"That tape of Sunday's game you had on—would you mind starting it over?"
More than the pleasure of watching the Tomcats' first few scores, I wanted Doug's take on everything that happened. All the subtleties. Everything.
My host’s lip curled with amused tolerance as he hit the remote. When the game restarted, he locked his hands behind his head as he mentally returned to Sunday afternoon. If I wasn’t careful, he would soon forget I was there.
"You don't get enough game films at work?" I teased.
Doug glanced toward me, and the lamp at my side revealed that he had been too distracted to shave today. "Oh, yeah. Sure. But the police kept asking me...I just wanted to see it again."
"You tape all your games at home?"
He smiled wistfully. "Michelle does, for QB," for their son, or daughter, aka Kewpie. I suppressed my own concerns for the mother and child to focus on the first ten plays of the game.
In only six minutes thirty-five seconds a combination of hard-nosed runs and Doug’s precision passing resulted in a Tomcat’s touchdown.
As he watched, the quarterback’s face grew stony. On my dad, I called it his “Football Face,” but now I recognized it as the concentration necessary for winning a battle.
"Is it true that Laneer scripts his opening series like Bill Walsh?" I inquired before I lost Doug completely.
That earned me a flick of an eyebrow. "Yes," Doug responded. "Yes, he does."
"May I?" I asked, holding my hand out for the remote.
Doug hesitated but relinquished the control.
I backed up the action to the beginning of a second-down play with seven yards to go for the first and twenty-four to score. Then I muted the commentary.
"If they're playing eight men in the box," I said, "why aren't you using a three-step drop and trying to hit the quick stuff?"
Doug eyebrows shot up and his jaw went slack, but he earned points for not asking how I knew what I knew.
"We discussed that in meetings," he replied, "but we still thought we could hit the deep fade."
That itch satisfied, I let the action resume.
On second and goal from the seven, the Tomcats' tailback bulled his way to the two yard line mostly on will power. Then Doug faked the run so beautifully that his bootleg dump pass to Walker Cross resulted in an easy touchdown.
"Go 'cats!" I erupted, and Doug laughed a little uncomfortably.
So modesty did explain the absence of the trophies from his home. I would have to try not to embarrass him with another outburst.
A routine point-after-touchdown kick gave the Tomcats a quick fourteen-point lead.
A comfortable silence continued between Doug and me through two quick changes of possession, each team punting after failed third-down conversions.
As my dad liked to remind Mom and me, football was really pretty simple to understand. Your team got four chances to move the ball ten yards toward the opponent's goal line. If they didn't get at least that far, they lost their turn.
Dad also pointed out that football was remarkably difficult to master, especially when you factored in the number of variables produced by twenty-two men in motion. The result seemed to be that fans with every degree of expertise all managed to enjoy the game in their own way. My best friend, Didi, for example, only went to admire the players' tight pants. Throw in some fun things like beer, catchy promo songs, and cheerleaders and you've got an entertainment industry valued in the billions.
Billions. The mind boggled.
I went back to my own way of watching the chess pieces run and collide.
We passed the part where Doug got sacked by a human wrecking ball and sat out a couple of plays. During his absence Tim Duffy attempted a third down screen pass to Walker Cross, who was wide open; but reaching for the ball Cross stumbled and fell flat on his face in the sort of graceless flop that makes a runner check his shoelaces.
Although the coach had the last word on what went wrong, Duffy probably faulted Cross for failing to catch the ball, and Cross probably blamed the Duffy for a lousy throw and for just plain making him look bad.
Luckily, when the Hombres took over possession, they tried to get their offense going with a flanker reverse but botched the deep exchange. The ball took an unfortunate bounce and Morani Todd, the only Tomcat in sight, grabbed it on the run. Doug gave me a funny look when I punched on the sound again to hear the crowd cheer Morani into the end zone. Tomcats 20–Hombres 0.
I fast-forwarded through the point-after kick and about eight commercials. During the next series with Doug back at quarterback, I asked what happened on the touchdown pass.
