Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  “What about the league? There’s a chain of command, right?”

  Cat stopped sniffling and sat up. “I could call the commissioner. I mean, his office, at least. I don’t know that he’d speak to me.”

  “Call. What are you waiting for?”

  “Tomorrow. They’re in New York so I’ll call from the office.”

  He eyed her warily. “Are you sure?”

  “It’ll be fine. Erich’s out of town and nobody suspects me of being anything more than his pretty little puppet.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  She pulled him in for a hug. “I promise.”

  Her eyes focused on the syringe behind him. It was going to take a lot more than a mysterious droplet to get the commissioner to listen.

  38

  Cat played the game all day. She waved to the morning guard on her way in. She greeted every employee with a perky “Beautiful day for a ballgame!” She amused her colleagues with a few Yogi-isms at the watercooler. She offered to bring lunch back when she ran to the sub shop down the block. As she played the role of a perfect worker, she watched her coworkers. Each and every one of them. Their mannerisms, their conversations and most importantly, their behavior with her. She stood behind her small window and stared out at the fourth floor bullpen.

  Any of them could be involved.

  Well, except Dustin.

  In this game of hardball, the one person in the office she truly despised had become the only teammate she could trust. Cat shook her head at the thought and closed the blinds.

  Mostly out of incompetence but hey, trust is trust.

  The day had proved one thing her players already knew: being on the defense was exhausting. She tensed every time her name was called, she questioned every phone call and she jumped with every ding of the elevator. A knock at her office door nearly caused a heart attack.

  “Y-yes?”

  Dustin popped his head in. “You heading down? Pregame’s in five.”

  Cat smiled in relief. “Be right there.”

  There was one more thing she had to do. She picked up her framed Ron Santo card and frowned. “Sorry, Ronnie. This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”

  She pried open the frame and pulled out the card, gently wiggling it from the protective plastic sleeve. Once she had it out, she placed the fragile cardboard card back in the frame, snapping it shut and sitting it back on the desk. She reached for her scissors and sliced through the middle of the clear sleeve, putting both halves in her pocket and double checking to make sure she was still alone in the office.

  Cat scurried to the press box. She’d been waiting for these three hours all day, and they proved to be worth the wait.

  Nine innings of being surrounded by a stadium of rowdy fans and a game of Ruthian proportions was just what she needed to take her mind off the impending felony she was about to commit. After the game, she retreated to her office to pore over the six home runs that seemed to be the end of the Chips’ offensive slump. Pretending to be buried behind a desk of files with looming deadlines, she checked each of the fourth-floor employees off her list as they grabbed their things and headed for the elevator. The window would be short. Customarily, the night cleaning crew arrived at nine o’clock and started from the fifth floor down, but she couldn’t take the chance they’d be in the mood for a change of pace. At twenty-five after eight, she packed up her bag, took one last look around the empty office and headed for the elevator.

  The ride went so quickly she feared the elevator cables had snapped. She stepped out into the lobby; however, instead of turning right for the tunnel, she darted left and slunk down the corridor. The hallway was once again desolate. The silence verified that all the players were long gone. No surprise there. Twenty years ago, it wasn’t unusual to find the players still hanging out for hours after the games ended. They’d lounge in the clubhouse, swigging beers and playing poker while they rehashed missed signs and wicked pitches. Those days had disappeared with stirrup socks and dollar draughts. Now most players were out of the ballpark even before the custodians had swept away the hot dog wrappers from the bleachers.

  Dr. Goodall and the training stuff would be long gone too. While they sometimes stayed later than the players, tonight they’d left to attend some banquet for sports medicine professionals.

  Cat knew the real test would be Ernie. The devoted clubhouse manager didn’t leave until every uniform was pressed and the sunflower seeds were ready to go for the next day. She rounded the corner and confirmed the clubhouse was dark. Cat smiled and continued down the hallway to the corner door marked “Dr. Kevin Goodall.” She gave the handle a test jiggle, unsurprised when it didn’t give. That would’ve been too easy.

