The Dead Pull Hitter (9 page)

“T.C.?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty upset. Sultan was his buddy, especially after he gave him a glove on Saturday.”

“That’s tough.”

He opened the door and held it for me.

We’d sorted through most of the applications by three-thirty. I left him in his office and went to the clubhouse. I asked the constable at the door if Staff Sergeant Munro was free.

He came out looking more rumpled than before. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He didn’t look happy to see me.

“Something you want to tell me?”

“No. I was just checking in before I leave to see if you had anything to tell me.”

“I was going to send for you anyway. Come in here.”

We went into the players’ lounge, which had become his command post. An extra table had been brought in and was covered with empty coffee cups and ashtrays heaped with butts. A younger man sitting there looked up with interest as we came in.

“Ms. Henry, this is Jim Wells, my partner.”

He waited for us to exchange greetings, then turned to me, looking grim.

“I don’t think you were quite honest with me,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“There was an argument between Thorson and Kelsey yesterday afternoon. Why didn’t you mention it?”

“I didn’t think it was important. That sort of thing goes on all the time. Joe wasn’t the only guy he got into arguments with.”

“But he is the only one whose bat was used as a murder weapon. Let me decide what’s important.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Now you do. Kelsey also has a history of drug abuse and violence that you neglected to mention. Are you sleeping with this guy or something?”

Munro was becoming less attractive the longer I knew him.

“That’s a disgusting insinuation,” I said. “It doesn’t deserve a reply. You’ve got a warped mind. And that drug story is ancient history. He went through a rehab program three years ago and has tested clean ever since. He’s born-again, for heaven’s sake. He leads the chapel on Sundays. Surely you can’t suspect him?”

“I suspect everyone at this point. We’re still checking alibis. I’m sorry if I’ve insulted you, but I just wish you’d told me about Kelsey and Thorson this morning.”

“Who did tell you? Swain? Grabowski?” I could tell by his look that I was close to the mark.

“Those two are flat-out racists. They’re good old boys from Texas who talk about niggers and dogs in the same breath. You’re taking their word?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s word, Ms. Henry. I just have to investigate everything I hear.”

I guess he was right. I was overreacting. In lieu of an apology, which I couldn’t quite choke out, I told him about the reconciliation I’d watched between Thorson and Kelsey after the game. He grunted and made a couple of notes in his book.

“What about Sanchez?” I asked. “Have you found the connection?”

“Not yet. Off the record, do you think Sanchez could have been capable of blackmail?”

I was a bit taken aback.

“I don’t know. He wasn’t cursed with many scruples. Behind his jovial façade he was driven and a bit paranoid. He saw conspiracies against him because of his colour, his language, his age, you name it. And he was always looking out for himself. I’m not sure what that adds up to. Why do you ask?”

“There are some unexplained large regular entries in his bank account.”

“How large?”

“Five figures a month.”

“Maybe he’d loaned some money? Maybe pay for endorsements? Bonuses?”

“We’re checking it out. Blackmail is just one possibility. I’d rather you didn’t print anything about this.”

“Not until you tell me I can. I’m glad to help you, as long as I know I’m going to get my story when this is all over.”

“I’ll give you all you need then.”

“That’s a deal. If there’s nothing else, I’ve got to run. I’ll be at home tonight if you need me.”

“Very kind,” he said, with an almost straight face.

I called Jake Watson before I left the ballpark.

“I’ll file from home, Jake. I’m babysitting.”

“I need Sandi Thorson,” he said.

“Give the lady a break. Her husband’s hardly cold.”

“We have to get her first, Kate. Get on it.”

“I’ll try in the morning.”

“What are the odds?”

“I wasn’t exactly her husband’s favourite, Jake.”

“No one was. Just use those womanly wiles.”

“All
right
. I’ll try. I’ll make some calls tonight. I’m sure she won’t talk, though.”

“It’s your neck if she’s in the
Mirror
tomorrow.”

When I got home, I heard loud music coming from Sally’s apartment. I banged on the door on my way upstairs.

