by Cohen, Celia
I poured myself some coffee. She poured herself some fresh orange juice from a pitcher that in this place probably would have cost me about a day’s pay.
The breakfast spread was quite lavish. Alie had ordered pancakes, oatmeal, scrambled eggs, assorted breads and a mess of fruit. I sloshed down the coffee and chewed on some toast, dry. I was a Spartan at heart. Food had never held any particular attraction for me. The only time I got mildly interested was when Julie cooked, and that was because of Julie, not the food.
Alie grazed away, a little of this and a little of that, instant gratification, no attention span. I figured it was remarkable she remembered my name.
The hotel provided a copy of the Hillsboro Courier with breakfast. Alie let it lie folded until it got in her way as she reached for some jam. Then she picked it up and tossed it in the trash can.
“Hey, aren’t you going to read that?” I asked.
“Why should I read it? If something’s already in the paper, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
I was dumbfounded. I had never heard such logic. I had become quite the reader myself. Randie had done that to me in my youth. I read newspapers, magazines, novels and zillions of crime stories, fiction and nonfiction. Randie said I had become self-educated, which was a good thing, because I was otherwise unteachable.
I had taken exception when she said that. “You taught me.”
“I trained you. Like a puppy at obedience school. And believe me, you weren’t the top of the class.”
I wondered, as I recalled that conversation, whether Randie would have gotten even that far with Alie. She really was terminally blonde.
Anyway, I wanted the newspaper. I was curious to see whether Penn had written anything about the assault on Papa de Ville. “Do you mind if I look at it?”
Alie waved her permission. Sure enough, Penn led the paper. I bet there were a lot of important people mad at him for digging out the bad news—the mayor, the chief, the tournament officials, the Chamber of Commerce types and even the sportswriters, who got outhustled for the real story.
I scanned the police log—nothing I didn’t already know about—checked the baseball scores and put the paper down.
Alie drained her coffee cup. “I need you to drive me out to that country club. What was it called? Buena Vista?”
“Yeah, Buena Vista. What do you have to go there for?”
“That’s where I’m practicing. Daddy set me up for a session with the pro there. His name’s Greg or Craig or something. Daddy thinks it’s good for my image to be seen with a guy.” She laughed.
“It’s Gregg. Gregg with two g’s, as he’s always telling everybody.” I knew Gregg Clapham. He had tawny, flowing hair, a regular Bjorn Borg, and he changed his shirt on the court about a million times a day, so he could show off his pecs and abs. When he was in college, he was the top-ranked player in the state. He had the skills to make it on the pro tour, but he didn’t have the cutthroat instincts. He settled for being a teaching pro, making decent but not spectacular money at the Buena Vista Country Club. He did have the tennis pro looks, though. Papa de Ville knew what he was doing when he set Alie up with Gregg.
I was surprised Alie was practicing at Buena Vista. The tournament was at Hillsboro College, which had a stadium tennis court with bleachers. “You’re not practicing at the college? I thought you had to get used to the surface you’re playing on.”
Alie gave me a look. “Have you seen the draw for this tournament? My first match is with a qualifier from the college. I could beat her on a court made of green cheese. This isn’t exactly Wimbledon, you know.”
“Sorry. When do you want to leave? I have to get cleaned up and check in with the desk sergeant.”
Twenty minutes later we were headed for the country club, Alie in the back of the police car and me in the front, feeling like a chauffeur again. All I needed was a cap and a pair of driving gloves.
“What happened with your father last night?” I asked.
“You’re the cop. You’re the one who should know.”
“All I know is I was pulled away from a very nice dinner and ordered back on duty. I didn’t exactly have time to find out too much.”
“He was mugged. That’s all.”
“When?”
“After the banquet. He went out to the parking lot to go back to the condo, and two guys came up to him before he got to his car. They wanted his wallet, and he fought with them, and they beat him up and then they ran away.”
“Did they get his wallet?”
