Quarterback Trap
A Carlos McCrary Novel
By Dallas Gorham
Quarterback Trap is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Seven Oaks Publishing LLC, all rights reserved.
Excerpt from Dangerous Friends, copyright 2015 by Seven Oaks Publishing LLC, all rights reserved. This excerpt has been set for this edition and may not reflect the final content of the edition when released.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9915851-7-5
150305
Cover art by Michael By Design www.MichaelByDesign.com
Chapter 1
The woman stumbled through the elevator door of the parking garage, catching her spike heel in the crack. Goddammit. Why did I wear these shoes? She glanced at her watch: 3:30 a.m. She pressed the keyfob of her rental car. As she looked up, she jerked to a halt at the sight of a dirty white van parked a few feet away, its side door open.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind. Her red Prada purse fell to the pavement, spilling its contents. Her cellphone skittered a few feet, coming to rest under the edge of the van.
Two men half-carried, half-dragged her toward the van door.
“What the hell...?” she sputtered.
One of them shoved her through the open door of the van and across the second row bench toward the far wall where a second man grabbed her arm. He climbed in after her. “Grab her purse and find that cellphone.”
The man outside the van jerked the sliding door closed, scooped up the purse and phone, and trotted around to the driver’s door. He jumped in, tossed the items onto the front passenger seat, and started the engine. As the van drove away, a tire crushed the keyfob to the woman’s rental car.
Chapter 2
Bob Martinez, starting quarterback for the New York Jets, eased through the crowd toward my table, fist bumping and high-fiving as he went.
I stood and waved. Bob was a half hour late. That wasn’t like him.
“Hey, Eighty-Eight, great to see you,” he said in Spanish.
I had to smile. “I haven’t worn number eighty-eight in years, Bob.”
“You’ll always be Eighty-Eight to me.”
We shook hands and Bob pulled out a chair. He continued in Spanish. “This my breakfast?” He lifted the stainless steel covers from the two plates. “Pass the salsa, please.”
I slid the dish across the table. When Bob spoke Spanish, it meant something was bothering him. I went along and switched to Spanish. “Two orders of huevos rancheros with brown rice and refritos on the side, like your text said.”
“Thanks, buddy. Sorry I’m late. It’s always a madhouse when I’m in public.” He checked his phone before he smothered his food with salsa. “I never know how long it’ll take to get anywhere.”
“It goes with the territory. When you’re starting in the Super Bowl, everyone wants a piece of you. It must be tough to handle so much attention. It’s like you’re on stage all the time.”
“You do what you gotta do.” Bob looked at his phone again and frowned. He dug into his huevos rancheros. “These folks are football fans; it wouldn’t be right to ignore them.”
“Your text didn’t say what to order for Graciela. Where is your gorgeous fiancée?”
For an instant, there was a look in Bob’s eyes, then it was gone. He stuffed a forkful of huevos in his mouth. “Gracie doesn’t eat breakfast; I thought you knew.” He rolled a tortilla in his fingers.
A small boy approached the table and waited for my friend to notice him.
Bob set down the tortilla and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Hey, sport. How’s it going?” He’d switched to English.
The boy blushed and blurted out, “How come everybody calls you the Mexican Muscle?”
Bob grinned at the nervous youth. “What’s your name, son?”
“Travis McKinnon, sir.”
Bob shook hands. “Bob Martinez. Pleased to meet you, Travis.”
Over the boy’s shoulder, Bob saw a middle-aged man in a Jets tee-shirt watching from a nearby table. The man smiled and shrugged. “Is that guy in the Jets shirt your dad?”
Travis glanced back at the man. “Yes, sir. I asked him why they call you the Mexican Muscle. He said he didn’t know.”
“Lots of people ask me that. A sportswriter on a Cleveland newspaper came up with the nickname when the Browns drafted me a few years ago. I’m Mexican-American like my friend Eighty-Eight here, and I’m kinda big. The nickname stuck, even when the Browns traded me to New York.”
The boy turned to me. “Why does he call you Eighty-Eight? Do you play for the Jets too?”
“No,” I answered. “I wore number eighty-eight when Bob and I played together at Theodore Roosevelt High School. I was a tight end.”
“Oh.” Travis turned back to Bob. “Can I take your picture, sir?”
“Sure thing.” Bob waved the boy’s father over. “Why don’t you take a picture of Travis and me together?”
While the boy’s father took out his camera, Bob turned to the boy. “Did you know that where I was born, Travis is a famous name?”
Travis’s eyes grew wider. “Where’s that, sir?”
“Texas. William Barrett Travis was a hero of the Alamo. Lots of people in Texas are named after him.”
“I’m from New York.”
“Well, I am too—now. I live in New York City.” He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder, and they both faced the camera. “Say ‘Go Jets.’”
After giving Travis’s father a fist bump, Bob picked up the tortilla and used it to scoop eggs onto his fork. “Kids like that make it worth all the hassle.”
