shrugged. “It looks like there could be a minuscule trace of Lanthanum, an extracellular application. Lanthanum is—”

  “I know what it is. You’re not the only one with the Periodic Table, Jimmy Neutron. It’s an um … gas, right?”

  “A metal.”

  “A metal? That couldn�
�t make you stronger, could it?”

  Benji snorted. “Not unless it’s Adamantium.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Wolverine?” He flipped out his hands and demonstrated a clawing motion.

  Cat shook her head. “So, I don’t get it.”

  “You know, from X-Men?”

  “No, not the mutant. This.” She tapped on the machine. “Was the sample not big enough or something?”

  “No, plenty. I only needed a tenth of a microliter for the chromatograph. I’m not really sure where to go from here.” He drummed his fingers on the counter.

  “You’re thinking something.”

  “Well, if the compound isn’t something the chromatograph can find then it’s … new.”

  “Like?”

  “Like a designer drug.”

  “Steroids?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I can’t say for sure but judging by its formation under the ’scope …” He shook his head and sighed.

  “Yes?”

  “Not steroids. Not even in the same ballpark as steroids. Hey, I just made a joke.”

  “Gloat later. Explain now.”

  “If I were a betting man, I’d go with an amphetamine.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Say it ain’t so, Joe!”

  “I’m still going by Benji. Or again, the judges will also accept ‘Stallion.’ ”

  “I don’t see how that would be possible, Stallion.”

  He picked up the sample and frowned. “Amphetamines are kinda like steroids for the central nervous system. They can speed up reaction time, increase alertness and concentration, boost energy. It’s the perfect candidate for performance enhancing.”

  “No, no, no.” Cat’s hair followed her head from side to side. “I know for a fact amphetamine is specifically tested for. It’s one of the biggies. Just last month a player in our division was suspended for using greenies.”

  “That’s the thing about amphetamines. There are hundreds. They are constantly being developed and at such a rapid pace it’s extremely hard for the testing labs to keep up with the latest masking agent’s molecular compounds. They do, don’t get me wrong, especially the company I’m sure the league uses. With pharmaceuticals, the bad guys are usually two steps ahead.” He placed the sample in a protective plastic case and snapped the lid.

  Cat rested her chin on her palm. “This is huge.”

  “Like I said, I can’t confirm amphetamine. Not even the chromatograph can confirm that, which is what’s really suspicious to me.” Benji patted the machine proudly. “This baby detects every drug from here to … well, Amsterdam.” His eyes pierced hers. “If we’re right, then your players didn’t mess around. This is the real deal. Where would they even get the resources to develop such a sophisticated drug?”

  Cat’s heart was in her throat. “They didn’t.” She swallowed hard. “I’ve been doing a little background research. Erich König was a billionaire before he came to Nevada. Well, his family anyway. His grandfather started Königetix Research, a subsidiary of Oberpfalz Industries. Benji, they’re one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in Europe.”

  “They’re a chemical giant. I’m grimly familiar with their infamous creation used in World War II concentration camps.” He frowned. “You think the players don’t know they’re being doped?”

  She shook her head. “No way.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’d swear on Ernie Banks.”

  “Who’s Ernie Banks?”

  Cat looked taken aback, and Benji grinned. “Just kidding. That was for the monkeys.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Cute.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the black locks out of his eyes. “Okay. If the players don’t know, do you think they’d care?”

  Cat scoffed. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, but biologists aren’t really known as a profession given to ’roid rage.”

  “I’ll have you know most athletes are fueled by talent and conditioning, not a prescription bottle.”

  “I just read a study claiming that fifteen percent of high school athletes use performance enhancers.”

  “Oh really?” She gave him a playful nudge. “I just read an e-mail that said ninety percent of statistics are made up on the spot.”

  Benji nudged her back. “My point is, professional athletes aren’t exactly celebrated for treating their bodies like a temple. This could be a team effort.”

  “There’s no way they know. Especially after Jamal. Someone would’ve come out.”

  Benji tapped his chin thoughtfully.

  “I’ll tell you who would have to know,” Cat continued. “The man behind the needle, Dr. Kevin Goodall.” She hopped off the chair. “The syringe. I need to take it.”

  He packaged it up in a sterile baggie and sealed the top. “What are you going to do?”

