Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  “Hi, Winston.”

  “Another late night, dearie?”

  She nodded. “Always.”

  “You’re doing okay, I hope?”

  “Much better. Thanks for asking.”

  He gave her a nonchalant wave. “Well, you go get some rest now, you hear?”

  “You got it. See you tomorrow.”

  She tossed him one last smile as he lifted the gate. She glanced down at the passenger seat and frowned, thinking of one more person whose life might be ruined by the fallout from the documents she’d found.

  Sorry, Winston. I truly am.

  Cat gripped the steering wheel and brought her focus back on the road. She put the pedal to the floor, anxious to get home and let Benji’s giant brain decipher the records. As she passed under a yellow stoplight, she mouthed a silent prayer that the pages would prove the whole mess was a simple misunderstanding.

  Maybe the B-12 was past its expiration date, and that’s why the vitamins hadn’t shown up in the lab’s magic microwave.

  Then Dr. Goodall’s worst crime would be absentmindedness, and Erich König would simply wag his finger. Together, they could devise a more modern method of monitoring the vitamin’s shelf life, a computer program with e-mail alerts of impending expiration dates. She smiled at the thought.

  Just a silly misunderstanding.

  The whole ordeal would go away, and Cat could still spend the fall covering a championship team, gossiping with Key and Tams, teasing Dustin and ending her evenings with a wave to Winston.

  The smile snuck away and left behind a grimace. She sighed as she slammed down her left turn signal. She leaned over the seat and straightened the documents while she waited for the oncoming traffic to pass. She knew she wouldn’t be waving at Winston anymore.

  Misunderstandings aren’t buried in locked file cabinets.

  39

  “Plans changed. No commish, got evidence, need your brain.”

  That’s all the text message said. Benji paced back and forth on his tile floor and contemplated its meaning. As a young comic book aficionado, he’d been drawn to Brainiac and that was when his fascination with the mind had been born. Fascination evolved to passion when, as a student, his experiment on human brain synapses won him first place at the Southwest Science Fair and a full ride through college. As a professor, he became the Nevada Science Foundation’s youngest grant recipient for his work on brain stem neurons.

  He had a hunch that exploring what made Cat McDaniel tick could win him a Nobel Prize. The ceramic chilled his bare feet, but his brainstem couldn’t be bothered with the message while his nervous system was so busy sending his heart rate into hyperdrive. He grabbed a box of fish flakes from the bookshelf and sprinkled a pinch into the freshwater tank while he vented to his gilled roommates.

  “Got it? Got what? I don’t know how I got myself into this, Arthur. One minute my cute, so cute it hurts, new neighbor is returning a piece of misdelivered mail.” He picked up another container and sprinkled it for the yellow puffer darting back and forth. “Don’t worry, Curry, I didn’t forget about your brine shrimp, either.” He closed the lid and watched the fish gobble up their dinner. “The next, I’m waiting for her to bring home evidence that could possibly be the catalyst in, what? A takedown of the city’s beloved baseball team?”

  The sound of boots clomping in the hallway interrupted his one-sided conversation. Benji left the aquarium and ran to the door at the familiar sound. Sure enough, there she was, looking even prettier than he remembered. Her copper hair shimmered down to her shoulders, its color even richer than he remembered against the gold sweaterdress she wore over knee-high brown boots.

  Ah, yes. Now I recall how I got into this.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” She gave a soft half smile that coated his nerves with a soothing syrup. However, the calming elixir was washed away with her next sentence.

  “This is a lot bigger than we could’ve imagined.”

  * * *

  Every sheet of paper Cat had copied from the team physician’s office was spread out on the floor of Benji’s living room. Brow furrowed in concentration, Benji scoured each page while Cat sat quietly on the suede sofa, watching him anxiously while she waited for his not-so-expert testimony. She nibbled on her fingernails, months of nail-biting abstinence out the window, and frowned at the stubby remnants. Dismayed, she put them out of temptation’s way by shoving her hands under her thighs.

  Benji finally looked up from the papers. “So all this information, it was in the doctor’s office?” Enormous black pupils eclipsed the blue in his eyes.

  She nodded quickly.

  He stood up and paced the tile floor once more. “Well, if you ask me, that’s the real bombshell because this is some disgustingly incriminating material.”

  She leaned forward and scanned the floor. “Like what?”

  Benji grabbed one of the pages and joined her on the sofa. “Research. Specifically, the results this new pharmaceutical had on your players.”

  “New? You mean new-new or like new-and-improved-new?”

  He shook his head. “New as a stem cell.”

  “I don’t get it. How do you just make a new drug?”

  With the innocent question, Benji the Boyfriend exited and Professor Levy took over. “Well, we’re talking about rational drug design here. It’s not so much a matter of making but rather searching, looking for a chemical compound that, when strung together just right, produces the desired result for the biological target.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Think like you’re playing with billions of Legos. As long as you know how to connect the blocks together, you can make anything you want. The chemistry, the pharmacology, the thermodynamic math, that’s the easy part. The biggest obstacle in drug design is simply FDA approval.”

  Cat nodded slowly. “Making sure the drug is safe for people?”

