Inside Cut

by Tom Fowler

  Calvin looked at me for a few long seconds before answering. “Yeah,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “You tell him?” He shook his head. “We can presume Eddie did, then. You think he’s on the take, too?”

  “Maybe. It’s another way to try and control the outcome. If I’m doing better than I should, he can take me out of the game.” I remembered wondering about Calvin’s time on the bench in the last game. This filled in the gap.

  “I may need to chat with your coach, too.”

  “You think he sent the football players after you?”

  “I don’t see who else could’ve done it,” I said. “I guess he needs to have some pull with the team or his counterpart.”

  “He’s the assistant athletic director,” Calvin said.

  “Interesting.” I should have checked this. The nameplate on Baker’s office only listed him as the coach. Maybe he had a separate space carved out in the administrative offices. “Now I dislike him even more.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him.”

  “He’s an asshole, Calvin. I’ll be as hard on him as I need to.”

  “I ain’t trying to mess things up too much,” he said.

  At least the young man was aware of his situation. Still, my expected conversation with Coach Baker could turn into something more. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  At home, I conducted some basic research into Lou Baker. He’d been the basketball coach at John Hanson College for six years. About a year ago, he added assistant athletic director to his duties. The primary AD at the time resigned, replaced by the current one, and then Baker ascended to the deputy role. Local reports suggested some kind of power struggle with the previous guy, which Baker obviously won. His additional title didn’t garner a lot of publicity at the time.

  As assistant AD, Baker held sway over the rest of the athletic programs, which would explain his influence over the football players dispatched to teach me a lesson. Reports of him in any capacity other than basketball coach were scarce. If Baker abused his power, either no one discovered it, or no one reported on it. Even the school’s newspaper—which often sang a contrary tune about the college, like most similar publications—remained silent on the issue.

  Personally, Baker lived in a recently-purchased house on Edgar Terrace, a side street between Echodale and Walther Avenues. The dwelling itself wasn’t far from Rich. I frowned when I saw Walther Avenue, though. It meant Baker also lived pretty close to Calvin and Denise. Thanks to the availability of housing records, I found out a lot about his home and mortgage.

  Considering my cousin lived nearby, I called him in the interest of pursing justice together. “What did you have in mind?” he said in a guarded tone, like he expected me to suggest calling in an air strike.

  “I’m going to have a talk with the coach,” I said. “I’d like you to be there to make sure he doesn’t summon any reinforcements.”

  “You think he might?”

  “He’s already sent three football players after me. Next time, he might call the entire offensive and defensive lines.”

  “How’s this chat going to go?” Rich asked. The skepticism in his voice practically oozed out through my phone. “You going to knock on the front door and hoist a couple brews inside?”

  “If I thought I could. I don’t think he’ll talk to me willingly.”

  “So you’re going to break in.”

  “You sound so dramatic, dear cousin. Perhaps the coach left his back door open . . . or a window.”

  “You’re still entering his home illegally.”

  “My tax dollars pay his salary,” I pointed out.

  “Great. Even if the state owned his house, you couldn’t just walk in.” Rich sighed. “Tell me why you’re working this one again.” I filled him in about Calvin, Iris, Denise, and the whole mess. When I’d finished, Rich remained silent a few seconds before saying, “It sounds like a good cause, at least.”

  “It is.”

  “Fine. I’ll tag along. If it goes south in there, though, you’re on your own. I’m not getting dragged down for your shady operation.”

  “I’ll be sure to point out your self-righteousness to anyone who asks,” I said.

  “Likewise,” Rich said. We made a plan for what time all this would go down, and he hung up.

  I needed a way to know when Baker would be headed home. Coach Coffey’s computer was offline, so my previous foothold wouldn’t work. With a game tomorrow, Baker would probably put in a late night at the office. The longer I lingered in his neighborhood—not to mention sat in his house—the greater the odds I’d get discovered. Rich might deter anyone coming to scare me away, but I didn’t think he’d wave his badge and quell the suspicions of nosy neighbors. His help always went only so far.

