Big Leagues (30 page)

“Hellooo?” Cat took one step inside.
“Ernie?”

A welcome silence greeted her. Her heels hit
the thick hardwood with resounding clomps as she entered the
players’ sanctuary. Its familiar smell of sweat and aftershave did
nothing to calm her nerves; her nervous system associated that
scent with postgame frenzy and overeager colleagues. She eyeballed
the syringe disposal mounted on the south wall. She stopped en
route, chiding herself for her carelessness.

Always be prepared, eh Cat?

She chewed at her bottom lip as she scoured the
room for the item that might stand in for the one she had
forgotten. With a mischievous gleam in her emerald eyes, she
surveyed the clubhouse lockers.

Or more appropriately, cubbyholes.

They were termed lockers, but with the
exception of a small safe on the top shelf, the players’ belongings
were exposed to every clubhouse visitor. All their uniforms and
equipment, including their batting gloves.

Leather batting gloves. Just what one might
want if she were going to root around in a pile of dirty
needles.

Cat took one more glance around the clubhouse
before she reached into Nathan Shumway’s locker. The theft was
nothing personal; the infielder’s batting gloves just happened to
be hanging on the closest hook within snatching
distance.

Besides, at ten million a year, he can afford
to buy a new pair.

“Hey, Cat, what’s up?”

Cat’s stomach hit the lacquered floor. She
snatched her thieving hand back from the locker and spun around.
Behind her, Brett Hable stood in the doorway, chuckling.

“Sorry, sugar, didn’t mean to scare
you.”

Still clutching her chest, she exhaled. “Well,
you did. What in the world are you still doing here?”

He rolled up the sleeves on his t-shirt and
flexed his biceps. “Working the guns. Those vitamin shots always
give me a little extra energy to get ripped.”

She kept her expression carefully neutral,
wondering if Brett’s batting helmet was custom made to accommodate
his head, which was swelled even by professional athlete
standards.

Brett began to unwind the tape around his
wrists. “What about you? I thought you found your recorder
thing.”

She blanked for a second. “My recorder …” Of
course—the perfect excuse. “Oh um, yeah. It was the damndest thing.
That recorder wasn’t mine. It was Dustin’s. So I’m back down here,
trying to find the one that belongs to me.”

Brett wadded up the tape and shot the ball
across the room. “Three-pointer.” It fell right into the trash can,
and he thrust his arm into the arm in triumph. “Let me help you
look.”

“No!” She winced at her inadvertent shriek. “I
mean, no, no. You go home. You’ve had a long day.” She could see
Brett getting ready to protest and, in a fit of desperation, made a
bold decision that would surely strip her of every strand of
dignity.

This one’s for you, Tams.

Cat sauntered over to the players’ bench. She
sat down and swung a leg to the other side, straddling the wooden
plank. She batted her eyes and followed that ploy with a
shamelessly slow lick of her lips. “I mean, you were three for
three, including a home run. Just how deep did you take
that?”

He grinned.

Bingo.

“Oh they had it measured to about four thirty.
I thought it looked more like four eighty.”

She twirled a lock of hair around her finger
and giggled. “Look out, Mickey Mantle, here comes Brett
Hable.”

Brett beamed and pointed to his uniform.
“Number seven, baby.”

“Now you’re standing here, all glistening
muscles. How much more can a girl take, Mr. Hable?”

Brett’s smile widened. “How much more do you
want?”

“Now, now.” She wagged a playful finger in his
face. “Who’s supposed to be asking the questions? I’m still waiting
for my post-shower interview.”

He kicked off his shoes. “I’m hitting the tile
now.”

Cat nonchalantly swung her dangling legs back
and forth on the bench while he searched his locker. He shot her a
grin, produced a shower caddy and strolled through the archway.
When he turned the corner, she tip-toed to the door and waited. She
heard the water turn on and hurried to Shumway’s locker. She nabbed
the first baseman’s batting gloves off the hook. They were a little
big, but she didn’t have time to play Goldilocks. She studied the
syringe disposal container. She poked the bottom and fiddled with
the top, hoping the lid would pop off. When the plastic didn’t
budge, she groaned.

Why in the world do these things lock? Who’s
going to break into a baseball stadium and steal a used
syringe?

She paused.

Well, besides me. And maybe the really, really
obsessive fans. I don’t even want to think what this would go for
on eBay.

Cat shook her head and focused on the task at
hand. She continued to pry at the container while constantly
monitoring the drone of the shower. She examined the syringe
slot.

No way out, one way in.

The inch-wide opening was not big enough for
her hand, but there was enough room for something.

What?

Cat inspected the clubhouse again, hoping that
the perfect device would present itself. Then the brainstorm hit.
Once again, Shumway’s locker became her personal toolbox. She
slipped the canvas belt off his uniform pants.

Time to put those years of watching MacGyver to
work.

Fastening the buckle to make a loop, she slowly
worked her contraption through the slot. She dangled the canvas
into the plastic container and moved it from side to side until the
loop caught on something. Slowly, she pulled the belt back through
the slot.

Yes!

The top of a syringe tottered at the opening.
Cat reached her gloved hand out to grab it. She flinched just
before the teetering syringe fell back into the container, hitting
the pile with a flat clink.

No!

Aware that time was running short, she repeated
the process in the same way, sliding the loop through the opening.
The belt didn’t catch. Frustrated, Cat pushed her hair off her
forehead. She glanced around the clubhouse and tried
again.

Come on, come on, come on …

The calming swish of the showers stopped. Cat
pulled the belt up.

Retreat! Retreat!

