Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery)

by Walker, LynDee

  “I mean, paper I found,” I said. “I was poking around after the coroner’s team left, and I saw something in the soil and waved over the RPD uniform in case it was important. A little birdie tells me that it might be. So what kind of special paper is it?”

  “The kind that could be material to my investigation, and is not public information at this time,” he said.

  That was just a shade shy of “no comment.” I sighed. I wanted to know what it was, but I didn’t want to get Kyle in trouble at work. “You wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t found it,” I said finally. “What if I promise that we’re off the record?” If he’d tell me what it was, it might lead me to something else I could print.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Clarke,” he said, all business. “It’s evidence in an open investigation.”

  “Didn’t you already make an arrest?”

  “The investigation doesn’t have to stop when the arrest is made,” Kyle said. “How long have you covered crime?”

  He was right, though that didn’t happen very often. Normal police involvement in a case almost always ends when an arrest is made. But in something like this, they spend the time between booking and trial shoring up the case for the prosecutors. Tagging a guy like Billings for murder would require Kyle to have all his proverbial ducks lined up laser-straight. Defense attorneys who make the right kind of money can unravel a case quicker than a kitten can tear through a closet full of cashmere.

  “All right,” I said. “I give up. Thanks for your time. And for dinner last night. It really was fun.”

  “It was.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “We should do it again sometime. When your other friend is otherwise occupied.”

  “That could be nice,” I said. “As long as we have an understanding about expectations.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as I’m not hopping into the sack with you because you buy me a steak and a nice bottle of merlot.”

  “How about good enchiladas and a couple of margaritas?”

  “Hardy-har-har, Kyle. Not even empanadas and tequila shots.” I leaned back in my chair. “But we could get to know each other again.” I couldn’t deny that I’d felt something the night before, at the dinner table. I wanted to know if it was first love nostalgia or leftover gratitude for saving my life or something else. Something that might be worthwhile. Kyle presented his own set of challenges, but they certainly weren’t the same ones I faced with Joey.

  My heart didn’t race in close quarters with Kyle like it did around Joey. And technically, they had both killed people. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus. From the life of a nun with cuter shoes to raining sexy men in a matter of months.

  I promised to call him later and cradled the phone.

  Flipping through the stack of message slips on my desk, I found a number for Agent Evans at the FBI. If he’d known about Billings’s arrest, maybe he knew something about the paper scrap. But it was only his office number, and he wasn’t there. I left him a message and blew out a short breath, drumming my fingers on the keyboard and thinking of Grayson playing cards.

  Where could I find information on card games—ones with the sort of stakes that a guy like Grayson would be interested in? I’d covered a couple of floating poker games that the police department’s major crimes unit had blown open, but I generally only knew about such things after they’d been broken up by the cops.

  Aaron and the guys at the PD wouldn’t give me anything on a gambling ring they hadn’t busted. And while the Mafia was an obvious angle for information on illegal gambling, Joey had made it clear the night before that he wanted me to keep my nose out of whatever I was trying to stick it into.

  It’s funny how hard it is to follow good advice.

  10.

  Cold case

  I was hauling a case of canned Purina Pro Plan into my grocery cart when it hit me.

  If I wanted information on gambling, I didn’t need to talk to the cops. I needed to talk to a gambler.

  I scrambled to keep hold of the dog food, so startled by my epiphany I nearly lost my grip on the 24-can value pack—and a toe to my furry princess’s beloved beef and carrots.

  I hefted Darcy’s food into the cart and took off for the checkout, tossing in a couple of cans of soup on the way so I wouldn’t starve. Groceries stowed in the back of the car, I sped toward the office and ran to my desk, where I pawed through my file drawer in search of information on a trial I’d covered back in March.

  I wriggled the manila folder free and flipped it open, paging through the police reports on a gambling ring that had been operating in basements on the Richmond American University campus for years, aided by a former professor, a baseball coach, and a security guard.

  I checked the dates and clicked my laptop on, searching the Telegraph’s archives for my story. The security guard had only been taking cash to keep his mouth shut and look the other way. He’d been fired, but wasn’t in jail. The professor and the coach were a different story.

  I scanned the text for something I thought I remembered.

  “Bingo,” I mumbled.

  The coach, one Peter Esparza, age forty, had also been nailed for fixing games for local bookies. And bookies were the kind of folks who might have dirt on high-stakes card games.

  A quick search of the department of corrections website told me he was in cellblock six at Cold Springs, which was a little more than an hour away. I nearly lost a heel off my shoe sprinting back to the elevator.

  The September breeze and just-turning leaves made it a lovely day for a drive. Halfway to the prison, I was still wondering how to get Esparza to talk to me. Fishing my Blackberry out of my bag, I dialed Parker’s cell phone.

  “What’s up, Lois?” he said when he answered.

  “What do you know about Peter Esparza?” I asked.

  “That he got fired and he’s in jail,” he said. “Which I believe I learned from a story you wrote, didn’t I?”

