“People lose consciousness when narcolepsy hits, right?” Gioli said.
“No,” Casey said. “In fact, in my case, I’m temporarily paralyzed but quite aware.”
“We interviewed some Hail staffers,” Gioli said. “They all have alibis that check out. When we asked them for suspicious characters, a few mentioned you.”
Of course they did. When in doubt, blame the freak who turns to stone for no apparent reason. They’d never understood Casey and probably never would. “Me? Why?”
“Well, they mentioned the narcolepsy.”
There it was, the Narcolepsy Card.
Gioli pulled his chair closer to Casey’s. “I understand where you’re coming from, bud. You sleep with this girl who’s way out of your league.”
“I didn’t sleep—”
“You hope to score with her again, right? But you hear she’s pregnant and you have this split second when you’re not thinking. You have to get rid of the baby.”
“What?” The entire conversation seemed to freeze, like an over-exposed Polaroid picture, and no amount of shaking it would bring it into better focus.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gioli said, chuckling casually. “This was a one-time thing, right?”
“What was a one-time thing?”
“Disposing of Elena Ortega. You normally wouldn’t do this. You just slipped, right?”
Where did he get this craziness? “I told you, she’s my friend. I care about her. I’ve been looking for her because I’m concerned about her.”
A middle-aged brunette entered the room, wearing a black business suit and matching glasses. “This interview’s over.”
“Are you my attorney?” Casey said.
“That’s right,” she said, turning to the cops. “What do you two think you have on my client?”
Her presence relieved Casey. But from where had she come? Who had summoned her?
“Nice to see you again, Rebecca,” Gioli said. “We don’t have much—just a syringe with poison, motive, and opportunity.”
“What about a body?” Rebecca said.
Meyer smirked. “We’re looking. Maybe your client can lead us to it.”
“No body, no murder,” she said. “Do you even have prints on the needle?”
Gioli said, “We don’t have them back yet.”
“So you have no body, no prints, just evidence recovered after my client relinquished custody of a wrecked car at an unsecured location?”
Gioli started, “The body shop assures us—”
“Come on, Detective.” She placed her hands on her hips and shifted weight. “Every body shop leaves the doors open and most leave the keys in the ignition, for Pete’s sake. Do you have any physical evidence?” She looked exasperated.
The cops said nothing.
“Well, do you?” She looked back and forth at the two detectives, who both glanced at their feet. “You’re throwing spaghetti in the dark, hoping it’ll hit a wall.” She guffawed. “Come on, Casey, it’s time to go home.”
Casey sprang to his feet, smiled at the detectives and followed her out the door. “Thank you, Counselor.”
Rebecca kept walking. “Don’t thank me yet.”
Casey caught up to her. “They can’t possibly charge me, right?”
She glanced at him. “Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of that woman?”
“Hell no.”
“Then don’t worry.”
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“Nell called me.” She opened the door to the lobby and waited for him. “You’re a free man.”
He entered the lobby, and there Nell waited. She rose, smiled, and hugged him. She felt soft and warm and smelled like mangoes. Instinct urged him to press her against the wall and kiss her. Then he remembered they were looking for Elena, and he mentally scolded himself. Still, a guy could be grateful. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Skeeto called, I relayed the news to Rebecca, and came straight here.”
“How do you know Rebecca?”
Nell checked her lipstick in a compact and winked. “She’s one of my best customers.”
The detectives caught up to them in the lobby. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Thread,” Meyer said.
Gioli folded his arms. “Don’t be leaving town.”
Casey and Nell walked out.
13
SATURDAY, JANUARY 22
Hailangelo sat in a red leather chair, gazing up at his Galatea, tracing with his eyes the contour of her hips. He drank another Black Russian, set it down, the ice clinking. The sculptor held out his hands to frame her.
She stood perfectly still on her pedestal, leaning toward him, entreating his embrace, but he would not give it. Could not. “You are looking particularly radiant tonight, my amor,” he said. Was that a faint grin on her face? Yes. Yes, it was. Her concupiscence for him had no bounds; he had convinced himself of it. “I desire to ravage you this very minute,” he said. “But I mustn’t. I am bound to protect you.”
