"What you think she's going to get?" Dana asked, whispering to me.
I shrugged. I hadn't the foggiest.
I didn't have much time to contemplate it as Janel quickly darted back out from behind the curtain and toward our table. She did a quick glance over her shoulder before she leaned down and extracted something from her tall go-go boot. She slid the item across the table to us, covering it with her palm.
I reached out and took it, pulling it closer to myself. I looked down. I was holding a bright green condom in a clear cellophane wrapper. I looked back up at her.
"Okay, I give up. What is this?" I asked the girl.
Janel's eyes darted back and forth. "It's a Jolly Green Giant," she said. "Ratski's weekly usual."
I looked down at the condom in my hand. I had a hard time believing he drove all the way to Industry just to get colorful protection.
Dana took it from me, turning it over in her hands.
"Wait, is this what I think it is?" Dana asked. She gave Janel a pointed look.
Janel did a quick nod.
"What?" I probed.
"I've heard of this on the Lady Justice set," she quickly whispered to me. "One of our interns got busted for carrying something similar a few weeks ago. It's the latest way to distribute designer drugs."
"Drugs?!" I asked, looking over both shoulders. Had I just taken part in a drug deal?
"Shhh!" Janel said.
"It's pretty clever, really," Dana continued, turning the wrapper over. "I mean, who's going to go through the condom packets in your pocket, right? Dealers stuff the drugs in the condoms, then stick them in these clear cellophane packages, and distribute them as party favors all over town."
Clearly I was going to all the wrong kind of parties. The only favors I was getting were pony poop.
"So, what's a Jolly Green Giant?" I asked Janel, hoping like anything she said it was some sort of amphetamine.
Janel bit her lip. "Look, a few of the girls here take them before a set. It just gives you a little extra pep."
I raised an eyebrow. Or a little pep to get through a baseball inning. Or, in massive doses, enough pep to induce a heart attack in a tanning booth.
"So, uh…" Janel cleared her throat. "Payment?"
Uh-oh. "How much?" I asked.
"Two-fifty," she said, rising from the table.
I blinked at her. Then I looked in my purse. I had exactly $12.50. I looked to Dana.
"Uh, you take credit?" she asked.
Janel paused. "You're kidding, right?"
Dana shrugged. "I'm a little short right now. Ratski didn't exactly tell us how much to bring."
"How short?" Janel said, putting her hands on her bare hips, her eyes narrowing. I could see a bouncer near the door tensing as her mood shifted.
"Um…" Dana dug into her shoulder bag. "I can swing maybe…fifty bucks?"
Janel rolled her eyes in disgust, snatching the condom back from us. "You tell Ratski to come here himself if he wants this," she said, wagging a finger at us. Then she shoved the wrapper back into her boot and stalked off.
"Come on," I said, glancing at the bouncer, who was narrowing his eyes in our direction now. "Let's get out of here."
* * *
I dropped Dana back off at her car and was just pulling my minivan into my own drive to tell Ramirez what we'd found when my cell rang. I grabbed it, seeing a number I didn't recognize with a 626 area code. Curiosity won over, and I swiped my finger across the screen.
"Hello?" I asked
"Maddie?" A vaguely familiar female voice came across the line.
"Yes?"
"Oh, good. This is Beth. Beth Ratski," my caller said.
I raised my eyebrow at the phone. After what had transpired in his publicist's office, Ratski's wife was probably the last person I expected to hear from.
But before I could question her motives Beth continued on, "Look, my husband told me what happened in Schwimmer's office earlier today."
"Oh?" I asked, highly suspect that Ratski had told her everything that had transpired in his publicist office.
"Yes," she said. "He told me that his temper got the best of him, and, Maddie, I just want to tell you how sorry I am. John knows he overreacted at seeing you there. He's just been under so much stress lately with all of these tabloid rumors swirling around. Of course I told him he shouldn't worry, since none of them have a shred of truth to them, but he just got so nervous when he saw you talking to his publicist, that he sort of lost it."
