Vanishing Act (12 page)

“Thirty–love,” he heard the umpire say.

Makarova wasn't, as far as Stevie could tell, nearly as tall or as attractive as Symanova. She was probably five foot seven and, if truth be told, a tad on the chunky side for a tennis player. But Stevie could see she had great power and was surprisingly quick as she sprang to the net to put away a volley that made it 40–love.

The changeover could come on the next point. Stevie turned his attention from the court to the stands, which were no more than half-full—a fact that would no doubt annoy the Makarovs. There was a small media section only a few feet from where he was standing but there was no one there whom he recognized. He searched the stands, hoping he would get lucky—and he did. Sitting directly across from where he was standing, about three-quarters of the way up, all by himself, was Brendan Gibson. He was easy to pick out because there was no one around him and he was wearing the agent's uniform. Stevie knew there had to be a family-seating section someplace close to the court, but he figured Gibson wouldn't be seen with the Makarovs in public just yet.

“Okay, kid, you can go now.”

It was the usher. He looked up and saw the two players walking to their chairs. Makarova had held serve to lead 4–1. He walked quickly behind the court and began climbing up the stairs to where Gibson sat. When Gibson saw him, his face registered surprise. Then he gave him a big smile. “Hey, Stevie, what brings you out here?” he said, waving him to come join him. “What have you done with my niece?”

Stevie tried to make sure he returned the smile. He was remembering the old reporting adage about asking the easy questions first. “I just went out to get a hamburger and she wasn't hungry,” he said. “And I wanted to see Makarova play a little.”

“Well, you better watch fast,” he said. “I don't think this match will take very long.” He pointed at a clock on the scoreboard that showed how long the match had been going on. It was just flipping to :20, meaning Makarova was on her way to winning the match in under an hour if this continued.

Stevie sat down in the empty area near Gibson. The upper part of the stands was just plastic benches without chair backs. The view was very good, though—the Grandstand probably didn't seat more than four thousand, so their angle looking down from twenty rows up was just about perfect. He heard the umpire call “Time,” so he dropped his voice as Stafford lined up her first serve. She hit what looked to Stevie like a pretty good serve, only to watch as Makarova stepped into it and slugged a crosscourt backhand winner that Stafford didn't even bother trying to chase down.

“Love–15,” the umpire said.

“So what brings
you
out to this match?” Stevie said quietly.

Brendan Gibson was staring at the court. “Huh? Oh. Just a little scouting mission.”

Since he knew Susan Carol had already asked him about the Makarova rumors, there was no sense playing completely dumb. “You mean because Makarova's available?”

“Uh-huh. But don't believe the rumors I know you and Susan Carol have heard. We're a small agency. She's a very big fish. One of the giants will reel her in.”

“Really? Sounded like you had a pretty good hook in last night.”

What the hell, Stevie figured as he watched Makarova crush another forehand. Might as well go for it.

Gibson's eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Stevie. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“I was still awake when you got home last night.”

Brendan Gibson looked at him as if trying to decide what to say or do next.

“Game Makarova. She leads 5–1.”

“I know that. I got you a Coke. So what?”

“So I heard you talking to the Makarovs. I heard you toasting your new relationship.”

“Didn't your parents ever tell you it's wrong to eavesdrop?”

“Didn't
your
parents tell you it's wrong to lie—especially to a niece who worships you!”

Stevie knew his voice, even though he was speaking in a loud whisper, was too loud. He could feel his heart pounding. He had never called a grown-up a liar before.

Much to his surprise, Gibson smiled. “Look, Stevie, you don't understand my business. Nothing has been signed yet. If it gets out that the Makarovs are going to go with me before they actually sign the contract, the other agencies will come in and try to blow me out of the water. They'll offer to cut their fees and they'll tell the Makarovs that I'm not experienced enough to get them the kind of deals and publicity they're looking for.”

