by Camel Press
Players took their turns up at the podium, reminiscing about their teammate through sweet stories that Cat could barely believe were true. She tore her eyes away from the blinding glow of the vigil candles to look to the night sky, her gaze fixated on the brightest light in the sky. She wondered if the crew on the space station could make out the thirty thousand flames.
She shifted her feet in the warning track and leaned back on the outfield wall. Her eyes dropped down and fixed on her ankle boots. They were an inappropriate choice. Not only were her calves cold, but the bold burgundy suede seemed too flashy for mourning. Not that it mattered, no one would notice what she was wearing. Once again, she was on the sidelines. The Soldiers might pride themselves on being one big happy family, but she couldn’t even get a seat at a “family” funeral. The players sat up on the stage in folding chairs lined up behind the podium. Roger Aiken joined them, while the rest of the management sat in rows directly in front of the stage. Fans crowded into the stands, except for the bleachers, which had been blocked off. There wasn’t an empty chair on stage—that would look bad—but not all the players were present. Ryan Brokaw and his broken wing had flown back to Canada, but she couldn’t believe he couldn’t flap back for his teammate’s vigil. Joel Faulk—stumbling through the field doors ten minutes into Roger Aiken’s opening speech—had reeked of tequila. He stayed back on the field instead of going on stage. It was a good call. The last thing the team needed was for him to attempt the five stairs and break an ankle. No doubt the fans would find a way to blame her for that, too.
A hand touched the small of her back. She spun around to chastise its owner but relaxed when she saw Benji.
“Hey! I thought you had a faculty meeting.”
He shook his head. “The dean’s a Soldiers’ fan. She’s here ....” He gestured vaguely around the park, but there were tens of thousands of fans packed into the stadium. “Somewhere. How’s it going?”
She shrugged. “About what you’d expect. Roger Aiken made a nice speech and a few players told some stories. Chris Talcheker read a poem he wrote himself.”
Benji raised an amused eyebrow. “Roses are red, violets are blue, Damien is dead, sniff, sniff, boo-hoo?”
Cat elbowed him in the ribcage. “A little decorum, please?”
“I’m not gonna apologize. The guy was three times over the legal limit when he drove into that parking post. It could just as easily have been another car. Instead of this sanctimonious crap, we should be hearing that he’s been issued a postmortem DUI.”
“He was drunk? How do you know that?”
“I was at the medical examiner’s office today to fill out forms for the Anatomy Bequest Program.”
“What is that?”
“Procuring the cadavers of people who donate their bodies to science upon death.”
Cat wrinkled her nose. “I will never understand your world.”
“One of my students is an intern there this semester. She told me his BAC was .24, but they don’t want it released until this series is over.” Benji shook his head, his blue eyes full of contempt. “I will never understand your world.”
She shushed him as Roger Aiken took the podium again. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight. After speaking with the commissioner and Melissa Staats, we have decided not to postpone tomorrow’s game. Number twenty-six would want us to play and that’s just what we’re going to do. Let’s win it for Damien.”
A round of applause flared up around the stadium and continued as the players walked off stage. They congregated with the front office staff on the field, shaking hands and patting one another’s shoulders.
Cat entwined her fingers with Benji’s and squeezed. She jerked her head toward Joel as he stumbled over to the group of players.
“Can you believe he showed up drunk?”
“Uh, yeah. Isn’t that how their whole Brat Pack likes to roll?”
“Not Joel. He wasn’t even drinking after we clinched the division.”
“Well, his friend just turned up as fish food. That could drive anyone to the bar.”
She surveyed the scene. The outside media had begun to swarm the players, which meant Spencer should be on the scene. She spotted him on the other side of the stage, talking to a familiar face. She squinted to verify, noting the sandy blond hair and arm cast. It was Ryan Brokaw, all right.
“Hey, he did make it.”
“Spencer?” Benji asked with a droll, flat tone. “I’m just surprised he wasn’t sitting on your lap.”
She frowned at him. “I was talking about Ryan Brokaw. I didn’t see him before. Come talk to him with me.”
Ryan was gesturing to his broken arm when they walked up.
“Cat, hi!” Spencer’s round face lit up, but the glow dimmed when he saw Benji on her arm. “Oh hey, Benji.”
“Spencer.”
“Glad you were able to make it, Ryan.” Cat forced a smile. “How come I didn’t see you up on the stage?” Too late she saw Spencer rapidly shaking his head in unsubtle warning.
Ryan’s turquoise eyes narrowed into defiant slits. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Uh … just what I said. All the players were up on the stage except for you and Joel.”
“I wanted to sit with Carmen.”
“Okay.” She smiled again. “No need to be defensive. I only ask because I was worried that maybe you couldn’t get up the stairs because your leg was injured or something. You did fall two stories.”
“Nope, leg’s fine. Just this.” He smacked his right forearm—still encased in a cast and wrapped in a sling—producing a dull thud under his suit jacket.
He turned around and walked off, but Cat hurried after him, leaving Spencer and Benji behind.