Well it was an interesting story, I'd say that for Ratski. Of course I guess he had to tell his wife something when he came home with newly-blackened eyes. "No need to apologize, Beth," I told her, feeling suddenly somehow like Ratski's slimy accomplice in lying to his wife about their sham of a marriage.
"Maddie, you are too kind," Beth said. "But really, John and I both wanted to make it up to you."
"Make it up to me?" I wondered just how worried Ratski was about the conversation I'd had with Schwimmer. While I know I had no intention of either going to the press or blackmailing him, clearly Ratski wasn't confident in that fact. Schwimmer must've told him that he'd spilled the beans to me. I suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. The last woman who had learned Ratski's secret ended up dead.
"Really, Beth, that's not necessary," I assured her.
"Please, Maddie, I insist. At least please take our box at the Stars game this evening?"
It was on the tip of my tongue to reject her offer once again. But while Janel might not be star-witness material to Ratski's illegal dealings, the truth was Ratski had to be hiding his stash of Jolly Green Giants somewhere. Chances were good that somewhere was at the stadium, and if I could find it, that would be proof that even Laurel and Hardy couldn't overlook.
However going into the shark tank alone didn't seem like it was the smartest idea.
"Would you mind if I bring a plus-one?" I asked. "My husband is the biggest Stars fan ever."
CHAPTER TWENTY
"I have died and gone to heaven. This is frickin' amazing." Ramirez stared down through the large glass window at tiers of seating beneath us in the Stars Stadium.
As if there'd been any question in my mind, Ramirez had jumped at the chance to attend tonight's game, especially from a player's private box. We dropped the kids off at Mama's house and arrived at the stadium just before the game started. I had to admit the box was impressive. Plush recliner style seats looked out of the glass window with a perfect bird's eye view of the action. From our angle, we could not only see the players on the field, but we also had a pretty good view of the dugout, the bull-pen, and the stands as well. The Jumbotron was right across from our box, almost as if it was our own private big-screen television. I had a feeling that when Ramirez said he was in heaven, he wasn't exaggerating much.
"That's it, you need to hang out with Beth Ratski more often."
I rolled my eyes. "You do realize that she's possibly married to a murderer, right?"
Ramirez waved me off. "Hey, nobody's perfect."
I gave him a punch in the arm.
One of the stadium wait staff came into the box, looking for an order of food and drinks. Which, after they assured us it would be comped by the Stars Stadium, we put in for a couple of beers and a plate of wings.
The staff left, and an announcer called out the name of a former American Idol contestant who took the field to sing the national anthem. Some cities might have high school students sing, but former American Idol contestants were Hollywood's version of amateurs. After a heartfelt, if slightly pitchy rendition, the first honorary pitch was thrown and the away team, the San Francisco Giants, took their turn at bat. My husband leaned forward in his seat, intent on the action below me.
Me? I was a little more intent on snooping.
I walked over to the far right wall which was lined with shelves and cabinetry. The shelves mostly displayed sports paraphernalia and mementos from the franchise's long history. Signed photos of retired pl
ayers', game balls behind glass, plaques commending various players for various things. While they were all interesting, none screamed "killer."
I moved on to the cabinets, pulling them open one by one as the third Giant struck out and our guys came up to the plate. I was vaguely aware of a couple of our guys coming up to bat, getting base hits.
"Bucky's up next," Ramirez called over his shoulder. "It's his first at-bat since the murder."
I had to admit to a little curiosity. I moved to watch over Ramirez's shoulder as Bucky assumed his batting stance. The pitcher spit, wiggled his hips, and stared Bucky down before drilling a ball toward him. Bucky swung and missed, and the sound of the entire crowd letting out a disappointed breath reverberated through the sound system speakers.
"Damn," Ramirez muttered under his breath. "He's gotta do better than that if he wants MVP this season."
I took the seat next to Ramirez as our server came back with the drinks and wings. Three sips later, Bucky had struck out.