“I’m home, T.C. If you’re not doing your homework, you’re in deep shit!”

Elwy met me at the door, meowing a plaintive tale of imminent starvation. He butted his head against my calves while I opened a can and threaded between my ankles, yapping all the while, as I crossed the kitchen to his dish.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all you ever do. What about a bit of gratitude for all the work I do to feed you? Hmm?”

He was too busy to answer, trying to eat the food before it finished the trip from the can to his dish.

I phoned down to Sally’s.

“Hey, T.C. What have you got down there for supper?”

“Mum’s left me macaroni and cheese.”

“Great. My personal fave. It will go perfectly with the burgers I’m going to make us. Bring the noodles when you come. I’ve got to make some calls. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

“Okay. That’s neat.”

“And if you’ve finished your homework, we’ll watch the Yankee game.”

“All right!”

I made myself a pot of tea and took it up to my study. My first call was to Gloves Gardiner.

“I need your help,” I said. There was no point getting coy with the catcher. “Isn’t Karin a good friend of Sandi Thorson?”

“Yeah, she’s over there right now.”

“I want to interview her. Could Karin put in a word for me? I’d like to get her story as soon as possible.”

“Can’t you leave her alone for a few days?”

“Unfortunately, she’s news and I’ve got to get to her.”

“It isn’t like you to be so cold, Kate. I don’t want to get involved. Neither does Karin.”

“Just ask. Tell her if Sandi doesn’t talk to somebody she’s going to have every reporter in the city camped outside her door. If she talks to one person, it will get the rest off her back. And wouldn’t she rather talk to me than to one of those sleazoids from the
Mirror
? I’m not going to do a hatchet job on her, for God’s sake. She’s a widow. Trust me.”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Karin what she thinks when she gets home. I can’t promise anything.”

“There’s something else. About the murder motive.”

He laughed. “I can think of about twenty. Can’t you?”

I crossed my fingers for the promise I was about to bend a little.

“I can’t tell you why, but I think maybe Sanchez was blackmailing someone.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Think about it. Did anyone seem really relieved when they heard he was dead?”

“No. We were all shocked.”

“What about the reaction to Thorson?”

“Now we’re scared.”

“How so?”

“Sultan could have been killed by anyone in Toronto. Steve’s murderer has to be someone we know. We’re watching our backs.”

“Oh, Gloves, no.”

“’Fraid so. I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

“Get Karin to call me.” I gave him my number.

My next call was to Tiny Washington. We covered most of the same ground. He said he wasn’t being blackmailed either.

“Tiny, did you know it was Preacher’s bat that killed Thorson?”

Munro hadn’t said I couldn’t tell anyone, just that I shouldn’t print it.

“Do they think he did it?”

“They also know about the fight on Sunday.”

“Who told them?”

“It wasn’t me. Was it you?”

“Stinger and Grabowski.”

“That’s my guess.”

“They think Preacher’s stupid enough to kill someone with his own bat?”

“Who knows. If you’re talking to any of the guys, ask if they know anything about any blackmail, okay?”

“What are you doing, playing detective?”

“Just chasing a story, Tiny. Keep in touch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tiny sounded amused.

I finished the story I had started at the ballpark. I didn’t have much more than gossip and off-the-record stuff, but I managed to pull something together.

When I was done, I changed into a leotard and tights and spent half an hour at the barre. The workout was long overdue. My knees creaked in the pliés. My hamstrings screamed on the tendus. I’d been playing hooky from class for the last six weeks. Madame would not be pleased.

T.C. was at the door promptly at six-thirty. He was juggling a casserole, a schoolbook, and Sultan’s glove, his prized possession—he probably slept with it. His glasses had slipped down his nose. I relieved him of the casserole before it fell.

“I didn’t quite finish my homework,” he said. “I’ve got another chapter to read.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I’ve got to take a shower anyway. Why don’t you get yourself a Pepsi out of the fridge—I won’t tell your mum—and read your chapter. Then we can talk.”

