by Mark Troy
"I was pretty sure about the gambling," I said quickly.
Brandon leaned forward and touched my thigh. "Before that. You were shaking. You know this guy, Val?"
"We might've met."
"Met? What's that? Someone introduces you at a party? Val, we're not talking, ‘How ya doing? Love to the kids.' This guy's a powder keg. He beat up a parking attendant once when he found a ding in his car. Turned the kid's kidneys to mush. Julie got a nickel sentence, served one. Another time it was a girl from an escort service. Then there's Mrs. Caesar. She calls for help so often, she sends the 911 dispatchers invitations to her Mary Kay parties. You really know this guy?"
"He was a punk when I knew him. Strictly small time. He was breaking bones for a bookie named Goldie Bergman."
"Bergman, I don't know. Julie's big time now. He moves a mil in bets each month, but the D.A. can't get close to him. He may be big time, but he's still punk in the head. He gets off on breaking bones." Brandon tossed the notepad on the desk and crossed his arms. "I'm asking you again, Val. What are you involved in?"
"I'm trying to keep some players healthy for the game tonight. I don't want any bones broken."
Brandon said, "Speaking of broken bones, this other case you asked about --"
"Letitia Hill?"
"Yeah. She had her neck snapped. The medical examiner says it was probably the impact with the truck she hit that caused it." He pulled a file folder out of a rack of folders and laid it open on the desk. It contained the accident report of the officer in charge, the medical examiner's findings, and some Polaroids snapped by the officer. The photos showed views of all sides of the car. Three photos showed the interior of the car and Letitia's body.
Brandon said, "The accident happened at oh-two-thirty-five. The road was wet from a rain that had passed through shortly before but it wasn't raining at the time of the accident. The highway at that point is four lanes undivided. The driver of a pickup heading south reports that he was coming around a bend in the highway when Letitia crossed the center line into his lane going north. According to the driver, she simply kept going straight and the road turned. He claimed he was doing fifty-five to sixty. Toxicology on him came back negative."
I looked through the folder. Letitia's car was a Honda Civic. No match for the pickup, a half-ton model. The driver had done his best to avoid the accident so the little import wasn't completely crushed.
I picked out one of the photos. "The impact was on the passenger's side?"
Brandon said, "Yeah, towards the rear." He pulled out a sketch of the scene. "The highway bends towards the east at that point. Letitia, instead of making the bend, kept going straight which took her across the path of the truck. She had it on cruise control and never slowed down. No seatbelt. The airbag kept her from going out the windshield. She apparently had a cold because she medicated herself with some cold remedies and codeine. They found a box of cold tablets with some empty bubbles and a prescription bottle of cough syrup with codeine. Traces of the cold medicine and codeine were found in her system."
The M.E. had reached the obvious conclusion. Driving home tired after a late night game, taking medication to fight a cold, she fell asleep with the car on cruise control. She probably never woke up, never saw the truck.
"Brandon, didn't she have a vision restriction on her license?"
He shuffled through papers before replying. "Yes, glasses or contacts. Why?"
"Because I have her contacts. They were among her effects that were returned to the University." I picked up a gruesome photo. "She's not wearing her glasses."
"They could have come off on impact."
"Not likely. These were sports goggles. They don't come off easily. I think she never had them on." I took another look at the photo. It showed Letitia's body twisted in the driver's seat, her head at an odd angle. One leg was fully visible and one partially visible. "What's that on her feet, Brandon?"
He studied it carefully for a minute. "She's wearing socks," he said.
"Heavy socks. Probably wool. And no shoes."
He flipped back through the M.E.'s report. His finger traced down the page. "The victim was clad in . . . wool socks. It doesn't mention shoes. How'd you know they'd be wool?"
"She's a basketball player. When you depend on your feet, you protect them."
"Okay, Val," he said. "No glasses, no shoes, heavy socks. You're going somewhere with this. What does it tell you?"
"It tells me she was dressed for bed, not for driving."
