Night Game (7 page)

I didn’t speak to Andy until we were back in the car. Then I exploded.

“How can you work with guys like that?”

“Hey, don’t blame me for some cracker asshole with a badge,” he said.

“He’s a cop. You’re a cop. What’s the difference?”

“You’re a baseball writer. Bill Sanderson’s a baseball writer. What’s the difference?”

“All right. Point taken. But I don’t see how you can stand being in the same business as some of those guys.”

“I can’t,” Andy said. “So I ignore them. I would suggest you do the same.”

“That won’t be hard,” I said. “You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”

“You want to put that in writing? I’d frame it and hang it on my wall.”

“You wish,” I laughed. “To commemorate the one and only time in our entire relationship that you’ve been right about anything.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And now that you’ve got your sense of humour back, can we go eat dinner?”

Later, over coffee in a big, noisy, seafood restaurant with a reputation better than its food deserved, we came back, more calmly this time, to the subject of police.

“I don’t like guys like Barwell any more than you do,” Andy said, “but I can understand why he is the way he is. When you spend your life fighting people who don’t play by the rules, you learn that trusting people can get you into trouble fast. There are a lot of cops who think that anyone who isn’t another cop is potentially a crook.”

“Yeah, and half of them are crooks, too. I bet Barwell’s corrupt.”

“Maybe. It happens,” Andy said.

“And he’s a power freak,” I went on. “That’s something else a lot of cops are.”

“But not me,” Andy said. “If I were, I could never be involved with you.”

“And you are also smarter than other cops.”

“Some,” he admitted.

“And better looking.”

“Indubitably.”

“And sexier.”

“Probably.”

“So what are you doing being a cop?”

We were heading into territory we had ploughed often before.

“I like to catch the bad guys,” he said. “I love my work. I’m good at it. And I won’t stop doing it.”

I took his hand.

“And one of these days one of the bad guys is going to win,” I said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“And I could teach school and get hit by a bus, Kate. I could be a gardener and get struck by lightning, too. My job isn’t that dangerous. And I’m smarter than the bad guys, remember?”

“I know, but you’d be just as dead killed by someone stupid.”

“Enough,” he said, kissing my cheek. “We will grow old together, I promise. As long as you don’t get hit in the head by a foul ball or something.”

Tears came to my eyes. Embarrassed, I looked down at my plate.

“You’re such a wimp,” Andy said, smiling. “I don’t know why I hang around you.”

I laughed and wiped away the tears.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said.

On the way to pay our bill we passed through the bar, where we were hailed by a table full of drunken sportswriters, Jeff among them. I went over to them, and crouched down by Jeff’s chair.

“What the hell did you tell Barwell we were doing on the beach?” I whispered.

“Nothing,” he said. “Talking.”

“That bastard,” I said, then told him what I had gone through.

“It was pretty much the same with me,” Jeff said. “He’s not a very nice man.”

“I think that would be your basic understatement,” I said, getting up. Andy came to the table and joined me.

“Sit down, sit down, have a drink,” said Bill Sanderson. “You can tell us all the gory details.”

“I think I’d rather forget about it,” I said. “But what were the ballplayers saying?”

“They were pretty freaked out,” Jeff said. “The cops were over at the park talking to them.”

“That’s right, she was at their party,” I said.

“Did you tell Barwell about that?” Andy asked.

“No, he didn’t ask about it, and I forgot. Oh great. He probably thinks I was hiding it from him.”

“They found her car parked over by their condos,” Jeff said. “That’s how he found out.”

“Maybe that’s one reason he was so hostile tonight,” I said, to Andy.

“Probably,” he agreed. “That wasn’t very smart of you.”

“How did I know? I saw her there in the afternoon.”

“It seems that nobody admits to seeing her after about midnight,” Jeff said. “She might have been with one of the players, or maybe she just wandered off. Anyway, no one’s saying.”

I glanced at Andy. He looked bored.

“We’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Andy and I drove home in silence. The restaurant was several towns up the coast from Sunland, and I was tired. I had dozed off by the time Andy parked in front of the hotel, right next to the Sunland police cruiser. The dreaded Barwell was sitting in the driver’s seat, drinking coffee from a cardboard cup.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Not again.”

“Maybe he’s not here for you,” Andy said.

“Maybe if we ignore him he’ll go away.”

“Fat chance of that,” Andy said, opening the door.

Barwell looked at us and rolled down his window.

“You lied to me,” he said.

“And good evening to you, too, Detective Sergeant,” I replied.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the Cartwright girl being at the ballplayers’ condo?”

“Because you didn’t ask,” I said. “I’d forgotten about seeing her there, as a matter of fact. It was in the afternoon. I didn’t know there was any connection between that and her death. Do you think there is?”

