by Camel Press
Webbs raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re not that naïve. When you own the media, you control what gets printed about your kids. G-Hud graduates from VBU? Front page. G-Hud loses his monocle at the river casinos? That doesn’t make the cut.”
Cat took Benji’s arm, and explained, “Hudson Publications is better known by its subsidiaries. It’s the parent company to the Buffalo Reporter, the Niagara News Herald and the local television station, B-TV.”
“Daddy couldn’t broadcast to the whole world that his son was a compulsive gambler,” Webbs added.
Cat sighed. “Why do I keep being surprised by the cover-ups of the rich and famous?”
“Because you’re a doll, that’s why,” said Webbs. “Anyway, his fat ass stays away since becoming head honcho of the team. It’s a pity for the girls; I hear he was a good tipper. Of course, that was before he got married.” She jabbed Benji in the ribs with her elbow. “So when’s your big day? I wouldn’t leave this girl on the market much longer. She’s almost as cute as her big brother.”
“Almost?” Cat tried to sound offended but even she knew it was true. The sad fact was that Quinn had the brains to be a robotics engineer, the looks to be a male runway model and the charm to be a politician, yet he had settled for being nothing more than a petty swindler.
Webbs winked at her.
Benji shifted his feet and put his arm around Cat. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
Webbs bit a dark red lip and frowned. “Ooh, that’s not a good sign.” She gave Cat a sideways look. “What’s up with that? There’s four Saturdays in June. How hard can it be to pick one?”
“June’s my busiest time of year, unless we want to honeymoon in a dugout.”
“So get married in the winter. Poinsettias are pretty enough.”
“We’ve got to work around Benji’s schedule. He’s a biology professor at VBU.”
“He’s got a winter break, doesn’t he?” Webbs looked to Benji for confirmation.
“I’ll let you know if we need a wedding planner,” Cat snapped.
A smile twitched at Webbs’ lips. “Kitty likes to scratch.” She pulled a business card out of her bra strap and twisted it in her fingers as she presented it to Benji. “In case you’re looking for a place to have your bachelor party, we have a gentleman’s club here on the ship, too.”
Cat intercepted the card. “Don’t need a party planner, either.”
Webbs put her hands up defensively. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. I’m late for a business meeting as it is. Check ya later, Bride-nilla.”
“Did she mean Bridezilla?” Cat said.
“No, Bridezillas want everything just so. I think she meant you’re not exactly champing at the bit to get out of the starting gate,” Benji said.
Chapter 13
Cat sprinted through the ballpark gates and ran for the guarded door to the press box stairs, flashing her credentials at the security guard. He took his time finding her name on his clipboard and was equally deliberate checking off her name. She bounced on her heels as she waited for him to open the door and when he finally did so, she darted up the stairs and into press box, desperately seeking a familiar face in the crowd of national reporters. She wiggled through the back row, relieved when she saw Spencer waving at her from the corner.
“Cat, over here! Where the hell have you been? You missed the pregame conference with the skipper.”
“I know, I know. My flight was delayed getting out of Buffalo and then took an extra half hour landing at O’Hare because of fog or something.”
“Imagine that. I think I would’ve been more surprised if it had been on time. Mine was delayed an hour and a half. That was longer than the flight.”
She pulled out her laptop and started setting up her makeshift workstation. “Thank God I made it for the first pitch.”
“Why didn’t you come with the team last night?” He returned her blank stare with a sheepish grin. “Never mind, I don’t blame you.” Flipping through his computer files and clicking a few quick keystrokes, he added, “I just emailed you a wav file of the interview from my recorder.”
Cat smiled gratefully. “Spencer—”
“I know. I’m totally awesome and you’re going to leave that nerd you’re marrying for me … a slightly less nerdy nerd.”