I turned the bathroom radio to
As It Happens
while I let the shower wash away the day. I bumped it up to the hottest it would deliver and let the spray massage some of the tension kinks out of my back. I felt almost human when I was done.

I was crashing about in the kitchen, doing my world-famous imitation of a domestic person, when T.C. came in.

“Can I help? My homework’s done.”

“Just sit yourself down and tell me your news.”

“Have they found anything out about the murders yet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why would someone want to kill them?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“It’s not fair.”

I didn’t want to tell him that life’s not fair. He was already finding that out sooner than most kids.

“Don’t worry, they’ll catch whoever did it. The detective in charge of the investigation seems like a pretty sharp guy.”

“Yeah? What’s he like? Like on
Miami Vice
?”

Enough of this morbid curiosity.

“So, listen. Did your friends like your new glove?”

“They thought it was pretty neat,” he said. “Do you realize that I’m probably the last kid he ever gave anything to?”

Good changing of subject, Kate.

“Do you want cheese on your burger?”

“Okay. Kate, do you know anything about gloves?”

“Try me.”

“The stitching’s coming loose. Can you fix it?”

“Probably. I’ve watched other people do it. I’ll look at it after dinner. Do you want to watch TV while we eat?”

“Yeah. Great!”

I put together a tray with cutlery and condiments and sent him up to my study with it. When I followed ten minutes later with the food, a glass of milk for him, and a beer for me, he was engrossed in
The Dating Game
.

“Who do you think he should choose, kid?”

“Bachelorette number three.”

“How come?”

“She’s got the biggest tits.”

T.C. was growing up. I pretended to be shocked and he blushed.

We had a nice evening curled up on the couch. The Yankees were beating the Red Sox so badly by nine-fifteen that T.C. didn’t even complain when I sent him down to get ready for bed. I turned off the set and carried the dishes to the kitchen.

A moment later, he was back.

“There’s something wrong downstairs, Kate.”

“What do you mean?”

“The back door’s open.”

“You must have forgotten to close it.”

“No. It was locked before. I know it was.”

“I’ll go check. You wait here.”

“Don’t go down there. What if someone’s hiding?”

The kid had a point. I dialled 911. The operator answered on the third ring. I gave her my address and told her the problem. A police cruiser pulled up no more than seven minutes later. Pretty good.

T.C. and I went through the apartment with the officers, once they had established that there were no criminals lurking in the closets. Nothing seemed to be missing.

“It could be that he ran away when you came in, son. Was the front door locked?”

I was a bit embarrassed.

“No. I don’t usually lock it until I go to bed.”

“What about the apartment doors?”

“I didn’t lock it,” T.C. said. “I was just coming upstairs. I didn’t think I had to. My mum’s going to be mad.”

“Don’t worry about that.” I put my arm around him.

“When will she be home? Does she leave the boy alone often?”

“He’s not alone. He’s with me. T.C., get your pajamas and toothbrush. You can sleep in my bed until she gets home.”

The police took another fifteen minutes to take down our story. They didn’t seem terribly concerned. I guess they thought that anyone stupid enough to leave doors unlocked deserved what they got. They were probably right. When they left, I locked up and left a note for Sally on her door.

Upstairs, I tucked T.C. in and unplugged the bedroom phone.

“Sleep tight, honey. Your mother will be home pretty soon.”

I’d just turned out the bedroom light when Karin Gardiner phoned.

“Sandi Thorson will give you an interview tomorrow,” she said. “Can you be at her house at ten?”

“Of course. Thank you, Karin. How is she?”

“She’s fine. I’m not sure it’s really sunk in yet.”

“Do you know what her plans are?”

“No. Her parents have been here for a few days. So that’s a help. And Steve’s parents got here this morning.”

“And that’s no help at all, right?”

“You could say that.”

I had heard stories about Thorson’s parents, a rather unpleasant couple who had neglected him as a child, then rushed to cash in once he made it.

“I’ll try not to make it any more difficult for her.”

