Night Game

by Alison Gordon

  Andy got all thrilled about some sandpipers he’d never seen before. They all look alike to me, beige and boring. I like the birds that sing in the trees and have pretty colours, not the ones that skitter around the sand looking silly. Andy’s been a birder for years, though, and I’m just an apprentice weirdo. Still, it was nice to be away from chain restaurants and highways, in a place of quiet and peace and pleasures that weren’t manufactured. It must have been very beautiful in this state before the people got here.

  Monday afternoon, which came awfully quickly, I drove him to the airport in St. Petersburg and waved him on his way, wishing I was going with him. I don’t like spring training. Florida is too bland for me, and the baseball that’s played here is meaningless. And Andy’s leaving just reminded me how often we would be apart during the long season ahead.

  So I was feeling pretty sorry for myself again when I got back to the hotel and found the message light in my room blinking imperiously. Jake Watson was looking for me, and Gloves Gardiner had called. Strange. Players seldom call reporters. I answered Jake’s call first. He wasn’t at his desk, but the switchboard tracked him down for me in The Final Edition, the bar on the first floor of the Planet building.

  “Holidays over,” he said. “I’ll need something for tomorrow on the arrest.”

  “What arrest?”

  “Domingo Avila’s.”

  “What for?”

  “For murdering that girl.”

  “Lucy? You’re kidding.”

  “It happened at three this afternoon.”

  “I was at the airport.”

  “Well, find out what you can and file as soon as possible,” Jake said.

  “What’s Jeff doing on it?”

  “I can’t find him either. If you see him, tell him to call. Figure out between you who’s going to write what.”

  I hung up, then dialled Gloves’s number. He answered on the first ring. There were other voices in the background.

  “Can you come over?” he asked. “We’ve got to get Dommy out of jail, and we need your help.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got to file a story first. Tell me what you know. Like, when and where was he arrested?”

  “At the ballpark. We were playing an intersquad game. They came and got him. Took him away in handcuffs.”

  “Like, right off the field?” I asked. “Sorry if I sound ghoulish, but I need to know for my story.”

  “They didn’t even wait until the inning was over. The cops told me to call time out, and went into left field and got him.”

  “What inning?”

  “Jesus, Kate. The fourth. Top of the fourth.”

  “Did they take him in his uniform?”

  “No, they let him change into street clothes.”

  “Do you know who made the arrest?” I asked.

  “Big, cold-looking guy. In good shape.”

  “Troy Barwell? Detective Sergeant Barwell?”

  “Could be.”

  “I’d better call him.”

  “Are you going to be able to get over here tonight? A bunch of the guys are here, and we want to do something about it.”

  “An hour, maybe two, depending on whom I can get to fast.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just one more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you keep on playing?”

  Gloves laughed.

  “What do you think? Olliphant had us back out there in fifteen minutes. One of the other kids played left.”

  “I’ll see you later, if I can.”

  “We’ll be up. Call when you are done.”

  I got off the phone and called the police station. I got right through to Barwell.

  “I don’t have to say anything to you,” he said.

  “Just give me a quote I can use in my story.”

  “We are satisfied on the evidence that we have the right man,” he said. “The apparent murder weapon was found in Mr. Avila’s possession, for one thing.”

  “He had it on him?”

  “We found the weapon in the accused’s apartment. It was an illegally obtained firearm. We have charged him with illegal possession as well as murder in the first degree.”

  “Has he got a lawyer yet?”

  “The team has contacted an attorney, yes,” Barwell said. “He is meeting with the accused at the moment.”

  “Could I have his name?”

  “Buford Whitehead.”

  “Buford? It sounds like something out of a Tennessee Williams play.”

  “Mr. Whitehead is a very well-known attorney in this area,” Barwell said. “The Titans are sparing no expense.”

  “That’s something,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “Will there be a bail hearing? What is the next step?”

  “He will appear before the judge at the Pinellas County courthouse in St. Petersburg for an advisory hearing tomorrow morning at ten,” Barwell said.

  “I’ll be there,” I answered. “I assume that the press is allowed.”

  “Welcomed, Miss Henry. A free press is a cornerstone of our democracy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

  Next, I called the office of the Sunland weekly newspaper, the Sentinel, and found the editor, Cal Jagger, at his phone. I had met him a couple of times at the ballpark, and he seemed to be a guy who would know what was going on. He remembered me and told me what he knew. For one thing, that Whitehead was the most high-profile criminal lawyer on this side of the state, working out of Tampa, the nearest big city. He specialized in murder and other big lost-cause cases.

  “I tell you, Kate, when Buford Whitehead defends someone, they get the best defence there is,” Jagger said. “There are some that call him the criminal’s best friend. Cops and state attorneys don’t think much of him, but I’ll tell you one thing, he sure keeps them on their toes.”

  “I guess.” I said. “Do you have a morgue down there, by the way? Any back issues?”