  “Companies have watched helplessly while decades of research was thrown away because the FDA found too many adverse side effects to approve a drug.” He flicked the sheet of paper. “I’m guessing König didn’t have to worry about that.”

  “So … what is it?”

  “Well, I thought we were looking at an amphetamine … you see the stereoisomer in this structure?” He pointed at a figure as he said it.

  She scrunched her face at the diagram and gave him a clueless shrug.

  Benji grabbed another piece of paper off the floor. “Oberpfalz Labs ran thousands of tox screens on their test subjects. I don’t understand how they were able to …” Benji trailed off as his eyes darted all over the page. “The isomers aren’t being detected. The quantitative pharmacokinetic data suggests—”

  “Stop. Hammer time?” She rubbed her eyes and peered up at him between her fingers.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re gonna have to break it down for me.”

  “Oh! Heh.” His dimples reappeared. “Sorry. Okay, so when they send off a sample for drug testing and check specifically for an amphetamine, most laboratories use a kit designed to detect the L and D isomers. Right here, you see this page?” He pointed at a chart. “Nothing. They’re masked to create a false negative.”

  “Masked? How’s that possible?”

  “The lab found a way, I guess. My information’s limited here. The stuff you got from Dr. Evil is really helpful, awesome actually, but it’s not quite Drug Design for Dummies.”

  “So drug tests can just be wrong? That’s comforting.”

  Benji nodded. “False positives can occur, especially with another interaction. Like—if a guy is using over-the-counter nasal inhalers, his drug test might register positive.”

  “False negatives? Is there a way to fool the test? Like those kits at the so-called health stores?”

  “Sure. Where there’s a will, you know?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m familiar with the practice of ingesting bicarbonate to raise pH levels. Bicarbonate will reduce amphetamine excretion through the urine, although only in extre
mely large quantities. Even then the trickster might pass a simple drug test but not an extensive post-mortem toxicology test.”

  “Maybe König bribed somebody at the coroner’s office?”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t think so. Remember when we ran it through the chromatograph?”

  Cat nodded. “Big fat zero. The magic machine had a severe case of performance anxiety.”

  “Exactly. I might as well have stuck a piece of gold kryptonite in there.” He thumbed through another stack of papers. “They’ve figured out a way to hide it.”

  “Okay, well they might be able to hide the actual drug, but what about the results?”

  He nodded and scanned the floor. “Yeah, that’s what we need to talk about. Somewhere there was … Ah, this is it! Clinical trials. I only peeked at the observation notes here, but yikes.” He let out a low whistle.

  “You gonna share with the rest of the class?”

  Benji handed her the sheet he was reading. “This synthetic has some serious kick.” He pointed to the bottom of the page. “See this section about the success of muscle stimulation? I’d say it’s the newest Superman drug. Make that ‘Superman Meets the Invisible Woman.’ ”

  Cat cocked her head. “There’s that word again. What do you mean by newest?”

  “Oh, well, you know, a couple a times a century a drug is developed that turns mere humans into the super variety. During World War II, there were amphetamines. In the seventies, there was PCP.”

  She looked up from the file with wide eyes. “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. PCP would probably make a great performance enhancer if you could handle your players occasionally freaking out and eating one another’s livers.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Ugh … next?”

  He smiled sheepishly and bit his bottom lip. “Sorry.” He handed her another sheet. “Anyway, this page says the test demonstrated that subjects became increasingly alert and aggressive. Stimulation of protein synthesis and internal adrenal cortex hormones.”

  “Again, translation for your remedial student?”

  “Lean mean baseball machines.”

  “Damn.”

  He picked up a stack from the floor. “This novella contains all the possible side effects.”

  She closed her eyes. “Let me guess. Heart problems?”

  “Rapid heartbeat, irregular heartbeat, high blood pressure, convulsions. Plus, the psychological effects of loss of ego boundaries, changes in libido, depersonalization, excessive feelings of power and superiority.” He paused and smiled. “I guess those are issues most jocks are already given to, huh?”

  She yanked the page out of his hands, scanned it and said, in a soft, incredulous voice, “Chances of heart attacks, strokes … Benji, this is crazy.”

  He nodded. “Believe me when I say they created a monster. I shudder to think what animal suffered during the years of lab testing before this product made its way to the field.”

  “Maybe the players were the test subjects. König might have seen Jamal Abercromby as little more than a lab rat.” She slowly picked up the documents from the floor, trying to keep them in logical order. “So, we have physical evidence and a paper trail to back it up. I’m calling the commissioner’s office.”

  “Screw that. Call the cops.” He pointed to his cell phone on the end table.

  “You do realize how crazy this sounds. I mean, what do we say? ‘Hi, nine-one-one? I’d like to report a mass baseball conspiracy.’”

  “Well, probably not.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. “Don’t they have departments for this? Like vice? Isn’t this a vice thing?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her temples in a circular motion. “I thought vice was all hookers and coke, not ballplayers and uh, whatever this is.”

  He grinned. “I think you’re confusing vice with Miami Vice.”

  “I’m just saying, where’s Crockett when you need him?”

