Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 01/01/11

by Dell Magazines

  And whoever said I couldn’t do the easy thing?

  “Your problem,” Jeff Mahoney said, “is that you don’t speak Spanish.” He threw a softball to me, and I, on cue, dropped it. Luckily, we were outside in my backyard (which isn’t so much a yard as a patio with a press agent), so I didn’t break anything.

  “Yup,” I answered, tossing the ball back, a little wide of Mahoney, but close enough that he could catch it barehanded without lunging. “That’s always been my problem.”

  Mahoney is my closest friend, and has been since high school. Despite advanced degrees in marine biology and economics, he has chosen to devote his life to repairing cars for a rental company. That, he says, is a challenge.

  It’s not the only time we see each other, but when one of us has a perplexing problem, we throw a ball around and hash it out.

  “If you spoke Spanish,” Mahoney explained, “you could talk to the outfielder, who clearly knows more about what happened to Ramon Escobar than his little infielder friend wants to tell you.”

  “You should see this ‘little infielder.’ He’s eight inches taller than me.”

  “Who isn’t?” Mahoney asked as he tossed the softball back. Mahoney is well over six feet tall, and doesn’t mind reminding me of that.

  “Nonetheless, if he doesn’t want me to know what his friend is saying, I really can’t insist very well. Besides, the editor doesn’t want a story about how Escobar died. He wants a story about how sad it is that Escobar died, and what his ERA might have been if he’d made it to the majors.”

  “That’s one editor,” Mahoney said, reaching up effortlessly for a high toss that would have ended up going through my storm door if he hadn’t. “Don’t you always say the best part of being a freelance writer is that you can sell a story to anybody?”

  “I don’t even know if there is a story yet,” I said. “The kid might have died from being under all those other kids.”

  “That’s not what the coroner told you,” Mahoney reminded me. I put up my glove, and his throw just fell into it. That’s Mahoney. “He said there were air bubbles in Escobar’s lungs. What does that mean?”

  “How do I know? Who died and left me Trapper John, M.D.?”

  Mahoney raised an eyebrow, something he’d learned to do by watching Star Trek reruns religiously when we were kids. And his expression said it all. He didn’t even seem bothered by the fact that my throw was four feet wide of the target, and he actually had to lunge to catch it.

  “Okay,” I said to his eyebrow. “So I could find out. I know some doctors. But who made it my responsibility to solve Ramon Escobar’s murder, if it was a murder?”

  The eyebrow stayed raised.

  “Fine,” I told it. “Nobody else is reporting on it, and I have a couple of questions. I’ll ask them, but as you so accurately pointed out, I don’t speak Spanish, and there’s a man considerably more in shape than I am who seems to want me to stay out of the conversation.”

  Mahoney reached down for my throw and picked it up on one hop. “I might be able to arrange being near the ballpark tomorrow, if you want me to,” he suggested.

  “And what good will that do, besides my not having to worry about a middle infielder turning me into guava jelly?”

  I’m not sure exactly what Mahoney said after that.

  It was in Spanish.

  ***.

  And so it was that the next morning Mahoney’s enormous work van, stocked to the brim with tools, oil, and other things people of my heritage don’t understand, was parked in the lot outside Kilowatt Park. He and I staked out the area in my Saturn, which was only three years old at the time, and had only one scratch I knew about. Things have changed since.

  “You don’t have a call you’re supposed to be on?” I asked him. Mahoney is constantly on call from the rental company—if one of their cars breaks down on the highway, the renter simply calls the company and a replacement car is on its way in minutes. Then Mahoney shows up to do a quick repair or, much less frequently, tow the busted vehicle back to the shop for a more serious going-over.

  “Everything’s quiet for a while,” he said. “Summer’s over, and the holidays haven’t started yet. Not that much renting going on.”

  “Some people have it dead easy,” I said.

  “While others toil away with the grueling commute from the bedroom to the dining room,” he countered. Touché.

