I hit the gas and pulled a wide U-turn as I clipped my belt. I couldn’t head straight to the end of the mall—Kressic had a decent lead on me, so he’d be through before I got there—so I headed for the only cutoff point I thought I could make. The exit onto the road.
The trouble with mall parking lots is that they are designed by the same sadists who design the actual malls. Nothing is a straight line, and shoppers are forced to go in circles and around obstacles to get wherever they want to go. Inside the mall, there was at least a logic to it. The obstacles and roundabout routes were designed to make you pass more products, in the hopes that you would buy more crap you didn’t need. It was annoying as all hell, but it worked. But in the lot there was no such logic. There was nothing for sale out there, so it only served to ensure that shoppers reached the freeway in the most frustrated mood possible.
I drove like a rally driver, around and in and out, tires squealing, shocks groaning, the SUV leaning in a manner that suggested I might end up on my head at any moment. Then I saw Kressic. He zoomed from behind the far end of the mall, and out into the parking lot. He was weaving almost as crazily as I was, but his car was low and sporty and designed for it. Mine was designed to hold groceries and Labradors, and it became obvious within seconds that I wasn’t going to head him off at the pass.
A wiser man might have called for backup. He might have dropped the chase and figured that the cops knew where Kressic lived and where he worked and could pick him up later. But I hadn’t won baseball games by being wise. I won baseball games by living on the edge of the strike box, hanging out on the periphery of home plate. It was true that I also lost baseball games by pitching the edges, but now was not the time for that kind of pessimism.
So I yanked hard on the wheel and did a bit of quick tradesman’s geometry and lined up my SUV and figured I’d see whether the ride height was worth a damn.
I sped into the first parking area and headed for the second, knowing that the two were separated by concrete gutters and median strips. I hit the first gutter, and the SUV launched with a crunch up into the air, and then the rear tires hit and the rear was flung up into the air as the front set came back down.
The Cadillac bounced like a child’s toy across the lot and into the next gutter, where I was launched all over again, my head bash-bash-bashing against the headrest, my teeth gritted so I didn’t accidentally bite off my tongue. I hit the lot furthest from the mall, the one only the very lean and fit people use—that is to say, the empty one—and saw Kressic skid onto the street and turn south in my general direction.
I hit the gas harder, and the engine groaned and the gutter and the hedgerows that separated the lot from the sidewalk and the street got closer and closer.
When I hit the gutter I was sure that I had launched right over the top of the hedges, like something from The Streets of San Francisco, and I was flying right over the sidewalk toward the road. Except that the gut-wrenching noise that sounded like a hundred chainsaws was my car tearing right through the middle of the hedge at speed.
I bounced out of the hedge and out onto the sidewalk, and I jumped onto the brakes to come to a skidding stop right across three lanes, only one of which, fortunately, held any actual traffic.
Kressic’s BMW T-boned my SUV at considerable speed. I was thankful that no one was in the passenger seat, because otherwise they would have been dead. There was a sickening crunch of metal, more than I thought there would be, given it seemed like cars these days were all plastic, and then an explosion of white enveloped my space as the airbags punched me back into my seat.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there. The bag didn’t seem to deflate without a lot of effort, so I imagined it wasn’t that long, but I thrashed at the damned thing so I could get some oxygen back into my lungs, and then I tore at the door until I hit the latch and it opened, and I fell out onto the blacktop.
My ears were ringing, but other than that I seemed to be mostly functional. I staggered around the back of my car. It was in bad shape. Kressic’s BMW was worse. The nose of his car was wedged about halfway into the backseat of mine. His hood was crumpled like a wavy chip. I tugged at his door, and it didn’t cooperate, so I braced my foot against the rear door and pulled hard and wrenched it open. His face was buried deep in his airbag, and I pulled him away to see that he looked like he had head-butted a wall, and I noted that in his haste, he hadn’t bothered to buckle his seatbelt. His face had paid the price.
I pulled him out and leaned him against the mangled hedge. Tania and Jemma were running across the lot faster than anyone else, and then Ronzoni rolled around in his Taurus. He put on his lights and drew up behind Kressic’s car.
The paramedics returned within minutes. They weren’t as amazed at seeing the same faces again so soon as I thought they might be, and I wondered how often this kind of carrying on happened in Palm Beach Gardens. They asked me a bunch of questions about the date and the president and who the winning pitcher was when the Marlins won the World Series in 2004. They pronounced me okay when I told them the Marlins hadn’t been in the World Series in 2004—that being the year the Red Sox broke the Curse of the Bambino—and the winning pitcher in game four had been Derek Lowe.
Kressic, on the other hand, was wheeled away. I silently hoped that he would be put in the same room as Draymond Bryson. Tania and Jemma and Camille all told me that I was a maniac, and Ronzoni suggested that my insurance premiums were once again likely to skyrocket.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Ronzoni. “I get that the chunk of concrete in Camille’s windshield never felt like the same MO, but what about the locker? That was a threat against Camille. Why would he threaten Camille if he knew Draymond was the soft spot? And how would he do that anyway? A white guy in a fancy suit kind of sticks out at the Boys and Girls Club.”