“Ryan, wait.” She placed her hand on his cast to slow him. “Has Detective Kahn come back to talk to you?”
“Who?”
“The police detective.”
His eyes glazed over and he slowly shook his head from side to side, his handsome face showing no sign of recognition.
She held her hand up to a height just a few inches shorter than him. “About yay tall. Black guy, late thirties?” She rolled her eyes. “Carries a badge and a gun?”
“Oh uh, yeah. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” Cat couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice. Playing dumb was one thing, but when it was the dumb doing it, it made for a silly, annoying show.
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“I’m not asking you for his mother’s maiden name. I just want to know, has he talked to you again or not?”
“I don’t want to get into this.”
“Get into what? I already know he’s spoken with you and had a warrant to get your medical records.”
Ryan’s blue-green eyes darted behind her. “Shut up, Cat.” Before she could respond, he added, “This isn’t the place and you need to drop it. Now.”
He stormed off and Cat froze in place, watching him go.
“What the hell was that?” Benji said, appearing at her side with Spencer still in tow.
“I have no idea.” She made note of Spencer and tried to smile as nonchalantly as possible. “Grief, I guess. How’d he seem to you?”
Spencer shrugged. “Just bitched about his cast more than anything. I think he’s mourning the loss of his arm more than Damien.” He pointed at George Hudson. “Who’s up with the boss?”
Sidled up next to the boss was a tall, thin man with a pencil-thin mustache. He wore a fedora and a khaki trench coat.
“The Godfather? I don’t know.” The team owner’s chubby hands flew up and he shook his finger in the man’s face. “Whoa. That makes me feel better about the exchange I just had with Ryan.”
“I’m guessing it’s not a friend.” The man pulled George to the side and placed a hand on his shoulder. Spencer squinted. “He looks familiar.”
“I know.”
“Is he an agent?”
Benji loo
ked over her shoulder. “That guy? I know him.”
Both Spencer and Cat turned around and said in unison, “You do?”
They turned to each other and chuckled at their urgency. No reporter liked getting scooped, especially by an amateur.
Benji wrapped his arms around Cat from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. “That’s Dr. Martinez—the head of the psychology department at VBU.”
“Maybe George is bringing him in to counsel some guys,” Spencer said.
“Uh, no. His specialty is behavioral addictions,” Benji said. “I know this because he had the nerve to earmark science funds for a ridiculous study regarding superstition in pathological gamblers.”
Cat jabbed him with her elbow to quiet him but not subtly enough to prevent Spencer from taking note.
“What was that?”
“Hmm?”
“You know something.” His eyes traveled a slow path from George Hudson to Cat and back again. “About that guy and George.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Spencer pouted. “How can you be holding out on me?”
She sighed. “Okay, but this is not to be repeated in the News Herald. Off the record?”
“I’m hurt you even have to say that.”
“You’ll forgive me when you hear this.” She checked to make sure they were far enough away from anyone else. “Before he took over the team, George Hudson had a gambling addiction.”
“What? How do you know this?”
“I can’t reveal my source.”
“But it’s solid?”
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I haven’t verified it. My source said he’s been clean, dry—however they say it in gambling lingo—since he became the owner.”
“That’s messed up.”
Green Day’s “Closing Time” began to play over the speakers and the people in the stands began to disperse.
“Crap,” Spencer said, taking note of the crowd. “I’ve got to get going, but I expect to have a conversation about this later.”
“You got it.” She wiggled out of Benji’s grasp and held up her index finger. “Hang here for just one more second? I want to find one last guy.”
She left him and searched the stage area for Joel Faulk. Ten minutes earlier, the outfielder could barely keep his head up. She checked the stage stairs, but he was long gone. She snuck through the groups of Soldiers. Many players were still lingering despite the stadium clearing out. None of them was Joel’s freckled face, however. Cat headed for the field door but stopped when the right field corner caught her eye.
The stadium had installed a small patch of wire fencing there, giving a see-through to the field for the kids and ballhawks outside the park. It was one of the many attempts to make the modern stadium a throwback to the old days. If it was a vintage effect they were after, Cat didn’t know why they’d bothered to tear down the old stadium three years ago. At the very least, she wished they’d added a retractable roof to their modern marvel, since baseball season runs from April to October, but snow and sleet aren’t as reliable. Mocking the ironies was Spencer’s job, however; hers was to talk up the newest menu options for the concession stands and the upcoming giveaways for the fans. Spencer might envy her job, but some days she missed having an opinion. She approached the fence and peeked out at the lit sidewalk. Sure enough it had been Joel’s bright orange hair she’d spotted, stumbling down the walkway with a well-built man wearing a cast on his left arm. Ryan Brokaw. Craning her head to see more, Cat pressed her face against the cold wire fence to keep them in her visual as they continued down the sidewalk. When they reached the corner, they hopped in a yellow taxi and sped off. She pulled away from the metal fence and rubbed its chalky residue from her cheek.
“You ready to go home?”