“No.”
“How come they ran away? Did he yell for help?”
Alie sighed. “What is this, the third degree?”
“Okay, never mind. I was just curious.” I sure was curious. Papa de Ville’s story sounded fishy to me. If two guys want your wallet and they beat you up, they take it. And why didn’t Papa holler? I had a feeling Randie was right—Papa knew who his attackers were and had a reason to conceal it.
I stopped at a red light. Alie got fidgety. “Can’t you put on your lights and siren and get moving?”
“Not without cause. I’d have to arrest you first.”
“What for?” She sounded playful.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about interfering with the duties of a police officer’?”
“Don’t you wish,” Alie said. The next thing I knew, she leaned forward and softly stroked the back of my neck. It was a silken jolt I was utterly unprepared for. My body didn’t know whether to stiffen or sag.
“Now can you drive faster?” Alie spoke so softly, the buzz saw was nearly out of her voice.
“No.” I needed all the reserves I had for that one syllable. Alie was sending currents through my body that were draining me of will power, and I didn’t exactly have much of a record for refusing attractive women.
Abruptly the hand and the golden touch were withdrawn, and I got the silent treatment the rest of the way to the country club. I was glad I had said no.
Buena Vista was quiet at this hour of the day, except for some diehard foursomes of golfers and the maintenance staff starting its shift. Julie wouldn’t arrive for a couple of hours.
The tennis courts weren’t officially open so early, but Gregg was there, waiting for Alie. He was shirtess, of course. I let Alie out of the police car, and she stalked by me like a Wicked Stepsister passing Cinderella. Well, she better not ask to borrow my glass slippers.
I could have done the introductions for Alie and Gregg, but I didn’t bother. Instead, I lounged by the police car as Alie did a pretty fair job of flirting with him. Then they got down to tennis, and I forgot all about how irritated I was.
No model, no gymnast, no dancer in her prime had more grace than Alie de Ville with a tennis racquet. She was poetry for the eye and ballet for the soul, her movements flowing and steady and sure. No matter how hard Gregg drilled balls at her, no matter how much he mixed up the pace, she was as unfaltering as a clock moving through time.
Alie was a serve-and-volleyer, a style that distinguished her from most of the baseliners on the women’s tour. I became particularly enamored of her serve, the ball tossed high in the summer air, one arm pointing skyward while the other cocked the racquet, the breasts lifted, the knees bending under the strong thighs. The moment would hold and hold and hold, until the serve exploded and Alie rocketed back to life.
I experienced the wonder that Adam must have felt as he looked at Eve, a creature like him and yet somehow apart, always to be yearned after and never captured. Alie on a tennis court was something different from you and me.
The impatient, pouting prima donna was nowhere to be seen, replaced by this earthly angel. It was hard to believe the two could exist in the same body. I found myself smiling. I bet Alie didn’t even know what a gift she had. Like everything else in her life, it was just another gratification, there for the asking.
Alie and Gregg worked hard out there, and when they were finished, they walked side by side into the clubhouse to g
et something to drink. I wasn’t included, but I was supposed to be providing security, so I followed. I kept my distance, though.
Eventually Alie said good-bye and steered my way. The glow from the tennis court was still on her. “Could you take me back to the hotel, please?” she said, unexpectedly transformed into a clone of Miss Manners.
“Sure.”
I got on the radio to let the desk sergeant know where we were heading. The Beer Belly Polka was on duty. He told me I’d be relieved at the hotel and to report to the station. Randie wanted to see me.
“Will you be back to take me to my match this evening?” Alie asked.
“I assume so. That was the original plan.”
“I want to go out after I play. Gregg says the hottest place in town is Poe’s.”