“I didn’t get it, either,” I said. “Until I remembered that we learned about the locker second, but it actually happened first. I think Kressic started there and escalated. Like, he figured the threat against Camille wasn’t enough, so the next ones were against Draymond, and then he escalated again today. I should have seen that coming.”
“How did he do it, though?”
“Grab his keys,” I said.
Ronzoni went over to Kressic’s bent car and took the keys from where they sat in the console.
“Tania, did you bring your lock from the club like I asked?”
Tania pulled the lock from her pocket.
“Try it.”
Ronzoni flicked through Kressic’s keys until he found a small padlock-sized one. He slid it in, turned it and watched the lock pop open.
“Kressic had a key to the lock?”
“Of course,” I said. “Camille told me that he had bought Tania the lock to keep her stuff safe from gold diggers. Most locks come with two keys. And Tania is often at the club before anyone else gets there. So her agent could be, too, and he could easily slip into the locker room while she was running her drills. That’s what he did with the letter.”
“I found that, though,” said Camille.
“I know, but you weren’t supposed to. You said you left the gym for a lunch and were then supposed to go to Miami for a meeting. And you said Tania couldn’t have snuck out and placed the letter because her agent was at the club and would have seen her go, but the opposite isn’t true. He could sneak out while she was training because when she’s on the court she’s just focused on her game, on her practice. He slipped out, dropped the note at your house, and returned while she was still on the court.”
“But he’d be on the list at the gatehouse.”
“A guy in a fancy BMW can talk his way into a gated community, especially a guy and a BMW that’s known to the guard.”
“I knew that guard was racist,” said Camille.
“Maybe, Camille, maybe not. Let’s just say he’s not as vigilant as you might hope.”
“I can’t believe you thought I set the whole thing up mys
elf,” said Tania.
I shrugged. “Sorry about that. I go where the wind blows me, and I got confounded by what I learned about you being homesick and coming back every weekend during college.”
“She grew out of that,” said Camille.
I looked at Tania and then at Jemma. “She did. But she found something else.”
“What?” asked Camille.
“It’s complicated,” I said, and I offered Tania and Jemma a wink.
“What are you talking about?” asked Camille.
“I’ll tell you later, Mom. Right now, I think we need to go to the hospital and check on Dad.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I sat in the warm spring sunshine thinking about hospital lighting. It was so industrial and it made already unwell people look even worse. I wondered why more hospitals didn’t have courtyards like Longboard Kelly’s. I mean, I get that they wouldn’t have beer, although I’m sure there were medicinal qualities in a quiet tipple, but sitting in the sunshine on a barstool at Longboard’s did for my health and my complexion what no drug or doctor ever could.
Muriel placed a tonic and lime before me, and Ron smiled at my piety.
“Is this your secretary’s doing?” she asked.
“Lizzy is the office manager, I’ll have you know, and no, this one’s on me. I have things to do today.”
“It’s very grown-up.”
“I think he hit his head when he smashed the Cadillac,” said Ron.
“Speaking of which?” I asked.
“My insurance guy says he won’t jack your rates if we trade a bit of pro bono work.”
“What do you think?”
“I already said yes. It’s the best deal in town. The car’s a write-off, by the way.”
I shrugged. “C’est la vie.”
I sipped my tonic, which truly was growth for me, Ron sipped his beer, and Mick came out and opened the umbrellas on the tables. We were watching Mick work when Detective Ronzoni walked in from the rear parking lot. He was dressed for success in his Sears suit and a tie with a lot of little question marks all over it. I couldn’t figure whether the tie was a literal statement or a hint of whimsy.
“Jones, Ron,” he said to us. “Ma’am,” he said to Muriel.
“Would you like something, detective?” she asked.
“Perhaps some water.”
Muriel poured him water from her post-mix gun and handed it over.
“How’s Kressic?” I asked.
“He’s fine. His lawyers are threatening to sue for the damage to his face and his car.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I’m not,” said Ronzoni. “Those guys always get away with it. At least a busted nose is something. And the car isn’t his.”
“No?”
“Turns out it’s a company car. Leased by Bannerman Associates, and they appear quite happy to make the whole thing go away.”
“Good.”
“Tania could sue for what that agent put her through,” said Ron.
“She could,” I said. “But I think there’s a better outcome available.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s ask her.” I nodded toward the parking lot, and Ron and the detective turned to see Tania and Jemma walking in.
“All the beach bars in Florida and this is where your secretary says you hang out,” said Tania.
“She’s an office manager, and we like it here.”
“There’s no view.”
“Exactly, so no tourists. Can we get you a drink?”
“We can’t stay.”
“No?”
“No. We’re meeting one of the owners of the Atlanta Dream.”
“Your WNBA team?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She glanced at Jemma.