  She reached into the deep pockets of her sweaterdress and pulled out one of the halves of plastic from the baseball card case. She slid it between the jamb and the door and down to the latch, pulling on the handle while pushing the door with her palm.

  It didn’t give.

  She gave it one more shot, this time pushing the door more firmly. Still nothing.

  Balls.

  This method had worked so well last spring when she and Tams had arranged a surprise party inside the operation director’s office! Apparently the Vegas Chips’ locks were even fancier than the Porterville Bulldogs’. She tapped her foot on the floor.

  Ernie!

  The shaggy-haired man jingled with every step, thanks to a plethora of keys hanging from his belt clip. She crept into the clubhouse, flipped on the lights and snuck to the alcove Ernie made into his office. Her eyes dropped to the side of the small desk, where the key ring dangled a mere two feet away. She hesitated, weighing the ramifications of what she was about to do.

  This is the moment. The one that takes you from announcing lineups to being picked out of ’em.

  Cat took one more look around the empty clubhouse before snatching the key ring off the hook. Her eyes widened when she saw the quantity. There were more keys than doors in the stadium.

  One of them has to open the doc’s office.

  She carried the ring back to the doctor’s door. Cat chose one and tried the key in the handle’s lock. When it proved unsuccessful, she went to the next one.

  Time was becoming an issue. Cat huffed and tucked her hair behind her ear for the hundredth time. The messenger bag was beginning to weigh heavily on her shoulder. She was more than halfway through the loop, and while a few keys slid into the keyhole with ease, none turned in the lock. She was reaching for the next when she heard a squeak from behind. She froze.

  Oh God.

  She held her breath. She stared down the shadowy hallway, praying the noise was simply a mouse that had snuck in from the stands.

  Or settling. This is a new stadium, the foundation’s still settling, right?

  Cat inhaled slowly. She thought about throwing out an innocent “Hello?” but figured if someone was there, then the snoop already knew she was up to no good. She remained in the same position for another minute. Her thighs screamed for a release from the agonizing squat in front of the doctor’s door. She broke her hold and stood up. She backed against the wall and squinted at her watch. She still had twenty-five minutes before the cleaning crew arrived. Security shouldn’t be roaming around, either. As far as she knew, manning the parking lot’s guard shack was their only responsibility once the drunken frat boys left the park. Even after all the late night games, she’d never encountered a member of the security staff making a round through the empty stadium offices.

  Well, except for Otis.

  It seemed the head of security came to and from the fifth floor at all hours of the night. Cat shook out the unnerving image of Otis Snow from her head.

  The squeak had yet to produce a threat, neither a hungry rodent nor a mobilized SWAT team. She flipped through the key ring and cringed at its loud jingle. She clenched the spares to quiet them, crouched back down and plugged the next key in line. She was so used to being den
ied that when the lock turned with an animated click, she almost missed the sweet sound of victory. The door scraped the floor as the slab passed the frame, and she silently screamed with delight. There was no reason for celebration, though. With one step into Dr. Goodall’s office, she would officially be breaking and entering.

  Like father, like daughter.

  Cat hobbled into the room. She closed the doctor’s door, shushing at its guard dog creak, and tried to get the feeling back in her numb legs. The glow of an emergency exit sign had provided the only source of ambient light, but now that the door was closed, the tiny room was pitch black. She reached into her other pocket and pulled out her LED pen light. It wasn’t exactly a Maglite, but the tiny flashlight hid in her flat pocket without stretching out the sweaterdress. A girl had to have priorities when it came to cashmere. She blinked as she directed the light around the office. She was tempted by the doctor’s desk lamp, but it was too risky. There was a possibility a player could come back to retrieve his lucky sock, discover her snooping through the good doctor’s medical records, and make a quick call to security. Then she’d spend the rest of the night explaining an “invisible drug” to the police while the culprits destroyed the real evidence.

