The Dead Pull Hitter (12 page)

Andy took me to Kuri, a Japanese restaurant on the fringes of trend heaven in Yorkville. One of my favourites. The owner greeted us both by name.

“You’ve been here before?” Andy was surprised.

“What, sports writers aren’t supposed to like anything but hot dogs?”

“Come to think of it, not many policemen come here either.”

“So you’re a misfit in your profession, too. Welcome to the club.”

The sushi bar was full, so Kuri led us to a small tatami room and took our orders himself, recommending the toro and hamachi as particularly fine. Andy ordered in Japanese.

“I spent a year in Tokyo in my twenties,” he explained.

“What were you doing there?”

“At the time I said I was finding myself.”

“And did you?”

“No, but I learned how to order in Japanese.”

“Must come in handy.”

I was a bit nervous. Was this a date? I decided to stick to business.

“Tell me how Sanchez died.”

“Baseball bat, same as Thorson. One swing.”

“Like a baseball swing? Or from overhead, like an axe?”

“A level swing to the head. Just over the right ear. He was hit from the front as he came into the bedroom.”

“You figure someone was waiting for him?”

“Or hid there when he heard him come in. The bat was one of several Sanchez had in the room. I guess the guy just grabbed whatever was handy.”

He popped an ikura sushi, salmon roe wrapped in seaweed, into his mouth and I thought of my grade-school etiquette lesson on dinner-table conversation. “Jane’s cat was run over today” was not considered appropriate. I was glad Miss Bushell wasn’t at lunch.

I tried to visualize it. If Sanchez had been hit on the right side of his head, the swinger, facing him, had to have been swinging left-handed.

“Was Thorson also hit on the right side of the head?”

“With Thorson, it wasn’t one swing. It looks as if there was more of a struggle. The guy just caught Sanchez by surprise.”

“Why a struggle?”

“There were bruises on Thorson’s arms and body. We think he got knocked out near the equipment room and was then dragged to the shower room and finished off.”

“Could you tell if the attacker was left- or right-handed?”

“Nothing conclusive. The blows seemed to come from all angles. It looked like whoever did it went a bit nuts.”

“So the two murders were very different? Are you sure there weren’t two murderers?”

“That’s still a possibility.”

“That’s what I was talking with the guys about this morning. Thorson killing Sanchez because of the blackmail, then taking the material he found and trying to blackmail one of the others.”

Andy busied himself with a paper-thin ginger slice and smiled.

“Right. It’s none of my business.”

“It is my business, but I prefer to talk about something more pleasant than murder over lunch.”

“If you order us some eel, I promise to talk about anything but murder.”

“You’ve got a touch of blackmail in your soul, too, Kate Henry.”

While we ate, I did what I usually do when I’m a bit shy with someone new—I interviewed him.

“The last thing I thought I’d be when I was growing up was a cop, like my father. I didn’t see much of him when I was a kid because he was always working, but I worshipped him. I never felt like I could live up to his expectations and I gave up trying when I was about thirteen. I went into serious adolescent rebellion.”

“Most kids go through that.”

“But most kids get a chance to outgrow it and make peace with their fathers. I never did. He was killed first.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Sixteen. My mother woke me up late one night to take me to the hospital. He’d been shot making an arrest. He was in a coma for three days before he died, so I never got a chance to speak to him again.”

He took a sip of tea and looked embarrassed.

“Enough ancient history.”

“So you decided then to become a cop. Sorry, policeman.”

He smiled.

“I’m a cop. No. I went to Trent University—a general arts course—to see what I wanted to do. I mainly drank beer and tried to get laid and played in a terrible rock band. I dropped out, lived on a commune, hitchhiked around the country. Standard sixties stuff. Then I went to Japan. Do you really want to hear all this?”

“Absolutely.”

“I taught English there and fell in love with one of my students. I thought I would stay forever. But that’s hard, in Japan. Foreigners can only go so far inside their culture. So I left with a broken heart.”

He laughed.

“Anyway, I came back with a stronger sense of who I was and what mattered to me. It was time to settle down. I went back to university, took a criminology course to fill in my schedule, and the rest . . .”

