TEST BOOK

by Camel Press

  “Hmm. What about?”

  About how Quinn, you and he are making my life a living hell.

  “The game. Work stuff.”

  “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah but that’s the nature of our business.”

  “Where are all the other reporters, then?”

  “They talked to him after the game.”

  “In the clubhouse, where you usually conduct interviews, correct?”

  “Yes but ….” Cat was trying to think two steps ahead, but knew she was going to trip.

  “Go on.”

  “If you must know, he was standoffish during my clubhouse interview. I wanted to find out why.”

  “In the parking lot?”

  “Well, we were walking out at the same time.”

  “That’s unusual, is it not? The security logs show you generally leave two to three hours after game time. In fact, the logs for last night show you going back inside the stadium and coming out again fifteen minutes later.”

  He’d checked the time logs. He’d actually asked ballpark security for documentation of what time Catriona McDaniel left Soldiers Stadium. Her blood no longer boiled; in fact, it ran cold.

  “I …. I forgot something and I had to go back up to get it.”

  “What’d you forget?”

  Cat didn’t blink as she searched her mind for an answer to throw him off.

  “Tampons.”

  He smiled, as though appreciative of her tactics. “Even so, you left a lot later than the norm.”

  “I didn’t realize I had a norm, considering I’ve never covered the playoffs before.”

  “You gonna leave early tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Depends how the game goes, I guess. What is your point?”

  “No point. My job is simply to notice irregularities. I’m noticing a lot of irregularities when it comes to you.”

  Cat’s eyes flashed to his feet. This from the guy wearing brown shoelaces in his shiny black Oxfords?

  It was becoming clear that he was using Damien’s extended hangover as an excuse to hassle her. She stole a look at Roger’s closed door.

  “Are you accusing me of something specific or is this a random time clock check?”

  “I think you know more about that night than you’re letting on.”

  “Last night? Or the poker night?”

  “I’m open to hearing the full story of either one.”

  “Then why don’t you get your recorder out and replay my interview because I’ve already told you everything I know. Twice, actually.”

  He nodded.

  She told herself to emulate his reticence but his icy stare had a way of pulling words out of her mouth. “Why don’t you talk to my brother if you think there’s something else to know?”

  “I’ve tried. He doesn’t return phone calls or answer your door. You’re a lot easier to get a hold of. Come game day, I know exactly where you’ll be.”

  “Great.” She frowned. She didn’t mean for that to slip out, but maybe Detective Kahn would realize she had a lot more on her plate than his hang-up over a stupid card game. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “Why don’t we go through the poker night again?”

  “There’s nothing to go through. Again, I was sleeping.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “See what? Trust me, Detective, I’m a sportswriter. I’d love nothing better than to have a juicy story I could report, but there just isn’t one.”

  She met his intense brown eyes. His stare was becoming less intimidating with each passing minute. “Wait a minute. You said you usually work assaults … is that what this is about? You think Ryan was a victim? Didn’t you speak with him?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ryan Brokaw’s not saying much, either. Usually when a guy has an injury, it’s all he can talk about, but Brokaw’s lips are zipped tighter than a duck’s ass.”

  She had to smile at that. “Well, I can tell you that Ryan’s not much of a talker. You should try getting interviews with him after his starts.”

  “I’d like to get interviews with him right now but he left town and isn’t returning my calls.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not his keeper.” She took another glance toward Roger’s office, thankful that this police exchange had gone under his radar so far. “Is that all? I really need to get back to work.”

  Detective Kahn held up his forefinger. “Just one more thing. Your neighbor, this uh,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Richard Finley. Now he is, to use your words, a talker.”

  Oh Lord, if Old Man Finley is the star witness, I’m gonna be executed by noon.

  Detective Kahn read her mind, a knowing smile stretching across his face.

  “Our neighbor is an old grouch. He doesn’t like anybody and my late hours don’t help.”

  “Well, he claims he heard shouts shortly before the accident.”

  “There were all sorts of shouts. It was a poker game.”

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. The shouting woke me up—the first time. My apartment’s not that big and sound travels.”

  “Mmm. So the same people were present at both times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Five people, you said?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You know, we dusted a few things for fingerprints. There was a set that didn’t match on one of the beer bottles in your recycling bin.”

  Cat narrowed her eyes. “You went through my trash?”

  “We ran them through AFIS but no hits came up. Maybe they belong to your fiancé. He’s never been in any trouble, right?”

  Cat felt her hands tighten into fists and consciously relaxed them. Benji didn’t have so much as an unpaid parking ticket and she wasn’t about to let Quinn’s troubles sully his name. “Leave Benji out of this. He didn’t even come out of the bedroom that night.”

  “He was out when I got there.”

  “I mean before the accident.”

  “He didn’t even have a beer with these guys?”

  “Nope.”

  Detective Kahn scratched his smooth chin thoughtfully. “That strikes me as odd. It’s your apartment.”

  “Quinn has a way of making himself at home.”

  “Did you have anything to drink? Maybe a beer?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Maybe this set of fingerprints you’re so worried about belongs to the liquor store cashier.”