"A mixup in the Hombres' secondary gave Smith the chance to zig and go. The fans probably thought it was great coaching on our part, but we were lucky to get the six points."
The Tomcat’s number 86 ran off the field. "Wasn't that Walker Cross going out of the game?" I inquired.
"Yeah, Laneer pulled him."
"It wasn't because of that belly flop back when Tim was in, was it?" The incompletion Cross no doubt blamed on Duffy's pass.
Doug waved his head. "We were ahead by twenty-one. Jack might have wanted to keep Cross healthy for this week's game with the Eagles." His slight hesitation suggested there might be more behind the decision to bench the Tomcats' best receiver.
I paused the video. "But what?" I pressed.
Doug scowled at this hands. "I guess it's no secret," which probably meant whatever it was had been leaked to the press. "Walker's got an incentive built into his contract, a combination deal. He gains so many yards, catches so many passes, scores so many points, he gets bonuses.”
“How much?”
“Up to $1.7 million."
Couldn’t help it. I gulped. "So how close is he?"
"Touch and go. The playing time he missed will really hurt.”
"Subtle," I said, meaning sneaky. If the benching occurred any later in the season, the fans would undoubtedly have taken note and thought less of the Tomcats' management. Three games back and the public reasoning probably wouldn’t get that far. Walker Cross? The other players? They had to wonder, but the fans? Probably not.
"Is Bobby Frye hurting for money?"
Doug shook my thought away. "Not something a guy on salary like me wants to talk about."
Maybe not, but the wives dependent on the guys dependent on the salaries might talk. In fact, I'd be amazed if they kept quiet.
I restarted the game. The only abnormality in the third quarter was a bungled snap by Tomcats' center, Patrick Dionne, a utility player who rarely drew negative attention to himself. Ordinarily he would simply hand the ball to the quarterback through his legs, but from the shotgun formation the snap actually amounted to a small toss. Dionne's third quarter slipup had been a crooked wobble that forced Doug to step left to grab it, slowing the start of the play and resulting in a sack.
I asked what he thought happened, and Doug admitted that Pat's concentration must have lapsed for a second.
"With third and fifteen on the Hombres' forty-yard line?"
"It happens."
While buzzing through another batch of time-out commercials, I took a shot, so to speak, and asked whether Walker Cross carried a gun.
The sleepiness my host had been developing disappeared. "How the hell should I know?" He stared at me hard.
"Do any of the guys?"
"Oh, shit, maybe. I don't know. Probably. I told you we get threats."
"Yes, you did."
"Well, I don't know of any one specific guy who carries, if that's what you're asking."
"Fine. Since the murder weapon hasn't been found, I guess it doesn't really matter.” Even though they had a charter flight, I assumed that all the Hombres had passed through airport security both coming and going, so none of them made a likely suspect. Unless the guards made an exception, or weren’t on duty when the players arrived...
"Suspects? Is that what you're looking for here?"
"Of course. Ar
en't you?"
"Well, yeah, but..." He looked worried and maybe a bit distraught.
"But what?” I pressed.
"I guess I forgot this was you. I mean Ronnie told me about...Oh, shit."
"Apology accepted. Now let's run through the fourth quarter. You narrate. And don't leave out any of the good parts."
Chapter 10
FOR BOTH FOOTBALL DRAMA and murderous potential, the fourth quarter of the Tomcats/Hombres game deserved a four-star rating.
Attempting a punt, the Tomcats' kicker got clocked on his own twenty-seven yard line. The ball caromed back toward the goal, and just before it rolled out of the end zone one of the Hombres dove on it for the touchdown.
A fluke, but the TV cameras caught a few Hombres' punching the air as if they sensed the possibility of a come-from-behind victory. "See that," said the glint in their eyes. "It’s not over yet!"
Unfortunately the Tomcats' defense missed that message because they softened into a prevent mode and allowed a steady, nine-play drive to result in an Hombres' field goal.
"We knew it wasn't over," Doug recalled, referring to the 21–10 score, "but we thought we were still in control."