He shrugged.

“History,” I said.

“Turns out I was very good at it and I liked it. It must be in the genes. So, within three years I was a cop, within four a husband, within six a father, and within ten, divorced.”

He signalled for the bill.

“And that’s the end of my tale.”

“Or the beginning.”

“True.”

“And your mother?”

“Alive and well. And remarried.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Yes, to a cop. What else?”

He drove me to the office, down Yonge Street. I looked at the sleazy storefronts and desperate-looking people and wished I could see it all through his streetwise eyes. He’d probably arrested half of the characters we were passing. I decided that since lunch was over, I could get back to my favourite subject.

“What leads are you following now? Have you checked with bookies? Has anyone made any big bets on the playoffs since the murders? Maybe there’s a clue there?”

“We have, but there’s nothing big, here or in Las Vegas. The vice-squad guys checked with the local bookies. Some people connected with the team do bet. Bill Ramsay, the trainer, your friend Moose Greer, and a couple of the executives, but it’s strictly football and basketball.”

“It would have to be. What are you going to do about T.C.? He has to go back to school. Are you going to send a cop along with him?”

“No, he’s going to stay out for the rest of the week. His teacher has given him some work to do and I’ve assigned a constable who is good at helping with homework. She’s got kids of her own. We should have an arrest by next week and things can go back to normal.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you? You haven’t solved the case yet?”

“Well, there are still a few details to fill in.”

“You’d better hurry.”

“Do you really know?”

“I’m sorry, miss. I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

“You’re just bluffing. If you knew, you’d have arrested him by now.”

“Well, there are still a few details to fill in.”

“Rat.”

Laughing, he pulled up in front of the
Planet
building. “What time do you want to go to the ballpark? Donald MacPherson will pick you up.”

“Oh, God, it’s going to be so embarrassing being followed around by that guy. He’s so officious.”

“He’s a good cop. He’s just young and over-anxious. Be nice to him. He’ll get you home when you’re through.”

“Okay. Have him come at four-thirty. He doesn’t have to be in uniform, does he?”

“No one has to know he’s a cop. Just say he’s a long lost love or something.” He snickered at the thought.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, I guess. And thanks, really, for the lunch. I enjoyed it.”

“So did I.”

It was still raining at four-thirty, but I decided to go to the ballpark anyway. Anything was better than sitting around talking about the Titans’ chances in the playoffs with the armchair managers in the newsroom. The murders were old news. They were back to baseball. Never mind that there was a killer loose out there, probably in a Titan uniform.

Constable MacPherson, champion of ladies in distress, showed up right on time in one of those unmarked cars that no one would drive but a plain-clothes cop or a small-town high school teacher. He wasn’t in uniform, but he still looked like a cop.

He was obviously annoyed at being assigned to babysit, but he was a ball fan, which mitigated his humiliation a bit. I was disgustingly nice to him, telling him all the boring inside stuff fans find so intriguing. He’d loosened up a bit by the time we got to the ballpark. I took him in to see Moose.

“You’re getting your wish, Moose,” I said, after introducing them. “I have someone to take care of me. Maybe you’d better give him a press pass so he can follow me around.”

“I’m glad. I just hope he doesn’t cramp your style.”

“He’s not going to follow everywhere, are you, Don?”

“No, ma’am. You can go to the ladies’ room alone.”

“A sense of humour, yet.”

“The guys are going to love it,” Moose laughed.

“Can we try to be a bit subtle about this?”

“Of course, Kate. I won’t tell a soul. Do you want the weather report?”

“Not really.”

“It’s going to clear up at seven.”

“And rain again at seven-thirty, right?”

“No. It’s going to rain again at eight.”

“Terrific. Just time to get it started.”

“And there’s a front going through at nine-thirty that will clear it all up.”

“Times like this, I wish I was paid by the hour. See you later. Come on, Constable.”

There was nothing doing in the clubhouse so I took my shadow to the empty dugout. We sat on the bench and watched the rain.