* * * * *
The afternoon team meeting had already started when I arrived back in Santa Christa. Instead of going to the field house, I went to the dorm. They didn't need me there. So far, I had Letitia's suspicions of gambling but I didn't have a strong link between the women and Julie Caesar. Maybe I could find it in their rooms.
I only had to explain to the residence hall advisor that I'd locked myself out of my room and in a matter of minutes I was on my way upstairs with a master key. Getting no response to my knock, I let myself into Beth's room.
Gambling addicts, like alcoholics and drug addicts, leave evidence of their addiction even when they believe themselves to have control over their problem. The evidence is often subtle and easily missed by those who don't want to see it, or who haven't been down that road themselves. I'd been there; I knew what to look for.
Actually, the evidence was so clear as to be almost overwhelming. Each student had a desk and bookcase. The trophies and pictures adorning them told me which belonged to whom if I hadn't already figured it out. On one shelf of Beth's bookcase were some spiral notebooks, several library books, and two dog-eared paperback textbooks with yellow "used" stickers on them. The rest of the shelves were empty. Her roommate, by contrast, had two shelves filled with expensive textbooks and a third shelf holding a music system and CDs. Beth's top shelf had a fine layer of dust in which I could make out a rectangular area that had not quite as much dust as the surrounding sections. It was about the size of a CD player.
I turned to the closets. Typical dorm closets, they were narrow and cramped, seemingly constructed with the fantasy that college women would live a monastic existence. The roommate's closet was so tightly packed, I could hardly fit my hand between the garments. Beth's, on the other hand, had more space between her clothes; about a third of the hangers were empty.
In Beth's desk drawer I found pawn tickets for the CD player, for a watch and for other jewelry; I found receipts from the University bookstore for the sale of her textbooks; I found some department store receipts showing purchases of expensive clothes and other receipts from when she'd returned the items a few days or a week later. Among the receipts, bound with a rubber band, was a stack of credit card bills. According to the statements, Beth had reached her credit limit and her account was past due. She owed $3000. She'd incurred most of the debt through cash advances.
John Pogue shrugged. "Yes. The betting stopped."
I wanted to rip John Pogue's face off. What did he need a nose for? The betting continued right under it. Beth had gotten in so deep she was selling her things and taking cash advances to cover.
In the bottom of her drawer, under the receipts and other things were photocopied sheets listing games, point spreads and odds. On the top of each sheet it said, "Booties' up-to-the-minute Las Vegas Line." On each sheet, Beth had circled three games. She was playing the trifecta -- pick three games at triple the payoff. Of course, you also triple the odds against you, but savvy bettors figure they should be able to pick three winners without any trouble.
I found the same pattern in Terri's room. Terri had not gone in the hole as deeply as Beth, but she was in one all the same.
I returned to my own room and called Brandon Boyle. He'd gotten in touch with Letitia's mother who found the sports goggles in her gym bag.
"We're turning this over to homicide," he said. "My contact at Santa Christa, guy name of Joe Mohr, is anxious to roll up Julie Caesar. Wants you to call him if yo
u get anything else on him."
"Give me the number, Brandon. I think I can help him right now." From my window which looked out onto the drive that went past the athletic dorm, I saw a Range Rover stop. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt and purple pants emerged and approached the dorm entrance. "Julie and his punk just showed up."
"I'll put the call through," he said. "You better look after your girls."
I dropped the receiver into the cradle and ran down the hall to the stairs, took them two at a time. There was nobody at the front door. I went out onto a large covered portico. A cold drizzle had begun falling and there were damp footprints on the concrete floor. I followed the prints into the rain and saw purple hood heading at a fast walk across the lawn towards the Rover.
"Hey!" I called. "What are you doing here?"
He turned and gave me the finger before climbing in the Rover. It sped away.
The glass front door I'd come out of had a paper taped to it. It turned out to be a souvenir game roster. The names of Beth Milgrim and Terri Pryor had been scratched out.
