The Dead Pull Hitter (15 page)

I was still groggy and grumpy when Andy called the next morning. He didn’t have much news.

“We’re still checking. Both Kelsey and Sloane have some sort of alibi for at least one of the murders. Sloane was home both Saturday and Sunday night. Kelsey was out with Eddie Carter after ten on Saturday and with Carter and his wife on Sunday until nine.”

“Thorson was already dead by then, wasn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“He must have got to the stadium around seven-thirty, according to Sandi. I can’t see him hanging around for long. He was in a hurry to get to the cottage.”

“Exactly.”

“Sloane’s only alibi is his family?”

“But they’re firm on it.”

“He probably threatened to beat them up again.”

“Kate, just because you don’t like somebody doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

“One, we know he’s a violent man. Two, he bats left-handed.”

“And three, he had no motive for Thorson.”

“Maybe Thorson knew something. Maybe he saw Sloane corning out of Sultan’s place.”

“He just happened to be passing by?”

“Why not?”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did Sloane happen to be at the ballpark?”

“He followed him?”

“You’re reaching, Kate.”

“I guess.”

“Right. Other than that, what’s your day look like?”

“Nothing much. It’s a day game.”

“And you’re going to be in tonight?”

“Probably. Ted Ferguson’s throwing his annual bash for the team and local bigwigs but my invitation seems to be held up in the mail again.”

“Okay. Constable Donny will meet you at the ballpark.”

At least I was able to drive my own car there. A small blessing.

I was busy before the game. Beat writers from around the league had deserted their teams to come and get an early start on their playoff coverage. So there were lots of questions to be answered about new players and the status of the murder story. I was getting more attention than the players.

Moose stopped me on my way to the press box.

“Are you busy tonight, Kate?”

“As it happens I have a rare free evening. Why?”

“Do you want to come to the party tonight? I owe you one after my behaviour on Sunday.”

“Sure, where’s the party?”

“At the Hilton. But I’ll pick you up. Say about seven? Dinner’s at eight.”

“Gee, just like a real date. Do I get a wrist corsage?”

“Don’t push your luck. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Come at a quarter to. We’ll have a drink first.”

I left the field early. There were a couple of scouts I hadn’t been able to reach the day before. I tracked them down and got the last few quotes I needed for the playoff supplement. They thought that even without Thorson and Sanchez the Titans were a sure bet to go to the World Series.

Which reminded me—I hadn’t heard back from Jerry Bergman. I phoned, but he wasn’t in. His office promised that he would get back to me.

It was a loose afternoon, on the field and in the press box. The fans were whooping it up, carrying banners through the stands and heckling the Yankees. Most of the reporters were relaxing, drinking beer and speculating on the winners of the league Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards.

“Thorson could get it,” I said. “He didn’t win as many games as Costello, but his ERA was lower and he had more strikeouts. Besides, being dead gets the sympathy vote.”

It was generally agreed that there was no likely MVP candidate on the Titans. Three or four guys were having career years, but there wasn’t a standout who had carried the team.

Rookie of the year was another matter. Alex Jones got everybody’s vote in the press box. It was hard to see how the other writers in the league could overlook him.

He made a case for himself in the top of the first inning when he went deep into the hole behind third base and threw out a runner with a perfect, seemingly impossible, throw. That won him his first standing ovation of the day. A bases-loaded triple into the left-centrefield gap in the bottom of the inning won him the second. They would have given him a standing ovation for picking his nose. It was that kind of afternoon.

Red let each of his regulars play two or three innings, then sat them down, but even the subs were hitting. Flakey Patterson shut the Yankees out for seven innings. He would be starting the second game of the playoffs, and looked ready to go. Red sent Goober Grabowski to start the eighth, but the fans called Patterson out of the dugout for another ovation. Final score was 8–1, Titans.

I was home by six, with just enough time to shower and change before Moose came. I wore a dress Sally had talked me into buying. It was cut high in the front and low in the back, with sequins on the bodice and a short tight skirt slit halfway to my bum. Moose was even tall enough for me to wear my spike heels without looking like a giant. I was finishing on my makeup when Jerry Bergman called.

“Sorry I took so long,” he said. “My buddy who took the bet was out of town yesterday. First of all, the bet came in at seven. That’s a bit early.”

“Seven your time. What are you, two hours earlier?”

“What time is it there?”

“Almost six-thirty.”

“It’s twenty-five after three here. Three hours.”

“Hmm. Who made it?”

“A guy they call the Hawk. Strictly a small-time guy. The guy at Leroy’s figures it was someone else’s money.”

“They don’t know his name?”

“Jimmy Hawkins, I think. He’s a rounder. Played some pro ball about twenty years ago. I doubt if he made it to the big leagues for more than a cup of coffee. But he boasts about it when he’s boozing, which is most of the time.”

“What does he do?”

“Drives cab, when he’s working. Mainly he chases that one big score. It looks like he’s found it.”

“How would he have that kind of money?”

“Like my buddy said, maybe it wasn’t his.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot for your help. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

“Any time.”