“We did what you told us,” said Jemma. “We told them about our situation, and they said they might have a coaching internship for me.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I’ve enjoyed the coaching I’ve been able to do at UM, and it’s mostly during summer vacation, so it won’t interfere with school.”
“And then?” I asked. “You’ll be back to Miami, and you, Tania?”
“I’m not going to China, or anywhere else this year. But after the season, I’ll come back to Miami, to be with Jem.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll see. But we’ll see together. Even if we spend time apart.”
“Glad to hear it. Did Cashman call you?”
“He did. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Don’t sweat it. He owed me one, and more importantly, he owed you one. Bannerman’s really let you down.”
“He said that, too. But he’s taken me on, personally.”
“So he should. You could sue them to kingdom come.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“No, I don’t. Cashman can open a lot of doors, and like I say, they owe you. If it were me, I’d play nice and make them earn their penance.”
“Well, he is. He’s already got a deal with Nike lined up. And he says there might be a team in Italy where Jem can do a semester abroad with her grad studies next year.”
“Nice.”
“The Nike thing will allow us to get an apartment in Miami,” she said, smiling at Jemma.
I said, “If you need a good realtor, I know Penny Morgan.”
“You do? The MVP Penny Morgan?” asked Jemma.
“The same.”
“She was my hero.”
“I’ll put you in touch. She’ll help you find somewhere good.” I thought about my own studio apartment, and grimaced at the idea.
“Thanks.”
“Can I ask you something, Miami?” Jemma frowned. “Why did Mr. Kressic do this to Tania?”
I sighed. “Because he cut corners. He didn’t do the work. He wasn’t that different from L’nita or your cousins. He thought being an agent would just be signing bonuses and late-night parties. It’s a dog-eat-dog environment, don’t get me wrong, and he wasn’t cut out for it. But from his little bolthole, he was able to glimpse the glamor at the top. Kind of like you, Tania.”
“Me?”
“You’ve been a top college recruit, a top player, a number one draft pick. Many people in your position have made the mistake of thinking they’ve already made it. Kressic did. But not you. You get that it’s not about the prize—it’s about the process. If you love the process, you’ll work hard and the rest will come. Kressic was focused on the outcome—the China deal, the bigger office—but not the process. He wasn’t focused on you, or any other athlete. John Cashman told me as much. An agent should be ready to take a bullet for their client, at least figuratively. Kressic never got that, so by the time you came around, he was under pressure. There are too many people like him who want to be agents, and too few really good clients. Bannerman’s had put the pressure on. Kressic needed to show he was capable of creating a big deal. And getting a China deal, and with it some international endorsements, might have impressed the higher-ups at Bannerman Associates that he was their guy. He went about it in a very misguided way. Desperation does that.”
“It’s kind of sad,” said Tania.
“It is,” I said. “But some good came of it, yes?” I smiled at the two of them.
“Yes,” they both said.
“We can’t thank you enough,” Tania said.
“Just doing my job.”
“Well, thanks, and you too, detective. For everything you’ve done for me and my dad. We owe you everything.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Ronzoni. “Go make the Palm Beaches proud.”
They each hugged us and then said their goodbyes. We watched them leave and then turned back to the bar.
Ronzoni frowned. “Did I miss something?”
“Usually,” I said.
“The two of them?”
“Problem?”
“Not for me. But about you just doing your job?”
“Yeah?”
<
br /> “What’s your bill going to look like?”
“I told you, Lizzy takes care of all that.”
“It’s just that I’d like to know what I owe, so I can budget for it.”
I could see Ronzoni was one of those guys who probably still manually balanced his checkbook every month. I took out my phone and called the office.
“Lizzy, could you please email Detective Ronzoni a copy of his bill for his records?”
“Right now?” she asked.
“Yes, right now, if you have the time.”
“Okay. By the way, there was a girl here a while ago. She said it was urgent but didn’t want to leave a name. Said you knew her, though. I said you might be at the bar.”
“Thanks, Lizzy. Let’s hope she’s not a stalker.”
I ended the call and sipped my tonic. Ronzoni’s phone dinged.
He looked at the screen and then frowned.
“This isn’t right,” he said.
“I’m sure it’s right.”
“No, it says it’s paid in full and the balance is zero.”
“I told you, Lizzy looks after these things.”
“I didn’t pay her anything.”
“That’s because she didn’t charge you anything.”
Ronzoni sipped his water and pointed the glass at me.
“Look, Jones, I hired you, fair and square. You can’t use this to get a hold over me, so I always owe you one.”
“Read the email, detective. There’s no hold over you. It’s there in black and white. Paid in full.”
He looked at the screen again and then at me. “I don’t understand.”
“Look, Ronzoni, I don’t get you, and as often as not, you’re a pain in my backside, but I’ve spent the past few days seeing how much you help a lot of people around here that you have no reason to help other than, as hard as it is to believe, it seems that you’re actually a good guy. So take it like this: Your debt to me was paid to them, in advance. So we’re square.”
Half Court Press Page 25