  “Sure, what do you want?”

  “Some background on Lucy Cartwright. I knew her from around the ballpark, but I don’t really know much about her past. I thought I’d come by and take a look.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve just pulled the file for a story I’m doing for this week.”

  “Is there much?”

  “Not really. Some pictures—you know those in happier times’ shots papers run when someone has died.”

  “Yeah, like the wedding picture of the couple in the murder-suicide pact.”

  “You got it,” he chuckled. “Anyway, there’s one of the high-school cheerleading squad about five years ago, a graduation picture, and another one when she won a prize at the tri-county science fair.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let’s see. When she was in junior high. She won second prize for a genetics project, breeding gerbils.”

  “She was a good student, then?”

  “You sound surprised.” he said.

  “Well, I guess she didn’t strike me as a very serious person,” I admitted.

  “She was top of her class all the way.”

  “How come she didn’t go to college?”

  “Money. Her mother works as a bartender in one of those raw bars on the beach. Her stepfather wouldn’t give her the money to go to college, so she got a scholarship at the junior college in St. Pete’s, and worked for the magazine to make money for books.”

  “You seem to know her pretty well,” I said.

  “I know most people in this town,” he said. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  “Can I come and talk to you tomorrow about this?”

  “Sure,” Jagger said. “It’s press day, but we’ll have
put the paper to bed by around seven. I’ve got beer in the fridge, and I’ll be able to give you my full attention. If that’s not too late for you. We can probably help each other out.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I said.

  Chapter 14

  It took longer than the hour I had promised Gloves, but I got a pretty good story written and filed and was at the condo by 10:00. The group gathered included most of the players I would expect to be concerned about a teammate in trouble: Joe Kelsey; second baseman Alejandro (Americanized to Alex) Jones; Atsuo Watanabe, the Japanese shortstop; right-fielder Eddie Carter; and Tiny Washington, first baseman turned broadcaster. Eddie’s wife, Clarice, was there, too.

  “Thanks for coming, Kate,” Karin Gardiner said, after she let me in. She is a small, natural-looking woman, a little chunky, with short, curly dark hair, a wide, imperfect smile, and fewer diamonds than most player wives.

  “They’re framing the kid,” Gloves said. He looked like Howdy Doody without his moustache. I tried not to laugh.

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But I don’t know what we can do about it.”

  “Someone has got to stop them,” Gloves said. “And we’re all he’s got.”

  “What makes you so sure he didn’t do it?” I asked.

  “I know Domingo since he was little boy,” Alex Jones said, in his heavily-accented English. “His mother is my mother’s cousin. They lived with my family, lived in my house, the house I built for my mother, when Domingo was only small. It is like he is my baby brother. I know he would not do such a thing.”

  “No violence in his past? No trouble in the Dominican? Drugs? Anything like that?”

  “This boy is just interest in one thing, baseball,”

  “Not quite, Alex,” I said. “With respect. He is also interested in women.”

  “He is a man,” Alex shrugged.

  “But he was involved with Lucy last season,” I said, “when he was playing here.”

  “Who said that?” Joe Kelsey asked. “The police?”

  “No, she told me that, come to think of it. The day before she died.”

  “If everyone who slept with Lucy was a suspect, the jail would be full,” Eddie said.

  “I’d be the only one outside,” said Joe, to some laughter.

  “Plus, the police told me it was his gun that did it,” I said, trying to keep them to the point.

  “His gun, maybe, but who knows who fired it,” Tiny said.

  “True enough,” I said, “but who else could have? Who knew about his gun?”

  “All of the people living at the condo, for one thing,” said Clarice. “Dommy showed it off.”

  “How did he get it into the country?” I asked.

  “He got it here,” Eddie said. “He just got it last week.”

  “Why would he get a gun, if he wasn’t planning to use it?” I asked.

  “Domingo always had a gun at home,” Alex said. “Everyone does. For the banditos. He felt safer with a gun.”

  “How did he get it? Aren’t there laws against just going and buying a gun?”

  “In Florida? Don’t be ridiculous,” Joe said. “This state has got the loosest gun laws around.”

  “Actually,” Gloves said, “he couldn’t get it legally here. Because he’s a foreigner. He had to get the gun privately.”

  “And you know who get it for him?” Alex asked, then answered. “Lucy, she’s the one.”

  They let that one sink in for a while.

  “So, someone else who knew Lucy would have known about the gun, too,” Tiny said.

  “How could Lucy get a gun?” I asked.

  “Who knows,” Gloves said. “She might even have bought one at one of the gun shops. Anyway, she knows a lot of people in this town. She would know where to get a gun.”

  “What can we do to help Dommy?” I asked. “He’s got a lawyer already.”

  “We can find the real killer,” Gloves said. “Or, rather, you can find the real killer.”

  “Me? What are you talking about?” I laughed and looked around the room. Everyone else was serious.

