The Dead Pull Hitter

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The Dead Pull Hitter Page 14

by Alison Gordon


  “You were there when Sultan gave it to him, Tiny. I don’t know who else saw. But he had it at the ballpark Sunday. Any number of people could have seen it. He was getting autographs.”

  “I signed that glove on Sunday,” Tiny said. “I told him he’d never be able to catch anything with it.”

  “I did, too,” Kelsey said. “I didn’t really notice anything about it.”

  “Me, too,” said Gloves.

  “Exactly. So did Stinger, Alex, and Mark Griffin. And heaven knows who else noticed it.”

  “So where does Thorson fit into that one? He was killed Sunday night.”

  “Damned if I know.”

  We’d put four brains together and come up with zilch. “Let’s forget motive for now,” I said. “What about opportunity? Who has keys to the stadium?”

  “You mean who could have been there Sunday night? Any of us could have hung around,” Gloves said. “And some of us have keys. I got one from Moose one time when I had to go in on an off-day. I never gave it back. It could have been me.”

  “Or me,” Tiny said. “No one has ever worried about keys. Quite a few of the guys have them.”

  “That doesn’t really matter, come to think of it,” I said. “The way that clubhouse lock was taped, anyone who bought a ticket to Sunday’s game could have hidden in the stadium and got into the clubhouse later.”

  I was making more coffee when the knock came on the door. I’ll rephrase that. I was making more coffee when the irate pounding came on the door. I wasn’t surprised when I opened it.

  “Staying home this morning to clean up, are you? And you’ve invited a few friends in to help you, I suppose. They look like they’re really handy with a broom.”

  Staff Sergeant Munro stormed into the kitchen.

  “Look. I am the policeman here. I am the one investigating these murders. I don’t tell you how to write stories, Kate. I don’t tell you guys how to play baseball. Because I’m an amateur at your jobs. Correct?”

  “We were just . . .”

  “Just what? You have coffee together often, do you? This is a regular occurrence, is it? Do me a favour. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  The players had got up from the table as soon as Andy arrived. Now they were trying to sidle inconspicuously out of the door. It would have been funny any other day.

  “We’ll see you at the ballpark later, Kate,” Tiny said.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” said Gloves.

  “Yeah, guys, thanks for dropping in.” I wished I could sneak out with them.

  When they left, I turned on Andy angrily. The best defence is offence.

  “What do you mean by barging in here?”

  “What do you mean by lying to me?” He was shouting, too.

  “I never lied to you.”

  “You said you were going to stop playing detective.”

  “I never did. And besides, I’m not playing detective. If they want to come and talk to me, they can. I didn’t ask them to come.”

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  “Crap?! You want to talk crap?”

  We were practically nose to nose, screaming, when the phone rang. I picked it up and barked a hello.

  “Kate, it’s Moose. Are you all right?”

  “I’m just fine,” I shouted.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” I turned my back on Andy and lowered my voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was just calling to tell you about the memorial service. If it’s a bad time you can call me back.”

  “No, it’s fine. When’s the service?”

  “Tomorrow, at three.”

  “Where?”

  “At the ballpark.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Thorson was Protestant, Sanchez was Catholic. We couldn’t hold it in a church. And we needed lots of room.”

  “Moose, that is really tacky.”

  “How can you say that? We’re going to do a very tasteful service.”

  “All right, Moose, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. But, Moose?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if it’s still raining?”

  “It’s not supposed to.”

  “Whatever you say. Who’s conducting the service?”

  “The mayor, Father Scanlon, a Spanish-speaking priest from Our Lady of Perpetual Help, and the Anglican archbishop. Some of the players will speak, too. We haven’t got a rabbi lined up yet.”

  “Moose, you’re too much. See you later. You going to get the game in tonight?”

  “We’re going to try. Get ready for a long night.”

  “Is there likely to be batting practice?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Okay, see you later. Thanks for calling.”

  I hung up the phone and went to the stove.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  I brought the mug to him, avoiding his eyes.

  “Sugar’s on the table.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m not sure who began to laugh first. Probably me. He looked so contrite.

  “Let’s start again. How very nice of you to drop by, Staff Sergeant. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

  “Would it insult you if I said you are lying through your teeth?”

  “I guess not. I came because I got a call telling me that three suspects had just arrived at your house. Why didn’t you tell me they were coming when I talked to you?”

  “Who called? The guy across the street?”

  “Yes, Constable MacPherson.”

  “The boy scout from the ballpark the other day?”

  “The very one.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep an eye on you.”

  “Is this person going to follow me around? When did you plan to let me know?”

  “I was going to tell you when I took you out for lunch.”

  “When you . . .”

  “And that was going to be when I just happened to drop by around lunchtime.”

  He shrugged. I laughed.

  “I give up.”

  “I’ll pick you up at one.”