  Cat shined the light around the room and saw the layout of the office was exactly the same as yesterday. The doctor’s desk looked dreadfully normal—there was a computer on the right, a lamp on the left, a picture frame holding a photo of a happy toddler in the middle and a couple of paperweights on the side. The entire back wall was a bookcase, crammed full of medical journals and textbooks. Cat backed into something and jumped. At the sight of the a large office copier, she frowned.

  That’s nice. The entire fourth floor has to share a tiny inkjet with clogged nozzles, but Dr. Feelgood gets his own personal industrial-sized Ricoh.

  She shimmied her way around the machine to his desk and yanked the first handle she found. Cat shined her flashlight into a pen drawer and shook her head.

  What am I doing? He’s not going to hide his deep, dark secrets next to the Sharpies.

  She lifted up the inner tray to be sure. Nothing. She pursed her lips and scanned the dark room. The little pen light lit up a vertical file cabinet behind the door.

  Bingo.

  Cat smiled. If she had something secret to hide, she’d choose that locked, heavy duty, fireproof cabinet. She examined the lock more closely. This would be a little easier than the pin puzzle of a door lock.

  There weren’t many benefits to having a felon for a father. In fact, most days—if quizzed on the matter—she’d have come up with a big honking zero. At this very moment, though, Michael McDaniel was Father of the Year. Most dads taught their daughters how to ride bicycles. Cat’s dear-old-dad taught her how to steal them. Ten-speeds had been nothing; his real expertise was breaking into cars.

  Of course, then he liked to hotwire them …

  She reminded herself to make sure the next road trip to Chicago included a stop in Joliet to thank him for this useful skill.

  Assuming I don’t wind up behind bars, too, or worse.

  She peered at the cabinet’s setup. Mass-produced factory locks like those found on luggage, briefcases and file cabinets were the easiest to pick. Dr. Kevin Goodall had about a hundred makeshift keys sitting in a miniature ceramic baseball glove on his desk, waiting for her a mere two feet away. She grabbed two of the paper clips, straightened their metal loops, and stuck the first through the meat of the keyhole. She slid the metal of the other clip through the side and took a deep breath. The most important thing was keeping a steady hand—not that staying calm was the easiest task while committing a felony. She brought her ear to the lock and jimmied the clips until she heard the mechanical click of the catch.

  Hello, sweet spot.

  She grinned as the cabinet drawer rolled open. It had been a few years, but she hadn’t lost her touch.

  Like riding a bike. A stolen bike.

  She shoved the paper clips deep into the pockets of her sweaterdress; the sharp end went straight through the thin cashmere and stabbed her leg.

  “Ow! Son of a—”

  Cat winced at her instinctive outburst and clamped her right hand over her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she put her focus back on the file cabinet. The first drawer was labeled CURRENT ROSTER, A-L. She snagged Jamal Abercromby’s file first and found his chart. She shined the pen light on the doctor’s scribbles. His notes were unremarkable: a sinus infection in April, a sore wrist in June. While flipping through the rest of Jamal’s file, she found the same autopsy report she’d already received. She sighed, slid the Abercromby folder back into the cabinet and thumbed through the rest of the files. Drawer two offered players M-Z and nothing else. She checked her watch and sighed. The clock was running and she had no timeouts left.

  Cat squatted down to the bottom drawer, and her vengeful thighs cursed her with a responding throb down to the knees. The drawer was piled with folders of a light blue shade that were labeled with the past three seasons. She pulled one out and flipped it open. Just as before, nothing unusual, only a spreadsheet of various injuries that had occurred over the season. Her heart sank. The entire mission was a flop. She hung her head for a couple of seconds of wallowing and reached for the cabinet’s handle. As she scooted the folders back to accommodate the missing one, she spied a black accordion organizer lying on the bottom of the drawer, no longer camouflaged by the baby blue files hanging above.