“Thank you. Sandi asked me to be there during the interview, if you don’t mind.”

She gave me the address and we said goodbye. I went up to the study and pulled my file on Thorson. Shortly after eleven I heard Sally at the door.

“What’s happened? Where’s T.C.?”

“He’s fine. He’s sleeping in my bed. Don’t worry about him. Let me get us a drink.”

Sally was already a bit drunk from her gallery opening, but I figured one more wouldn’t hurt her. I certainly wanted one. I mixed a couple of Scotch and waters and explained what had happened.

“I’ll go downstairs with you, if you like, to check things out, but I don’t think anything is missing.”

“In a minute. You didn’t hear anything?”

“I’m sorry, Sally. We were on the third floor.”

“I should never have left him alone. What if something had happened?”

“You didn’t leave him alone, Sally. You left him with me. And he’s fine.”

“Kidnappers. What if it was kidnappers?”

“After your vast wealth, no doubt. I don’t think so.”

“His father. It was Roger trying to steal him from me.”

“Sally, Roger sees him whenever he wants. Why would he want to steal him? He doesn’t want a full-time child. You know that.”

“I guess you’re right. Can we go down now?”

“Sure, no problem.”

We started down the stairs, Sally in the lead.

I started to ask her about her party and she turned, finger to her lips, and shushed me, her eyes big. She was tiptoeing.

“I think they’ve left,” I whispered. “You’re just going to scare yourself.”

At the door, she hesitated.

“For heaven’s sake, give me the key,” I said, in a normal voice, and opened the door. I had left the lights on. Sally held back until I was in the kitchen.

“Coast is clear, Sal. Come look.”

She came in, laughing nervously.

“I’m being a wimp.”

I agreed.

We made a tour of the apartment. Nothing was missing.

“It was probably just kids. You’re lucky you haven’t got anything worth stealing.”

“Wait a minute. What do you mean? What about the television set? My jewellery? My . . .”

“There’s not much of a market for fourteen-inch black-and-white TV sets, Sally. Your jewellery, while charming, would not set a fence’s soul aquiver. Now, your collection of pigs. I’m amazed they missed those.”

“What about my fabulous wardrobe and priceless art?”

We both giggled.

“Hey, why don’t you bring some things up and spend the night. You can bunk in with T.C. I’ll sleep in my study. It won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

“All right. Do we have to go to sleep right now?”

“No. We’ll have another drink, and talk.”

“Oh, good. A slumber party. I’ve got to tell you about the guy I met tonight.”

“Right.” I steered her out the door.

Sally was full of news about the opening—a retrospective of a brilliant, eccentric photographer. The mayor had been there, and the minister of culture. Mercifully, both had left before the photographer called the art critic from the
Mirror
a slut and she threw a drink in his face.

“Thank God no one with money reads the
Mirror
,” she giggled. “So, we had to go out to dinner afterwards and have a few bottles of wine to recover. How’s your day been?”

I ran through it for her. Towards the end of the story I remembered my promise to T.C.

“I’d better see what I can do with that glove. It’s in the kitchen. Fix us another drink while I get it.”

I could see what T.C. meant. The leather lacing was loose at the base of the thumb, pulled out from the palm piece.

“This is more complicated than I thought. I’m going to have to undo the whole thing and put it back together.”

“Are you sure? T.C.’s not going to be happy if he finds his glove in pieces all over the floor.”

“Well, if I screw it up too badly, I can take it to the ballpark tomorrow and get someone to fix it. Besides, it’s a challenge. The amazing Kate Henry never shirks a challenge.”

“Hear, hear!” Sally raised her glass.

I started at the top of the thumb, where the lacing was knotted. It wasn’t too hard to pull it out, using a nail file. I was halfway across the palm piece when the padding began to come out.

“Oh, shit, Sally, look at this.”

“What?”

Only the very edge of the padding was the grey felt I expected to find. Behind it were plastic bags full of white powder. I had not lived a totally sheltered life.

