Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) (12 page)

“Unless it’s about the state of the showers in this joint, I can’t imagine how.” He flashed a bright white smile, but his brown eyes didn’t light.

“Not exactly.” I took a deep breath, cutting my eyes to the guard, who was playing a handheld video game in the corner. “I’m working on a story I think may involve gambling, and I was hoping you might help me out.”

He stared through the plexiglass and I held his gaze without blinking.

“Why would I want to do something like that?” he asked. “If there’s one thing this place has taught me, it’s that doing other people favors is for suckers. You go off and splash a card game or a dogfight across the front page, the guys who run it end up in here, and I might end up on the wrong end of a shiv.”

The tough guy act was so obviously put on, it was almost funny. But laughing wasn’t going to help me get what I wanted. Nearly seven years of interviewing the best and worst of society had given me a decent asshole radar. This guy wasn’t a hardened criminal. I just needed to convince him to help me.

“I have no intention of telling anyone where I got my information,” I said, still looking him straight in the eye. “Not only that, but I don’t really care about the operation itself. I care who’s playing.”

“Why?”

“Research,” I said, shrugging and opting for honesty. “Right now, I don’t have a story assignment. I think I’ve got a lead on a dirty politician, but finding anything concrete on this guy is harder than salsa dancing in stilettos.”

He stared for a good thirty seconds, and I stared right back, not blinking.

His dark eyes softened a touch and he turned his head slowly and checked the guard, who appeared invested in killing all the bad fruit, or whatever else required one to frantically wave a finger back and forth over an iTouch screen.

“A dirty politician,” he said slowly. “Someone important enough that helping you could get me the hell out of here?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. While I can’t imagine that the Governor and my guy share too many political ideals, I’m not sure how well they know each other. Or if they like each other.”

His shoulders dropped. “I see.”

“I could lie and tell you absolutely,” I said after a minute. “But the best I have is maybe. I really don’t know.”

The corners of his lips tipped up in a half-smile. “Maybe is better than no, right?”

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral.

“I don’t know much,” he said. “But there are some political types around here who like to play cards. A lot of the games float. What you’re asking about is big business, but it’s also a relatively small circle of people.” He paused, shaking his head. “Look, I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. If you were to stop by the sports dorm at RAU, you might find a pitcher who’s in over his pretty-boy head. But I doubt he’ll talk to you.”

Maybe not, but I knew someone he might talk to.

I smiled and thanked Esparza, wondering as I watched him hang up his phone how this man had taken a turn so wrong it had landed him in this place. He obviously didn’t fit in with most of the prison population.

I checked out and climbed back into my car as the sun was sinking in the western sky.

I punched the talk button on my Blackberry twice so it would redial, and laughed when Parker asked if Esparza had fallen victim to my feminine wiles.

“I wouldn’t know a wile if it bit me in the ass, so I’m going with no,” I said. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Being boring.” He sighed. “I was supposed to have a date, but Mel bailed on me about a half-hour ago. Her sister went into labor. Why?”

Perfect. I made a mental note to send balloons.

“Esparza would say I’m on a lucky streak,” I said. “I need to borrow your star power. Put on something that looks expensive and meet me at Capital Ale in half an hour. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

“Am I going to get shot at?” he asked.

“God, I hope not.” I laughed. “But you told me once I could ask you for help if I needed it. So this is me asking.”

“You really more told me than asked me, but that’s cool,” he said. “Going to work with you isn’t as boring as sitting here watching
Die Hard
alone.”

“How could young Bruce Willis and terrorists be boring?” I asked.

“Careful, you might talk yourself out of a partner.”

“Point taken. Strike that.”

“Expensive like coat and tie, or expensive like tux?” he asked.

“We’re not going to the Oscars. I just want you to look like a celebrity. But no old baseball uniforms,” I said.

“You got it.” He hung up.

About to pass my exit, I jerked the steering wheel and drove home, my brain jumping from Senator Grayson to Billings the tobacco executive and back again. There was a connection. There had to be.

