Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Jack. ‘We’re heading over to the Yank players’ apartment now. Interrogating them could take a couple of hours. Can you get Wilson, Smith and whoever else is twiddling their thumbs on the phones? Here are the printouts.’ Jack handed Batista a manila folder, tapped a nail on the front cover. ‘That’ll save me and Claudia time.’

  ‘You got it.’ Batista nodded.

  ‘I’ve half a mind to ring Gomez and tell him Welsh is a dirty rat,’ said Jack. ‘It’d serve the Ginger Nut right to get booted from the team.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ Batista’s hand nearly knocked over his mug of tea. ‘They need Welsh if they’re gonna have any chance of winning the title. You can’t go stirring up trouble at this stage of the competition, Lisbon.’

  ‘C’mon, sir. Surely justice is more important than the result of a basketball competition.’

  ‘Well…ah…yes…of course. If Welsh is guilty of anything, arrest him. If not, no need to rock the boat.’ Batista’s voice dropped to a half-whisper. ‘I’ve got $200 riding on the Scorpions becoming the next champions.’

  ‘Ha ha! Is that right? You’re a sly one, Inspector.’ Jack himself had contacted a bookie and placed $100 on the Yorkville lads taking the trophy or whatever trinket the winners got. Upsetting the rhythm of the team on the home stretch with the finish line in sight was the last thing he’d do. ‘If that’s the case, I’ll keep schtum for now.’

  Batista smiled. ‘The odds were too good to pass up. Now, go and see what you can shake out of the Americans. I’m liking Costa for this murder.’

  ‘Seriously? Even after what Parata told us about the secret payment?’

  ‘What secret payment?’

  ‘Jesus, did I forget to tell you about that?’

  ‘Yes. What the hell are you talking about?’

  You’re forgetting important things too easily. No more benders, Lisbon. ‘The Lakers paid Costa three million to lock him into the contract.’

  Batista’s brows furrowed. ‘How much?’

  ‘A cool three million, sir,’ said Taylor.

  ‘Where on Earth did you hear that from? Gomez?’

  ‘Parata admitted it. It seems some other franchises have also expressed interest. Costa’s a hot commodity.’

  The Inspector ran a hand across his cheek then gave a low whistle. ‘That certainly takes the financial motive away from him. Dammit, we’ve got nothing. The phones have been quiet at the station, too. No public tip-offs. Not even from loonies like you’d expect. And have you seen the press?’ Batista spun around a copy of the Yorkville Times so Jack and Taylor could see the headline. No Progress in Brazen Collins Killing. Underneath was a photo of the car wreck with forensics in blue boiler suits creeping around like aliens.

  ‘Brazen, huh? Not encouraging, I agree,’ said Taylor.

  ‘We do have something, sir.’ Jack’s cheeks puffed from the effort of trying to look hopeful.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘A town full of people who loved the coach and want the culprits brought to justice.’

  ‘With no evidence to hand and no one coming forward, I’m afraid all that goodwill’s as useful as a chocolate teapot at this point.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ said Taylor ‘Once the reward gets posted, I’m sure lots of people will “suddenly remember” they saw Collins having an argument with someone who threatened to kill him.’

  ‘There can be no reward!’ Batista boomed. He peered sternly at the detectives over the top of his glasses. ‘It’s close to the end of your shifts. The budget only provides so much for overtime and this month’s allocation’s nearly spent. If you’re going to interview the Americans, get a move on.’

  ‘Sir.’ A two-part harmony reply.

  Guns holstered. Jackets on. Door closed. Gone.

  Chapter 16

  The front door opened to a beatific welcome. Jack attempted a return smile with equal bonhomie. I must look like a right pillock. Taylor’s ebullient grin, by contrast, appeared genuine.