“If this is what I think, I know what the murderer was looking for in Sanchez’s apartment. And maybe in yours, Sally.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

There was no home number on the card Staff Sergeant Munro had given me, and the duty officer at the office told me he couldn’t be reached.

“I know it’s late, but could you have him call me? It’s Kate Henry calling about the Sanchez case. I’ve discovered something that I think he’ll want to know about.”

“He really doesn’t want to be disturbed tonight, Miss Henry. Maybe I could help you.”

“No offence, but I’d rather talk to the staff sergeant. And it can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“I’ll call him right away. I just want to warn you that if it’s not important, he’s going to be mad.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand, Officer.”

I could hear him stifling a laugh as he hung up.

It was obviously time to switch to coffee. I made a pot and brought a couple of cups into the living room.

“You don’t have to wait up.”

“You think I could sleep?”

Five minutes later, a grumpy sounding Staff Sergeant Munro was on the phone.

“What is it, Ms. Henry?”

“I hope I didn’t wake you up, Staff Sergeant.”

“You didn’t.”

“I think I know why Sultan Sanchez was murdered.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t sound thrilled.

“What about drugs?”

“Ms. Henry, I didn’t call you at quarter to one in the morning to play guessing games. What have you got?”

“I’ve got a glove, Staff Sergeant. A baseball glove that Sultan Sanchez gave to a young friend of mine. A baseball glove packed with what appears to be cocaine. I’m sorry if you think that’s a game.”

“I’ll be right there.”

He took my address and hung up.

“He’s on his way. I’m going to change.”

“Why?”

“You’ll know when you see him,” I said.

I crept into my bedroom and took a pair of linen slacks and a silk blouse out of the closet without waking T.C.—casual but elegant. I put on enough makeup to look good, but not enough to notice. Then I opened a new pack of cigarettes.

I heard a car door shut and went to the window. Munro was locking a Volkswagen Beetle a few doors down the street. Not your average cop. I went downstairs to let him in.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, leading him up the stairs. I introduced him to Sally and didn’t miss her appreciative look. He was wearing a pair of baggy sweat pants and a cotton sweater. So much for dressing up.

“It was her son Sultan gave the glove to,” I explained. “They live downstairs.”

I offered Munro a coffee.

“Black, with three sugars, please.”

I must have made a face.

“It’s one of my few vices.”

I showed him the glove and explained how T.C. had got it, how I had come to take it apart, and about the break-in.

“Who knew the boy had the glove?”

“Tiny Washington was there when he got it. Any number of people on the field could have seen him with it.”

“He was talking to some of the players on Sunday, too, Kate. I think he even got some autographs on the glove.”

Of course. I picked it up.

“Joe Kelsey, Stinger Swain, Alex Jones, Slider Holmes, Gloves Gardiner, Mark Griffin. A lot of the players knew T.C., Staff Sergeant. He’s been down on the field with me a couple of times. He’s a nice kid.”

“I’m sure he is. I’ll have to talk to him.”

“Now?”

“No. Let him sleep. I’ll get together with him tomorrow.”

“Should I keep him home from school?”

“It might be a good idea. Whoever wants that glove doesn’t know we’ve got it. I assume the boy has been taking it with him wherever he goes, right?”

“You know kids.”

“I’ve got a couple myself,” he smiled. Married.

“I see them as often as I can,” he continued. Divorced. I was glad I’d gone with casual but elegant. “My son’s a big ball fan. He’ll be jealous when he hears I’ve met you, Ms. Henry.”

“Call me Kate, for heaven’s sake.”

“All right. I’m Andy.”

“But your name’s Lloyd.”

“It’s an old family name. I’m the fourth generation. My middle name’s Andrew and my friends are kind enough to use it.”

“Well, I guess I’ll get to bed,” Sally said, subtle as a crutch. “Nice to have met you, Staff Sergeant.”

“Someone will be in touch with you in the morning.”

“If I’m not at home, I’ll be at the gallery. I’ll take T.C. with me. Kate can give you the phone numbers.”