But the sticking point hadn’t changed: how had the lobbyist I was almost positive had been their go-between ended up dead? If Amesworth was in cahoots with the bad guys, like Kyle thought, then why would they kill him?

Patting Darcy’s head and filling her food bowl on my way through the kitchen, I thought about Joey. He was worried about me. But it wasn’t like I was going off alone to chase a criminal. I was going to a well-populated place, and taking Parker with me.

Ten minutes later, I climbed carefully back into the car in my go-anywhere black sheath dress and a pair of blood red patent leather Manolos I’d had since college. They were the first pair I’d ever bought, after spending much of my teenage years slouching to hide the height that made me different from the other girls. My five-foot-three Syracuse roommate had wealthy parents and a love of stilettos that had rubbed off on me after years of watching her wear shoes that could double as works of art, while I slogged around in boots and sneakers.

I beat Parker to the restaurant and ordered a Midori sour.

Waiting in a corner booth with a good view of the door, I stirred my drink and wondered if it was smart to pull Parker into this.

When he walked in, nearly every female head in the place turned to follow his progress toward me. I had to admit, he looked the part: his tall, athletic frame was the perfect showcase for the dark chinos, emerald shirt, and leather coat that made him look like he’d just stepped out of GQ.

I returned his smile and gestured to the seat across from me.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Bob might fire me if I let you get shot at again.” He flashed the million-dollar grin. “So, what’s up? Am I playing Hardy Boys to your Nancy Drew?”

I put my glass on the table and leveled a serious gaze at him. “Indeed. I need some dirt on RAU baseball.”

“You made me get dressed up to ask me about work?”

“Specifically, I need to know about the pitchers. And who might be into gambling.”

“Esparza.” He nodded. “Care to share what he told you?”

“He didn’t say much, except that there’s a pitcher I need to talk to.”

“But he didn’t give you a name?”

“Nope. That’s where you come in.”

“You don’t need star power for that,” he said. “Reading the stat sheets could give you a lead on who you need to talk to. Someone’s record tanked halfway through the season.”

“Why haven’t I seen this in your column?”

“I have a suspicion, Clarke. Nothing I can prove, and certainly nothing you can print. He’s a good kid in a bad situation. Assuming I’m right, anyway.”

“I’m not looking to print it. I need information, not to bust a kid who’s been stupid,” I said as I grinned. “And reading through a billion pages of numbers sounds way less fun than getting dressed up and hauling you to a party.”

“Party?” He looked around. “You need to take a powder, Clarke. I can’t keep up with you tonight.”

“It’s Saturday night. I like the odds of a party going on at the jock dorm.” I downed the last of my drink and grabbed the little black clutch I’d stuffed a handful of essentials into, unsnapping it and tossing a few bills on the table. “And a drunk pitcher is more likely to spill his guts to a celebrity than a sober one is to talk to a reporter. Let’s go, superstar.”

Rothschild Hall on the RAU campus is the biggest, most state-of-the-art of the school’s dorms, housing the student athletes.  A back-to-campus party was in full swing.

Parker strode through the doors like the building was called “Grant Parker is the Shit Dormitory,” smiling and nodding at the coeds brave enough to make eye contact with him and not even flinching when at least two of them pinched his ass as he moved through the crowd. I tried to stay behind him, but the size and enthusiasm of the group made that next to impossible.

Two different boys handed me two different kinds of beer within three minutes of when I walked through the front doors, and I nodded a polite thanks and tried to keep my eyes on Parker’s perfectly-tousled blond head as he scanned the giggling coeds and desperate-to-get-laid jocks, looking for whoever his statistics told him was suspect.

Music blared into the hallway from several of the rooms, and students darted in and out of the suites with drinks and food in their hands. A group of girls with their hair in pigtails strutted down the hallway in a conga line, trying to add to their train as they went.

“Conga!” A freckled blonde with purple glitter eyeshadow squealed, letting go of her friend’s hip to grab my hand as she danced past. “Come on!”