That was true. The nightspot near the college campus had as its slogan, “We’ll have you ‘raven’ evermore!” It was loud and rowdy and gave us more trouble than any other legal place in Hillsboro, mostly because of the rough male townies who got themselves drunk and then tried either to pick up the college women or pick fights with the college men. Recently Poe’s had changed management and gotten even worse. The new owner was trying to draw more business with wet T-shirt contests and female mud wrestling acts. He wanted to have an amateur strippers night, but the mayor threatened to shut him down over that one, and he backed off.
The last thing I needed was to keep track of Alie de Ville in a place like that. Fortunately I had a reason to keep her away. “Sorry. You can’t get in there if you’re under twenty-one.”
“What bullshit! Come on, Kotter, don’t be a prude.”
“No way.”
“You could go as my date.”
I looked in the rear view mirror and gave her the smirk. “You never give up, do you?”
“I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’”
“It wasn’t.”
Alie smiled dreamily. She seemed very sure of herself.
Sam Van Doren met us at the College Inn. I didn’t like how serious he seemed. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“Trouble. Randie will tell you.”
Sam was nothing if not loyal. I wouldn’t get another word out of him if Randie hadn’t authorized him to speak. It was one of the reasons she trusted him. She knew she could always count on him to do what he was supposed to do.
I felt my heart start pumping with the fear and exhilaration that danger always brings. If you couldn’t get scared and enjoy it, you were in the wrong business.
“Okay, Sam. Alie’s all yours, and believe me, you’re welcome to her. I’m on my way.”
Chapter Eight
The Beer Belly Polka leered at me as I walked past the desk. “Hey, Kotter, I hear that blonde bombshell is making you jump through all sorts of hoops. We should have sent a man out for that job.”
“Yeah, Sarge, she’s making me jump, dive, do backflips, whatever.” I poked him in the famous belly. “But at least I can fit through those hoops, you know what I mean?”
“Kotter, I swear, one of these days I’m going to write you up!”
I left him, still quivering, and walked into Randie’s office. “Did I hear you and Cranshaw mixing it up again?” she asked.
“Affirmative. I stuck a finger in his gut. I feel like I just molested the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
Randie laughed before she could stop herself. “Cut it out, Kotter.”
“Sorry. What’s going on? Sam said there’s trouble.”
“There is.” Randie picked up a sheet of paper. “When Potter went to Papa de Ville’s condo this morning to ask him some more questions, there was a note taped to the door. Here’s a photocopy. The original’s already gone to the FBI.”
“The FBI?” I repeated. This was serious. I took the paper from Randie. Letters from newspapers and magazines had been cut out childishly and pasted to form the words:
mONiCa SELes got OFf eAsY.
There was no mistaking what the message meant. Monica Seles was the tennis player who was stabbed in the back by a deranged fan during a match in Germany. Whoever had a grudge against Papa de Ville was threatening to carry it out on his daughter.
“What do you think?” Randie asked.
I glanced at the cutouts again. “I think someone’s been reading too many Dick Tracy comics.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. It looks like this note was put together right in town. Most of the letters are in the type the Courier uses.”
“I noticed that, too.”
“So now what?”
“Now it gets complicated. Papa de Ville wants more security for Alie, but he doesn’t want her to know about the note. He says it would affect her tennis.”
“And we’re going along with that?”
“We have to. That’s what the mayor told the chief. The mayor will do anything to save this tournament.”
I winced. It was hard enough to protect someone without worrying about politics; with it, security was as risky as Russian roulette.
“What about telling Penn?”
“Not this time. There aren’t enough people who know about it. A leak would be too easy to trace.”
“Damn.”
“It’s going to put a lot of pressure on you. Stay with her, Kotter. I’ll make sure you have backup, but you’re the first line of defense.”
“I take it the detectives haven’t turned up anything.”
“No. Papa de Ville is still stonewalling, insisting he didn’t recognize his attackers. We’re asking questions around town, but Papa’s been gone a long time. It’s hard finding people who knew him, let alone people who are out to get him.”
“You want me to ask Alie about it?”
“Better not. Papa doesn’t want her to know anything about this, and the mayor’s on his side.”