After she left, we sat for a few moments in awkward silence.

“More coffee? Or could I offer you a drink? Unless you can’t drink on duty.”

“Well, I’m off duty, technically. I’d love a Scotch, if you’ve got some.”

“With water?”

“Just a bit. And one ice cube.”

“No sugar?”

“Not in Scotch, thanks.”

When we had settled in with our drinks, we both started to talk at once.

“You first,” I laughed.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

“Oh?”

“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about, but I don’t want it all over the papers.”

“I won’t print any of it until an arrest is made, as long as I get an exclusive.”

“You’ve got a deal. Do you have a cassette recorder?”

“Yes, in my study. Why?”

“I’ve got a tape for you to listen to. See if you recognize any of the voices.”

“Where does it come from?”

“Sultan Sanchez’s answering machine. It’s the messages that were recorded on Saturday night.”

I got my portable recorder. The sound quality wasn’t great, but I had no problem with the first caller.

“Hi, honey, it’s Ginny. It’s seven o’clock. I’m at the Fillet. Where are you? If you’re listening in, get your sweet buns down here. Bye bye.” Kissing noises followed.

“Sultan had a number of friends in town when his wife wasn’t here,” I said. “I ran into that one on Saturday, as a matter of fact. She was pretty drunk by midnight.”

“Yes, I could tell. She called back several times.”

The second call was a man’s voice.

“I’ve got the money. I’ll be at Brandy’s at eleven.”

“He called again, too. Is the voice familiar?”

“I’m not sure.”

He rewound it and played it again.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

The next call was in Spanish, a woman speaking.

“This is from another I um, friend of his,” Munro said. “She’s telling him she wants his body, approximately.”

“Popular fella. Do you speak Spanish?”

“No. One of the translators at headquarters listened to it for me.”

“I would imagine Alex Jones might be able to tell you who she is.”

The fourth call was a crank call, some drunken fan telling him he was a bum for striking out.

“How do they get these guys’ unlisted phone numbers? I had to work my butt off to get them.”

The fifth was from Ginny again.

“Hi, honey,” she said, sounding a bit frail. “I’m still at the Fillet. We’re holding the champagne and cake until you get here, so hurry.”

There was a lot of background noise on the next call.

“I’ve been at Brandy’s for half an hour. I’m tired of waiting. I’ll get to you after the game tomorrow.”

“I still can’t recognize it. It’s hard with all the noise.”

“Just one more.”

“You bastard,” Ginny’s voice slurred. “You don’t stand me up and get away with it. We’re through.” The phone was slammed down.

“That’s it. I was hoping you’d recognize the man’s voice.”

“Was it a drug deal, do you think? That would explain the large sums of money going into his bank account.”

“Perhaps. We’ll know better tomorrow. We found a safety deposit key in his valuables drawer at the ballpark. We’ll see what he’s got in it.”

“Why don’t you ask at Brandy’s and find out if any ballplayers were in there on Saturday.”

“We did actually think of that all by ourselves, Kate.” He fought the smile. “That’s assuming it’s a ballplayer. There was a full house at Brandy’s that night, including no less than five Titans and seven Red Sox.”

“Right. Who were the Titans?”

“Stinger Swain, Moe Grabowski, Eddie Carter, Joe Kelsey, and Slider Holmes.”

“Not all together, I assume.”

“Nope. Like you said. The whites were in one group and the blacks in another.”

“Did anyone notice who was in there for just half an hour?”

“With that mob, we’re lucky anyone noticed anything.”

“I’m trying to figure which of them might be into drugs.”

“I think you might be barking up the wrong investigative tree, Kate.”

“You mean drugs? What’s that right there on the table?”

“Drugs. And where did the drugs come from?”

“Sultan Sanchez’s glove.”

“Which he gave away to an eleven-year-old boy. Which suggests what?”

“That he didn’t know the glove was full of drugs.”

“Bingo. Your average drug dealer seldom gives away close to a pound of cocaine.”