“I can’t count the hours I’ve spent sitting in dugouts waiting for the rain to stop. It’s kind of peaceful.”

“It’s kind of boring, too.”

Doc Dudley came from the clubhouse with a towel wrapped around his neck, the ends tucked into his jacket. He went out onto the field and ran lonely laps in the drizzle, working off his nerves. Max Perkins, the Detroit starter, joined him half a lap behind. The two ran in step, but separately, in silence.

“Strange way to have fun,” said Gloves, sitting next to me on the bench.

“Why are pitchers so weird?”

“Beats me,” he said, glancing curiously at my escort. I introduced them.

“Constable, would it be all right if I had a word with Gloves privately? We’ll just be over there where you can see us.”

“In the rain?” Gloves protested.

“Just for a minute,” I said, leading him towards the bullpen. He grabbed a towel from the bench and put it over his head.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” I said.

“You are in some deep shit with that guy.”

“He thinks I’m invading his turf.”

“The way he was carrying on, maybe you’d better stop.”

“I got it straightened out. I’ve got a job to do, too.”

“Are you really trying to find the murderer?”

“Why not? It would be a great story.”

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking about what we were talking about this morning.”

“So have I. I’m just more confused.”

“The drug thing. We were interrupted before we could talk about it this morning. I can’t think of anyone who would be crazy enough to try to import drugs. There’s always plenty around for the guys who want it. One of the shoe reps has a source. He’s in and out of the clubhouse all the time.”

“Maybe he set it up.”

“He’s just small time. He gets guys grass or women or porn tapes, whatever they want. But he only deals coke in grams.”

“Grams aren’t enough for anyone who’s seriously into coke, Gloves. Who are the guys who are using heavily?”

“Nobody I know.”

“Would you know? Could you tell?”

“I have known guys who were heavy into it, like Terry Jackson, and none of the guys here now act that way.”

Jackson was a pitcher who had been traded to Texas the previous season.

“Jackson? Are you kidding?”

“You didn’t know that?” Gloves laughed and started back towards the dugout. “Keep at it, kid. But be careful.”

I was getting sick of all this touching concern. I was sicker of it by game time after being followed “discreetly” by Constable Donny, inconspicuous as a giraffe. The other writers were born journalists, every one, and I gritted my teeth through a lot of teasing.

After dinner I took him out into the hall.

“No offence, but there really isn’t room for you in the press box. Stay here in the hall with Charlie. He’s in charge of security on this floor, and he’ll tell you if anyone isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Sure, I’ll take care of him,” Charlie said. “You come along with me, Constable. I was in the force myself for twenty-five years.”

I liked the thought of MacPherson enduring good old Charlie’s stories for a whole game. With a rain delay expected at that. He glared at me as I left. I smiled.

“Be sure and show him where he can watch the game, Charlie.”

Charlie, already in mid-reminiscence, waved.

I almost danced to my seat. Moose gave me the game notes. Alex Jones had a seven-game hit streak (big deal); Stinger Swain was celebrating his thirty-fourth birthday (thirty-four, going on thirteen); Mark Griffin hadn’t given up an earned run in nine innings; and Mitch Saxon, the Tigers’ backup catcher, wouldn’t be available because he had “pulled his groin.” (Keep it up and you’ll go blind, kid.) Invaluable stuff.

It was a terrible night for a ballgame, damp and chilly. All the players were wearing thick woollen sleeves under their uniform jerseys, except for Swain, who always has bare arms, even when it’s snowing. He thinks he looks manly. I think he looks like a jerk, but what do I know?

It would probably be a sloppy night. Batted balls are unpredictable on wet artificial turf. Some speed up when they bounce, rocketing through the infield, giving even the best fielders no chance. Some get trapped in puddles, leaving the outfielders poised like idiots ten feet back.

Nothing happened until the top of the fifth, when Rafe Morgan, the Tigers third baseman, hit a homer to right, driving in two guys who had reached base on a walk and an error to Owl Wise.

In the bottom of the inning the rain got heavier and lightning flashed out over the lake. The outfielders looked nervous.

“Why don’t they call the damn thing?” I asked.