  ‘Good evening, officers.’ A hand the size of a loaf of bread reached out slowly, swallowed Jack’s busted-knuckled paw, then Taylor’s more delicate hand. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’ Jim Rosen, wearing light cotton pants and a No. 23 Chicago Bulls singlet, spoke with drowsy diphthongs that hung in the air like thought bubbles. Jack was all over the regional accents of Great Britain. He could narrow a person’s origins down to a small town sometimes. As far as Americans went, though, he was all at sea. Texas or New York, it all sounded the same to him. Didn’t matter, the files from Roderick Parata had all that info and more. This player was a 6’3” shooting guard from LaFayette, Kentucky. A relative “shorty”. Jack had read the average position in the NBL was 6’7”. He wondered if there was any other sport so discriminatory when it came to height. Then he remembered horseracing and jockeys.

  The entrance led into an open-plan living area. Utilitarian furniture comprised sprawling couches and bean bags suitable for the long-limbed athletes. On the wall, one of the biggest screens Jack had seen outside a cinema. The casual dishevelment of the apartment reminded Jack the occupants weren’t long out of their adolescent years. Which equated to zero care factor when it came to neatness. Their minds were fixated on the next game, their blossoming careers, not their living environment. Clothes were strewn across furniture, cables and consoles from computer games littered the tiled floor, men’s health and sports magazines tossed to land wherever they may. On a coffee table, an assortment of multi-coloured plastic drink bottles bore around their rims the dried-up detritus of health shakes.

  ‘This place looks like a tornado hit it,’ Taylor whispered as they followed the man who’d let them in towards the kitchen.

  Jack nodded. ‘Let’s hope they can give us something useful.’

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ said Rosen.

  ‘Where are your housemates? We ain’t got all night to chase people up. We’re supposed to be having a group confab.’

  ‘A what?’ He cocked an eye in bewilderment. ‘Ain’t never hear that word before.’

  ‘A chat.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Take a seat officers. I’ll go rouse up the guys.’

  The air-conditioning struggled to make any impact on the apartment’s comfort level. Indoors it was almost as cloying as the humid summer heat outside. The sleek, modern apartment stretched long and wide, maybe twice the floor space of Jack’s pad, meaning the cooling unit had to work overtime to cover the whole area. And it was failing.

  The sound of baritone laughter rang out as the three amigos emerged from the hallway. Daryl Bilson appeared first, clad in nothing but a towel around the waist, just beneath a set of rippling abs straight out of an underwear commercial. According to the file, Bilson hailed from Windsor, Canada, wedged up against the US border. He’d attended Hillsdale College, two hours away in Michigan. At seven feet he was the tallest Scorpion. Big Bil was his unoriginal nickname. Jack had caught a glimpse of Bilson wandering about nude in the team’s change room. The epithet could just as likely be due to the man’s penis which was the size of a ferret. Please don’t drop the towel in front of Taylor. Costa was dressed formally by comparison – a pair of nylon shorts that hung to below his knees, but shirtless. His ribcage resembled a xylophone. Jack imagined the lads had conspired to put on this show of flesh to titillate Taylor. A quick glance to his left suggested they’d succeeded. She was goggle-eyed and flushed in the face.

  After brief re-introductions, the five took their place around a circular dining table. Jack wasn’t going to waste time with niceties. ‘All right fellas. Let’s get down to business. I understand you’re on the road again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re flying across to Darwin.’ Costa fiddled with a leather strap around his wrist. ‘It’s our first play-off match. We’re as nervous as hell about it. Let’s get this finished quickly so we can concentrate on playing basketball ‘stead of worrying about if we’re suspects in your eyes.’<
br />
  ‘Understood. I already asked this when all the players were together and no one said a word. I’ll repeat the question. Where were each of you around 10:15am last Wednesday morning?’

  ‘Was that when Dale got hit?’ said Bilson.

  ‘Give or take a minute,’ said Taylor. ‘It’s not a hundred years ago, so you don’t have to rack your brains trying to remember.’

  ‘Simple.’ Costa again. ‘We were here, about to get in my car and head over to the stadium. Regular training was scheduled for 11:00am.’ The other two players nodded.

  ‘Any way of verifying that?’ said Jack.

  ‘Sure. We all say so.’ Bilson folded his arms across his chest. ‘You sayin’ we’re lying?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Jack. ‘It’s one of those obligatory follow-up questions.’ Taylor showed Jack her opened notebook. ‘OK, seems you did have a session planned for that time. If we have to, we can confiscate your mobiles and track your movements that way. Anyone want to change their minds about this version?’