  “C’mon, Parker,” I said. “You know everyone involved with sports in this town. You have nothing to offer me on this guy?”

  He laughed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m not sure I know anything that’s useful to the crime desk. Has there been a new development in that case? I thought Esparza was convicted and serving time.”

  “No, there hasn’t been, and yes, he was,” I said. “But I need to talk to him. Tell me what he’s like. Is he a dick, or am I going to get anywhere with him?”

  “What the hell do you need with a mediocre has-been baseball coach?” he asked.

  “I have a hunch,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later if I’m right.”

  There was a pause so long I wondered if I’d passed through a dead zone.

  “Parker?” I said finally.

  “Yeah. Sorry,” he said. “Esparza’s all right. Not the guy I would have pegged for fixing games and helping kids get into gambling. He’s pretty full of himself, but he’s not an asshole.”

  “Anything that might make him inclined to talk to me? Other than the fact that he probably doesn’t see many breasts these days?”

  “That could be enough,” Parker said.

  “Thanks. Tell Mel I said hi.” I clicked off the call.

  I pulled up outside the gates of the prison and handed my identification to the guard in the little stone shack. I gave him Esparza’s name and he directed me to the visitors’ parking area.

  By the time I made it through security, issued a placard that told me which hallway to take and told them where I was supposed to be going, visiting hours were growing short. I tried to subtly adjust my bra as I walked, Parker’s words ringing in my ears. A bra can only work with what’s there, though. Maybe Esparza was a leg man.

  I passed the placard through a thick plastic window at the end of the hallway. The guard on the other si
de looked at it, plucked a phone handset from the wall, and said something I couldn’t make out into the receiver. Two minutes later, a buzzer worthy of a game show set sounded in stereo and the heavy steel door to my left clicked and swung open. Silent Jim the prison guard waved me inside.

  The gray hallway smelled so strongly of ammonia, my nostrils stung. I followed it to a tiny interview room where a series of three little desks mirrored each other on a wall of the same thick plexiglass the guard sat behind. A slight man with olive skin and bushy, graying hair sat at the desk in the middle. The other two were empty. When I walked into the room, he stood. That was new. I’d been to Cold Springs a few times, though usually I was down at cellblock nine interviewing a killer who was some flavor of crazy and about to be put to death by the good people of the commonwealth for his (or her, once) crime. The murderers usually didn’t stand when I came into the room.

  Esparza watched me walk to the desk on my side of the glass.

  I lifted the telephone receiver, wishing I had a Clorox wipe. I don’t generally worry about germs, but the handset was nothing short of slimy, a film over the black plastic consisting of God-only-knows-what making me reluctant to put it near my face. The thing was heavy and there was no way to hold it gingerly. Esparza picked up his handset and I tried to forget about the sticky, bacteria-laden plastic, pressing mine to my ear and pasting a smile on my face.

  “Have we met?” he asked in a light Spanish accent before I could introduce myself.

  “We have not,” I said, betting that Parker knew the guy at least in passing and hoping a little name-dropping would help. “I’m a friend of Grant Parker’s, actually—I work with him at the Telegraph. I’m working on a story I think you can help me with.”

  “Unless it’s about the state of the showers in this joint, I can’t imagine how.” He flashed a bright white smile, but his brown eyes didn’t light.

  “Not exactly.” I took a deep breath, cutting my eyes to the guard, who was playing a handheld video game in the corner. “I’m working on a story I think may involve gambling, and I was hoping you might help me out.”

  He stared through the plexiglass and I held his gaze without blinking.

  “Why would I want to do something like that?” he asked. “If there’s one thing this place has taught me, it’s that doing other people favors is for suckers. You go off and splash a card game or a dogfight across the front page, the guys who run it end up in here, and I might end up on the wrong end of a shiv.”

  The tough guy act was so obviously put on, it was almost funny. But laughing wasn’t going to help me get what I wanted. Nearly seven years of interviewing the best and worst of society had given me a decent asshole radar. This guy wasn’t a hardened criminal. I just needed to convince him to help me.

  “I have no intention of telling anyone where I got my information,” I said, still looking him straight in the eye. “Not only that, but I don’t really care about the operation itself. I care who’s playing.”

  “Why?”

  “Research,” I said, shrugging and opting for honesty. “Right now, I don’t have a story assignment. I think I’ve got a lead on a dirty politician, but finding anything concrete on this guy is harder than salsa dancing in stilettos.”

  He stared for a good thirty seconds, and I stared right back, not blinking.

  His dark eyes softened a touch and he turned his head slowly and checked the guard, who appeared invested in killing all the bad fruit, or whatever else required one to frantically wave a finger back and forth over an iTouch screen.

  “A dirty politician,” he said slowly. “Someone important enough that helping you could get me the hell out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. While I can’t imagine that the Governor and my guy share too many political ideals, I’m not sure how well they know each other. Or if they like each other.”

  His shoulders dropped. “I see.”

  “I could lie and tell you absolutely,” I said after a minute. “But the best I have is maybe. I really don’t know.”