Shooting a panicked look toward the bathroom,
she stuck the belt through the slot once more, praying she was
correct in her hunch that Brett was the type to dawdle in front of
the mirror. She wiggled the loop with more force than before. It
hooked. Steadily she pulled the belt up through the
slot.

Almost, baby …

As the top appeared, she reached for the
syringe and clenched the leather glove around the tube. Brett
whistled the Chips’ fight song only a few yards away. She inspected
the syringe to determine if it contained what she was seeking. Sure
enough, a few droplets of the distinct amber liquid remained. This
was the B-12 she’d seen Dr. Goodall administering to the players.
She wrapped Shumway’s stolen belt around the syringe and shoved it
in her bag. Throwing the batting gloves back in his locker, she
scurried out of the clubhouse.

With the used syringe nestled in her new plaid
case, Cat snuck down the hallway. She was almost to the parking lot
tunnel when she heard footsteps. With each clomp on the concrete,
they gained on her. She picked up her pace. Best-case scenario it
was Brett, wanting to pick up where they left off. Worst-case
scenario it was … not something she wanted to think about. A cold
hand grabbed her arm from behind. The color drained from her face
as she whirled around.

Busted.

“There you are! Dang, I’ve been looking all
over this place for you.”

“Dustin? What are you—you’re still here? I
thought you left hours ago.” She wondered if he’d caught her
clubhouse act.

“I came back. I was hoping you’d still be here.
I have to talk to you.”

“What do you want now?”

He assumed a chastened expression—like a puppy
begging forgiveness for having piddled on your rug. She let out a
deep sigh of relief which she hoped he would interpret as a sigh of
annoyance.

“McDaniel, I mean, Cat, I’m begging you. About
the whole coffee thing. Can’t we keep that between us? I promise I
won’t ever do anything like that again. I swear.”

She shot a fleeting look toward the clubhouse
and back to his pleading eyes. “I hear you, but I really, really
don’t have time for this.”

He put his hands up defensively. “I know,
you’re busy. I haven’t been helping very much, but I promise, I’ll
start. You won’t even know what hit you. I’ll be so helpful.” His
eyes scanned her face for forgiveness. “I’m a really good writer
and I know this team like the back of my hand. I’ve been here since
we started. Please give me another chance.”

She motioned for him to stop with an upraised
palm. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about this later.
Okay?”

She walked off, and he followed her down the
tunnel, matching her footstep for footstep.

“There won’t be a later if you rat me
out.”

She stopped and pointed her finger in his face.
“Dustin! I said I’d think about it, but that’s all you’re getting
from me tonight. Mr. König’s out of town until the day after
tomorrow anyway. I’m definitely not going to bother him with this
mess over the phone.”

“You’ll think about it?”

She sighed again. This time the deep exhale was
all annoyance and no relief. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? I
really have to go now.”

She hurried out the double doors and left
Dustin to squirm in the tunnel.

Cat sped home, jerked her Jeep into the first
parking spot she found, sprinted up the stairs and pounded on
Benji’s door. He opened the door, a toothbrush in his hand and his
mouth foaming with minty bubbles.

“Cat!” He waved her in and went over to the
kitchen sink to spit. “What’s the matter?”

She opened her bag. “Maybe a new box for your
Al-Gore-a-ma-jig.” Handling the belt-wrapped syringe as though it
were a sacred relic, she offered him the purloined garbage. “Is
there any way you can analyze what’s in this?”

“What it is?” He grabbed a towel to wipe his
mouth.

She lifted the syringe up to the kitchen’s
light. “A sample of the injections the team physician routinely
administers to every player, supposedly B-12.”

He took the syringe from her and examined the
contents under a squinted eye. “B-12? How often is
‘routinely’?”

“Weekly. That’s unusual, right?”

“Hmm.” He tilted the syringe from side to side
and the droplets rolled across the tube. “Kind of. Cobalamin
injections are only given regularly to someone with a deficiency,
like a patient with pernicious anemia or hypothyroidism. The human
body stores several years’ worth of B-12, so deficiencies are
rare.”

“What would an overdose do?”

“An overdose? You can’t really O.D. on B-12.
You can O.U. on it.”

“O.U.?”

He smiled. “Overuse, that is. All that can do
is cause a few dermatological issues.”

“Not heart attacks?”

He shook his head. “That would be a
first.”

They remained silent. Benji’s focus shifted
from her tunic dress and chic leggings to his biology department
Staph Only
tee and a pair of pajama pants adorned with Hulk
fists. He cleared his throat, concentrating once again on the
syringe. “Strange.”

“What?”

“Well, the dosage of B-12 on a weekly basis
would be a matter of micrograms, much less than the droplets left
in this syringe.”

“I saw an injection. The full amount was like
this much.” Cat’s index finger and thumb measured an
inch.

“I wonder what the inactive ingredients are.
Probably sodium chloride and glacial acetic acid.” He held the
needle back up to the kitchen light. “This amber hue sure is
peculiar.”

“You can dissect the stuff, right?” Cat
said.

“I have classes all day tomorrow until four
thirty, but if you can meet me afterwards, I happen to know the
chem lab is free until seven. You do know I’m not a chemical
analyst, though?”

“Yeah, but you’re a biology professor. Doesn’t
that mean you’re like a utility man in all science
positions?”

Benji laughed. “Seriously, I don’t know how
much help I can be.” He drummed his fingernails on the countertop.
“You know, my college roommate married a girl who does chemical
engineering for a big pharm in Phoenix. I could give him a call.
She could deformulate the liquid down to the nanograms, probably by
next week.”

“No!” She shook her head emphatically. “I mean,
thank you.” She delayed while she collected her thoughts. “I just
can’t take the risk that … Y-you’re the only one I can trust. I
could be in serious trouble if anyone knew I stole the
syringe.”