  Early in the case, I visited Baker in his office. It was small, cluttered, and messy, like the workspaces of many college coaches. He kept a Dell laptop sitting on the desk. It would have a webcam built-in. With some skilled searching and a little luck, I could find it. I went to a search engine called Shodan, which is like Google for Internet-connected devices.

  From there, I hunted for Dell webcams, narrowing my focus to the JHC campus. Many results popped up in red. Classes were still in session. A lot of computers would be online. I would need to wait until later. After the professors went home, anything left would belong to an enterprising administrator—of which there were few, in my experience—or a coach looking for an edge. With the field narrowed, I could find Baker more easily then.

  So I waited. Gloria left for some tennis event, so I had the house to myself. Feeling a little sluggish, I went out to pound the Federal Hill pavement for a few miles. This time, I kept a .38 holstered under my light jacket. The blued revolver went well with the navy running outfit I wore. If you’re going to carry a gun while you exercise, you might as well be sure it pairs with your clothes. There’s no excuse to be unfashionable in the face of danger.

  I encountered no miscreants while exercising. After showering and putting on clean clothes, I whipped up a late lunch of a turkey sandwich and tortilla chips. Few men can dress well and be gourmets. It’s a gift. Once I finished eating, I checked for webcams at JHC again. Still too much noise to find the signal. If the location could be isolated more precisely, I’d be able to make a better guess, but such were the limitations of the technology.

  A couple hours later, with the afternoon rush hour in full swing, I checked again. Four remained active. Connecting to these devices over the internet proved easy. The laptops were assigned IP addresses by the college. Rather than using private ones, they made them public. Using the IP address and the camera identifier in a web browser brought me to a screen with a button saying Login. Clicking the button revealed whatever or whoever was on the other side of the camera.

  The first was a secretary frowning at something. I disconnected right away. The next was a conference room. I watched for a minute in case someone like Baker walked in, but closed the tab when it became clear nothing would happen. Two remained. The third was a middle-aged man in a cheap suit whose face was buried in his phone. Clearly an administrator hard at work bettering the lives of students. I disconnected from this one, too. Now I needed Baker’s laptop to be the last one.

  Once I bypassed the login button, a messy office came into view. I recognized the chaos right away as well as the man sitting in profile to the camera. Baker studied what I presumed to be game film on another monitor and scrawled notes on a piece of paper. I watched this riveting scene play out for several minutes before I decided a hearty observation of paint drying might be preferable.

  I whiled away the time as best I could. Baker seemed to be in no hurry to leave his office. This way, he could point to how late he stayed as a sign of his dedication. Finally at about seven-thirty, he packed it in. The light on the webcam would give away its activation. Disabling this required a different level of attack. If I’d known I would have hours to wait, I may have done it. Baker didn’t pay
the glow any mind. He packed a bag and closed the laptop lid.

  I called Rich. “We’re on.”

  I met Rich at his house in Hamilton. He owned a large Victorian with a driveway fit to host a flag football game. We left the S4 there and took his Camaro. The jaunt to Baker's house was quick.

  Edgar Terrace is an L-shaped street. Shortly after the 90-degree curve at the bottom, it dead-ends onto Crosswood Avenue. This road, taken right or left, would enable a hasty retreat should we need to make one. Baker lived immediately around the curve in the second house from the Crosswood intersection. Rich parked across the street, where the houses were more spaced out. Baker's was dark, and no cars sat in front of it or in the driveway. "You're sure this is how you want to do it?"

  "What's the alternative?" I said. "You flash your badge and get us in?"

  "He does live in the city."

  "But he doesn't have to let you in. It's not like I have a lot on him. I'd rather surprise him."

  "All right," Rich said, his voice tinged with disapproval. He frequently sounded like one of my high school teachers whenever we worked together. Apparently, my exemplary success rate did not factor into Rich's calculus.