  “This whole thing has left me sick. I think I’ll see if the doctor’s still in.” He pulled the baggie back. “No, no, no, no. You’re not going back there.”

  “I work there.”

  “So did Jamal and Brad Derhoff.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Call the cops.”

  “The cops. And hand them what, a dirty syringe and a microwave readout that says nothing?”

  “Tell them what we know and let them sort it out. Get as far away from that place as you can.”

  Cat sighed. “It’s not that simple. This job is my everything. It’s my dream job.”

  “There are other jobs.”

  “Yeah. Jobs that involve coming home to my grandma’s mobile home covered in shrimp poop.” A tear began to roll down her cheek.

  Benji scrambled for a tissue and came up with a coarse paper towel next to the eye sink.

  She dabbed her eyes with it. “I’m not like you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “On your dresser ... There was a picture of you in France, with your parents.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are they like?”

  He frowned, exasperated. “I don’t understand. You want to know about my family? Right now?”

  She nodded.

  “Um … okay. Well, they’re both teachers. They retired from the public school system last May and, uh, they sold their house, joined this volunteer program and now they teach English at a kibbutz school in Israel.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, they’d always said they’d do that when they retired.” He smiled. “I figured they’d at least try shuffleboarding and puzzles first.”

  She inhaled a shaky breath. “They’re nice people, right?”

  “The best.” He shook his head. “Cat, I don’t understand why we’re wasting time talking about my parents.”

  Cat caught her reflection in the dark window and recoiled. “I might as well tell you. I’m not from nice people.” Her eyes met his. “My dad’s in prison for stealing a car. Well, attempting to steal a car.”

  “Oh.” Benji looked down for a moment. “Well, what about your mom?”

  “Haven’t seen her for a quarter century. She left when I was a baby.”

  “That’s awful.” He reached for her hand. “What does this have to do with tonight?”

  She pulled her hand away and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Opportunities don’t fly in my direction. This job, this is it. This is my only chance. I can’t blow it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but trust me. This is a career you’re born into. You have to either be somebody in baseball or born to somebody in baseball.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m the spawn of a career criminal and a would-be porn star, not exactly the best networking connections.”

  He took her hand. “Cat, no you’re— Don’t you get it? This just makes you better.” He reached up to caress her cheek. “Anyone can succeed when life is handed to them on a silver platter, but to rise above and to overco
me your parents’ mistakes, well, that just makes you even more amazing.”

  She offered a small smile. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You always make me feel special.”

  His lips responded to the invitation in her eyes; then he pulled away and met her forehead with his. “Because you are amazing. That’s why you can’t let them bully you into keeping their secret.”

  She pulled away and reached for a tissue. “It’s not just me. Some of these players are good, decent guys, who finally got their break, too. I’d be jeopardizing everyone’s dreams.” She sniffled. “I can’t afford to throw away everything we’ve worked so hard for on a matter of principle.”

  “Principle? This isn’t looking the other way when your coworker tells a bigoted joke or staying quiet when your boss rubs up against you in the break room. This is murder.”

  They stayed silent, letting the word reverberate in the quiet living room.

  Cat clenched the wadded towel in her palm. “It’s all the same. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not like you. I don’t have an encouraging mom and dad who can be my safety net while I embark on a hellraising mission of justice like a renegade superhero. I have to tread very lightly because one wrong move and I go from the baseball park to the trailer park …”

  She stopped and stood up, placing her hands on the top of her head. “Oh my God. I get it now. That’s why he picked me.”

  “Picked you?”

  “This job. Like we were talking about. Why I was selected. It never made sense. This is it. This is why Erich König picked me over Dustin. He wanted someone who’d be so grateful to be chosen they wouldn’t ask questions. He probably thought that if I found out, I’d be too scared to do anything.” The conversation in his office about moving on from Jamal’s death popped in her mind. “He wanted a puppet.”

  “Are you going to let him pull your strings?”

  She paced back and forth. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You have to go to the police.”

  “Nobody’s going to listen to somebody like me over somebody like him.”

  “Hey.”

  She felt the sting of tears in her eyes again. Her lip started trembling. “It’s true. Erich König practically owns this town. For all we know, his cronies in the police department would tip him off before we hung up the phone.”