  Luckily, the witty banter didn’t have a chance to go on. A limousine (black, naturally) followed by another and then a line of cars ranging from Lexuses to battered Pontiacs came streaming into the lot. They stopped near the entrance to the park’s offices.

  “People always show up like this when you’re interviewing?”

  “Yeah. I usually wear a tuxedo, but it’s casual Thursday.” I watched as Dave Crenshaw got out of the limo, wearing the exact black suit you’d expect from a team owner. “They must have just gotten back from Escobar’s funeral.”

  “More likely a memorial service,” Mahoney said. “I’ll bet he was buried back at home, either the Dominican or Puerto Rico.”

  He’s annoyingly right almost all the time.

  We got out of the car and walked toward Crenshaw as the other cars emptied, with Paterson, a few older men in suits who clearly were executives or coaches, and a group of players gathered in clusters around the lot. I nodded on the way toward Montenegro and Cortez, so Mahoney would know which ones I’d spoken to before. They were standing with two other players, Montenegro wearing that patented “sad” face and Cortez looking dreadfully serious.

  From the look of it, Montenegro was doing the bulk of the talking.

  I approached Crenshaw, and he shook his head when he saw me coming. “We just got back from a memorial, Tucker,” he said. “Couldn’t you find a better time?”

  “I’ve got a deadline,” I explained, although I didn’t mention that I had no idea which publication I’d be sending anything I’d write. Sometimes it’s best to leave out details the layman wouldn’t necessarily understand. “Besides, I didn’t know you were all going to a service this morning.”

  Mahoney drifted over toward Montenegro and Cortez’s group. In his green rental company jumpsuit, anyone else would have looked laughably out of place. Mahoney’s bearing and his absolute inability to be embarrassed made him look completely natural. He listened to the group’s conversation for a moment, then said something that obviously got Cortez’s attention.

  “Let’s make it quick, Tucker. What do you need?” Crenshaw wasn’t looking in Mahoney’s direction, which was helpful.

  “Can you tell me why there’d be air bubbles in Escobar’s lungs?” I asked.

  Crenshaw stared at me a moment, then shook his head. “What am I, a doctor?” he said. “I’d think there’d be no air in his lungs, the way he died. What else?”

  “Who paid for the funeral?”

  “The Kilowatts sent the body back to the Dominican Republic after Ramon’s mother claimed it. She was pretty shook up. They don’t have a lot of money, so of course the club paid the interment expenses.” Crenshaw puffed up his chest a little to show off what a great guy he was, and by extension what a fine organization the Edison Kilowatts was.

  Time to try and catch him off guard, while he’s feeling so good about himself. “What do you think the words clear and cream mean, when you put them together?” I asked.

  Crenshaw was a professional, so he tried not to look like he’d been blindsided, but his eyes widened just a bit. Unfortunately, that was also the moment that Mel Paterson appeared at his shoulder, and pointed toward Cortez’s coterie.

  “Who’s that talking to Ricardo?” Paterson asked.

  By now, Mahoney was deep in conversation with Cortez, with Montenegro and the other two players, perhaps wanting to distance themselves, about twenty feet away, leaning on the second limousine. Paterson headed toward Mahoney and Cortez.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  I walked toward them, Crenshaw behind me, trying to te
ll the reporter that it wasn’t necessary to become involved. I ignored him, which made me feel good. By the time I got to Mahoney, he was holding up his palms in a conciliatory gesture.

  “What’s going on? Who are you?” Paterson insisted. He turned toward me. “Do you know this man?”

  Over his shoulder, I could see Mahoney lift that eyebrow again.

  “Never saw him before,” I said, hoping nobody had noticed us both getting out of the van at the same time.

  Paterson turned back to Mahoney. “What are you doing here? Why are you bothering our players?”

  Mahoney looked blank.

  “Who are you?” Paterson demanded.

  Mahoney answered him back in great detail, but neither Paterson, Crenshaw (or for that matter, I) could make out his reply.

  It was in fluent, unaccented French.

