Buried Leads (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery) Page 12

  Rothschild Hall on the RAU campus is the biggest, most state-of-the-art of the school’s dorms, housing the student athletes. A back-to-campus party was in full swing.

  Parker strode through the doors like the building was called “Grant Parker is the Shit Dormitory,” smiling and nodding at the coeds brave enough to make eye contact with him and not even flinching when at least two of them pinched his ass as he moved through the crowd. I tried to stay behind him, but the size and enthusiasm of the group made that next to impossible.

  Two different boys handed me two different kinds of beer within three minutes of when I walked through the front doors, and I nodded a polite thanks and tried to keep my eyes on Parker’s perfectly-tousled blond head as he scanned the giggling coeds and desperate-to-get-laid jocks, looking for whoever his statistics told him was suspect.

  Music blared into the hallway from several of the rooms, and students darted in and out of the suites with drinks and food in their hands. A group of girls with their hair in pigtails strutted down the hallway in a conga line, trying to add to their train as they went.

  “Conga!” A freckled blonde with purple glitter eyeshadow squealed, letting go of her friend’s hip to grab my hand as she danced past. “Come on!”

  Feeling suddenly more dated than a pair of battered Doc Martens, I smiled and shook my head, waiting for them to pass before I charged after Parker. By the time I caught up to him, he’d been surrounded by a knot of college kids who were hanging on his every word as he told a story about digging his team out of a ninth-inning, three-run deficit with three three-and-outs in a row followed by a grand slam.

  I laid two fingers on his elbow and he slid his eyes to me. He didn’t miss a beat in his tale as he nodded subtly to a tall, dark-haired kid across the circle from him.

  They erupted into spontaneous applause when he recounted crossing home plate and he laughed.

  “It was fun,” he said. “I played because I loved the game. Stick with that, and you’ll never be unhappy.”

  He kept his eyes on the dark-haired kid as he spoke, and the boy suddenly became very interested in his shoes.

  Bingo.

  Parker shook hands all around, easily dismissing everyone except the dark-haired kid. When it was just the three of us, Parker flashed his best sports columnist grin and threw an arm around the young pitcher’s broad shoulders.

  “Willis Hunt, this is Nichelle Clarke,” he said. “Nichelle, this is Willis. He’s going to go pro in the next couple of years, if he can get his arm under control.”

  The boy smiled a beer-addled smile and shook my hand sloppily.

  “Thanks, Mr. Parker. I don’t know about that.”

  “Call me Grant,” Parker said, steering Willis toward a hallway that wasn’t stuffed with gyrating bodies. I followed, keeping quiet and hanging on every word.

  “You had one hell of a season last year,” Parker said, stopping in a little alcove and sitting on a wide bench, gesturing to the simple gold sofa across from him. Willis flopped onto it. I perched on the edge of the bench next to Parker and tried to look unobtrusive.

  “I did alright, I guess,” Willis said.

  “You had the best record in the east for the first half,” Parker said.

  “Half doesn’t make a season,” Willis mumbled, staring at his hands. “My dad and the coach told me that enough times that I won’t ever forget it.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure.” Parker leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “And a lot of people who want to tell you what to do. I remember.”

  “You were great,” Willis said. “You should be a three-time Cy Young winner on your way to the Hall of Fame, man. I loved watching you play when I was a kid. My dad is a UVA alum.”

  “Thanks,” Parker said. “Sometimes things don’t go the way we think they will, do they?”

  Willis raised his eyes, his dark irises sober as a preacher on Sunday. “They don’t.”

  “You have amazing control for a kid your age,” Parker said softly, holding Willis’ gaze. “It was really something to watch. Then all of a sudden you’re throwing wild pitches and hitting batters left and right.”

  “I got the jitters, I guess.” Willis didn’t look away, and his expression screamed that he was desperate to spill his guts. I tried not to breathe too loudly.

  “But only when the odds were astronomically in your favor going into the game?” Parker arched an eyebrow.

  “Mr. Parker, they’ll kick me out of school,” Willis whispered, conflict plain on his face. “I won’t ever play again.”