  I got out, scanned for nosy neighbors, and closed the Camaro door quietly. A large tree in Baker's front yard gave me excellent cover as I checked again for anyone taking an interest in me. The coast looked clear. I hugged the house as I padded down the driveway, across Baker's back yard, and onto the rear porch. The storm door wasn't even locked. The one behind it was, so I took out my special keyring and got to work.

  In Hong Kong, a couple of my hacker friends also specialized in breaking and entering. I learned how to do it from them just for the knowledge. It's served me well since coming home and stumbling into this job. A minute later, I bypassed the lock and slipped inside.

  The interior was dark, and the drawn blinds prevented any moonlight from creeping in. I took my phone out of my pocket, using only the luminescence from the screen to cast my surroundings in a dim blue. It was enough, and it wouldn't alert anyone who happened to be looking at the house. What I could see appeared as messy as Baker's office. His dining room was cluttered with boxes, and papers lay on the table in loose piles I couldn't bring myself to think of as stacks. The living room featured a couch, loveseat, and coffee table, plus a shabby recliner near the eating area. It was a lot of seats for a man who lived alone and was too much of an asshole to have many friends.

  I sat in the recliner and waited. If Baker drove home after leaving campus, he should be pulling up soon. I waited. No Baker. While I passed the time, I got up and poked through the mail on the coffee table. I found junk mail, a couple bills, and the latest issue of Playboy. Would the college find it interesting their assistant AD ogled women who were the same ages as the athletes he served? From my experience with administrators, probably not.

  A few minutes later, I sat in the recliner again. Rich texted, Car pulling into the driveway. I heard the engine an instant later, and the headlights struggled to seep through the blinds on the front windows. The engine cut off a few seconds later. Footsteps soon landed on the front porch. A key scraped the lock, and the door swung in.

  Baker entered, his head down, clutching a bag of carry-out in one hand and his water bottle and keys in the other. For the first time since I met him, I sympathized. He carried everything to the coffee table, set it down, and pulled the ceiling fan cord to turn on the overhead light.

  "Hi, Coach," I said, and Baker jumped high enough to pull down a rebound.

  "What the hell?" He stared at me. "You're the detective . . . Ferguson?"

  "Detective and NCAA champion lacrosse player."

  "Now, I remember. You told me to go fuck myself. Maybe I'll tell you the same thing when the police arrest you."

  "Go ahead and call them," I said, inclining my head at the cell phone now in his hand. "While you do, why don't you mention your association with a guy who's running a point shaving scheme?” Baker frowned. "Maybe you could also volunteer how you afforded to pay cash for this house."

  "How did you--"

  "Public records . . . plus a few other clever searches. I can do the math, Coach. You don't get paid enough. But help fix some games, and you can buy a house conveniently close to your star player."

  Baker sighed, tossed his phone down, and sagged onto the couch. For a man who hoped to lead a championship basketball team, he surrendered easily. "What do you want?"

  "To know how deep this point-shaving rabbit hole goes."

  "You going to get me out of it?”

  "No."

  "No?" he said, his mouth hanging open.

  "No. I don't care about you. You're a fully-formed adult. You took the money and made your choice. Calvin has better motivations."

  "He's also about to turn twenty-one."

  "Frontal lobe development continues until twenty-five," I said. He gaped at me again. "I took a couple semesters of psych. You should try dropping in on a class sometime."

  "You expect me to work with you for no gain?"

  "I'm trying to get Calvin out from under your friend Eddie." He frowned. "Yeah, I know who he is. Anyway, if Eddie goes down, you're in the clear, too. If you help me, you help yourself."

  Baker stared at the ceiling. He didn't say anything, and I let him stew in silence. Considering I needed to explain cause and effect to an employee of a supposedly good college, I figured we'd be here a while if the coach tried to think his way out of this mess. Eventually, he said, "What do you want to know?"