  Chapter 19

  Andy took me to Kuri, a Japanese restaurant on the fringes of trend heaven in Yorkville. One of my favourites. The owner greeted us both by name.

  “You’ve been here before?” Andy was surprised.

  “What, sports writers aren’t supposed to like anything but hot dogs?”

  “Come to think of it, not many policemen come here either.”

  “So you’re a misfit in your profession, too. Welcome to the club.”

  The sushi bar was full, so Kuri led us to a small tatami room and took our orders himself, recommending the toro and hamachi as particularly fine. Andy ordered in Japanese.

  “I spent a year in Tokyo in my twenties,” he explained.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “At the time I said I was finding myself.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, but I learned how to order in Japanese.”

  “Must come in handy.”

  I was a bit nervous. Was this a date? I decided to stick to business.

  “Tell me how Sanchez died.”

  “Baseball bat, same as Thorson. One swing.”

  “Like a baseball swing? Or from overhead, like an axe?”

  “A level swing to the head. Just over the right ear. He was hit from the front as he came into the bedroom.”

  “You figure someone was waiting for him?”

  “Or hid there when he heard him come in. The bat was one of several Sanchez had in the room. I guess the guy just grabbed
whatever was handy.”

  He popped an ikura sushi, salmon roe wrapped in seaweed, into his mouth and I thought of my grade-school etiquette lesson on dinner-table conversation. “Jane’s cat was run over today” was not considered appropriate. I was glad Miss Bushell wasn’t at lunch.

  I tried to visualize it. If Sanchez had been hit on the right side of his head, the swinger, facing him, had to have been swinging left-handed.

  “Was Thorson also hit on the right side of the head?”

  “With Thorson, it wasn’t one swing. It looks as if there was more of a struggle. The guy just caught Sanchez by surprise.”

  “Why a struggle?”

  “There were bruises on Thorson’s arms and body. We think he got knocked out near the equipment room and was then dragged to the shower room and finished off.”

  “Could you tell if the attacker was left- or right-handed?”

  “Nothing conclusive. The blows seemed to come from all angles. It looked like whoever did it went a bit nuts.”

  “So the two murders were very different? Are you sure there weren’t two murderers?”

  “That’s still a possibility.”

  “That’s what I was talking with the guys about this morning. Thorson killing Sanchez because of the blackmail, then taking the material he found and trying to blackmail one of the others.”

  Andy busied himself with a paper-thin ginger slice and smiled.

  “Right. It’s none of my business.”

  “It is my business, but I prefer to talk about something more pleasant than murder over lunch.”

  “If you order us some eel, I promise to talk about anything but murder.”

  “You’ve got a touch of blackmail in your soul, too, Kate Henry.”

  While we ate, I did what I usually do when I’m a bit shy with someone new—I interviewed him.

  “The last thing I thought I’d be when I was growing up was a cop, like my father. I didn’t see much of him when I was a kid because he was always working, but I worshipped him. I never felt like I could live up to his expectations and I gave up trying when I was about thirteen. I went into serious adolescent rebellion.”

  “Most kids go through that.”

  “But most kids get a chance to outgrow it and make peace with their fathers. I never did. He was killed first.”

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Sixteen. My mother woke me up late one night to take me to the hospital. He’d been shot making an arrest. He was in a coma for three days before he died, so I never got a chance to speak to him again.”

  He took a sip of tea and looked embarrassed.

  “Enough ancient history.”

  “So you decided then to become a cop. Sorry, policeman.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m a cop. No. I went to Trent University—a general arts course—to see what I wanted to do. I mainly drank beer and tried to get laid and played in a terrible rock band. I dropped out, lived on a commune, hitchhiked around the country. Standard sixties stuff. Then I went to Japan. Do you really want to hear all this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I taught English there and fell in love with one of my students. I thought I would stay forever. But that’s hard, in Japan. Foreigners can only go so far inside their culture. So I left with a broken heart.”

  He laughed.

  “Anyway, I came back with a stronger sense of who I was and what mattered to me. It was time to settle down. I went back to university, took a criminology course to fill in my schedule, and the rest . . .”

  He shrugged.

  “History,” I said.

  “Turns out I was very good at it and I liked it. It must be in the genes. So, within three years I was a cop, within four a husband, within six a father, and within ten, divorced.”

  He signalled for the bill.

  “And that’s the end of my tale.”

  “Or the beginning.”

  “True.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Alive and well. And remarried.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yes, to a cop. What else?”

  He drove me to the office, down Yonge Street. I looked at the sleazy storefronts and desperate-looking people and wished I could see it all through his streetwise eyes. He’d probably arrested half of the characters we were passing. I decided that since lunch was over, I could get back to my favourite subject.

  “What leads are you following now? Have you checked with bookies? Has anyone made any big bets on the playoffs since the murders? Maybe there’s a clue there?”