"Poor guy," I said honestly. "I'm surprised he was playing at all."
"It's the sports equivalent of the show must go on," Ramirez said around a healthy bite of chicken wing.
I went back to my rifling through the cabinets as another player came up to the plate. I opened the first cupboard and found a variety of different liquor bottles. Most of my alcoholic knowledge came in the variety of wine and flavored martinis, but I noticed Scotch, Gin, and Brandy all in fancy crystal bottles. All probably old and very expensive. I closed the cabinet back up.
I opened the second one as I heard Ramirez cheering on the player who apparently had hit a double. I glanced at the Jumbotron and saw him slide into second base, then stand up with a large mud streak down the front of his uniform. The crowd cheered, and another player came up to bat taking his turn to face the grim pitcher.
I looked through another cupboard. This one held baseball caps with the Stars insignia on them. Probably promotional freebies for the Ratskis to give out to their guests. Promotional T-shirts sat in another, and schedules of the game and menus like the one our server had brought in the cupboard next to that. I was beginning to feel like there was nothing here. This might be Ratski's private box, but there was nothing personal about it. Clearly this was just a place for business deals to go down.
"Here comes Ratski," Ramirez said, leaning forward in his chair.
I walked up behind him to peek at the guy swinging for the ball, but he wasn't wearing Ratski's number.
"Where?" I asked.
"Over there," Ramirez said, pointing off to the right. Just to the side of the foul line, I noticed Ratski jogging toward the field, not from the dugout, but from up a long narrow stairway that looked like it lead somewhere down below the action.
"What's down there?" I asked, craning to see.
"Batting cages. It's where the guys can warm up before they take the plate," Ramirez told me.
"Does everyone do that?" I asked.
Ramirez shrugged. "Not every player. Some guys need more warm-up time than others."
"Like Ratski," I mumbled, sinking into the club chair beside my husband. I sipped at the cold beer as I watched Ratski walk up to the plate. We had one guy at second. I glanced up at the scoreboard. Two outs.
Ratski spit on the ground, shuffled his feet around a little, and nodded toward the pitcher.
The catcher did some complicated hand signals down by his knees, and the pitcher nodded, squinting his eyes. He threw his first pitch, and Ratski swung hard enough that his bat cracked in half. Unfortunately, the ball went foul, flying up into the stands.
Ramirez moved a little bit farther forward on his seat. Much more and he'd be kissing the glass.
Ratski got a new bat, some guys came out to talk to the pitcher on the mound, and the action generally slowed. I felt myself getting antsy. I knew I was right in the middle of the hornet's nest, but I couldn't figure out how to poke it.
Ratski came back up to the plate and swung at the next pitch. This time his bat connected perfectly, and it sailed far enough into the air that the crowd was on its feet in anticipation of a home run.
Unfortunately, it bounced off the far wall, instead, landing on the dirt.
But Ratski had taken off like a shot, running faster than I would've thought a guy with a beer gut like his could. He quickly rounded first and second base to make a slide right into third.
The crowd cheered, the roar deafening. My husband cheered right along with them. "A sweet RBI! That's what I'm talking about, Ratski!" Ramirez said clapping. Apparently, personal feelings had no place in baseball. If Ratski was bringing the team to a win, Ramirez was happy.
Then it hit me. I looked over at that narrow staircase to the right of the foul line again. I blinked as I watched another player come jogging up, bat in hand.
The batting cage the last stop before a batter hit the field. It was the perfect place to hide a little pre-game pick-me-up.
I knew it. I knew that the drugs were down there, and if I could find them, I bet that Ratski's prints would be all over them.
I looked over at Ramirez. He was completely engrossed in the game as our new player came up to bat, hoping to at least get a single to get Ratski in for a two run lead.
"I'm gonna go walk around," I told him.
He nodded as he stared down at the action below. "Uh-huh."