Before she could respond, her cellphone buzzed with an email alert. She saw the thirty minute-long file in an attachment and smiled at him. “I guess I’ve got a type.” She waved the email notification at him and leaned in for a whisper, “The few reporters I do know here are giving me the cold shoulder. Nobody wants to be seen with the girl who took out two Soldiers. And the Chicago media, well … they keep looking at me like I’m a lobster in the tank at Viking’s. They feel sorry for me, but they gotta eat.”
“Cat,” Spencer pursed his lips in cautious deliberation, “you have to understand that while you get paid to write fluff about the team—”
“Hey!”
“I just mean, your job is to focus on the positives, but it’s different for reporters from outside outlets. Our editors expect us to bring them something juicy every single day. It’s exhausting. I’d kill for your job.”
“Maybe you should go ahead and submit your résumé. I hear there might be an opening soon enough.”
“I actually applied last fall.”
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Yup. I had an interview with Roger and everything.” He smiled. “But you beat me fair and square.”
The National Anthem started up. Cat squeezed his arm and took a deep breath.
“Game three, here we come.”
Cat buried her head in her hands, following Spencer’s lead.
“Game three, there we went.”
Spencer finally came up for air. “Damn. Thirty minutes of work squashed.”
“Same here.” Cat pulled her laptop closer and began to systematically dissect her article. She had been all ready to post the postgame recap directly below the automated box score on the team website. All she had to do was press one button. All Adam Alvarez had had to do was the same thing he’d done all season long. When that mohawked mutt had come in for the save, the Buffalo fans had started celebrating. The joke was that when “AA” was on the mound, the other team was going to need a drink. They did, but this time that drink wasn’t for drowning their sorrows, but for celebrating a win. He’d only had a one-run lead but was due to face the bottom of the order, typically a team’s weakest hitters. It should've been a cakewalk.
Cat had watched the inning over the top of her laptop as her fingers continued the victorious article on the keyboard. She’d done so with a smile on her face because despite the setbacks, everything was working out in the end. The first round of playoffs is a best-of-five series. A Soldiers win tonight meant both teams would meet right back here tomorrow and Buffalo would go for the series win here in Chicago. Sure, it would’ve been nicer to clinch the divisional series at home in front of their own fans, but the sooner the Soldiers could move to the next round, the sooner she could stop being their scapegoat. Besides, a win in the fourth game of the series would give the team four days of much needed rest before facing the winner of the Los Angeles/Houston matchup.
She’d finished the article just as Chicago’s aging catcher had come to the plate. Once upon a time, he’d been a hitter to be feared. Now his swing had slowed and his timing was off. Add that to his miserable stats against Adam’s arm and this would be an easy first out for the All-Star closer.
Or not.
Like he had done so many times in the previous decade, the slugging catcher sent the ball flying clear out to the bleachers. The hometown fans roared as he strolled around the bases with a big grin under his helmet. The Soldiers didn’t share in his mirth; their shoulders sagged and heads drooped. Their can’t-lose game had just been tied up.
Cat snuck a peek at the home team dugout. They’d been deflated until now, but the solo home run had rejuvenated their spirits. Play
ers hung eagerly on the fence and Chicago’s rookie manager had a sort of relaxed smile as he leaned on the dugout stairs. When she saw the pinch hitter step out of the dugout, she knew why. Chicago was going to win.
Jason Holmes sauntered up to the plate. He couldn’t catch a ball with three arms and he ran like a one-legged ostrich, but he had a purpose in this game and that was to hit the ball and hit it far. Any other year, he would’ve been a great designated hitter for the other league, but Chicago had picked him up before the trade deadline for situations like this. His late inning heroics were the reason the Windy City had snagged the wildcard away from Miami.
Cat’s head had turned to Spencer and the two reporters shared a worried gaze. She shook her head to calm his fears, because the same nasty thought had already crept into her mind.
“No,” she’d told him. “That was the first home run Adam Alvarez has given up this year. He’s not going to give up another—”
The pitch left Adam’s hand. She was cut off as Jason’s heavy bat connected with his offering.