  “We have, but there’s nothing big, here or in Las Vegas. The vice-squad guys checked with the local bookies. Some people connected with the team do bet. Bill Ramsay, the trainer, your friend Moose Greer, and a couple of the executives, but it’s strictly football and basketball.”

  “It would have to be. What are you going to do about T.C.? He has to go back to school. Are you going to send a cop along with him?”

  “No, he’s going to stay out for the rest of the week. His teacher has given him some work to do and I’ve assigned a constable who is good at helping with homework. She’s got kids of her own. We should have an arrest by next week and things can go back to normal.”

  “You think so?”

  “Don’t you? You haven’t solved the case yet?”

  “Well, there are still a few details to fill in.”

  “You’d better hurry.”

  “Do you really know?”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

  “You’re just bluffing. If you knew, you’d have arrested him by now.”

  “Well, there are still a few details to fill in.”

  “Rat.”

  Laughing, he pulled up in front of the Planet building. “What time do you want to go to the ballpark? Donald MacPherson will pick you up.”

  “Oh, God, it’s going to be so embarrassing being followed around by that guy. He’s so officious.”

  “He’s a good cop. He’s just young and over-anxious. Be nice to him. He’ll get you home when you’re through.”

  “Okay. Have him come at four-thirty. He doesn’t have to be in uniform, does he?”

  “No one has to know he’s a cop. Just say he’s a long lost love or something.” He snickered at the thought.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks, I guess. And thanks, really, for the lunch. I enjoyed it.”

  “So did I.”

  It was still raining at four-thirty, but I decided to go to the ballpark anyway. Anything was better than sitting around talking about the Titans’ chances in the playoffs with the armchair managers in the newsroom. The murders were old news. They were back to baseball. Never mind that there was a killer loose out there, probably in a Titan uniform.

  Constable MacPherson, champion of ladies in distress, showed up right on time in one of those unmarked cars that no one would drive but a plain-clothes cop or a small-town high school teacher. He wasn’t in uniform, but he still looked like a cop.

  He was obviously annoyed at being assigned to babysit, but he was a ball fan, which mitigated his humiliation a bit. I was disgustingly nice to him, telling him all the boring inside stuff fans find so intriguing. He’d loosened up a bit by the time we got to the ballpark. I took him in to see Moose.

  “You’re getting your wish, Moose,” I said, after introducing them. “I have someone to take care of me. Maybe you’d better give him a press pass so he can follow me around.”

  “I’m glad. I just hope he doesn’t cramp your style.”

  “He’s not going to follow everywhere, are you, Don?”

  “No, ma’am. You can go to the ladies’ room alone.”

  “A sense of humour, yet.”

  “The guys are going to love
it,” Moose laughed.

  “Can we try to be a bit subtle about this?”

  “Of course, Kate. I won’t tell a soul. Do you want the weather report?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s going to clear up at seven.”

  “And rain again at seven-thirty, right?”

  “No. It’s going to rain again at eight.”

  “Terrific. Just time to get it started.”

  “And there’s a front going through at nine-thirty that will clear it all up.”

  “Times like this, I wish I was paid by the hour. See you later. Come on, Constable.”

  There was nothing doing in the clubhouse so I took my shadow to the empty dugout. We sat on the bench and watched the rain.

  “I can’t count the hours I’ve spent sitting in dugouts waiting for the rain to stop. It’s kind of peaceful.”

  “It’s kind of boring, too.”

  Doc Dudley came from the clubhouse with a towel wrapped around his neck, the ends tucked into his jacket. He went out onto the field and ran lonely laps in the drizzle, working off his nerves. Max Perkins, the Detroit starter, joined him half a lap behind. The two ran in step, but separately, in silence.

  “Strange way to have fun,” said Gloves, sitting next to me on the bench.

  “Why are pitchers so weird?”

  “Beats me,” he said, glancing curiously at my escort. I introduced them.

  “Constable, would it be all right if I had a word with Gloves privately? We’ll just be over there where you can see us.”

  “In the rain?” Gloves protested.

  “Just for a minute,” I said, leading him towards the bullpen. He grabbed a towel from the bench and put it over his head.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” I said.

  “You are in some deep shit with that guy.”

  “He thinks I’m invading his turf.”

  “The way he was carrying on, maybe you’d better stop.”

  “I got it straightened out. I’ve got a job to do, too.”

  “Are you really trying to find the murderer?”

  “Why not? It would be a great story.”

  “Well, I’ve been doing some thinking about what we were talking about this morning.”

  “So have I. I’m just more confused.”

  “The drug thing. We were interrupted before we could talk about it this morning. I can’t think of anyone who would be crazy enough to try to import drugs. There’s always plenty around for the guys who want it. One of the shoe reps has a source. He’s in and out of the clubhouse all the time.”

 

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