I made my way out of the box, and took the escalators down through the Stadium back to the main floor. The place was buzzing with sports fans in line at the beer stands, eating hot dogs with relish, onions, ketchup, and mustard, and purchasing hats, banners and foam fingers at stands scattered all through the causeway. I tried to get my bearings. The other times Dana and I had crashed into the private areas of the stadium, we'd gone through the players' entrance. I knew there must be a way to get there from the main public floors. I just wasn't sure what it was.
I walked toward the right side of the stadium, which is where I had seen the batting cage. I got to about the point in the main causeway where I thought the batting cages should be. But how to get down below was a whole other question. I looked out onto the field. I noticed our guys were there, tossing baseballs to each other. The inning must have ended. I looked up to one of the many scoreboards mounted near the ceiling and saw that Ratski had indeed scored us a run.
A vendor wearing a tray for delivering frozen lemonade walked past me. Most of his slots were empty, just a couple of melted drinks sloshing around in the middle. The guy veered left and went to a spot along the wall painted with a mural of film strips and palm trees. He pushed on a panel of film strip, and the wall opened, allowing him to slip inside. Had I not seen him do it, I never would have noticed the slight door-shaped crack in the mural.
I did a quick over-both-shoulders to see if anyone was watching me, but clearly everyone in the vicinity was engrossed in their own snack runs before the action started up again on the field. I made my way over to the door and gave it a shove. It opened as quickly as it had for the lemonade guy, and I walked through, letting it shut behind me.
I found myself in some sort of utility hallway. People in the staff uniforms of jeans and Stars T-shirts passed me in both directions, none of them paying much attention to me, even though in my sporty pink capris, long sleeved wrap top, and strappy slingbacks I feared I stood out like a sore thumb. I wished I had grabbed one of the T-shirts and ball caps from the private suite before heading down here. So much for my powers of disguise.
Then I remembered the press pass. It was still in my purse. I quickly rummaged through and grabbed the little laminated square identifying me as a member of the Informer staff and slipped it around my neck. I might be a little bit out of place in the service hallway, but at least I looked like I belonged in the private areas.
My heels click-clacked on the cement floor as I walked through the throngs of stadium employees. I had no idea which way the batting cages were, but I hoped I was close. I turned down a hallway that led to the left, went right
a couple more times, then left again and found myself in what looked like offices. Wrong turn. I turned around, backed up, and went left, left, right, right, left…,and pretty soon I had no idea where I was. I could have been close to the batting cage or I could've been all the way back to the point I'd started at.
I was about to give up and ask one of the guys walking by carrying peanuts or cotton candy where the players' area was, when I spotted one of our mascots—the huge Charlie Chaplin—wobbling his way down the hall to the right. If he was going to the field, that must be the direction I wanted to go as well. I trailed him, trying to look like I wasn't trailing him, and, wonder of wonders, came to a stairway that opened up to the locker rooms at one side and a corridor that led to the field down the other.
I took the corridor to the field, and on the right side, after two more turns, I hit pay-dirt. A small nondescript doorway opened up on to a squat, cement batting cage. It wasn't much to look at. A rectangular room below ground, covered in mesh netting above and Astroturf below. I gingerly stepped inside, it was empty. With our team on the field, none of our players should be warming up at the moment.
But I knew my time was limited.
If I was going to find Ratski's stash, I had to find it now. I quickly scanned the batting cage. Honestly, there weren't many places to hide something. There was a rack of bats to one side, a couple bins of balls on the other, a small TV monitor mounted in the corner displaying the current action on the field, and the pitching machine itself at the far end.
Ratski had to put the drugs somewhere that only he would be able to find them. He wouldn't want every other player who came in to stumble upon them. I quickly scanned through the balls and the bats and dismissed those. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and they were way too public.
Behind the pitching machine there was a row of metal lockers, much like the ones that graced the walls of my high school. Only these were dingier and more rusted. Utilitarian but not very pretty. Then again, I didn't think anyone was giving out Good Housekeeping awards for a nice batting cage.
Homicide in High Heels Page 19