My
Baseball Encyclopedia
was worth a look. If he’d played at all in the major leagues they’d have his year-by-year records.

Hawkins, James Bonner, didn’t take up much room. He’d amassed a total of fifty-four major-league at bats, spread over three years, with the Seattle Pilots and Milwaukee Brewers, when the team moved. It looked as if he’d made a few trips up in September before he was dropped. I checked his birth date: September 13th, 1947, in Vulture Gulch, Arizona.

Vulture Gulch—“hard by Rooster Creek.” I flipped back through the book. Same home town, same minor-league system. Close enough in age to make no difference. I felt sick.

The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Constable MacPherson speaking.”

“It’s Kate Henry. I have to speak to Staff Sergeant Munro. It’s urgent.”

“He’s not here.”

“Find him.”

The doorbell rang downstairs.

“Tell him to get his ass over here as fast as he can. I think I’m in a lot of trouble.”

Moose rang again.

“Is that your doorbell?”

“Find Munro and get here now.”

I ran down the stairs and opened the door with what I hoped was a casual smile.

“Sorry, Moose. My zipper got caught. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“No problem,” he said. “You look terrific. Are you ready to go?”

“Just about. I thought we were going to have a drink.”

He came in.

“Martini? I’ve got the glasses in the freezer.”

“Martini’s fine,” he said, following me to the kitchen.

“So, what’s tonight going to be like? This is my first time at the big event.”

“No big deal. A lot of community types to be nice to. But there’s usually a suite later where the players can go and get shit-faced.”

“You can hardly blame them this year,” I said, getting the gin out of the refrigerator, trying not to check the clock too obviously. “It’s really fun to be around them these days. I must admit I never thought I’d still be around when they won their first pennant.”

“I had some doubts myself.”

“Are all the credentials ready? You’ve been so busy I’ve hardly seen you in days.” I added a few drops of vermouth and started an olive hunt in the cupboard.

“They came from the printers this afternoon. The girls will be stuffing the envelopes tomorrow.”

“When can we pick them up?”

“Monday, at the hotel. The media rooms open at noon.”

“Here you go. I hope it’s to your liking.”

We carried our drinks into the living room. I excused myself and went to the bedroom, stalling. I came back fastening earrings, then sat down and raised my glass to him, straining to hear the sound of a car. I hoped they wouldn’t use sirens.

“To the Titans getting into the World Series.”

“To the Titans.”

I tried not to gulp my drink. Five more minutes passed in stupid chatter about playoff arrangements. Then he drained his glass.

“I guess we’d better get going.”

“We’ve got time for another. I need more fortification before facing that crowd.” I jumped up and took his glass. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Where were they? I mixed the drinks slowly and was just starting to pour them when Moose came into the kitchen.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” My voice didn’t sound natural even to me.

“How did you figure it out? You have figured it out, haven’t you? That’s why you’re acting so strange.”

He began to walk towards me.

“Listen, Moose. I don’t know anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honest. Look, maybe we’d better get going. I don’t need another drink.”

He leaned against the counter with his arms folded across his chest.

“I didn’t mean to, you know. I never meant to kill Sultan. I just wanted to knock him out.” His voice was flat, unemotional.

“You were looking for the glove.”

“I didn’t know he’d given it away.”

“You got the drugs from Chambers and Wilder in New York.”

“I needed the money. Gambling. I was going to sell the drugs to get the loan sharks off my back. When the coke disappeared, I had to find another way. I read the papers that Sultan had, and when Steve came to the stadium Sunday night, I tried to get him to throw the playoffs. He wouldn’t do it—I had to kill him. He knew I’d killed Sultan because I knew about the blackmail.”

“And you got your old friend Hawkins to make the bet for you in Las Vegas.”

“It was my only chance,” he said, starting to pace around the small kitchen. “Why did you have to keep on? I tried to warn you. I tried to scare you off. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re my friend. Why didn’t you stop?”

“You sent me the blackmail files to make me think it was Sloane or Kelsey.”

He took a carving knife from the rack over the counter. “But it didn’t work.”

“You don’t want to do this. I won’t tell anyone.”

I backed away. He followed me. I used the only weapon I had. I threw the Martinis in his face, then the heavy crystal pitcher, and ran.

I was almost at the door when he caught up. He grabbed me from behind, by the hair.

I heard feet pounding up the stairs and screamed. The door burst open. Andy was the first one in, followed closely by MacPherson, guns drawn.

“Don’t do it, Greer.”

I could feel the point of the knife at my throat. Moose had my arms pinned behind me with the other hand.

“Take it easy,” Andy said. “Let her go.”

“Get out of here,” Moose screamed. “Just get the fuck out.”

Andy started to move towards us, his free hand stretched out in front of him. I heard a growl. It was Elwy, on the back of the couch, his fur standing on end.

“Just relax, Greer.” Andy’s voice was very calm. “Drop the knife. We won’t shoot you unless you hurt her.”

“No. Stay back.”

Moose took the knife from my throat and gestured towards them. With a yowl, Elwy launched himself through the air. Moose looked towards him. I bent my leg and raked the spike heel down his shin and into his instep. I wrenched free while he was off balance. I could hear my dress tearing as I rolled out of reach.