“So that means it's okay to lie to Susan Carol? Why didn't you just ask her to keep it quiet? She thinks you're the coolest guy going. She'd do anything for you.”

“Does she know you're here cross-examining me as if I committed a crime?”

“
No.
She's angry with me for even questioning you.”

“Game and first set Makarova.”

The applause rose as the players started to change ends again. It had taken Makarova twenty-seven minutes to win the first set.

“Maybe you're right, Stevie,” Gibson said, picking up as soon as the umpire stopped talking. “Maybe I should have confided in Susan Carol. But what's the big deal? I'm just starting in this business, and getting Makarova would be a huge hit for me. Why does that matter so much to you?”

“Because I'd like to know just how huge a hit it would be,” he said, feeling himself start to sweat profusely. “And just what you would do to get the Makarovs to sign with you.”

Brendan Gibson's eyes opened wide. He had figured out where Stevie was going with this. “Are you actually accusing me of kidnapping?” he said. “Susan Carol said something about people thinking me being involved with the Makarovs might somehow be tied to Symanova's disappearance. Now I know where she got it, from the wild and overheated imagination of her rude—not to mention completely out of his mind—friend!”

He stood up just as the umpire called “Time” again. “I'm going to sit someplace else,” he said. “I'd recommend you find someplace else to stay. You're really not welcome in my home. I'm sure you can stay with your boy Kelleher or someone else.”

He was gone before Stevie could get another word out of his mouth. He sat and stared at Gibson's back as he walked down the stairs. What had he just done? Had he flushed a guilty conscience? Or had he genuinely angered an innocent man?

He was sure of only two things: he needed to find a place to sleep tonight, and he needed to talk to Susan Carol before her uncle did. Because if he didn't, she might not speak to him.

Ever.

12:
OLD FRIENDS…AND NEW

STEVIE WAS
relieved when he saw that Brendan Gibson wasn't leaving the match, merely changing seats to get away from him. He watched him pick out another empty spot at the far end of the court. That meant he had a chance to find Susan Carol and talk to her before her uncle did.

He waited impatiently until the next changeover so he could leave. Naturally, leading 2–0, Makarova struggled in the next game. She played through three deuces before finally hitting a gorgeous drop shot to make it 3–0, allowing Stevie to get up and leave. He glanced in the direction of Gibson as he walked out, wondering if he was watching him. He couldn't tell—he was talking on a cell phone, which was technically against the rules. Whoo boy, Stevie thought, if he's on the phone with Susan Carol, I'm a dead man.

He practically sprinted back across the plaza, almost knocking people over on several occasions and eliciting commentary that would not have been allowed on network TV. He thought about calling Susan Carol on his cell phone but then remembered it was tucked safely—and uselessly—inside his computer bag. Breathing hard, he charged into the media center and found it almost empty. It was the middle of the day and most people were out watching matches. If there was anything new on Symanova, there was no sign of it anywhere. He walked over to Kelleher's desk and found no one around. Then he saw the note with his name on it: “Stevie, Mary Carillo took me down to the CBS studio to look around. Come meet me if you're back by 2. Follow the signs in the hallway that say TV studios—Susan Carol.”

Stevie looked at his watch. It was one-forty-five. He wondered if the note had been written before or after he'd seen her uncle talking on his cell phone. There was only one way to find out. He was walking back out the door when he saw Bud and Anita Collins walking in. “Stefano!” Collins said, greeting him with a hug. “Where have you been? Björkman pulled up lame in the second set, poor fellow. Probably worn out from the qualifiers. We went to lunch in the corporate village. I'd have liked to have taken you and Susan Carol.”

That reminded Stevie that he was hungry again. “Oh, I went to watch Makarova play a little. I'd never seen her.”

“Well, judging by the scores, you didn't see much of her,” Collins said. “But she
is
impressive. So strong. Reminds me of a young Navratilova.”

“Has anyone heard anything new on Symanova?” Stevie asked.