Cat jumped around. “Benji!” She took a step away from the fence, unsure why she felt guilty. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He leaned in and peered out to the sidewalk himself. “What’s out there?”
“Ryan. And Joel.”
“So?”
“So Ryan told me he didn’t join his teammates on the stage so that he could sit with his haughty wife, but instead of leaving with a grouchy supermodel, he was escorting a drunk ginger home. He lied to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out.”
Chapter 18
Cat reached for the cup of coffee beside her. It had finally cooled enough to drink without sipping, and the liquid warmed her body going down. She kept the hot ceramic mug clasped between her frigid hands. The apartment was always chilly early in the morning and while she could wrap an afghan around her body, she needed her fingers free for the keyboard.
The sound of soft footsteps tore her away from the computer screen. Benji headed straight for the picture window, opening the blinds to let in the light from the sunrise. He squinted at the bright rays as they streamed through the living room.
“It’s really starting to freak me out that you’ve become an early bird.”
She pointed down the hallway. “That’s because of the night owl nesting in our office. Morning is the only peaceful time I get. Did you hear him come in last night?”
Benji zipped into the kitchen and came out with a cereal bowl and the carton of organic milk. She scooted the box of cereal toward him.
“No, but I was out pretty hard.”
“It was late—or early.” She adjusted her computer screen away from the glare of the window.
“What are you working on? Tell me it’s not a puff piece about Damien. Something about how the Lord took his angel home too soon or that he’s playing baseball with Jesus now? I had enough of that last night.”
“That’s the team for you. Players don’t get religious until they’re at the plate or a funeral.” She leaned back in the wooden dining chair, watching Benji thoughtfully as he shoveled in a giant spoonful of corn flakes. “What do you know about financial advisors?”
He answered her with a mouthful of cereal. “Are you asking me this because I’m Jewish?”
“Ha, ha.” She smiled and gave him a playful kick under the table. “I’m asking because I found out yesterday that Joel Faulk wants an advance on his salary.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I know he bought a house in Amherst last year for like, nine hundred thousand.”
“An advance, hmm. How much money does he make?”
“Only one-point-five million. He may not be indispensible, but he’s still a bargain. He has to be in order for the owners to afford the bigger names like AA and Brokaw.”
Benji raised an eyebrow up to his disheveled black bangs. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say ‘only one-point-five million.’ ”
“I know it’s gross, but I have to grade on a curve. That’s still a lot less than his teammates.”
“I don’t know how you stomach it day in and day out.”
“I just pretend it’s Monopoly money.” She shrugged. “Obnoxious as these guys and their salaries might be, at least they have a marketable skill. What’s George Hudson’s? Having a rich daddy?”
“So why do you care what he wants the money for?”
“I’m just curious.”
Benji pushed his cereal bowl back and rested his head on his hands. “Cat.”
“Fine.” She sighed; this is not how she wanted to start off the day. “In all the hullabaloo yesterday, I didn’t mention that Detective Kahn stopped by the office.”
“Oh God, what now?”
“No, no, don’t worry. I don’t think he’s gonna bother us anymore. His case has hit a wall. Anyway, he did open up a little. He doesn’t think Brokaw fell off our balcony.”
“The ground would beg to differ.”
“No, no. He thinks he was pushed and he thinks one of the other players was the, uh, pusher.”
“Do you?”
She hesitated and wobbled her head from side to side. “I didn’t … but I’m starting to wonder.”
Benji nodded toward the hallway. “Why don’t you just ask Quinn?”
“I doubt he’d tell me the truth. Kahn thinks the guys are covering up for whoever pushed him, you know, because it’s somebody the team needs. I explained to him that these guys aren’t exactly the ‘all for one and one for all’ type, but last night it occurred to me. They are the types to blackmail and bribe. No one would notice if Adam, Ryan or Damien had any extra cash; that’s like a grain of sand on the beach. But Brother of the Year came here with nothing and it wasn’t until after that poker game that he had thousands to throw around on baseball games. Now Joel Faulk finds himself struggling for cash?”
“So you think Faulk’s been paying the guys to keep quiet?”
“I don’t know, but if he’s been withdrawing funds, his financial advisor would have some sort of clue, right?”
“I’m sure he—or she—would, but I doubt it’s something he’d share with you. Besides, how would you even know who to ask, and then, how would you get them to talk?”
She drew herself up a little straighter and folded her arms across her chest. “You underestimate me. As you know my paychecks are directly deposited into our credit union, but player paychecks aren’t. Because so many professional athletes squandered their millions in the nineties and wound up bankrupt, their salaries now go into a Point Mutual account where they are managed by a financial planner.
“How do you know that?”
“Savvy reporters like me have to pick up clues. This clue was as big as a billboard—actually, it is a billboard, right behind center field. Point Mutual is the official sponsor of the Soldiers’ Bleachers, a specific party section of the ballpark—not only bleachers, but a patio and food court. They do several game day giveaways, they have a club box, and … I asked an intern in the accounting department.”