Spencer’s jaw dropped.
Both of them followed the ball’s path as it sailed over the bleachers, heading for the street behind them. The ball-hawks outside on the street were in for a treat.
“What the hell happened?”
Cat hadn’t answered him. He knew, she knew, the other Buffalo reporters knew and the jubilated Chicago media knew, too. The national reporters were already on their way down to the clubhouses.
Cat stared at the article and decided none of it was salvageable. She pounded the delete key.
Spencer ran his hands through his thin sprouts of hair and rested them on top of his shaved head. “I’ve followed Adam Alvarez since the minors. I’ve never seen him miss his mark like that.”
“Twice.” Cat held up two fingers in Spencer’s face. “I’ve seen him miss lots of times but it usually results in bruised butts, not home runs. Adam always misses in his favor. He never screws up by throwing money down the center of the plate.”
Spencer wiggled his two fingers in front of her nose. “Twice.”
The Chicago reporters had finally stopped celebrating before busily typing away on their computers and smartphones. They began to pick up their belongings and flood the doorway.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“Me, either.” She took a deep breath. “After you?”
They moved toward the door behind the mass of local reporters. Cat wasn’t worried about getting past them; they were sure to head straight for the home team’s clubhouse. The national media, however, loved to cover heartbreak. The playoff postgame madness was crazy enough, but factor in Chicago’s tiny visiting clubhouse and it was going to be a mad dash to get to Adam Alvarez, who was never very forthcoming for an interview to begin with.
A newscaster from B-TV stopped Spencer right inside the clubhouse. “Hey Spence, AA agreed to a press conference.”
Cat and Spencer shared a confused frown. She spoke for both of them. “The King of Grunts offered to man a podium and answer all of our questions?”
The newscaster shrugged. “I don’t know about all of your questions, but he’ll be up in Conference Room B in ten minutes, right after the skipper. I’d go now if you want a seat.”
“Thanks.” Cat smiled, but he’d already turned away.
Spencer pulled her to the side so a few suits could pass them by. “Guess he’s feeling chatty.”
“Come on.” Cat didn’t need to be prodded; press conferences were her preferred choice of interviews, even before the players had issued her a vow of silence. By the time she and Spencer had made it into the conference room all the plastic chairs were taken, so they filed to the back and leaned against the wall.
Cat fished her cellphone out of her purse and readied the camera option. She liked to keep it handy just for situations like this, when she ended up in the back. The zoom function might be useful for observing some subtle nuance in a player’s expression.
Spencer elbowed her when the manager came in. His postgame press conference was protocol, win or lose. The former player was a fan favorite, mostly because even the younger fans remembered when he used to man third base. He wasn’t the Soldier legend that Roger Aiken had grown to be, but he was popular.
The lanky man pulled out the chair and solemnly sat down. Now that the game was over, he’d changed out of his uniform and wore a black Soldiers sweatshirt and an equally dark frown under his graying beard. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked much older than the guy who was only ten years out of the league.
He slapped his hands on the table, ready to take his lumps. “Well, we had that one. We had it up to the ninth inning and it slipped out of our hands,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding even gruffer than usual. His scowl matched the ones she’d seen on the few Soldiers’ fans that she and Spencer had passed on the way down to the clubhouse level. “What else can I say?”
He didn’t need to say anything. The reporters would take care of that. Hands shot up and he pointed at a woman in the first row.
“Adam hasn’t been as sharp since the infamous poker game, do you agree?”
Oh, come on.
There were about thirty other questions that she could’ve asked, but the old battleaxe from New York Sports had to choose the one inquiry that implicated Cat in yet another loss. Cat tried to melt into the wall as all the heads turned to observe her. Heat suffused her cheeks and neck. She blinked, holding her eyes shut for an extra second, and when she opened them, the nosy reporters were facing forward again.
“No. I don’t believe there’s any correlation between the two.” The manager pointed at a male reporter a few rows back.