My friend should have been on top of the world with the Super Bowl a week away, but instead he looked troubled. “Bob, you speak Spanish when something’s bothering you. What’s on your mind, amigo? Does it have anything to do with you checking your phone every five seconds?”
He switched back to English. “I’m sure it’s nothing, really, Eighty-Eight.” He scooped up a mouthful of rice.
“When a guy says ‘it’s nothing, really,’ it means there’s something there. What is it?”
Bob’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Gracie wasn’t there when I woke up this morning.”
“Wasn’t where?”
“In our hotel suite. In our bed, for God’s sake. The players have a curfew before a big game, and there’s no game bigger than the Super Bowl. I left the party at 10:30 last night. Gracie was having a good time, said she wasn’t ready to leave. Told me she’d be along later and not to wake her in the morning. She wanted to sleep in.”
He drank some orange juice. “When the alarm went off at six, she wasn’t there. Her side of the bed hadn’t been slept in. I’ve been calling and texting every few minutes since then. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Frankly, I’m freaking out a little.” He finished the first order of huevos rancheros and started on the refried beans.
“Did you go look for her?”
Bob continued to eat mechanically. “That’s why I was late to meet you, buddy. I checked with the front desk. Then I went to the concierge in case she’d left a message, a note, anything. Nobody’s seen her this morning.”
“Has Gracie ever done anything like this before?”
“What do you mean ‘like this’?”
“Disappeared—without telling you.”
Bob looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby. He lowered his voice. “Once or twice...when she was snorting.”
“Snorting? You mean cocaine? That’s bad news.”
“Don’t I know it.” Bob drank the rest of his juice and signaled the server to bring more. “I’m scared as hell that Gracie scored some coke last night after I left. She could be off god-knows-where doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who.” He ate without enjoyment, refueling an empty tank. He ate the last morsel of rice from the first plate, set it aside, and tackled the second plate.
I sipped my coffee. “When the three of us had dinner in New York two weeks ago, she seemed fine.”
“She doesn’t talk about her, ah, former problem.”
“I never heard any rumors that Gracie was addicted.”
Bob shrugged. “We managed to keep it out of the papers. I sent her to rehab last summer under another name while I was at training camp. She stayed there through the pre-season and came out to watch our season opener against the Steelers. She’s been clean ever since.” He frowned and poked at his food. “At least that’s what she told me.”
I thought maybe I could help. “What do you intend to do about Gracie?”
“I don’t know what to do, Eighty-Eight. I gotta go to the airport in an hour to ride into town on the team buses, then we got a team meeting after that. I can’t look for her any more this morning.”
“Would you like me to find her for you?”
“Hey, that’s right. You’re a private detective.” Bob’s mood brightened. “Can I hire you to find Gracie for me?”
“Bob, you only make fifteen million dollars a year. You sure you can afford me?”
“Don’t forget the endorsement deals, Eighty-Eight. They’re good for another thirty million. Where do you want to start?”
I pushed the plate aside and pulled a notepad from my pocket. “Where was the party?”
Chapter 3
I pressed my way through the hotel lobby, dodging dozens of people wearing New York green and white or Dallas blue and silver.
The concierge desk took up a large chunk of one wall. Banners for both teams hung on the wall behind the desk, the Super Bowl logo between them. Two men and a woman in hotel uniforms stood behind the marble desk.
I read the nametag of the nearest concierge. “David, is Ronald here?”
“That’s him.” He turned to the other man. “Hey, Ron, this guy wants to talk to you.”
Ronald walked over. “How may I help you, sir?”
“I’m trying to locate Graciela Perez, Bob Martinez’s fiancée. Have you heard anything from her since Bob was here earlier?”
“Are you a guest in the hotel?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I know Mr. Martinez and Ms. Perez by sight, but I don’t know you. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m Chuck McCrary.” I showed him my private investigator’s license. “Bob’s a friend. I’m doing this as a favor—not professionally. You keep guest confidences, right?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Graciela was a no-show at breakfast. Bob’s concerned about her. I offered to see if she’s all right. They may have gotten their signals crossed. Can you help me out?”
“I saw Ms. Perez and Mr. Martinez yesterday when I handed them their dinner reservations, but I haven’t seen Ms. Perez since. Sorry. Did you try their suite?”
###
I knocked and waited. I didn’t expect Graciela to answer; she hadn’t answered when I’d called from the concierge desk. I knocked again, then opened the door with Bob’s keycard.
“Gracie. Are you here? It’s Chuck McCrary. Hello?”
Silence.
I stuck the Do Not Disturb card in the key slot and closed the door. The maid had not serviced the room. Two soft drink cans were half-crumpled on the coffee table. Yesterday’s newspaper was scattered on the floor. A laptop on the desk was plugged into an outlet in the base of the desk lamp.
When I crossed the bedroom, I noticed the bed sheets mussed on one side only. I opened the walk-in closet and studied the clothes hanging there. Bob’s clothes used about three feet of the left closet rod; Gracie’s took the rest.