  The corners of his lips tipped up in a half-smile. “Maybe is better than no, right?”

  I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral.

  “I don’t know much,” he said. “But there are some political types around here who like to play cards. A lot of the games float. What you’re asking about is big business, but it’s also a relatively small circle of people.” He paused, shaking his head. “Look, I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. If you were to stop by the sports dorm at RAU, you might find a pitcher who’s in over his pretty-boy head. But I doubt he’ll talk to you.”

  Maybe not, but I knew someone he might talk to.

  I smiled and thanked Esparza, wondering as I watched him hang up his phone how this man had taken a turn so wrong it had landed him in this place. He obviously didn’t fit in with most of the prison population.

  I checked out and climbed back into my car as the sun was sinking in the western sky.

  I punched the talk button on my Blackberry twice so it would redial, and laughed when Parker asked if Esparza had fallen victim to my feminine wiles.

  “I wouldn’t know a wile if it bit me in the ass, so I’m going with no,” I said. “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Being boring.” He sighed. “I was supposed to have a date, but Mel bailed on me about a half-hour ago. Her sister went into labor. Why?”

  Perfect. I made a mental note to send balloons.

  “Esparza would say I’m on a lucky streak,” I said. “I need to borrow your star power. Put on something that looks expensive and meet me at Capital Ale in half an hour. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

  “Am I going to get shot at?” he asked.

  “God, I hope not.” I laughed. “But you told me once I could ask you for help if I needed it. So this is me asking.”

  “You really more told me than asked me, but that’s cool,” he said. “Going to work with you isn’t as boring as sitting here watching Die Hard alone.”

  “How could young Bruce Willis and terrorists be boring?” I asked.

  “Careful, you might talk yourself out of a partner.”

  “Point taken. Strike that.”

  “Expensive like coat and tie, or expensive like tux?” he asked.

  “We’re not going to the Oscars. I just want you to look like a celebrity. But no old baseball uniforms,” I said.

  “You got it.” He hung up.

  About to pass my exit, I jerked the steering wheel and drove home, my brain jumping from Senator Grayson to Billings the tobacco executive and back again. There was a connection. There had to be.

  But the sticking point hadn’t changed: how had the lobbyist I was almost positive had been their go-between ended up dead? If Amesworth was in cahoots with the bad guys, like Kyle thought, then why would they kill him?

  Patting Darcy’s head and filling her food bowl on my way through the kitchen, I thought about Joey. He was worried about me. But it wasn’t like I was going off alone to chase a criminal. I was going to a well-populated place, and taking Parker with me.

  Ten minutes later, I climbed carefully back into the car in my go-anywhere black sheath dress and a pair of blood red patent leather Manolos I’d had since college. They were the first pair I’d ever bought, after spending much of my teenage years slouching to hide the height that made me different from the other girls. My five-foot-three Syracuse roommate had wealthy parents and a love of stilettos that had rubbed off on me after years of watching her wear shoes that could double as works of art, while I slogged around in boots and sneakers.

  I beat Parker to the restaurant and ordered a Midori sour.

  Waiting in a corner booth with a good view of the door, I stirred my drink and wondered if it was smart to pull Parker into this.
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  When he walked in, nearly every female head in the place turned to follow his progress toward me. I had to admit, he looked the part: his tall, athletic frame was the perfect showcase for the dark chinos, emerald shirt, and leather coat that made him look like he’d just stepped out of GQ.

  I returned his smile and gestured to the seat across from me.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Bob might fire me if I let you get shot at again.” He flashed the million-dollar grin. “So, what’s up? Am I playing Hardy Boys to your Nancy Drew?”

  I put my glass on the table and leveled a serious gaze at him. “Indeed. I need some dirt on RAU baseball.”

  “You made me get dressed up to ask me about work?”

  “Specifically, I need to know about the pitchers. And who might be into gambling.”

  “Esparza.” He nodded. “Care to share what he told you?”

  “He didn’t say much, except that there’s a pitcher I need to talk to.”

  “But he didn’t give you a name?”

  “Nope. That’s where you come in.”

  “You don’t need star power for that,” he said. “Reading the stat sheets could give you a lead on who you need to talk to. Someone’s record tanked halfway through the season.”

  “Why haven’t I seen this in your column?”

  “I have a suspicion, Clarke. Nothing I can prove, and certainly nothing you can print. He’s a good kid in a bad situation. Assuming I’m right, anyway.”

  “I’m not looking to print it. I need information, not to bust a kid who’s been stupid,” I said as I grinned. “And reading through a billion pages of numbers sounds way less fun than getting dressed up and hauling you to a party.”

  “Party?” He looked around. “You need to take a powder, Clarke. I can’t keep up with you tonight.”

  “It’s Saturday night. I like the odds of a party going on at the jock dorm.” I downed the last of my drink and grabbed the little black clutch I’d stuffed a handful of essentials into, unsnapping it and tossing a few bills on the table. “And a drunk pitcher is more likely to spill his guts to a celebrity than a sober one is to talk to a reporter. Let’s go, superstar.”