Cat exhaled, utterly grateful for his dismissal of the ridiculous claim.
“Skipper, you think Alvarez’s performance has anything to do with his missing teammate?”
“I’m not looking for excuses. The guys are worried about their friends, there’s no question about that.”
Cat felt her gratitude slipping away.
“It’s a close clubhouse and these guys stick together, so I guess it’s possible that Adam was a victim of the stress of the playoffs and all the chaos going on off the field.”
A victim?
She was inwardly fuming. Adam Alvarez wasn’t the victim of anything but a stupid haircut and a slack jaw. The mohawked pitcher hadn’t shown a bit of empathy toward Ryan after his accident. Last night, Soldiers' fans had held an unsuccessful search party for Damien Staats. Roger had sent out an email, encouraging players who wanted to participate to do so and take a later flight. Cat and Benji had swung by on their way home from the Snow Bird, but Adam, the so-called “concerned friend,” hadn’t bothered to show up. The snub wasn’t out of character, because he didn’t have any character. In the past year, Adam had fought and lost two paternity suits, gotten arrested for an assault and been sued by his condo board for destruction of property.
Another reporter spoke up from the front of the room. “It’s weird though, isn’t it, Skipper? First your team loses its ace, then a player goes missing, then your lights-out closer gives up back-to-back homers. Call me crazy, but that’s some bad luck.”
Call me crazy, but that’s a stupid question.
Cat shifted on her feet, shooting Spencer a knowing glower. All of these questions, yet no one was asking why the hell Adam hadn’t thrown his best pitch.
The manager chuckled in response. “Are you saying they’re cursed? I think you’re thinking of the wrong dugout, son.”
Laughter reverberated throughout the room. Cat joined in, relieved to have the pressure taken off of her and her apartment. She tucked her cellphone back in her purse. This guy was good. His expression wasn’t going to reveal anything, especially with his scraggly playoff beard covering half his face. Over the chortles, a low rumble sounded and her purse vibrated. She took advantage of everyone’s amusement to peek at her cellphone screen. It was a text message from Benji.
“Call me ASA
P!”
Exclamation marks were not a good sign, especially coming from the laid-back Benji. In fact, the only time she’d seen him use such punctuation was in his comic doodles, after a POW! or BANG!
She leaned over to Spencer and whispered, “I really need to make a call. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially since you already bailed me out once but—”
He waved her quiet. “Go on. I’ll give you my notes.”
“I owe you one.”
“Two, actually.” He winked. “But who’s counting?”
She slipped out the side door, her finger already on the SEND button. Benji picked up on one ring.
“Hey hon, thanks for calling back so quick.”
“No problem.” She stole a quick look behind her to make sure the door shut. “It’s kind of a bad time, though.”
“Here, too. The police are back.”
“No!” She dropped her voice down and added, “Don’t let them in.”
“They’re already in.”
She sighed. “Well you need to ask them to leave. No warrant, no search. Tell them that.” It was another dad-ism. Cat had never heard Michael McDaniel utter an “I’ll turn this car around” or “When you live under my roof …” but damn if he didn’t patent his own Father Knows Best catch phrases. “No warrant, no search” was second in his repertoire of aphorisms to “It ain’t a crime if you don’t do time.”
“Cat—”
“They can’t step a foot inside if they don’t—”
“Cat!”
“What?’
“They have a warrant.”
“Oh.” She leaned back on the cinderblock wall. “Let me guess. Detective Kahn?”
“Yeah. He brought along some officers and a court order signed by the Honorable Judge Sur.” Papers crinkled in the background. “It basically gives them access to everything but my car. They’re taking pictures from every corner of the apartment and are stretching measuring tapes from wall to wall. He’s got guys on our balcony reenacting the fall. They’ve even got some guys downstairs playing in the grass where Ryan hit the ground.” Benji paused to catch his breath and then gasped, “Oh! How could I forget this? They also took my fingerprints.”