Reflecting that confidence, the Tomcats' offensive coach chose the conservative route, directing Doug to hand off to the Tomcats' strongest runner three straight times, a decision that netted only four yards and eliminated a mere two minutes from the clock. On the fourth down punt, the Hombres returned the ball to their own 44 yard line.
"Here's where we switched to a full zone blitz," Doug remarked with a shake of his head. The Hombres promptly executed a weak-side screen pass and took the ball 56 yards to the touchdown.
Too little, too late, I agreed with Doug, although not critically. The mental calculations kept the game every bit as engaging as the execution and were equally as chancy.
Appearing to be content with the probable 21–17 win, the coaches instructed Doug to use up the clock with three more running plays that went nowhere. Riding the momentum, the Hombres returned the fourth down punt and gained excellent field position–again.
"Watch this tackle by Morani," Doug remarked with admiration. "He really saved our bacon."
I stared with awe as the defensive lineman singlehandedly stalled the Hombres' drive by toppling a 295 pound tackle then breaking loose to crush the ball carrier as well.
With all their timeouts remaining and 4:35 left in the game Houston opted for a three-point field goal to make it 21–20. And why not? If their defense held and they regained possession, they had plenty of time left to kick the field goal they needed to win.
The Tomcats' offense managed to run the ensuing kickoff back to their own thirty-eight yard line. Then they earned a couple of first downs to take time off the clock, including a thirty-two yard run on a tailback draw.
At the two-minute warning it was second down with five to go for the Tomcats on the Hombres twenty-five yard line. Another touchdown appeared within reach, or at least a field goal.
Recalling what happened next, Doug wagged his head with disgust. A holding penalty had set his team back ten yards, then a mixup caused a missed handoff that stranded Doug with the ball. He retreated, scrambled, and finally got smothered under a pile of Hombres.
Doug rolled his shoulder as he watched the trainer escort him off the field for the second time that day.
"Still bother you?" I asked.
"Eh, no more than usual. Knocked the wind out of me."
It was now third and twenty-four with the Tomcats on the forty-four yard line. Tim Duffy consulted with Offensive Coordinator Roger Prindel before trotting onto the field to substitute for Doug. I turned the sound back on to hear what the announcers had to say.
"I've never seen Duffy look so intense," the color commentator remarked to himself and a few million viewers. "He really looks hungry."
Duffy's intensity puzzled me. The Tomcats were winning by one point, and with time running out, surely Tim's single objective would be to position his team for a field goal. Three more points would put the game out of the Hombres' reach.
Yet Duffy took the snap, rolled to his right, and shot off a perfect pass to Shifflett, who breezed by everybody and was well on his way toward the end zone.
Touchdown. Tim Duffy trotted off the field collecting congratulations–sadly, for the last time.
The kick went through the crossbars. The crowd cheered and danced in the stands. The Hombres frittered away the last fifty-seven seconds, and the game ended. Final score: 28–20, Tomcats.
Doug laughed and waved his head.
"What?"
"The handicappers did it again."
"What do you mean?"
"The spread was seven and a half, and we won by eight." Meaning that all the water-cooler geeks who had wagered on the Tomcats also won. Anything less than an eight point difference and they would have lost. Doug alluded to how often the professional handicappers managed to get the point spread right.
"Amazing," I agreed.
When I phoned Rip later that night, I mentioned Doug’s observation. "Don't you think that's quite a coincidence?"
"Not a coincidence so much as a science," my husband disagreed. "The spread is supposed to make a bet for either team equally attractive. That way–theoretically at least–the pot will be even on either side. The losing money covers the winners, and the bookies don't lose their shirt."
"So since Sunday's spread was right on, the bookies–whoever or wherever they are–probably made out fine."
"That’s more or less true," he equivocated. "They also take a cut up front." Which meant none of them had much reason to flip out and shoot a second string quarterback.
And yet someone had done just that.
I didn’t dare pick Rip's brain anymore at that hour, so I asked what everybody had chosen to watch after the rerun of Shane ended.