  Mahoney and I got into our respective vehicles, and drove away in opposite directions. Then we both turned and met halfway down the opposite block. I got out of the car and he approached from the van.

  “So?” I asked. “What’s up with Cortez?”

  Mahoney grinned; he loves being the guy who solves the problem. “A lot,” he said. “He didn’t want to talk at first, but I convinced him you’re trying to do right by his friend Escobar. He says everybody’s covering up what happened to the guy.”

  “Okay, so what happened to the guy?”

  “Cortez doesn’t know, exactly. But he did tell me that clear and cream referred to drugs, something players either rub into their skin or inject themselves with.”

  That was a stumper. “Why?” I asked.

  “They say it makes them play better. The guys in the minors, especially, are so desperate to get noticed, to get their numbers up, that they’ll take the risk on something that might do them damage in the long term.”

  “What kind of damage?” This was getting weird.

  “Cortez says you can get tumors.”

  “So Escobar was a user?”

  “I didn’t get that far. But you can ask Cortez later.” Mahoney smiled. He knew that would catch me off guard.

  “What, later?”

  “He’s meeting us for lunch at one.”

  I had a couple of hours to kill before the meeting with Cortez, so I went home and made some phone calls on the stories for Tech Week. Then, after having procrastinated as much as I could (and freelancers are the most accomplished procrastinators on Earth), I opened up the PTO directory and called Melanie McCawley, mother of the suspected water gun bandit, Brittany “Britty” McCawley.

  At least, I intended to call Melanie.

  “Hello?” The voice was deep and gravelly.

  “Hi ... Is Melanie there?” One thing freelancers have to do on almost a daily basis is make phone calls to people we don’t know. You’d think we’d be less awkward about it.

  There was a pause. “Who’s calling?” The sound of a man wondering why another man is asking for his wife.

  I gave him my name and explained, without making any accusations, Ethan’s situation. The man, who had identified himself as Bill McCawley (Britty’s therapist dad), sounded relieved.

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” he said. “Honestly, water guns at school, and they make a big deal out of it. Can you figure it?”

  “You’re the shrink,” I reminded him. “That’s your job.”

  Bill laughed. “So, what can I do for you, Aaron?”

  I took a breath. “I hate even saying this, Bill, but does Brittany—” I didn’t know her well enough to call her by her supposedly adorable nickname. “—own a yellow water gun?”

  There was an uncomfortable (for me, at least) silence. “Aaron, have you ever had a six-year-old daughter?” Bill asked.

  “Not yet, but I have one warming up in the bullpen.”

  “Then let me tell you about it. They don’t own anything that isn’t pink, or that doesn’t have a picture of one of the Disney princesses on it. Nothing. Britty doesn’t even like pink that much, but people keep giving her stuff that’s pink. Because she’s a girl. The cultural stereotypes are absolutely ...”

  “I’m sorry I had to ask, Bill. Do you have any idea who might have planted that water gun in Ethan’s hand?”

  Bill took a moment to think. “The problem is, there are any number of parents who think this is a stupid rule, so there are only three or four families that don’t allow plastic guns. I mean, I had an A-Team set when I was a kid, and how many people have I shot?”

  “Mine was from Magnum, P.I.,” I volunteered.

  “How many have you shot?” Bill asked.

  “Not a one, but there was this one Yankee game ...”

  “When they interrupted with election results?” Bill sounded aghast. “Could you believe that?”

  “Ramon called it ‘the clear’ and ‘the cream,’” Armando Cortez said in Spanish, translated by Jeff Mahoney. “There are other kinds. Some of the guys use them. I don’t.”

  We sat in a banquette at the Plaza Diner in Edison, on the opposite side of town from Kilowatts Park. Cortez had insisted on the location and the time, to assure himself he would not be seen by teammates or team officials. Mahoney, deep into a Greek salad, would be careful to eat when Cortez was talking so he could translate afterward. But I could tell he was hungry, because the occasional word was stifled by feta cheese.

  “Why don’t you use it?” I asked Cortez. He waited for Mahoney to translate. So did I.