  “We’ll see. Fingerprints, much like the truth, have a way of coming to the surface.”

  She looked around again. The waiting area was still empty, but it was only a matter of time before Roger’s door swung open. “Then it sounds like you’ll get your answer very soon.”

  Spencer didn’t even go over the speed limit, it wasn’t likely he’d ever come across the police radar. Besides, he’d been over to their apartment before. There would be legitimate reasons for his fingerprints to be there.

  He stuck his hand out. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She gave it an overly firm shake. “I’m sure you will, but I hope not anymore today. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Me, too. I have to continue looking for a missing person. Give me a call if you hear anything.”

  Cat watched him go, waiting until he turned the corner before she headed to Roger’s office. Roger’s assistant, Aimee, came waddling down the hallway with a stack of files in her hand, hurrying as fast as her short, stubby legs could take her. She set the papers down on her desk and pushed a mound of tangled brown hair off her forehead.

  “I wouldn’t go in. Melissa Staats is still in there.”

  Cat frowned. “Still? What’s going on?”

  Aimee’s nervous eyes glanced at the door. “Well, apparently she was watching the game in the owner’s box last night and she left right after it ended to get Damien’s favorite dinner ready, you know, to celebrate. He c
alled her to say he’d be home right after his interviews but he never came. She called Roger late last night when he didn’t show but he didn’t think anything about it.” Aimee dropped her voice to a whisper. “Probably because of Damien’s reputation, you know, with the ladies. I happen to know it wasn’t the first time she’s involved the team in their marital troubles.”

  Cat didn’t doubt it. Melissa might’ve been the girl who cried wolf, but in this case, the wolf was her husband.

  “Poor thing waited up all night for him. You should’ve seen the bags under her eyes. She came charging in here at eight this morning. Roger wasn’t even in yet. She just sat in that chair over there, crying her eyes out while she waited for him.”

  “Damn.”

  “First our starting pitcher’s arm breaks and now our first baseman is missing.” Aimee sighed. “Cat, I’m starting to think this team is cursed.”

  The team? Cat thought. And here I thought it was me.

  The verdict may have still been out about Cat, but eight hours later and three innings into the second game, the Soldiers were looking to replace the Gatorade cooler with a holy water stoup. Chicago had scored a run off of Nick Haley each inning until the fourth, when a walk, a hit and an error had loaded the bases with no outs. It was one pitch away from becoming a bloodbath.

  The Soldiers’ manager finally strolled out to the mound and made a pitching change, but it was clear to everyone in the press box that the game was over. Even if the bullpen could straighten out their pitching, the hitters’ minds weren’t in the game. The only thing good about the blowout was that she’d had her postgame fallout written before the Seventh Inning Stretch, which meant she’d be able to make it another early night. She wished she could see the look on Detective Kahn’s face when he saw that this “irregularity” was becoming quite regular.

  “What I find particularly remarkable about this one is its lifelike strawberry hair and emerald eyes. Note how the hollow stare follows you while never actually acknowledging your existence.”

  Cat blinked her eyes, finally aware of Spencer’s silly grin directed at her. “What?”

  “I was just saying that you’re my favorite exhibit here at the Buffalo Wax Museum.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders dropped. “My head was somewhere else.”

  “What’s wrong with you tonight? I’ve gotten more conversation out of this hot dog.” He pointed at the half-eaten hot dog on the chair next to his laptop.

  “To be fair, it’s been here longer. They had those on the rotisserie when I came in this morning.”

  “That explains the taste.” He tossed it in the garbage and shut the lid of his laptop. “Come on, if we leave now we’ll be able to beat these out-of-towners downstairs.”

  “But the game—”

  “There’s a TV down there; we’ll catch the last out on it.” He saw her hesitation and added, “It’s not like they’re gonna come back from a seven run deficit in the next three pitches.”

  She relented and packed up her computer. By the time they made it to the clubhouse door, Tom Rodgers had struck out swinging for the twenty-seventh out of the miserable night. They could hear the players trudging in from the dugout entrance and a couple minutes later, the media door swung open, giving them permission to enter.

  She flipped her recorder on and followed Spencer inside. They were joined by the other reporters as they made their rounds. No one mentioned Damien’s absence, although it was on everyone’s minds after the nine disastrous innings. The lump that had filled in for him at first base was a glaringly poor substitute for both Damien’s heavy bat and golden glove; the replacement went hitless the entire night and had a defensive error. Instead, the players spouted the usual disingenuous rah-rah that took only a few minutes to plug into the articles.

  “Sometimes you lose, but what matters is how you respond and how you come back, and that’s what we’re going to be looking to do in Chicago.”

  “It would’ve been nice to go into their house up two games, but we’re still in a good position to take the series.”

  “There’s still three more games in this series and we only need two.”

  “Let’s put this one behind us and go get them on Monday in the Windy City.”

  While sitting on a weight bench, Cat typed in each piece of fluff and uploaded the article to the website. After receiving confirmation, she shut her laptop and made her way toward the parking lot.