  “You can only throw the nervous rookie thing for so long before you won’t be playing anymore, anyway.” Parker’s deep tenor verged on hypnotic. “What happened? Do you owe somebody money?”

  Willis sighed, staring past Parker at the beige wall. “After my freshman season, people started to notice me. Some guys I met at a club took me to a card game one night. There were girls, an open bar, the whole deal. Just like out of a movie. I won over a thousand dollars, and I couldn’t believe it was really my life.”

  He continued. “I went back the next weekend and the one after that, and I just kept winning. They started calling me Lucky Sixteen, you know, for my jersey number. It was a great time.”

  “Until you stopped winning,” Parker said.

  “I thought I’d get it back. They said I could have credit with them so I could keep playing. I thought I could turn it around.”

  “And then you ran out of credit.”

  Willis hitched in a deep breath and drug the back of his hand across his face. “Yeah. They said I had to pay up, and my family doesn’t have that kind of cash.”

  “How much are you in for?” Parker asked.

  “Almost thirty grand.”

  Holy shit, kid. I bit my tongue to keep the words from slipping out, my eyes flashing from Parker to Willis and back. Parker closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “So they said you could work it off by throwing games.”

  “Please, Mr. Parker.” A tear rolled down Willis’ cheek. “If you put this in the newspaper, my career will be over.”

  “I have no intention of doing that.” Parker shook his head. “You’ve been had, kid.”

  “They’ll rat me out if I don’t do what they want.” Willis said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Ratting you out rats them out, too,” Parker said. “But this is a hell of a corner you’ve backed yourself into.”

  Willis dropped his head into his hands. “I know.” The words were muffled.

  Poor kid. I felt bad for him. Parker did, too.

  “Let me talk to them,” Parker said.

  Willis raised his head slowly. “What?”

  “Let me talk to them. Where are the games?”

  Willis stared for a long minute.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a decent kid,” Parker said. “I like you. You have a chance at a future I missed. Tell me where to find a game.”

  “They move around,” Willis said. “But one of the bartenders at the Tuscany always knows. Short guy, bald head.”

  Parker stood, pulling a card from his wallet and handing it to Willis. “Call if you need to talk. I know the pressure. But play your A game, kid. Your career will be over if you don’t, anyway. Play every game like you might never get to play again, and you won’t have any regrets.”

  A hitch in his tone caught my attention. Was Grant Parker tearing up?

  I jumped to my feet and scooted out of the way. Parker moved back toward the front door, leaving Willis Hunt on the gold couch nodding and mumbling about dreams under his breath. I hurried after Parker, throwing a sad look at Willis over my shoulder. He was young to be in that much hot water.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, followi
ng Parker back into the chilly evening air. My stomach flipped with equal parts excitement and fear.

  “To a card game.” Parker jerked the driver’s door of my car open and slid behind the wheel. “These assholes have screwed with the wrong sport.”

  11.

  Bartenders, Botox, and Boys’ Night

  The Tuscany was across town from the university. On a Saturday night, we were in for at least a half-hour drive.

  I studied Parker’s jawline as he wove the car in and out of traffic. “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “’Bout what?” he asked as he slowed for a red light.

  “About baseball. What do you miss? What did you love about it? What was your best game? Freud would have a field day with that bit you just gave Willis about regret.”

  “I haven’t talked to anyone about me and baseball in a long time.”

  “Talk to me.”

  He sighed. “Baseball was all I ever wanted to do. My dad started me in little league when I was four. I fell in love with the way the bat rang in my hands when it connected with the ball. When other kids were going swimming in the summer, I was at the batting cages. I always got to pitching practice early and stayed late. I was varsity all through high school and my pitching got better every year.”

  Aside from Parker not running over anything or anyone, I wouldn’t have known he even saw the other cars in front of him. His eyes stared straight ahead.