  "Is Eddie a bookie?"

  He shook his head. "I don't think so."

  This surprised me. Not doing the books himself added another player, but it also reduced his personal risk. "You know who is?"

  "He's never told me. I've never asked."

  "Fair enough," I said. "You guys have a big game tomorrow. How's it going to play out?"

  "I'm confident we'll win."

  I'd checked the line earlier in the day. Vegas favored Hanson by six. "A squeaker or a blowout?"

  "These conference title games are usually hard-fought."

  So the big man wanted it to be close. "Where does Eddie watch the games?"

  "He's got a buddy owns some little shithole sports bar in Middle River. Final Score or something close to it. He's usually there."

  "I think I'll take in the game there." Something nagged at me. “You knew about this whole thing early.”

  “Yeah . . . so?”

  “Doesn’t seem like something a player would tell his coach.”

  “Well, Calvin told me.”

  I couldn’t come up with a good reason for him to let Baker in on the scheme. There were way too many excuses which were way too easy to offer for things like missed shots and bad passes. Hanson still won the games, so Baker would be unlikely to care so long as the results remained good.

  “Any other players involved?”

  “Maybe.”

  I figured there would have to be. Even someone like Calvin can only affect a game so much. There would need to be contingencies if he got hurt. Multiple players and the coach being in the know and on the take pointed to a big operation. Something of this scale could find its genesis somewhere besides shaving points. “Anything going on here besides basketball?”

  Baker shook his head a little too quickly. People rarely deny things the instant they’re mentioned. “Nope.”

  I didn’t believe him, but pressing him didn’t seem likely to work out. What else could be happening? I stood. "We should probably keep this chat between us."

  "Yeah, yeah." Baker waved a dismissive hand.

  "I mean it." He nodded. I let myself out.

  Chapter 16

  Baker gave me the right name. The Final Score Sports Bar sat on Eastern Boulevard in Middle River, not far from the eponymous body of water. I wondered what kind of welcome would be awaiting me. Baker was a toady; if he were on Eddie Ferrugia’s payroll, he’d call the boss and give him a heads-up. This meant I
couldn’t go alone.

  I’d recently asked Rich for a favor and didn’t want to impose. The place was in the county, but I couldn’t ask Gonzalez. His by-the-bookness rivaled Rich’s, and I didn’t know him well enough to ask him to go in off the clock. Lacking a better option for backup, I called Rollins. “You need me again so soon?” he said. As usual, he answered the phone before the second ring no matter the time.

  “I can’t think of anyone better to go with me to a sports bar.”

  He chuckled. “I actually like basketball. We watching the game?”

  “More or less,” I said. “I’m going to talk to the man behind the scheme. He may be aware I’m coming, so I don’t know what it’s going to look like in there.”

  “So I’m playing bodyguard again.”

  “For a couple hours. You can eat and drink on my tab.”

  “You’re lucky I like you,” Rollins said, and he was right. “Where are we going?” I told him the where and when. “See you at thirteen hundred tomorrow.” He hung up.

  When I put my phone down, I realized how hungry I was. I cooked a chicken breast on the stove, pairing it with broccoli and a pouch of microwaved rice. In line with its status as haute cuisine, I ate it on the couch while watching Netflix. After I finished eating, my phone buzzed. Gloria texted from her tennis tournament. Who knew West Virginia could be so nice?

  I replied. Probably in for the night. I can talk.

  She called a moment later. After we exchanged pleasantries, she said, “Slow night on the case?”

  “It’s been a busy day,” I said, filling her in on what I’d done and what lay ahead tomorrow. “It finally feels like I’m making some progress.”

  “That’s great.”

  “How’s your tournament?”

  “Today was just practice. Matches start tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll do great. I wish I could come and see you play.”

  “My coach is going to take video.”

  “I’ll watch it with you. Let me know how you do tomorrow.”