  Silence.

  ‘OK, for what it’s worth, I believe you’re telling the truth. Now I’m going to ask something a bit left-field. Was Dale Collins having an affair with Helen Sarsby.’ Jack switched his gaze from one player to the next.

  ‘Who’s Helen Sarsby?’ said Bilson with genuine surprise.

  ‘Wife of Steve Sarsby,’ Jack replied. ‘He played with the Scorpions until two seasons ago, got cut from the team.’

  ‘Before my time.’ Bilson shook his head, then offered a memory-triggered nod. ‘Now I think of it, I have heard the name.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Costa. ‘I never met Steve Sarsby, but Collins would bring up his name if he thought we were slacking off. He said Sarsby’s bad-ass attitude to training made up for his lack of talent as a player. It was like, if he can get to the top through hard work, you guys can achieve anything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ confirmed Rosen. ‘I was here when Steve played. He trained the house down every damn session. He was a solid defensive guard.’

  ‘You’ve been in the team the longest of the three of you, Jim,’ said Taylor. ‘Why do you think someone’s given us information that your coach was sleeping with Sarsby’s wife?’

  ‘Lemme guess.’ Rosen’s eyes lit up. ‘Martin Welsh, right?’

  ‘Why do you think it was him?’ Jack leaned forward. This was getting interesting.

  ‘Everyone knew Welshy’s wife Cheryl was totally obsessed with Steve.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  ‘Because Welshy was always telling us about it. Behind Steve’s back, of course. Welshy enjoys moaning about his miserable marriage. He’s what they call a drama queen, know what I mean? We all knew his accusations about the coach were bullshit. Collins was a straight-up family man. Only two things were important to him. Basketball, and his wife and kid.’

  Jack noticed sweat leaking in his armpits, dampness in the back of his trousers at the top of the thighs. Additionally, the symptoms of the monster hangover lingered even this long after the binge. They were on the verge of a breakthrough, but what was the point if he passed out? ‘Could someone turn up that damn aircon? It’s stifling in here. I’d sit here half-naked like you young lads, only it’d be unprofessional with a lady present, innit?’ The low bass of headache-inducing rap rumbled somewhere down the hallway. ‘And turn off that shite music, will ya? It’s giving me a frigging migraine.’

  Costa leapt to his feet, turned the air-con fan up to maximum. He disappeared for a moment, killed the music and returned wearing a loose t-shirt. He flung another one at Bilson. ‘Here, put this on.’ He resumed his seat, looked at Jack imploringly. ‘Before we start, do you mind if I make a quick phone call? I always ring my mom States-side if I’m free around this time of the day.’

  ‘Yes I mind,’ Jack grumbled. ‘Who said you were free? We’re on a tight schedule. I’ve got some questions for you in particular. Your mother’ll have to wait.’ Costa frowned as Jack turned to Rosen. ‘Getting back to Steve…’

  ‘Yeah.’ The man took a deep breath. ‘He wasn’t dropped from the team for playing badly. He was in top form when he got cut. Apart from his last game, which was a shocker. Up till then, though, he was second in the league in defensive steals, third top scorer in our team.’

  ‘Then why?’ said Taylor. ‘Disciplinary measures?’

  Rosen chuckled. ‘In a round-about way, yeah, you could say that.’

  What Rosen revealed led to an instant priority shift. The three lads would have to be questioned in more detail later. Or perhaps not at all. They had accounted for their whereabouts and no motive was apparent. Three minutes later, Jack and Taylor were wending their way through Yorkville’s sparse Monday evening traffic.

  Chapter 17

  ‘There’s another car there, look.’ Taylor gripped the grab handle above the passenger door as Jack tore up the concrete driveway. An orange Subaru WRX sat neatly behind Fil Collins’s sapphire BMW sedan. Despite the parking area being the size of a tennis court, there was barely a centimetre between the vehicles. Like the cars were spooning, Jack thought. Cosy. Lights shone dimly inside the house, all windows shielded by drawn blinds, and brightly on the porch.

  ‘Ten to one it’s lover boy Steve Sarsby’s car. The sneaky son-of-a…’

  Rip on the handbrake. March up the path. Press hard the doorbell. And again for good measure.