“The USTA has announced a press conference at three o'clock,” he said. “That gives me seventy-two minutes to write my column and then I'll do a news story after the press conference.”

“Can you believe they're making a seventy-five-year-old man work this hard?” Anita said.

“It's no big deal,” Collins said.

“Only because you love it,” his wife answered.

“Well, I'm going to go find Susan Carol,” Stevie said. “I guess she's down in the CBS studio with Mary Carillo.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Collins said. “They're nice people.”

He left the two of them and started down the hall, figuring Kelleher was right when he said there wasn't anyone Collins
didn't
like. It concerned him a little that here he was, not quite fourteen, and already more cynical about people than Bud Collins was at seventy-five.

As instructed, he followed the signs. None of the doors were actually marked, so he ducked his head into two wrong doors before he finally found the right place. “Back here, Stevie,” he heard Carillo say as he was starting to explain himself to the woman at the front desk.

He walked back a few steps and found himself in a large office/lounge area. There were two desks in the room and two couches. He immediately recognized two of the people on the couches: Bill Macatee, who he knew had been doing tennis and golf for CBS for years, and Patrick McEnroe, younger brother of John, who was now both the U.S. Davis Cup captain and a tennis analyst for CBS and ESPN. In fact, it seemed as if every time he turned on a TV set to watch tennis, Patrick McEnroe was doing the match. They both nodded hello at him before his attention was diverted by Carillo, coming out of a back room. She was sipping coffee. So was Susan Carol. Stevie decided against a lecture on the evils of caffeine.

“Where have you been?” Susan Carol asked. “You're sweating like you just played a match.”

She was right. He hadn't even noticed until just now. “It was hot in the sun in the stadium,” he said.

“Really?” Carillo said. “The media seating's in the shade.”

Whoops.

“Yeah, I know,” Stevie said, stalling. “But I…decided to sit down close because there were so few people watching the match.”

“The ushers didn't stop you?”

“Um, no. I guess they figured it was okay since the seats were empty.”

That seemed to satisfy Carillo. The look on Susan Carol's face told Stevie she wasn't buying. He decided to change the subject.

“So what have you guys been reporting about Symanova?” he asked, directing the question at all three CBS people.

Macatee laughed. “They've brought in our news department to handle it,” he said. “They don't think we jocks are capable of handling real news. Plus, the sports people are afraid if we do any real reporting, the USTA will get in a snit, and they don't want that.”

“I heard they wouldn't let USA Network call it a kidnapping yesterday when everyone else was already calling it that,” Stevie said.

“Exactly,” Macatee said, shaking his head. “They can't push CBS around like that because we pay them a lot of money. But they can make their position pretty clear. We've all been pulling our hair out about what we can and can't do for the last twenty-four hours.”

Macatee had, as far as Stevie could see, the most perfect head of hair on Earth. Carillo read his mind. “Billy is speaking metaphorically, of course,” she said.

Stevie turned to Susan Carol. “The USTA press conference is at three,” he said, not saying anything they all didn't already know. “I'm hungry. Will you go with me to get a hamburger first?”

“I thought you were getting one before….”

“I got distracted.”

“That reminds me,” Carillo said. “I gotta get some makeup on. We're going live from the press conference. I hear they're announcing something important but it's very hush-hush. I can't get anyone to tell me anything.”

“There you go being a reporter again,” McEnroe said.

“You should know better.”

Susan Carol put down her coffee. “Okay, Ravenous One, let's go feed you. I'm a little bit hungry myself.”

“I'll see you guys at the press conference,” Carillo said, walking into a room marked
MAKEUP
.

They shook hands with Macatee and McEnroe and made their way to the door. Once they were in the hallway, Susan Carol stopped, looked around, and said in a quiet voice, “Okay, now tell me what you've really been up to.”

“I will,” he said. “Let's go for a walk.”

They walked back outside onto the plaza and through the big midday crowd to the food court.