“Seeing as how that was the last place she was seen alive, it’s a mighty tempting conclusion to draw,” Barwell said, turning off his car and opening the door.

“And since her car was still parked there, it’s a pretty good bet,” he continued. “So maybe you and me should have a little talk about some of those players you’re protecting.”

“Right now?”

“This is a murder investigation, Miss Henry. Murder investigations aren’t a nine-to-five job.”

“All right, you might as well come inside, then,” I said.

When we got to the lobby, I glanced into the bar. It was nearly empty.

“Let’s talk in here,” I said. I wanted to avoid having Barwell contaminate my suite with his foul presence.

“Fine with me,” he said.

“I think I’ll come along,” Andy said. “If I won’t be in your way.”

“Suit yourself,” Barwell said, and walked into the bar. I shrugged at Andy and followed him.

“Bring me a beer, Marge,” he called to the bartender, and led us to a corner table.

“You want anything?” he asked as we sat down. I declined. Andy went for a beer.

“Let’s name names here,” he said. “Which players was Lucy going around with?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m the baseball writer, not the gossip columnist. I don’t concern myself with their private lives. But from what I’ve heard, she’s been involved with a lot of them. And not just the Titans, either.”

“She was a slut, like I said before,” Barwell grunted. “Everybody in town knew that. But only you know which players are the real bad ones. Plus I hear you helped catch the guy who killed a couple of players up there in Toronto a while back.”

“That was Andy’s case,” I said. “I just got caught in the middle. I don’t think I can help you. I can’t imagine that one of the players could be involved.”

“What have you got?” Andy asked.

“Fuck all,” Barwell said. “No weapon, no motive. She was shot at close range, twice, with a .38 revolver. No signs of struggle. Miss Henry and her friend are the closest witnesses we’ve got and they say they didn’t hear or see anything. We figure she was killed at about one-thirty in the morning.”

“And no one saw her after midnight,” I said.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I was talking to some of the sportswriters,” I said.

“What about Ms. Cartwright herself?” Andy asked. “Is there any drug involvement, or any old grudges around?”

“She smoked grass is all,” Barwell said, “There are a lot of old lovers, but none of them stand out as a suspect. People didn’t necessarily approve of Lucy, but they mostly liked her.”

“So you’ve got a lot of hard slogging ahead of you,” Andy said. “I don’t envy you. It’s the worst kind of case. I had one like it a few years ago. Turned out to be some kind of religious nut, one of those anti-abortion demonstrators. He said that God had told him to destroy the harlot.”

“We’ve got plenty of those around here,” Barwell said.

I had to put up with an hour of shop talk before we finally left. Cops have bonds that go deeper than personalities, and the two of them had a good old time sucking back the beers and reminiscing about all the criminals they had outsmarted.

Later, when we were going to sleep, I questioned Andy about his ability to cozy up to such a creep.

“He’s not so bad,” he said. “Besides, look on the bright side. I don’t think he’s going to give you a hard time anymore, now that he realizes what a fine fellow I am.”

Andy was right. Barwell apparently forgot about me, and we were able to enjoy the last two days of the long weekend without any interruptions. We drove down the coast to a bird sanctuary on Sunday, which was a page out of the tourism brochures, so warm and sunny that just breathing in the soft air can make you giddy. The whole body opens up and relaxes, as if a winter’s worth of chill has finally been driven from the marrow of your bones.

Andy got all thrilled about some sandpipers he’d never seen before. They all look alike to me, beige and boring. I like the birds that sing in the trees and have pretty colours, not the ones that skitter around the sand looking silly. Andy’s been a birder for years, though, and I’m just an apprentice weirdo. Still, it was nice to be away from chain restaurants and highways, in a place of quiet and peace and pleasures that weren’t manufactured. It must have been very beautiful in this state before the people got here.

Monday afternoon, which came awfully quickly, I drove him to the airport in St. Petersburg and waved him on his way, wishing I was going with him. I don’t like spring training. Florida is too bland for me, and the baseball that’s played here is meaningless. And Andy’s leaving just reminded me how often we would be apart during the long season ahead.

So I was feeling pretty sorry for myself again when I got back to the hotel and found the message light in my room blinking imperiously. Jake Watson was looking for me, and Gloves Gardiner had called. Strange. Players seldom call reporters. I answered Jake’s call first. He wasn’t at his desk, but the switchboard tracked him down for me in The Final Edition, the bar on the first floor of the
Planet
building.

“Holidays over,” he said. “I’ll need something for tomorrow on the arrest.”

“What arrest?”

“Domingo Avila’s.”

“What for?”

“For murdering that girl.”

“Lucy? You’re kidding.”

“It happened at three this afternoon.”

“I was at the airport.”

“Well, find out what you can and file as soon as possible,” Jake said.

“What’s Jeff doing on it?”