Feeling suddenly more dated than a pair of battered Doc Martens, I smiled and shook my head, waiting for them to pass before I charged after Parker. By the time I caught up to him, he’d been surrounded by a knot of college kids who were hanging on his every word as he told a story about digging his team out of a ninth-inning, three-run deficit with three three-and-outs in a row followed by a grand slam.

I laid two fingers on his elbow and he slid his eyes to me. He didn’t miss a beat in his tale as he nodded subtly to a tall, dark-haired kid across the circle from him.

They erupted into spontaneous applause when he recounted crossing home plate and he laughed.

“It was fun,” he said. “I played because I loved the game. Stick with that, and you’ll never be unhappy.”

He kept his eyes on the dark-haired kid as he spoke, and the boy suddenly became very interested in his shoes.

Bingo.

Parker shook hands all around, easily dismissing everyone except the dark-haired kid. When it was just the three of us, Parker flashed his best sports columnist grin and threw an arm around the young pitcher’s broad shoulders.

“Willis Hunt, this is Nichelle Clarke,” he said. “Nichelle, this is Willis. He’s going to go pro in the next couple of years, if he can get his arm under control.”

The boy smiled a beer-addled smile and shook my hand sloppily.

“Thanks, Mr. Parker. I don’t know about that.”

“Call me Grant,” Parker said, steering Willis toward a hallway that wasn’t stuffed with gyrating bodies. I followed, keeping quiet and hanging on every word.

“You had one hell of a season last year,” Parker said, stopping in a little alcove and sitting on a wide bench, gesturing to the simple gold sofa across from him. Willis flopped onto it. I perched on the edge of the bench next to Parker and tried to look unobtrusive.

“I did alright, I guess,” Willis said.

“You had the best record in the east for the first half,” Parker said.

“Half doesn’t make a season,” Willis mumbled, staring at his hands. “My dad and the coach told me that enough times that I won’t ever forget it.”

“It’s a lot of pressure.” Parker leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “And a lot of people who want to tell you what to do. I remember.”

“You were great,” Willis said. “You should be a three-time Cy Young winner on your way to the Hall of Fame, man. I loved watching you play when I was a kid. My dad is a UVA alum.”

“Thanks,” Parker said. “Sometimes things don’t go the way we think they will, do they?”

Willis raised his eyes, his dark irises sober as a preacher on Sunday. “They don’t.”

“You have amazing control for a kid your age,” Parker said softly, holding Willis’ gaze. “It was really something to watch. Then all of a sudden you’re throwing wild pitches and hitting batters left and right.”

“I got the jitters, I guess.” Willis didn’t look away, and his expression screamed that he was desperate to spill his guts. I tried not to breathe too loudly.

“But only when the odds were astronomically in your favor going into the game?” Parker arched an eyebrow.

“Mr. Parker, they’ll kick me out of school,” Willis whispered, conflict plain on his face. “I won’t ever play again.”

“You can only throw the nervous rookie thing for so long before you won’t be playing anymore, anyway.” Parker’s deep tenor verged on hypnotic. “What happened? Do you owe somebody money?”

Willis sighed, staring past Parker at the beige wall. “After my freshman season, people started to notice me. Some guys I met at a club took me to a card game one night. There were girls, an open bar, the whole deal. Just like out of a movie. I won over a thousand dollars, and I couldn’t believe it was really my life.”

He continued. “I went back the next weekend and the one after that, and I just kept winning. They started calling me Lucky Sixteen, you know, for my jersey number. It was a great time.”

“Until you stopped winning,” Parker said.

“I thought I’d get it back. They said I could have credit with them so I could keep playing. I thought I could turn it around.”

“And then you ran out of credit.”

Willis hitched in a deep breath and drug the back of his hand across his face. “Yeah. They said I had to pay up, and my family doesn’t have that kind of cash.”

“How much are you in for?” Parker asked.

“Almost thirty grand.”