  “Because you can get cancer, tumors in your liver. Your hair can fall out. You can get breasts. Your testicles can shrink. I love this game, but I don’t love it that much. I can go home and be poor; I’ve been poor before.”

  “Are you sure Escobar was using steroids?” I’d done a little research by calling Randy Medavoy, who had not changed his phone number, before coming to lunch. I found out we were discussing anabolic steroid usage, which Randy said would definitely not cause air bubbles in the lungs.

  “I see things,” Cortez said. “They inject each other. They worry people will find out. They hide it from the league, from the owner, maybe even from the manager. But we share a locker room. I see. I’ve seen Montenegro inject Ramon. But I don’t do that stuff.”

  “I don’t understand how that would kill him, though,” Mahoney offered on his own.

  Cortez shrugged. “I have no idea,” he said. “All I know is, I take care of my body.” He bit into his patty melt with extra cheese.

  “Did you see him using the night he died?” I asked Cortez.

  He shook his head. “No. But I did see him sneaking his needle out of his locker. He was worried the league guys who came for the championship game would see it.”

  And suddenly, I had a theory.

  We parted ways in the diner parking lot. Cortez said he was heading home now that the season and the memorial service were over. He didn’t know if he’d be back in the spring, but he guessed he would.

  I thanked Mahoney for his help—the six hundred and seven thousandth time, by my count—and drove the Saturn to Kilowatt Park, where I was lucky enough to find Mel Paterson packing up his office for the off-season.

  I had no time for niceties: “What did you do with the syringe, Mel?”

  His head snapped up toward me. He was sitting down, or his head would have snapped down toward me. “What are you talking about?”

  “The syringe. The one Ramon Escobar was carrying, I’m guessing, in his back pocket during the game. The one he used to inject himself with steroids. The one he took out of his locker so the league brass wouldn’t catch him. You got to the body first; you didn’t want anyone to see he’d been using drugs. Maybe you didn’t even know what he was using, and thought he was into heroin. But you took the syringe out of his pocket before the EMTs got there. What’d you do with it?”

  Paterson’s face closed; he didn’t have it in him to deny it. “I threw it out. On my way home that night. In a garbage can I chose at random in Piscataway. Go find it.”

  “You knew Escobar wa
s using steroids. Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

  Paterson shrugged. “There’s no rule against it,” he said. “The players think it makes them better. What do you want me to do?”

  “Crenshaw goes on and on about how you’re preparing these kids to be good citizens,” I reminded him. “How is this doing that?”

  “Oh, cry me a river,” Paterson said. “Some of the players use. I don’t see how that killed Escobar. He didn’t use any that night.”

  “No,” I said, “but he stuck the syringe into his back pocket because he was afraid he’d be found out. And when they won the championship, and everybody piled onto him, I’m guessing the needle was pushed into him and the syringe pushed down. Air got pumped into a vein. And that led to air bubbles in his lungs, and he died.”

  Paterson sat silently. “Oh my god,” he said. “I did have to pull it out of him. But there wasn’t anything in the syringe, not even a trace, so I thought ...”

  “I’m going to write about it,” I told him. “You’d better tell the cops what you know because I’m going to write about it. You tell them ahead of time, and maybe you’ll get a better deal.”

  His eyes widened. “Jail?” he said. “Because I pulled a needle out of a kid who was already dead?”

  “You withheld evidence. Tell them now, Mel. Tell them before they come looking for you.”

  Paterson looked at the phone. “It’s no crime, Tucker,” he said.

  “The whole thing is a crime,” I told him, playing my self-righteous card for the year. “Call the cops.”

  And he did.

  “So you solved the mystery.” Abby, as radiant as a woman who had just come home and cooked dinner for a Philistine and two children could be, sat across the table from me and smiled. “You figured it out.”

  “Yeah, that one,” I said. “Because someone told me what I needed to know.”

  “Isn’t that your job? Getting people to tell you stuff?”

  “Not according to Furda at Infield. He’s not buying the story. Too downbeat, he says.”