I roused the RA out of her office and told her about the roster on the window. "Don't touch it," I said, "and don't let anyone else touch it. I'll be in the field house." I gave her Joe Mohr's number to call.
At the field house, fans were lined up at the ticket window but the gates were not open yet for the evening game. Athletic officials backed by campus security manned the entrances. I showed my coach's ID to the gate official.
"Any way I could get in without this?" I asked.
"Not unless one of the other coaches walked you in," he said.
Carol had scheduled a light practice -- some walk throughs and shooting drills. It was almost over by the time I reached the court. I spotted Beth with the team but not Terri.
"Carol, where's Terri?" I asked.
"She came down wrong and twisted her knee. We sent her to University Health Center for X-rays. Where have you been?"
"We've got a problem."
Carol called Pogue over and I recounted my findings for them. "Murdered!" Carol said. "But why?"
"I think she found out that Beth and Terri were still placing bets with Julie Caesar. Maybe she planned to tell somebody."
Carol wheeled on Pogue. "You told me the betting had stopped."
"I thought it had," he protested.
"That doesn't matter now," I said. "I'm almost certain the stalkers are Julie and one of his men. I think he's planning to harm Beth and Terri to keep them out of the game."
Carol said, "Terri's out, anyway."
"Campus security can guard Terri at the Health Center. I'll stay here with Beth until game time."
Fear and disbelief vied for control of Carol's face. Disbelief won out. "Val, I can't believe this."
Pogue said, "You and me, both. Coach says the girls were gambling. Maybe they lied to us, but we haven't heard their side of the story. Don't forget the NCAA. They're going to investigate as soon as they get a whiff. What if that comes during recruiting season? Bye bye blue chips, that's what. I say we back off, focus on the game as usual and sort it out when it's all over. We can't afford a distraction."
"And if Val's right about the danger, John?"
"We haven't had any threats."
"The note on the door . . ."
"Who knows what that means? You actually see the guy put it there?"
"No," I said.
"There you have it," Pogue said. "I think you see bad guys in the shadows. That's your occupation. You ask me if some bar owner named Julie Caesar is going to put a hit on one of our players, I'd say you've seen too many movies."
Carol turned to me, her face set. "Val?"
"The truth about our game, Carol, is that I didn't break my hand by accident. Julie Caesar broke it."
Carol nodded. "I'll call the campus police if you'll stay with Beth."
* * * * *
Beth sat on a bench in the locker room, in her shorts and practice jersey, her hair tied back in a ponytail, the ends darkened with sweat. She finished a set of biceps curls and set the hexagonal dumbbells on the floor by her shoes. She peeled off a thick sock and dropped it on top of the dumbbells. She did the same with the other sock and massaged her foot with both hands. Her toes bore eggplant-colored bruises which spread under her toenails -- souvenirs from a season of killer practices.
The other players had changed and left. Carol had gone home. Beth and I were alone in the locker room. From the shower area, came the soft whir of an exhaust fan and the steady splash of a leaky shower. The locker room smelled sweetly of sweat and anti-perspirant, of sports cream and hair mousse.
"So this is all because of a few bets?" Beth asked. "You think that's why these guys are after me?"
"How many bets, Beth?"
"A few."
"A few what? A few dozen? A few hundred?"
"A few, that's all. I don't know how many. I put money in some football pools. Everybody did. Look, I know why you're doing this. You're pissed that I broke your record so you're using this to bring me down. You're jealous. Nobody's after me."
I wanted to slap her. I took a second to calm myself before I said, "Face some facts, girl. You're in trouble and your team is in trouble. You're bringing them down. You have a sickness, Beth, an addiction. It's destroying everything you've done."
"What do you know about it?"
"I've been there."
"You gambled?"
"Yes."
She waved her hand dismissively. "You don't know. It's not gambling; it's life. I can't explain it."
I sat on the bench next to her. "I know the feeling. It's a rush, like a field goal from half court, like a good head fake. It's penetrating traffic to slip the rock into the hole. It's a steal."
She nodded. "Free-falling from 10,000 feet."