He stood and made a fist. “I cannot rest until all threats to you are eliminated.” He finished his vodka and coffee liqueur and knelt before her, raising his palm at an angle toward her face. “I worked so hard to create you, love, I could not bear to lose you.”
Nearly in tears, he stood on a wooden crate and gently kissed her lips, cupping her cheeks in his hands. He ripped himself away from her magnetism and went to his desk where, on a mannequin head, hung his latex mask he had created. He put it on, covering his entire head and creating the appearance of a real skull, like one might see at an event on Dia de Los Muertos. He had painted the angles to create the illusion of concaved bones.
He turned back to Galatea and pondered what would happen to their love upon death. Hailangelo believed his thoughts and emotions would short circuit. But hers? He giggled. One day, patrons would pay money to see her. Security guards would remove anyone who tried to photograph her. Collectors would covet her. The museum would charge a fee to reproduce her image. She would live forever. He had given their love immortality.
He removed the mask, placed it in his black Calvin Klein briefcase. Hailangelo lifted his needle to the light, tapped it with his fingernail, and squirted a bit of its contents into the air. He placed it in a hard cylindrical container, closed it in the briefcase next to the mask and walked to the door with it. As he left, he blew a kiss to Galatea.
Casey left the police station, called a cab, and rushed back to the football game. He returned just before halftime. In the press box, he sat next to Skeeto and said, “They couldn’t hold up the game for me?”
“The refs asked,” Skeeto said, “but we said you wouldn’t want to impose. How’d you get out so fast?”
“Nell called a lawyer.”
“So you’re clear?”
“I’m innocent. Whether they believe me or not, they have no prints, no evidence whatsoever. Thanks for giving Nell the heads up.”
“No problem.”
On the other side of Casey sat Kenny, who had spotted game stats and interesting tidbits for Casey and the Hail PR staff over the past three years. Kenny was an enthusiastic man in his late forties who had developmental disabilities. He had met Casey and Skeeto a few years prior, when Casey had been a reporter at the Green Bay Times.
Kenny had approached the two at Bay Beach Amusement Park in Green Bay while they sat on a park bench playing music for passersby. They called themselves “The Filing Cabinets,” the squarest name they could imagine, and sang mostly covers of songs written by the Beatles or Bob Dylan. Casey played the guitar and sang while Skeeto laid down funky grooves on his conga. Kenny had heard them play “Zombie Girl,” a bluesy, whimsical song about an ex-girlfriend who happened to be a zombie. Casey sang:
My date for the prom:
Well, she strangled my mom,
She’s a zombie girl
Loves me for my brains.
She’s seven-foot-three
And she’s coming for me,
She’s a zombie girl
She’s a bit insane.
Oooooooooooooooo,
Zom-bie Girl!”
Despite Casey’s slightly off-key performance, Kenny had loved it and had become The Filing Cabinets’ number-one fan. In fact, upon meeting Casey after the gig, Kenny recited all of the lyrics to “Zombie Girl.”
When Casey discovered Kenny had a photographic memory and loved the Hail, he convinced Skeeto to give Kenny a press pass so he could assist with statistics. On more than one occasion, Kenny had calculated player stats and milestones well before the Hail PR team.
Between plays, he would often rock forward and backward, staring into his hands and muttering what he thought the Hail would do next. He occasionally nailed it.
Now, Kenny and Casey watched intently as the Hail battled St. Louis with a minute left in the half. It was the first game in which Narziss had dropped more than one pass, and already he had dropped three.
“Casey?” Kenny said.
“Yeah.”
“Narziss is having a bad game.”
“You’re right. I think he’s distracted.”
“By the cold?”
“No, I don’t think it’s the cold,” Casey said.
Kenny rocked in his chair. “That’s bad for your article. Very bad.”