“We’re really fucked, aren’t we?”
Randie chuckled. “Not fucked, Kotter. Sold down the river on account of money and politics. You get fucked when someone wants to hurt you. You get sold when you don’t matter enough to get fucked.”
“Here I thought you were just a police captain, and it turns out you’re a philosopher, too.”
Randie smiled. “Well, the lecture’s over. It’s time to get back to your tennis star. And leave through the back of the station so you don’t go by Cranshaw again. I don’t have time to listen to him bitch about you.”
I stopped at my place and got enough clothes for the next four days, which would take me beyond the end of the tournament until the players left town. I figured I would be at the College Inn for the duration.
I found Sam Van Doren in the hallway outside Alie’s room. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“No problems. She had lunch with a couple of the other players, and then they went out by the pool. She came back up here about an hour ago and hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, and she’s been quiet ever since.”
“What did you do, Sam, slip her some Valium?”
“Just lucky, I guess. She’s been giving you a hard time, hasn’t she? I heard you had to be up at the crack of dawn this morning.”
“If anybody’s thinking about kidnapping her, they ought to talk to me first.”
Sam smiled, but then he got serious. “Well, she’s all yours. I have to get back to the station. I’ve got a long stretch ahead. I’m going to get out the old police reports, dating to the time her father lived here, and see if he shows up in anything. Wouldn’t you know the guy left town before the records were computerized.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“Tell me about it. See you later.”
I unlocked my room across the hall from Alie’s and left the door open. I put my stuff away and loafed around, waiting for the next summons. She surfaced in late afternoon and surprised me with a welcoming smile.
“Kotter! Can you take me over to the tournament? I want to hit some more before I play tonight.”
I was really keyed up. This was the first time I had A
lie out in public since the trouble began. I was furious with Papa de Ville, too. If he’d given us a description of those goons, we’d know if they showed up. This way they had the jump on us.
Alie was spotted as soon as we arrived. I had to hand it to her, she was good with the crowds. She kept moving, but she talked and signed autographs as she went. Since Hillsboro was pretty awestruck at having her here, no one got rude, and we didn’t have any problems.
I was relieved to find the place blanketed with cops, most of them in uniform to be visible. I personally was in my blue suit and a new pair of sunglasses, doing my imitation of the Secret Service. All I lacked was one of those little buttons to talk into and a wire in my ear.
Alie went into the locker room, hooked up with a player I didn’t recognize, and then the two of them headed for a practice court. Within minutes there was a crowd, pressed against the chain link fence to watch. I think Alie had more people watching her warm up than did the two low-ranking pros playing the afternoon match.
Alie seemed restless, though. She wandered amid the practice courts, the dining hall and the locker room until it was time for her to go on.
Of course, she was the featured match of the night. Dusk was closing in as she entered the stadium court, the contrast between the growing darkness and the bright lights making it hard for me to scan the capacity crowd. Damn Papa de Ville, anyway.
People stood and cheered, but Alie was all business. She didn’t even glance at her father, sitting in a courtside box with the mayor, the diamond stick pin in his tie catching the light. Papa looked expansive. This tournament was obviously everything he wanted it to be—recognition, vindication, a gloating glory. It only remained to be seen how dear a price he would pay for it.
The next box over from Papa and the mayor belonged to the college president. I noticed my parents sitting there, along with a couple of trustees and some rich old alumni. We didn’t so much as nod.
Alie was playing Tammy Truman, the top Hillsboro College player who got into the tournament as a courtesy to the school. Poor Tammy got mugged out there. After she lost the first set 6-1, she took a white bandanna out of her tennis bag and waved it in surrender. The crowd loved it, and I saw a bunch of white handkerchiefs waving back in sympathy. Alie played along, aiming her racquet like a rifle at Tammy. The cameras flashed, and that was the picture on the front page of the Courier in the morning. No wonder Alie was so popular. She had talent and style—if you didn’t know her.