Big Leagues (28 page)

“So you poison me? What the hell,
Dustin?”

“It wasn’t poison. It’s just an
over-the-counter laxative.”

“Just?”

“I didn’t even put the full dosage
in.”

She dramatically waved her hands. “Oh, well
then, excuse me for overreacting.”

He pulled the trash can over and began picking
up the broken pieces of the mug. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Are you
going to rat on me?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Do you mean am
I going to inform our superiors you were intentionally spiking my
drink, hoping I’d get … I don’t know, severely dehydrated, all
because you’re bitter about not being selected for my job? Yeah, I
think I’m going to have to mention it.”

Cat crossed her arms over her chest. Dustin
mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. She shook her
head again and pressed a hand against her forehead. “Look, Dustin.
Why don’t you go home … now?”

“The stats need to be upda—”

“I’ll update the stats. I’ll handle all the
postgame. Please, just get out of my face. I can’t even stand to
look at you.”

“I really am sorry.”

She looked away from his pleading eyes. “You’re
sorry you got caught.”

“I don’t know what you’re so mad about.” He
exhaled a deep huff. “The pills didn’t even seem to bother you at
all. I figured they didn’t work.”

“Then why’d you keep doing it?”

He shrugged helplessly. She pointed to the
door. “Just go, Dustin.”

Benji joined her on his couch with a coffee mug
for each of them. She frowned at the sight of the brown liquid and
sat the drink on the other side of his coffee table.

“So? Out with it. Did you find out
anything?”

“I’d say so. We can probably rule out a laser
death ray in Dustin’s basement. Criminal mastermind he’s
not.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. First, does he
laugh like this?” He paused dramatically before bellowing,
“Muahahahaha!”

Cat grinned. “Negative.”

“Oh.” Benji shrugged. “Well then, that does
hurt the case.”

“Let me ask you this, since you’re such an
expert and all. Is there a supervillain who poisons his rival’s
coffee with an over-the-counter laxative?”

Benji raised his eyebrows and gestured for her
to stop. “Wait. What?”

“It’s exactly what it sounds like. I followed
Dustin to the break room tonight and saw him spiking my
drink.”

“With Ex-Lax …?”

“Well, I think it might have been the
generic.”

“Ah, so he’s immature
and
cheap. Not
evil, however.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I don’t
think he murdered Brad or orchestrated the mugging. His brand of
vigilante justice is practiced by thirteen–year-olds at summer
camp. If I come across itching powder in my bra, then we can point
the finger at Dustin.”

Benji snapped his fingers. “The
Joker!”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked for a villain. He did the same thing
to Batman.” His face fell mockingly. “Oh wait, no. That was a
cyanide pie. Still, kitchen vengeance.”

She suppressed a smile. “Moving on.”

“So, Dustin’s off the perp list. Who else? I
mean, was anyone else up for the job?”

“I’m sure there were a few other candidates,
but I’ve gotten the impression the contest was down to me and
Dustin.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes drifted toward the coffee table. She
smiled at the inscription on Benji’s mug: RIP Pluto:
1930-2006.

He shook her knee. “Hey, you’re not giving up,
are you?”

“There’s nothing more to do.” She shrugged. “We
were wrong.”

“About one little hypothesis. That just means
we generate another.”

“Another?”

“Sure. It took Darwin two decades and a cruise
to four continents to perfect the theory of natural
selection.”

“I don’t even have a passport.”

Benji chuckled and reached for the Pluto mug.
“Let’s start with what we know. You said things got strange at
Hohenschwangau. When, exactly?”

“Oh, the weirdness started before I arrived,
with Brad Derhoff’s suic— uh, death.”

“Let’s start with that. We already have the end
result, so our work is half done. Now all we need to do is figure
out how we got there. You know, like make an algorithm.”

“Al Gore with whom?”

“Algorithm.” He gave her a scrutinizing frown.
“Have I mentioned we have some great science classes down at the
campus that many adults take to refresh their—”

“I’ll add it to the list. First German, then
Karate. Maybe after that.”

“Anyway. An algorithm is just a problem-solving
method, like a flow chart.”

Benji stood up, grabbed a notebook off the
counter and sat it between them on the couch. He drew a set of
boxes and arrows on the paper.

“Okay, so Derhoff’s death.” Benji scribbled the
words inside the box. “Easy enough.”

She rested her head on her hand and watched
him. “Benji, I really dig this whole um, Rubik’s Cube thing you got
going on, but all the boxes in the world won’t give us any more
information than we know.”

“Yes … but I’m writing in pencil.” He wiggled
the no. 2 in her face.

“As opposed to … crayon?”

“As opposed to ink. Trial and error, with an
eraser.” He pointed at the tip of the pencil. “Now we can make up
possible explanations to start hypothesizing until we form a theory
and complete our algorithm.”

“Ah. You want to take it one base at a
time.”

“If you say so. Now, Brad Derhoff is dead?”
Benji drew two arrows and labeled them yes and no.

Cat leaned in. “Ooh, I know this one.
Yes.”

“Okay. Suicide or murder?”

“Suicide.”

Benji’s line stopped. “That’s a killing point.”
He looked up at her and frowned. “If you’ll excuse the
term.”

“Beats ‘dead end,’ I guess. Okay then, let’s go
with murrr-der.”

He gave a mock stern look and drew an arrow.
“Now, did he die before baseball season or after?”

“It was midseason. Only a few days before I
moved in here.”

“After, okay. Timelines are key but more so,
intentions. What—”

Cat’s eyes flashed. “Oh! Something to do with
baseball?”