“Well, not necessarily. Could be interesting to write about how the mighty have fallen.”
“People don’t like to read about the losers. Don’t write about losers, Casey.”
The teams competed hard in the second half. The clock in Hail Stadium read two minutes remaining in regulation. Narziss knelt on the opponents’ forty-five-yard line, head down. Casey couldn’t believe he hadn’t come down with that previous pass. Actually, it was fortunate for the Hail, because it had appeared that he had caught it and fumbled. But the referee ruled him down, no fumble. The fans didn’t seem to mind that the ref blew the call. The faint chorus of boos from some of the vexed fans surprised Casey. Still, Narziss could live down a few drops. Had he literally fumbled the season away, fans would never have forgotten, and might never have forgiven him.
Oakley hurried his Hail teammates to the line of scrimmage so he could hike the ball before the replay officials had a chance to look at the play. The crowd chanted, “Go Hail, go! Go Hail, go!” The cheers energized the home team.
Casey wondered if Narziss had trouble concentrating on the football because his thoughts focused on Elena. Was she dead? Alive in Ecuador? Still carrying the baby?
“Hike!” The center snapped the ball into Oakley’s hands. Fortunately for Narziss, Oakley handed the ball to Marshon Cummings, who ran over the St. Louis defense for a key first down to extend the drive.
On the next play, Hail wide receiver Terrell Sims caught a short pass for a gain of five yards. There were ninety seconds left and the Hail were ahead by six points. Still, if Green Bay didn’t keep the ball, St. Louis would have the chance to score a last-second touchdown, win, and eliminate the Hail from the playoffs.
Hail Mary, the team’s most loyal fan, sat in her usual end-zone seat. Some fans believed that she gave the home team good luck. Casey didn’t; he believed in actions, reactions, talent, skill, and chance. On third down, Oakley handed the ball to Cummings for a sweep run right. A St. Louis linebacker ran through unblocked and tackled Cummings in the backfield for a loss of three yards. St. Louis called time-out.
With seventy seconds left in the game, the Hail needed a first down to seal the victory and advance to the conference championship. As they huddled on fourth down with nine yards to go, Narziss looked at his quarterback. Casey had no doubt the tight end wanted the ball thrown to him.
A streaker ran across the field. In the press box, a burly reporter declared, “I hope he doesn’t drop any balls.” Big Mikey tackled the streaker and landed on him, and the crowd and reporters groaned.
Oakley called the play in the huddle. The Green Bay players lined up. Through binoculars, Casey could see a St. Louis linebacker jawing with Narziss, probably heckling him.
The center snapped the ball and Narziss slipped past the linebacker. Oakley threw the ball to him and with the defender draped on his right arm, Narziss tipped the ball with his left hand and caught it one-handed against his chest.
First down, game over. The crowd erupted. The Hail would advance to the conference championship game. Narziss glared at the dejected linebacker and tossed the ball in his face.
After the game, Hail Coach Bobby Druthers addressed the media. He wasn’t thrilled with the close game after his team had dominated St. Louis earlier in the season.
“Were you surprised to see Narziss drop those passes?” Casey asked.
“No,” Druthers said coolly.
“No?” A national reporter said. “Narziss is your best player.”
“Right,” Druthers said. “And when your best player is distracted during practice all week, it’s predictable that he’d have a lackluster game, too.” Coach Druthers rarely called out a star player in a news conference. When he did, though, it invariably motivated the slumping athlete. It was an unconventional move because most coaches tried to be bosom buddies with all their stars and, unfortunately, it worked as well for coaches as it did for parents.
“Why was Narziss distracted?” Casey doubted Druthers would talk about Narziss’s affair with Elena, but his reaction to the question could indicate how much the coach knew about it.
Druthers shrugged. “Coming out of the bye week can be tough because you gotta get back into the swing of things.”
Coach speak. “Was it something off the field, in his personal life?”
“You’d have to ask him that,” Druthers said. “What I know is what happens in team meetings, practices, and games. He’s a player we need to step up next week in the conference championship game. I’m confident he’ll do that.”