“I can’t find him either. If you see him, tell him to call. Figure out between you who’s going to write what.”

I hung up, then dialled Gloves’s number. He answered on the first ring. There were other voices in the background.

“Can you come over?” he asked. “We’ve got to get Dommy out of jail, and we need your help.”

“Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got to file a story first. Tell me what you know. Like, when and where was he arrested?”

“At the ballpark. We were playing an intersquad game. They came and got him. Took him away in handcuffs.”

“Like, right off the field?” I asked. “Sorry if I sound ghoulish, but I need to know for my story.”

“They didn’t even wait until the inning was over. The cops told me to call time out, and went into left field and got him.”

“What inning?”

“Jesus, Kate. The fourth. Top of the fourth.”

“Did they take him in his uniform?”

“No, they let him change into street clothes.”

“Do you know who made the arrest?” I asked.

“Big, cold-looking guy. In good shape.”

“Troy Barwell? Detective Sergeant Barwell?”

“Could be.”

“I’d better call him.”

“Are you going to be able to get over here tonight? A bunch of the guys are here, and we want to do something about it.”

“An hour, maybe two, depending on whom I can get to fast.”

“Okay.”

“Just one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you keep on playing?”

Gloves laughed.

“What do you think? Olliphant had us back out there in fifteen minutes. One of the other kids played left.”

“I’ll see you later, if I can.”

“We’ll be up. Call when you are done.”

I got off the phone and called the police station. I got right through to Barwell.

“I don’t have to say anything to you,” he said.

“Just give me a quote I can use in my story.”

“We are satisfied on the evidence that we have the right man,” he said. “The apparent murder weapon was found in Mr. Avila’s possession, for one thing.”

“He had it on him?”

“We found the weapon in the accused’s apartment. It was an illegally obtained firearm. We have charged him with illegal possession as well as murder in the first degree.”

“Has he got a lawyer yet?”

“The team has contacted an attorney, yes,” Barwell said. “He is meeting with the accused at the moment.”

“Could I have his name?”

“Buford Whitehead.”

“Buford? It sounds like something out of a Tennessee Williams play.”

“Mr. Whitehead is a very well-known attorney in this area,” Barwell said. “The Titans are sparing no expense.”

“That’s something,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Will there be a bail hearing? What is the next step?”

“He will appear before the judge at the Pinellas County courthouse in St. Petersburg for an advisory hearing tomorrow morning at ten,” Barwell said.

“I’ll be there,” I answered. “I assume that the press is allowed.”

“Welcomed, Miss Henry. A free press is a cornerstone of our democracy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

Next, I called the office of the Sunland weekly newspaper, the
Sentinel
, and found the editor, Cal Jagger, at his phone. I had met him a couple of times at the ballpark, and he seemed to be a guy who would know what was going on. He remembered me and told me what he knew. For one thing, that Whitehead was the most high-profile criminal lawyer on this side of the state, working out of Tampa, the nearest big city. He specialized in murder and other big lost-cause cases.

“I tell you, Kate, when Buford Whitehead defends someone, they get the best defence there is,” Jagger said. “There are some that call him the criminal’s best friend. Cops and state attorneys don’t think much of him, but I’ll tell you one thing, he sure keeps them on their toes.”

“I guess.” I said. “Do you have a morgue down there, by the way? Any back issues?”

“Sure, what do you want?”

“Some background on Lucy Cartwright. I knew her from around the ballpark, but I don’t really know much about her past. I thought I’d come by and take a look.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve just pulled the file for a story I’m doing for this week.”

“Is there much?”

“Not really. Some pictures—you know those in happier times’ shots papers run when someone has died.”

“Yeah, like the wedding picture of the couple in the murder-suicide pact.”

“You got it,” he chuckled. “Anyway, there’s one of the high-school cheerleading squad about five years ago, a graduation picture, and another one when she won a prize at the tri-county science fair.”

“When was that?”

“Let’s see. When she was in junior high. She won second prize for a genetics project, breeding gerbils.”

“She was a good student, then?”

“You sound surprised.” he said.

“Well, I guess she didn’t strike me as a very serious person,” I admitted.

“She was top of her class all the way.”

“How come she didn’t go to college?”

“Money. Her mother works as a bartender in one of those raw bars on the beach. Her stepfather wouldn’t give her the money to go to college, so she got a scholarship at the junior college in St. Pete’s, and worked for the magazine to make money for books.”

“You seem to know her pretty well,” I said.

“I know most people in this town,” he said. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“Can I come and talk to you tomorrow about this?”

“Sure,” Jagger said. “It’s press day, but we’ll have put the paper to bed by around seven. I’ve got beer in the fridge, and I’ll be able to give you my full attention. If that’s not too late for you. We can probably help each other out.”

“I’ll see you then,” I said.