"Sometimes it's like falling off a horse, but you want to get back on and break the animal."
Beth, eyes wide in understanding, said, "You know."
"Yes, I know."
She said, "After a game, if I played out of my head, I'd be so up, I'd be floating. I'd need another hit to ease me down. I'd play crazy; I'd pick the longest odds I could find. I even bet on a bridge match. Is that weird?"
I shook my head. "I bet on a fishing tournament."
"Wow," she said. "If I sucked, it was like I was in a black pit and the only way out was to keep playing until I hit one."
If you swing high, you'll have to swing low. Beth swung higher than most people and nothing she could try would smooth out the highs and the lows. I knew the feeling.
"Coach, do you think I need help?" she asked.
"It's not what I think; it's what you think."
"What about these guys who are after me?"
"How deep are you into them?"
She hesitated, looked at the floor, looked at me, spread her hands. "Four . . . five . . . hundred," she said.
I heard the locker room door open and turned to see Julie Caesar.
"Add it again, college girl," Caesar said. "You missed maybe four thousand."
He wore fawn colored slacks, a green silk shirt, buttoned at the throat, and a camel blazer. His gold watch and rings gleamed softly in the light. He had a little more fat on his face than I remembered and his hair had the unnaturally even color of a bottle job. To look at him, you'd guess he was a well-heeled basketball fan, someone who could afford a ticket to a sell-out.
"Four thousand," he said. "Then there's the vig on the loan -- another four thousand. Eight total. You do remember the vig don't you, honey? Or maybe you didn't read the fine print."
Beth stared down at the floor. "I . . . I read the f-fine print," she said.
I said, "How did you get in, Caesar?"
"It's Mr. Caesar to you. You must be that new coach --Lyon, I think I heard."
The slope-shouldered ogre in purple pants and a denim jacket appeared behind Caesar.
I said, "Ms. Lyon, to you. This is a women's locker room. You and your troll don't belong
here."
The troll stepped forward giving me my first good look at him. It did nothing to reassure me. He was about five eight, stocky without being fat. He had a moon-like face which seemed all the rounder because his head was shaved except for a narrow strip of bristles on top. The bristles came to a point above his forehead which bloomed with acne. His eyes were small and bright like a bird's and his mouth was a razor-thin slice. He kept his fists balled up in his jacket pockets.
Caesar looked at me like he was a Rodeo Drive boutique owner and I was a bag lady. He said, "She's the one I told you about, Eddy. It was her and Goldie Bergman and me. Back then she was just a cute college kid without the attitude. Soon as Goldie sits her down she starts crying. It was, ‘Yes sir, Mr. Bergman,' and ‘No sir, Mr. Bergman.'"
Rage filled my throat. I choked on it, found it hard to breathe. I dug my nails into my palms, inhaled deeply through my nostrils and exhaled forcefully. My chest rose and fell heavily. I didn't say anything.
Caesar went on, "You shoulda heard the door hit her hand. Sweet! First the bone cracks like a pistol shot. Then she lets out this scream."
The corners of the slit that passed for Eddy's mouth turned up in what might have been a smile.
I heard a gasp from Beth. "Oh my God," she said. "He did that?"
"It's what he does," I said. "It's how he gets it on, but I'll bet he doesn't get erections much anymore. That's why he brings Eddy along, to do what he can't."
Eddy made a sound like a dog with a bone. He looked over to Caesar as though begging to be released from his chain. The skin on Caesar's face tightened, his neck pulsed and the bit of scar peeking above his collar turned purple. I braced myself but he feigned a yawn and said, "Listen to this. She thinks because she coaches a girl's team she can insult me. What do they pay a girl's coach? Thirty thousand a year? I wouldn't mess with that. I've slapped around hookers who bring in that much in a week."
I said, "So what's eight grand to you, Julie? Let her go."
"It's Mr. Caesar to you," Eddy said.
Caesar said, "What's eight grand to me? It's business, like between you and Goldie. I let her go, word gets around."