He started after me. MacPherson dove across the room and tackled him. Andy held the gun on Moose while MacPherson cuffed his hands behind his back.

Moose began to cry. MacPherson, panting, read him his rights.

“Are you all right?” Andy was kneeling next to me on the floor.

“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice wasn’t. “I’m a bit shaky. I’ll be all right.”

He helped me to my feet, then sat me on the couch and went to use the kitchen phone. Elwy climbed onto my lap and purred. In a few moments, I heard sirens screaming down the street. They choked into silence outside my front door and Andy’s partner ran up the stairs, followed by two more officers. Along with Constable MacPherson, they hustled Moose towards the door.

Before they left, Moose turned to me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but you wouldn’t stop.”

“I’m sorry, too, Moose.”

The door closed behind them. Andy came and sat next to me. He took my hand.

“You’ve got some guts, Kate. Do you feel up to coming to the station and making a statement?”

“I can’t. I’ve got a story to write.”

“Goddamn it, woman. The story can wait.”

“Just let me phone the office and tell them I’ll be filing. Where are they taking him?”

I told the astonished night editor to hold some space for me, then called Jake Watson at home.

“I’ll write the main story, but if you want anything else, send someone down to the Hilton. There’s a team party going on. They’ll all be there. Someone will have to get the news to Ferguson. Problem is, he hasn’t got a PR man to handle it anymore.”

By the time I got back from the phone, Sally and T.C. were with Andy. They crossed the room to hug me.

“Looks like I’d better put on the kettle,” Sally said.

Over a pot of tea, we began to piece together the story.

“You’re going to have to help me on some of the details, Andy.”

“If you’ll tell me how you figured it out.”

“It was the blackmail material that put me on the wrong track at first,” I said. “It was such compelling stuff that it took my attention away from the drugs. That’s what it was all about. Sanchez and his blackmail had nothing to do with it.

“The drugs were smuggled in on the last road trip from New York. Whoever did it had to know the equipment isn’t checked crossing the border. He also had to know that Sultan rarely used his glove and wouldn’t notice if it felt different than usual. So it was a safe hiding place.”

“Then Sultan gave me his glove,” said T.C., his eyes huge behind his glasses.

“But Moose didn’t know it until Monday, when I mentioned it to him. He hadn’t been able to find it on Saturday in the clubhouse, so he went to Sultan’s apartment and broke in.

“I think Sultan came in while he was looking. He grabbed a bat and hit him, just trying to knock him out. When he realized he was dead, he searched the place and messed it up to look like a burglary. He also found the blackmail material.

“I even saw it Sunday night. He was trying to put it away when I brought him home. I didn’t notice at the time.”

“Why did he kill Thorson?” Sally asked.

“He was looking for the glove in the equipment room when Thorson came in for his fishing stuff. I think Moose just panicked. He needed money. When he lost the dope, he needed the money even more.

“He told me tonight that he tried to use the blackmail material to force Thorson to throw the games he was scheduled to pitch. Thorson refused, but realized that the only way Moose could know he’d thrown games in the past was if he had murdered Sanchez. Once he knew that, he had to die. How am I doing so far, Staff Sergeant?”

“Sounds good to me. Where did he get the dope?”

“That’s what started me thinking. Two former players were arrested on drug and weapons charges in New York last night. They’re friends of Moose’s, but he said he hadn’t seen them for years. Then Gloves Gardiner told me that they’d been at the stadium before a game last week. I wondered why Moose had lied.

“That’s probably when they made the switch. Moose often used Sultan’s glove to play catch. It would be the easiest thing in the world for his buddies, who had the drug connections, to replace Sultan’s with the one full of drugs.”

“What tipped you?”

“That was a fluke. When I was talking to a bookie in Las Vegas about the odds for the playoffs, he mentioned a guy had bet ten thousand dollars on the A’s on Sunday night. That’s not so big a bet, evidently, but the timing was odd. Thorson’s body wasn’t found until Monday morning. So I thought there might be a connection with someone here.

“Just before Moose arrived tonight, the guy from Vegas called me and told me the name of the better. He also told me that he had played professional baseball. So I looked him up in the
Baseball Encyclopedia
, found he came from the same little town as Moose, and everything fell into place. That’s when I called you.”

Elwy jumped up on my lap and butted his head against my chest.

“Right, Elwy, and then you saved my life.”

Andy snorted. “An attack cat.”

“Elwy is not your ordinary cat.”

I shooed them all out and wrote my story. I finished by midnight, despite calls from several other reporters. I politely refused comment, telling them to buy the
Planet
the next morning. Then I took the phone off the hook and took a long, hot bath.

At one I was in my bathrobe on the living-room couch listening to music and sipping a Scotch. Elwy was on my feet. I was about to turn in when I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a soft knock. I went to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Special delivery for Detective Kate Henry.”

Andy had champagne in one hand, flowers in the other, and a smile on his face.

“Feel like celebrating your first crime solved?”

Elwy rubbed against his ankles and purred.