  She made her way to the end of the first row where she’d parked that morning. When her jeep came into view, she stopped in her tracks.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 11

  Cat took the apartment steps two at a time, bounding quickly in hopes that the burst of energy would warm her. She was freezing under her soaked jacket and drenched boots. The wet wool pea coat hung like leather on her shoulders and the soggy suede boots weighed as heavy as two bricks strapped to her feet. Each step made a squish and water oozed out of her soles. She opened the apartment door and sloshed in, unzipping her boots and kicking them off before she’d shut the door. The coarse fabric of the entry rug was a welcome relief for her cold, wet feet.

  Benji rushed into the hallway at the commotion. “What happened to you?” He picked the wet boots off the floor and carried them toward the kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to catch each drip from hitting the hardwood.

  “Didn’t you hear? There’s a bounty on my head.”

  He peeked around the corner of the kitchen. “Are bounty hunters using Super Soakers now?”

  She followed him to the kitchen, carefully dodging the puddles of boot water.

  “No, the wet t-shirt contest is my doing. I had to stop at the carwash after work so I could wash my Jeep. Twice, actually.” She slipped out of her drenched pea coat and wrung it out in the sink. “My first time through the automatic stall got the egg yolks off the ragtop and the shaving cream off the hood, but it couldn’t do much with the Vaseline under my door handles or the ‘BITCH’ that was written in orange Spirit Chalk on the back windshield. So I had to get out and use the pressure gun. It was clogged or something and back-sprayed all over me.”

  She sat the coat on the counter and began to squeeze the water out of her hair into the sink.

  Quinn came into the doorway. “Yikes!” He grabbed the chrome toaster from the countertop and held it up to her face so she could see her smeared makeup, the streams of mascara bleeding down her cheeks and the wet, frizzy hair clinging to her pale face like red seaweed. “Kids are gonna dress up as you for Halloween.”

  She ripped the toaster out of his hands and sat it down on the counter. “You’re a yuck a minute, Quinn. We’ll see if you have the same jovial response when one of these pissed-off fans vandalizes your Harley.”

  She flounced past him and headed to the bedroom. Benji followed, first stepping into the bathroom to fetch a towel. She dried her hair and wiped her arms before slipping on her oversized terrycloth robe, cinching its perky pink belt with a little too much force.

  Benji plopped on the bed. “It’s because of the jackass reporters.” He immediately widened his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Oh! I mean—not you, of course. The other guys, the bad reporters, especially the ones on Channels Two and Five. They’re the reason the fans are so upset.”

  Cat groaned. “What now?”

  “They’re all over the fact that Damien Staats was at the same party—”

  “It wasn’t a party!”

  “Their words, not mine. Anyway, they keep linking the ‘beat reporter’s loft’ with Damien missing and Ryan Brokaw’s injury. Like you snapped Ryan’s arm in two and have Damien chained to our bathtub’s clawed feet.”

  “I wish I did. If we don’t get him back for Monday night’s game, we’re screwed.” She paused and sighed. “No, I’m screwed. That detective was back today and this time he was grilling me about Damien.”

  “Damien? What do you have to do with him?”

  “The detective brought a
long security footage of me speaking to Damien in the parking lot.” She closed her eyes and added, “Apparently I was the last one to see him.”

  “Oh.” Benji ran his hands through his thick hair. “Surely he doesn’t think you—”

  “Think I what? Kidnapped him? No, he’s just trying to hassle me. He’s got this fixation about the guys’ poker game and I think he thinks this footage can be some sort of leverage for me to help him.”

  Benji rested his hand on hers. “I’m sure you weren’t the last one to see him, just the last one to see him on camera. I don’t understand what the big deal about this guy missing is anyway. Isn’t Damien Staats the player that you said missed a team flight home because he overslept at some chick’s apartment in San Francisco? He’s probably shacked up with some groupie right now.”

  She shushed him automatically, as if they weren’t alone in their bedroom. She’d picked up the habit of making sure no one else was eavesdropping, especially other journalists, before relaying any gossip. “I told you that in confidence. He’s married.”

  “I don’t care. I’m gonna tell the world if they don’t stop attacking you. Maybe a scandal like that is exactly the kind of distraction you need.”

  She blew out a puff of air. “If it was that easy, I would tell the world about George Hudson’s brother and George’s wife, Kiki.”

  “What …?”

  “Caught ’em in the closet at the party the other night … checking each other’s coats.” She raised an eyebrow so he got her gist.

  “Whoa, right underneath her husband’s nose.”

  “And his double-breasted car coat.”

  “Are you going to say anything?”

  “Hell, no! Shoot the messenger, remember?” She shrugged. “Not that anyone would really care. She’s George’s third wife. Aiken’s on his second. Damien’s not the only cheating husband on the team. Marriages in this business make Hollywood nuptials seem sacred.”

  She couldn’t think of one example on the team, or anywhere else for that matter, where the couple lived happily ever after. Last year’s star rookie was back at the top of the Buffalo’s list of bachelors after breaking off his engagement this summer. It wasn’t just her male coworkers, either. Even Anne Marie, who’d been married to her high school sweetheart for the last twenty years, constantly complained about her husband.