"Professional wrestling," he bemoaned. "Thank goodness they all went to bed." Hint, hint.
We said our goodnights. Then I turned out the light and snuggled in.
Chapter 11
WHEN I PEEKED OUT THE window early Wednesday morning, the grass gleamed silver/white with dew. A neighbor's car windshield was etched with ice that would melt with the first rays of sun, only minutes away; but for the moment long, damp shadows stretched away from a backdrop of thin clear blue.
Pants and a sweater, I decided as if my suitcase actually offered a choice.
I lingered in the shower, and when I finally arrived in the kitchen, Doug was busy cleaning up what looked to be a breakfast of eggs, toast, yogurt, fruit, and coffee. Practice resumed today. No doubt he needed the fuel.
"Is there a library near here?" I asked after we mumbled the amenities. I wanted to be sure he didn’t stumble across the searches I planned for today in his computer’s history.
"What do you need?" he asked.
I wrinkled my nose. "Old magazines and newspapers, I think."
He closed the dishwasher door and examined my face. I had forgotten makeup, but that wasn't it. "You're researching suspects," he concluded.
Yes, including you.
"Um humm," I replied lightly.
Doug’s pale eyes broke contact, and he gave an exasperated sigh. "Why?"
"I take my family very seriously," an answer I trusted he would understand.
He read my face again for a few seconds. Then he shook his head and blinked. "I've never met anyone else quite like you."
"Likewise, I'm sure," I replied, because technically he was right. We are all unique. "So are you going to tell me where the library is, or what?"
He wrote something on Michelle's grocery-list pad.
"How about a party supply store, too–for Saturday's shower?"
He added directions to a strip mall on Virginia Beach Boulevard.
"Anything else?" That came off a little sarcastic, but to be fair the chances of me helping the Turners with anything more difficult than laundry were pretty slim.
Still, Mich
elle knew I was trying to protect them and their child, and if knowing that made her feel a little better, any amount of effort was worth it. For her I would dig into Norfolk dirt until I hit China.
"One other thing," I forestalled Doug as he reached for his jacket. "Mind if I come by the stadium later?"
"You want to watch practice?"
"Not really. Afterwards would be better."
Doug’s forehead creased, so I lifted a shoulder. "Maybe you could introduce me to some of the guys as they're leaving?" I couldn’t exactly barge into the training room for a look at the scene of the crime, but I could check out the surrounding hallways to see how Tim’s killer might have escaped.
“You’re not going to ask for autographs, are you?”
“Moi?” What an undignified idea!
Doug was still puzzled, but marriage to Michelle must have taught him that humoring a Siddons offspring took far less time than reasoning with one. He ripped off a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.
"Security's been beefed up," he explained as he handed me the note. "This'll get you into the hallway outside the locker room. After that, you're on your own."
THE VIRGINIA BEACH PUBLIC Library was a low white meringue of paneling and glass set on a base of brick. Tucked into the curve of the front entrance and rising from a low square of clipped hedge, an abstract silver sculpture either reached for the sky or attempted to take off.
A garden to the right of a variegated brick walk displayed a discreet sign that read, "Adopt-a-Spot," and "Princess Anne Women's Club of Virginia Beach."
An "Entrance" sign in red and white hung above the glass and chrome door. Glad for the warmth inside, I headed for the long central "Information" island and introduced myself to a congenial, middle-aged woman wearing a white shirt with a black skirt and vest. She led me into a maze of resource volumes flanked by a row of computers. Then with a whisper of pantyhose and soft shoes she disappeared into the stacks.
Where to start, where to start? Bobby Frye, Supratech, the Tomcat coaches, or the individual players?
My tolerance for technology was stretched thin by the time I finished, but from the Boston Globe's archives, "Take a Peek in Our Old Drawers," I learned that Bobby Frye's original name had been Robert J. Freyerhoffer. He had survived a nasty divorce, barely, from a woman named Joline.
A Score to Settle Page 7