  “Oh no, ya gotta go to Tubbs.”

  Cat started to laugh, but her smile soon turned to a grimace. “Commissioner Ramirez wouldn’t appreciate being sidestepped.”

  She pulled out her cell phone. It was nearing twelve a.m. Las Vegas time, which meant that in the commissioner’s New York headquarters, the midnight oil had burned up three hours earlier. Still, there was a chance someone might answer the phone—maybe an overzealous associate or an off-hours call service.

  Ringing. She exhaled at the sweet sound and followed the prompt to the commissioner’s extension. Four rings later, an automated message picked up. She assumed the harmonic voice was that of Liz Baston, Joseph Ramirez’s secretary.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the office of Commissioner Ramirez. The office is currently closed. Our normal hours of operations are nine a.m. to five p.m. Monday through Friday, Eastern Standard Time. Please leave us a message with your name and number and we’ll return your call when the office reopens.”

  Cat hung up. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Tell him there’s a maniac on the loose poking players with needles.”

  “I gotta play this carefully. I doubt he checks his own messages and you never know who König’s friends are. Besides, I tend to sound like Elmer Fudd when I don’t have a script.”

  She pressed redial and took a deep breath. When she finally heard the beep, she spewed her frantic message.

  “Hi, um, th-this is Catriona McDaniel, the senior r-reporter with the Las Vegas Chips. I’ve stumbled upon some pretty shocking information I think you and I should discuss. The matter concerns some of the team, so this is highly sensitive information. Please give me a call back as soon as possible on my private cell phone at 559-555-0526.” She sat the phone on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Boom goes the dynamite.”

  He exhaled. “It’s out of your hands now.”

  Da-da-da-dut-da-duh … Charge!

  Their eyes shot to each other and down to the phone.

  “The commissioner.”

  “Answer it!”

  Cat fumbled for the phone. “Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s only Dustin.”

  “Little late for groveling. Can’t you just let your voicemail pick up?”

  She mouthed “sorry” as she hit the send button. “Hey Dustin, what’s up?”

  “Just got a call from Maria, we’re supposed to report to the fourth floor asap.”

  “Now?”

  “That’s what ‘asap’ means.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “Well, last time it was a dead player so let’s hope it’s not that. Trade deadline’s in less than two days, I’m thinking we snagged McClure from San Fran.”

  “I thought they shot that down?”

  “Get your butt to the stadium and let’s find out.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in ten. Bye.”

  She hadn’t even pressed END when Benji stood up. “No, no, no, no, no. You can’t be serious.”

  She carefully placed the paperwork back in the file folder. “Would it be incredibly trite to say I am deadly serious?”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “You wouldn’t be trite, but you might be right.” He cringed. “I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”

  She closed the laptop and shoved it back into her carrying bag. His eyes took in her every move; then he pulled her hand from the bag and tugged her close. “Why don’t you blow it off?”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist. “We’ve come too far to screw up now. If I don’t show up, it’s going to arise suspicion.”

  “I guess.”

  She gave him a reassuring smile. “Besides, we have nothing to worry about. It’s just gonna be some media people.” Using a cow-print potholder, she reached across the counter and grabbed the syringe. “Besides, I have evidence.” She stuck the syringe in the bag’s side pocket but hesitated before zipping it up. “Unless you think I should leave it with you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve already got a samp
le. What about König? Or the doctor?”

  “Uh-uh.” Cat’s hair swished around her shoulders as she shook her head. “Dr. Goodall’s off hobnobbing with real doctors and König’s not due back from the Dominican Republic until morning. I’ll be back before mein Führer even has his Frühstück.”

  Benji cocked his head. “Huh?”

  “Boss, breakfast.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “Then you and me can have uh … fur sticks?”

  She smacked her lips playfully. “In bed.”

  His lips graced hers as he whispered, “Be careful.”

  40

  The parking lot looked exactly the same as when Cat had left the stadium three hours earlier—just two lone trucks in the first row and the Cowboy Cleaners van parked in front of a fire hydrant.

  She rolled the Jeep’s window down as Winston slid his open.

  “Forget something?”

  “No uh, media was called in. I guess I’m the first one here.”

  That didn’t surprise her. Outside of herself and a couple of players, every other member of the organization lived in Summerlin or Henderson.

  His eyes lit up. “Is this about a new outfielder?”

  She shrugged. “Hope so.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and lifted the gate.

  Cat hustled all the way through the tunnel, to the elevators and up to the fourth floor without encountering a single member of the cleaning crew. As she flipped on the office lights, she heard a click and a hum. She jumped and slammed her back against the wall.

  Air conditioner.

  She slumped off the wall and shook her head.

  Calm down, Cat.

  She unlocked her door and plugged her laptop into the docking station. While she waited for the screen to appear, she drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. The welcome chord jingled through the room and out to the cubicles.

  HIGH STAKES

  By: Catriona McDaniel, Chips Former Senior Beat Reporter

  It started with a dream. A city in the Mojave Desert with a dream of sitting in the stands. A sportswriter from Seattle with a dream of discovering the truth. A boy from the Bay Area with a dream of playing under the lights.