Benji ran out of room on the paper and grabbed
another sheet, moving both pages to the coffee table. He labeled
another box “Baseball related?”

Cat scooted down to the floor to join him.
“Judging from his redacted files at Hohenschwangau, I’m thinking a
big fat
yes
.”

“Now, we got a death in the middle of the
season with ties to the game.”

“I guess my next question would be why? Why
kill Brad Derhoff? Aside from arrogance, he was a nice enough
family man.”

“Can you think of a possible motive that could
point us in a specific direction?” Benji tapped the pencil on the
coffee table as he waited for her answer.

“We’ve already ruled out for his
job.”

Benji drew a corresponding arrow. “Okay, that’s
a killing point.”

“I guess … I mean, he’s a reporter. Maybe he
found something out? If he were going to talk …”

“How better to keep him quiet?”

Cat jumped up and started to pace the living
room. “A secret.”

“What could he possibly know about baseball
that would be worth killing for? I mean, it’s only a
game.”

A bitter laugh escaped her mouth. “Only a game?
It’s so much more than that. It’s a business. A business worth
billions.”

“Billions? A billionaire might consider that
worth killing for.”

Cat’s mouth fell open, and she grabbed the
pencil from his hand. “Erich König? You can’t be
serious.”

“Corruption starts at the top.”

“It’s Erich König, though.”

“What? He’s too handsome and charming to be a
killer?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just, he’s Erich
König, the
Geiz ist geil!
dude. I don’t get the
mustache-twirling, black-hat-wearing vibe from him.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he earned his billions by
rescuing kittens and painting rainbows.”

“Benji.” She hung her head.

He grinned. “Hey, it’s just the scientific
method. Trial and error, remember?”

She handed him the pencil back. “Fine. I’ll
play along.”

“So, it’s a business. Every industry has its
unforgiveable crimes, right?”

She shrugged.

“You know, like a cop who steals, a firefighter
who commits arson, a zookeeper with a bestiality fetish.” Cat’s
eyes widened in horror at his last parallel. Benji laughed and put
up an open hand. “Sorry. Making a point. So what’s a cardinal sin
in baseball?”

“Off the top of my head?” She closed her eyes
for a second. “Steroids, gambling and cheating.”

“The latter of which is usually accomplished
with the former and benefits the middle, right?”

“All three are extremely difficult to
accomplish and very easy to catch.”

“Difficult?” He squinted at the paper. “How do
you figure?”

“Betting? Not Erich König. He won’t even let us
organize an office pool. I guess owning a casino taught him
gambling’s a fool’s game.”

Benji nodded. “Yeah. He actually made waves by
saying something similar in an interview back when his casino first
opened. Genius.”

“Besides, he was filthy rich even before he had
the team.”

“Okay, steroids?”

“Not possible.”

Benji responded with a raise of his eyebrow,
and she relented. “Well okay, possible. Not exactly worth killing
over.”

“Hmm. Unless the whole team was
culpable.”

“An entire team? Wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t
happen. Despite the headlines about the bad apples, most players
are strongly against shrinking their own um … apples … just to get
a little extra speed on their pitches or yardage on their home
runs.” She shook her head. “Besides, a scandal of that magnitude
would be impossible to keep quiet.”

“You mean
almost
impossible.”

“No, I mean impossible. This isn’t the first
time I’ve considered the scenario. There are trainers, clubhouse
staff, former players, all of whom have more to gain by exposing
the truth than keeping quiet for what, a little hush
money?”

She stopped pacing, looked down at the papers
on the coffee table and frowned.

“Besides, there aren’t many other ways to cheat
in baseball, at least not by winning. Throwing a game is nearly
unprecedented and hasn’t been documented for almost a century.
Anyway, the Chips are winners. Been winning like it’s going out of
style.” She paused. “At least until this week.”

Benji nodded in agreement. “There has to be
something, though. What about referees? They can be paid
off.”

“Umpires
, and no. An ump can’t even make
a questionable strike call without outrage from the other team,
their manager, the coaches and the forty thousand fans at the
ballpark. Anything more than that and he’d be branded a cheat by
every website, blog and chat room before the pitcher’s next windup.
Also, like any job, umpires are monitored.”

“Seriously?”

“Daily. Controversial calls are reviewed by
supervisors and the umps are graded. The ones with the highest
marks work the postseason games.”

“So the reward for good work is more work? That
system is flawed.”

Cat chuckled. “Maybe.” She picked up the flow
chart. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting a little too carried away
with this. I lost my remote in the move and my TV’s been stuck on
the Sleuth channel.”

Benji stood up and walked over to her, taking
the papers out of her hands. “Maybe. In my experience, you should
trust your gut.”

Her eyes trailed down his shirt. “Your gut? Is
that a technical term, Bill Nye?”

Their bodies were inches apart now. “Well,
‘trust your alimentary canal’ doesn’t have quite the same
ring.”

She ignored his joke and placed her fingers on
his firm stomach. “I’m more of a hands-on student,
anyway.”

Benji smiled coyly and moved his head closer to
hers.

Cat lowered her voice to just above a whisper.
“So uh, Benji?”

“Yes?”

“I j-just wanted to say thanks. You know, for
everything. Last night and tonight. For not treating me like a
screwball. Even though I might be.”

Benji didn’t reply. Cat looked down at her hand
on his flat stomach and pulled it back slowly. “I should go.” She
didn’t budge.

Benji inched closer, reached out and took her
hand back. “Or you could stay.”