  A thirty-second wait. No answer.

  ‘I guess neither of them want to talk. What do we do?’ said Taylor.

  Jack pressed on the buzzer, held for ten seconds. ‘I’m going to do this until she lets us in.’

  ‘That’s not very–’

  The door flew open. ‘What the hell do you want?’ Fil Collins eyes glowered with hate. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘My colleague here thinks you lied to her. We know you’re hiding something from us. What is it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Hands on hips, an angry pout. ‘I never lied to you about anything!’

  ‘You said you didn’t drink alcohol,’ Taylor arced up. ‘I found a glass in your sink with whisky and ice in it. The ice cubes would have melted away had it been someone else’s drink.’

  Steve Sarsby’s chiselled jaw appeared over the top of Fil’s head. ‘It was my Scotch.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yeah, we thought that may be the case. Now, let us in or we’ll come back with a search warrant.’

  The glamorous woman in a white blouse who sat on the leather recliner with her lithesome legs crossed was new to Jack. Not to Taylor though, judging by the Detective Constable’s knowing grin.

  ‘Good evening, Helen,’ said Taylor.

  A curt head-dip from Mrs Sarsby. ‘Hello. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.’

  What the hell’s going on here? Jack scratched his head. This saga was getting weirder by the minute.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Fil Collins gestured to a sofa. The two cops flopped into it, sinking into its ultra-soft cushions. In contrast to the Americans’ digs, the Collins residence was oasis cool. Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

  Standing beside a bookcase, Mrs Collins brushed a speck of fluff from the sleeve of her cotton blouse before announcing: ‘I can see I’m going to have to come clean. Anything to get you to leave us alone and concentrate on what you’re meant to be doing.’

  ‘What we are meant to be doing, as you put it so well, Ms Collins, is find out who killed your husband and prosecute the bastards,’ said Jack. ‘Until you can convince us otherwise, you’re all on our list of people with potential motive.’

  Fil tossed her hair from side to side. Tiny tears welled in the corners of her eyes. ‘None of us have any motive, nothing to gain by Dale’s death.’

  Steve Sarsby sat alone on a couch opposite the cops, his expression said he couldn’t wait for the nosy police to get out of their lives. Hassled by the cops at work, now on his private time.

  ‘What happened here last Friday evening before we call
ed in on you, Fil?’ said Taylor.

  ‘Let me answer, please.’ Steve Sarsby leaned forward, nostrils slightly flared. ‘We…I mean Fil and I…discussed telling you everything straight up. In the end we decided against it.’

  ‘Why?’ said Taylor. ‘You could have spared yourselves a second visit. Everything comes out eventually.’

  ‘We wanted to protect Tameka.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Bad publicity. We didn’t want Tameka’s schoolmates ragging on her about her dad.’

  ‘Her dad? He did nothing!’ Jack sensed talk was heading in the direction of obfuscation. ‘You wanted to protect yourselves, more like it.’

  Steve Sarsby retreated into the sofa, chastened. ‘Whatever, she doesn’t deserve to hear horrible things said about either of her parents, correct?’

  Jack and Taylor nodded. Fair call.

  ‘As Steve said already, the glass of Scotch you saw in the sink was his.’ Fil Collins clipped tone indicated she was keen to get the cops out of her house. ‘He’d come over for a brief visit to offer his condolences, which I greatly appreciated. And then he left. Nothing…inappropriate…happened.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’ Jack scoffed.

  ‘Who are you to decide what’s appropriate and what isn’t?’ Fil flared. ‘But as it happened, Steve and I only…sinned…the one time. It’s something we deeply regret.’

  ‘You must have known someone at the club would come forward with this,’ said Taylor. ‘The players aren’t stupid. Steve was at the top of his game. Everyone at the Scorpions knew he must’ve done something really bad to get the chop when he did.’

  ‘You can’t blame Dale, can you?’ said Steve, a touch too earnestly. ‘Can you imagine a similar situation, Detective Sergeant Lisbon? Working with a bloke who shagged your missus?’

  ‘I guess not,’ Jack agreed.