  Cat yanked the dark rectangle out. She slowly peeled the lid up and noted that Velcro sounded even louder in slow motion. She opted for the Band-Aid route, jerked the flap open with one noisy rip, and pulled out the loose papers inside. Her pen light revealed models of structures and helixes surrounded by paragraphs laced with chemical jargon.

  Benji, where are you when I need you?

  She smiled slyly at the Ricoh. After looking at the door and hesitating for only a second, she took the contents, shoved them into the tray’s feeder and pressed the fluorescent green START button. She scowled at the shimmying machine as it beeped through the stack of paper and serenaded her with a loud whirring.

  Chiseling a copy into a slab of stone would be quieter.

  Her eyes fell back on Dr. Goodall’s door, concentrating on the doorknob. Her mind began to wander into a horrifying delusion of the brass knob turning. Slowly. Could be a maid. Could be a guard. Her stomach curdled at the thought of being caught. She was trapped in the corner office. Heat suffused her skin as she contemplated her next hypothetical move. Should she hide, perhaps crouch underneath the doctor’s desk and hope the cleaning crew didn’t do floors? Or should she make a run for it, push past the surprised guard and sprint for the door?

  Cat snapped out of her grim trance and realized that the copier was now still, having finally stopped its parade down Bourbon Street. Placing the original documents back in the folder, she nestled the accordion beneath the file façade of innocent spreadsheets. She ripped her warm stack of stolen information from the copier’s tray and held the papers to her chest. She burst out the door and was halfway to Ernie’s desk when she remembered.

  The file cabinet.

  Locked when she entered the office, unlocked now. She paused for a moment and debated whether she needed to turn around. Was it possible Dr. Goodall would find his files unsecured but dismiss any suspicion for a simple oversight? She ran her fingers over the sharp edges of the papers in her hands. This wasn’t information a man like Dr. Goodall would forget to lock up. She stepped into the hallway and retreated to the crime scene. She tugged on the handle and the drawer pulled open. Cat pushed it back in and studied the lock. She pressed on it, hoping to hear it click shut like the fourth floor cabinets, but the lock didn’t oblige. She sighed.

  Guess he got the good printer; we got the good file cabinets.

  She pulled the paper clips from her pocket. Cat had never actually picked a lock shut, but she supposed it was the same principle as picking a lock open. She wiggled the paper cl
ips around. Nothing.

  Maybe it’s not the same thing.

  She moved her ear closer and frowned. The lock refused to catch. She wiggled some more. Still nothing. She checked her watch.

  Five ’til nine.

  The cleaners would be marching through the tunnel any minute. She continued to twist the clips. Finally the thud of success congratulated her as the lock met its steel clasp. She pulled the paper clips out and once again jammed them in her pocket. She hoped the lock didn’t show any telltale signs of abuse. There was no time to reassure herself.

  Not like I have a belt sander handy anyway.

  Cat dismissed the worry with a quick shrug and hopped up. She was on borrowed time. She grabbed the stack of papers and locked the doctor’s door. Racing over to Ernie’s desk, she dropped the borrowed key ring back on its hook. She was running now, darting out of the clubhouse and down the tunnel. The messenger bag, slung across her shoulder, thumped against her hip with every step. Her eyes darted from door to door in case a member of the cleaning crew should appear.

  All I need is a witnesses who can recall, under oath, my getaway from Dr. Goodall’s office, loot in hand!

  She sprinted through the tunnel’s door with Olympian speed, boots smacking the parking lot’s asphalt with a rich galumph. She broke the ribbon of night air and took a deep breath of the warm finish line. After Cat had nestled the documents in the Jeep’s passenger seat and weighed them down with her laptop, she whipped out her cell phone and texted Benji to let him know she was out. She eyed the guard shack.

  One last hurdle.

  With a sigh of relief, Cat allowed her head to rest against the back of the seat. Winston was sitting in his chair, absorbed in a fishing magazine as she approached the gate.

  Not exactly the vigilant stance of a guard on the alert for trespassers.

  Winston opened his window and a blast of the shack’s air-conditioning swirled through her open Jeep.