The shelf above the rod held two pink suitcases with the initials GP. One pink suitcase was empty except for the normal travel refuse of a packet of instant decaffeinated coffee and a few wrinkled packets of coffee creamer and sugar-free sweetener. The other suitcase had a highway map of New Jersey in a zipper compartment.
On the right, a variety of women’s clothing in various lengths, styles, and colors was wedged into the eight-foot length of the closet rod. Just what I would expect from a fashion model. Four boxes sat on the shelf above the rod, and a dozen or more pairs of shoes lay haphazardly on the floor. I picked two shoes at random—one was size seven, the other a seven-and-a-half. Two negligees hung inside the closet door. A faint hint of perfume filled the air.
I took the boxes off the shelf. Two contained purses. Each purse was empty except for a small pill box with two kinds of colored pills. The third box held a larger purse with a similar pill box and an envelope folded into a zipped inner compartment. Inside the envelope, I found a baggie containing white powder. This can’t be good, I thought.
Sticking my fingertip into the powder, I touched a little to my tongue. Almost instantly my tongue was numb. Cocaine. The fourth box was empty. I replaced the boxes.
Under Bob’s side of the bed were two brown leather suitcases. Three more pink suitcases lay beneath the other side.
The bathroom shelf held the usual toiletries, but shoved to the back of a cabinet drawer, I found two prescription bottles in Graciela’s name: methamphetamine and an anti-anxiety drug advertised on television. The pills looked like the same pills I’d found in the purses. She keeps a supply of diet pills and tranquilizers in all her purses, I thought. “Don’t leave home without it.”
I opened the first of three louvered doors—the toilet compartment. The seat was up. That figured. Bob would have been the last one to use the toilet.
Another door led to the bathtub. Beauty-salon brand shampoo and conditioner sat on the edge of the bathtub. The used soap in the dish was damp. So was the towel crumpled in the tub. The bathmat showed small footprints pressed in the plush nap. They looked like size seven.
A third door opened to the shower room. Bob’s shampoo and a plastic hair scrubber sat on the marble shelf. Bob’s soap was wetter than the soap on the bathtub. A towel lay across another plush bathmat, this one with Bob’s large footprints in the nap.
I went into the kitchen. The only thing of note was a pink tablet computer plugged into an outlet. I stuck it in my briefcase.
Chapter 4
I waited outside the locker room at the Jets practice stadium for the team meeting to conclude. Bob walked out the door with a group of football players and waved at me.
I walked him out to the field and we sat on a sideline bench. “Here’s your keycard back.”
Bob slipped the card into his pocket. “What did you find in my room?”
“Is that pink tablet computer Gracie’s?”
“Yeah.”
“I took it in case we need to examine it later. That okay with you?”
“Sure. Long as you bring it back.”
“Good. Does Gracie take birth control pills?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“There weren’t any in the bathroom cabinet or drawers. How many bags did she bring to Port City?”
“Oh, geez, let me think…She had five suitcases and an overnight bag.”
“The overnight bag wasn’t in your room.”
Bob frowned and started to say something, then stopped. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s all right. One more thing, when you got up this morning, was the toilet seat up or down?”
“I didn’t notice.”
<
br /> “It’s important, Bob. Close your eyes and think back to this morning.”
Bob closed his eyes. Then he opened them so wide that the whites showed all around. “The seat was down, and I left it up when I went to bed last night.”
“Gracie returned to your room while you were asleep. She took a bath, packed an overnight bag, and left before you woke up.”
“Jesus, now I’m really freaking out.” Bob turned as another player approached. “Just a sec, Bomber. I’m talking with an old high school buddy here. Be with you in a few.” He lowered his voice. “How do you know she took a bath?”
“I have magical powers. Also, I found damp soap and a damp towel in the tub, and woman-sized footprints on the bathmat.”
“I should have noticed that stuff.”
“Nah. You couldn’t see the tub from the shower. And raising a toilet seat is second nature to any man.”
Bob shrugged. “I understand Gracie being quiet when she come back to the room so as not to wake me; she’s real considerate like that. And I understand her taking a bath before bed. But why would she pack a bag and leave again in the middle of the night?”
“It looks like she planned to skip out on you.”
“Why?”
“I intend to find out.”
Chapter 5
The time index on the computer monitor read 02:21:24. The surveillance video showed Graciela exiting the elevator on the thirty-seventh floor. She walked unsteadily down the corridor in a gold lamé dress, carrying matching gold sling-back stiletto shoes in her left hand. A gold-sequined evening purse with a long gold chain hung near her waist. She clutched the purse in her right hand like she was afraid it was planning an escape.
I remembered that same dress hanging in the closet of Bob’s hotel suite. I had seen the matching purse in a box on the shelf above. The shoes had been dropped on the closet floor. Wherever she’d gone, she’d changed clothes.
“Is that who you’re looking for?” Wally, the hotel security guard glanced at his watch.
Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3) Page 1