  “You’re the only one with any experience,” Joe explained. “You found out who killed Sultan Sanchez and Steve Thorson. You found the guy who was killing those kids in Toronto last year.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture that seemed to signify that there was no argument to be had.

  “Come on, get serious,” I said. “I didn’t find those guys, they found me. I’m not a detective. I just bumbled around after the story and tripped over the killers.”

  “That’s all we want you to do this time,” Gloves said.

  “Kate, he’s such a nice kid,” Karin Gardiner said. “I know he couldn’t have done this. But everything is against him. If we don’t help him, nobody will.”

  “We’ll pay you,” Eddie said, insulting me. I dismissed that idea with a flap of my hand.

  “It’s not the money. It’s just that I don’t know where to begin. I’m not a private eye.”

  “No, you’re not a private investigator,” Gloves said. “But you are an investigative reporter, right? It’s just like any other story, except you’ll do more investigating than reporting this time.”

  “We’ll all do anything we can to help you,” Joe said. “But we can’t go to all the places you can. We have to practise, for one thing. You can imagine how Olliphant reacted.”

  I could.

  “I don’t know how I can help,” I said.

  “If you interviewed her family and friends you might find something out,” Tiny said. “God knows you found out all sorts of stuff about me when you wrote that article a few years ago. Some things I didn’t even remember myself.”

  “You’re good at that, Kate,” Joe said. “You have an excuse for prying.”

  “I could do that, I guess. I don’t know if it would do any good, though.”

  “It’s better than doing nothing,” Gloves said.

  “I don’t even know if I could get the paper to let me off the regular stuff,” I said.

  “Just say you’ll try,” Karin said. “Please.”

  “I can do that,” I agreed.

  I wrestled with it all the way home. I would be lying if I said the idea didn’t attract me. I like playing detective, no matter how much I deny it. On the other hand, I know that any success I have had in the past has had more to do with luck than talent.

  The decision was taken out of my hands the next morning at 8:00, when Jake Watson called.

  “You’ve been seconded,” he said. “Orders from the managing editor. He wants you to go on the murder story so he doesn’t have to send down one of the police boys.”

  “What about the Titans?”

  “I’ve put Jeff on them for now.”

  “He doesn’t mind?”

  “He’s grumbling a bit, but he hasn’t got much choice,” Jake said. “He was going to go over and cover the teams on the other side of the state for a week, but I think our readers can do without another series of features on how unhappy they are at the Yankee camp, don’t you?”

  “They’ll manage.”

  “Okay. So I can tell them you’ll be filing something for the front section later today?”

  “What do they want?”

  “Just follow the story. I think they want a piece on the dead girl for the Saturday paper. You’ll be dealing with Shelley Mitchell on the city desk. Call her.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Do good, kid,” he said. “Make us proud. The honour of the sports department is at stake.”

  “Thanks for the added pressure, Jake.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Chapter 15

  The Garden of Memories Funeral Home, from which Lucy would be making her final journey, was a low-slung, modern, beige stucco building, wit
h Moorish arches and stained-glass windows of an objectionable abstract design. Jeff and I parked my car in the shade of a large palm and crossed the closely cropped lawn to the front path. We checked the notice board for directions to the Serenity Chapel, where Lucy’s family was receiving friends.

  Walking down the thickly carpeted corridor past other reception rooms, I tried to avoid staring at the corpses propped up in their satin-lined coffins while, all around them, the living sipped cups of coffee and chatted. Most of them—the quick and the dead—were elderly, although in one particularly sad room, a couple who looked to be still in their teens sat on either side of a tiny coffin, with a baby displayed on pink velvet.

  We signed the guest book outside the Serenity Chapel, took a deep breath, and entered. It was a large room, decorated in reassuring, muted tones, with paintings of classical northern gardens on the walls. There were perhaps a dozen people standing around in in three or four groups. What conversation there had been stopped, and every head turned our way. I put on my most polite and respectful smile and waited for one of them to speak.

  A tall young man approached us, looking uncomfortable in a tie and suit that was too small for his muscular bulk. He was slightly menacing, with long hair tied back in a ponytail and a Fu Manchu moustache.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  I introduced myself and Jeff.

  “We worked with Lucy,” I explained.

  “I’m Ringo, her brother,” he said.

  Ringo?

  “I recognize your names,” he added, after we shook hands.

  “Did she mention us?” Jeff asked.

  “You’re the ones who found her.”

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” I said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  The words came out easily enough. I was, after all, a minister’s daughter, and used to this kind of event.

  “The bastard who did it,” her brother said. “I’d like to get my hands on him.”

  He clenched his fists, as if to demonstrate the degree of his ferocity.

  “I wonder if you would introduce us to your mother,” I said. “We would like to express our condolences.”

  Ringo shrugged, then led us to a pale, drawn woman sitting on a couch by the (mercifully) closed coffin, nervously smoking a cigarette.