“You get a table,” Stevie said. “I'll get a hamburger. Then I'll fill you in.”

“Get me…”

“I know, a bottle of water.”

“Actually, I think it's time I try one of those hamburgers,” she said. “Get me one too.” She started to pull money out of her skirt pocket but Stevie waved her off. “It's on me.”

He walked up to the counter, thinking, Because it might be the last time you ever eat with me.

She had found a table right on the edge of the food court. He put the food down, then took a swig of the water he had bought and a deep breath. “Okay, I might as well just tell you everything from the beginning,” he said. “If you hate me, you hate me.”

“I won't hate you,” she said. “I might disagree with you, but I won't hate you. Just tell me what the heck's going on.”

He started from the beginning, going from accidentally overhearing her uncle's arrival in the apartment right through their hostile conversation in the Grandstand court. She was pale when he finished. He imagined he was too. She took several bites of her hamburger, causing Stevie to think she might just finish eating, get up, and walk away from him forever. Melodramatic, he thought, but entirely possible.

Finally, she took a sip of her water and shook her head. “Look, Stevie, I don't blame you for being suspicious of my uncle after what you heard,” she said, sending a wave of relief through him. “But I can also kind of understand why he lied to me. I'm not saying it was
right
or that I'm not upset about it. But it does make sense that he was worried about the secret getting out before he has a signed contract. He
is
new at this.”

“Then why do you think he blew up at me like that?” he asked.

“Well, you
did
call him a liar.”

“Because he
lied,
” Stevie said, getting a little bit defensive.

“And he tried to explain why. Then, in return, you called him a kidnapper.”

She had a point. Maybe he had gone too far. “Okay, maybe I came on a little strong. But let me ask you this: if he wasn't your uncle and you didn't love him, would you feel any differently, given the facts, than I do? Wouldn't it at least cross your mind he might be involved—especially when someone you know to be honest gets caught in a flat-out lie?”

Again, she took a while to answer. “Maybe,” she said. “Okay, yes, I would wonder. But I
do
know him. And I know he would never do anything like that. I've known him all my life.”

“Have you ever known him to lie before?”

She sighed. “No.”

They were both silent for a moment. Then she smiled—something he hadn't seen very often in the last twenty-four hours. “Do me one favor,” she said. “Don't be upset with me for defending someone I love.”

“On one condition.”

“What?”

“That you not be upset with me for asking questions about him when he's left himself open to questions.”

“Deal,” she said. “Now what do we do next?”

“The first thing we have to do is get back to the media center for that press conference. The second thing we do is check in with Bobby and Tamara. And the third thing we do is figure out where I'm going to sleep tonight.”

They barely squeezed into the interview room for the press conference. The room was overflowing with camera crews packed into every available inch—and a few that weren't available—and reporters practically sitting on top of one another. Stevie and Susan Carol were almost the last two people let in the door before a USTA official said, “That's it, we can't get anyone else in. You'll have to go listen to the feed in the workroom.”

They stood against the wall near the door and scanned the room. Kelleher, Tamara Mearns, and Bud Collins had obviously arrived early—they were in the front row, not far away from where they were standing since the door was near the front of the room. Kelleher looked over and saw them. He stood up. “Meet us at my desk when this is over,” he shouted, just as the door behind the podium opened and Arlen Kantarian, the FBI guy from the day before, Hughes Norwood, and Misha Symanov walked in.

“Whoo boy,” Stevie said, quickly stepping backward. The last thing he needed was for either Norwood or Symanov to spot him.

He stood just behind a tall guy with a tape recorder and urged Susan Carol to stand behind him. She could see over his head anyway, especially since the room raked up from front to back.

“Keep your head down,” he said as everyone settled in.

“No kidding,” she said.

Kantarian didn't waste any time with pleasantries. After introducing the other three men on the podium, he quickly turned the microphone over to the FBI guy: Bob Campbell.