When Narziss arrived at the podium in the media center, he pointed first at the attractive female reporter with long blonde hair and curves.
“Todd,” she said, “Coach Druthers said you had a ‘lackluster’ game. Do you agree?”
Narziss’s grin evaporated. “I certainly didn’t play to my normal standards. But something tells me if you look at the play-by-play recap, you’ll see Todd Narziss made the game-sealing catch for a first down. One-handed. Why don’t you ask me about that?”
None of them did.
A reporter said, “Coach also said you were distracted all week in practice.”
“Coach said that?” Narziss said.
The video of Narziss tossing Casey into the locker had saturated YouTube, and Narziss couldn’t afford any more bad publicity or he’d risk a suspension from the next playoff game. “Todd Narziss’s focus was on the St. Louis defense. We’ll enjoy this victory until we walk out of here—then it’s time to focus on the conference championship game.”
“What do you have to do between now and next weekend to ensure you won’t drop any more passes?” a reporter asked.
“Look, that wasn’t Todd Narziss out there,” Narziss said. “The real Todd Narziss doesn’t drop passes. Remember my last four all-star seasons? Todd Narziss had never, ever dropped more than one pass in a game, not even in high school. And he won’t ever again.”
After Narziss finished, most of the reporters remained in the media room to hear Johnny Oakley’s thoughts on the game. Meanwhile, Casey snuck out and walked down the hallway in the Hail headquarters. He followed an office staffer until she entered the door to the next corridor. Casey caught it before it closed and locked.
He knew from his time at the Green Bay Times that Jane Mota from the Hail’s finance department had all the social security numbers for all the players and team personnel. Casey already had Narziss’s cell-phone account number. If he could get Narziss’s social security number, he could call the wireless provider, pass through the security screen, and find out to whom Narziss had talked the night Elena disappeared.
Security was so tight to get into
the building that most Hail staff left their office doors and drawers unlocked. The computers were password-protected, of course. Casey perused Jane’s desk drawers and two filing cabinets, but found nothing pertinent.
He heard a door open at the far end of the hallway. A deep male voice called, “Jane, you in there?”
Casey cleared his throat and, in falsetto, said, “Yep.”
“Go home,” the man said, and the hall light extinguished. “You sound terrible.”
Casey didn’t move. He heard footsteps and knew he had nowhere to hide. The footsteps grew louder and louder and Casey fell into cataplexy. His head lolled enough that he fell out of the chair and onto the floor. He imagined the headline:
IDIOT FORGETS TO TAKE HIS MEDS FALLS ASLEEP WHILE TRESPASSING
GREEN BAY, Wis. -- Reporter Casey Thread had a sleep attack inside Hail corporate offices after he forgot to take the Vivactil that had previously helped him avoid complete cataplexy, a league source reports.
Lying behind the desk, Casey could see the shadow of someone standing in the doorway. He wished it were Nell.
“Jane?” the voice called. “Jane?” Casey couldn’t see the person’s face. Was it Jane’s boss? The call for Jane grew louder and louder. Casey finally broke free from the narcoleptic trance and shook his head to clear his mind. He peeked around the desk.
The office was empty. Casey slunk to the doorway, looked to the right then the left: empty. The person standing in the doorway had been a hallucination brought on by the sleep attack.
Casey went back into Jane’s office and noticed a manila folder and papers scattered around the floor. He must have knocked them off the desk when he fell. He picked up a stack. One of the pages read: Paid Bonuses. It listed names of Hail employees, their individual bonus payments and the last four digits of their social security numbers.
Bingo.
14
SATURDAY, JANUARY 22
Casey sat across a table from Nell at Oakley’s Steakhouse, the restaurant owned by quarterback Johnny Oakley. A beef-and-fries aroma filled the air. Most patrons wore jeans. Yet a white-haired gentleman in the booth next to them said to his wife, “It’s not every day we get to come to a fancy restaurant.”
Sleep When You're Dead Page 8