  “By the time I was a senior we had won two big school state titles and the scouts were coming to every game,” he continued. “I graduated with a full scholarship to UVA, and my freshman year, I made the travel team, pitching against juniors and seniors. My sophomore year, I was the star. We won every game I started and I struck out a hundred and seventy-nine hitters that year.

  “About halfway through that season, the pro scouts started showing up. I spent the rest of that year focusing on baseball. I breathed it, I dreamed it—I don’t remember anything about those four months but practices and games and trying to impress the scouts. And I did. I went into the draft in June and the Angels picked me in the fourth round. The fourth round. I was going to get to play baseball for a living. My dreams were all coming true.”

  “You’re left-handed,” I said. “That’s good when you’re a pitcher, right?”

  He glanced at me and smiled. “Yep.”

  “How fast could you pitch?”

  “My second year in the minors, I was throwing ninety-six mile-an-hour fastballs.”

  I whistled. “Wow. That’s fast.”

  “The faster I threw, the harder time I had hitting the strike zone. I worked my ass off getting a handle on that in double-A. I started the next season in Salt Lake City with the triple-A team, sure I’d get to the show by the end of summer. I wanted to play for the Generals, and getting called up was the first step to getting traded home. I never went out after the games. I got my sleep; I ate as well as I could living on the bus and in shittier motels than I remembered from my tournament days. I wanted it.”

  “But you got hurt,” I said.

  “In July, just after the fourth.” His hand drifted to his left shoulder as his face twisted at the memory. “We had a four-night rotation, and my game two nights before was tough: I threw over a hundred pitches. I shouldn’t have played that night, but it was the last game of a big series, and the bull pen was having a rough time. They just needed me for one hitter. Of course I went in. I was twenty-one years old and I was invincible.” The hard laugh sounded alien coming from Parker.

  “I can still remember the pain. It felt like my arm was being ripped right off. The ball hit the dirt. I fell. The crowd got so quiet. I laid there and stared up at the lights and cried, because I knew it was over.

  “That’s pretty much it,” he said, rotating his left arm. “Four surgeries later, it doesn’t hurt anymore, but baseball is still a part of my past.”

  “Wow, Parker...” I floundered for the words that would banish the hurt I saw on his face. I wasn’t positive there were any. “That well and truly sucks.”

  He chuckled.

  “It was ten years ago,” he said, turning into the Tuscany’s full parking lot. “I survived. I’m okay, most of the time. But a kid with Willis Hunt’s talent doesn’t deserve to have the same fate because of one dumbass mistake.”

  “Agreed.” I opened my door. “Maybe we can help Willis out of a jam and find a hell of a headline, too.”

  The bald bartender parted with the location of the game about three and a half seconds after Parker flashed a wad of fifties.

  “Enjoy your game, pal.” He waved a dismissal at us and turned to a striking redhead who wanted a glass of Shiraz.

  Parker glanced at his watch when we got back to the car. “It’s not even ten yet. You ever played cards?”

  “Nothing racier than Go Fish,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Twice a month with the guys from photo for four years running.” He grinned. “Much smaller stakes, but I hold my own.”

  “You’re just damned handy to have around today.”

  “I do my best.”

  A few minutes later, we stopped outside what looked like an abandoned strip mall.

  “There’s no one here,” I said, surveying the parking lot. “You think we’re the ones who’ve been had?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” Parker pulled around back, where the lot was awfully crowded for such a dark building.

  “Nice,” I said.

  We walked along the sidewalk in silence, stopping when we reached the door near the far end of the building.

  “Assuming the place isn’t haunted, there’s a party going on in there,” I whispered. Parker raised a fist to rap on the door.

  A lock squealed inside the door and it opened a crack.

  “Looking for a card game,” Parker said, cash in hand. He laid an easy arm across my shoulders and I stiffened, then attempted to feign boredom. The door opened wider and a squat, broad man with a hawk nose gave us the once over.

  “Seven-fifty cover,” he said.

  Parker didn’t bat an eye, pulling fifteen bills off the stack and handing them over. Well, there went the cash I was hoarding for Louboutin’s spring collection.

  The man moved aside and I stayed close to Parker, my stomach lurching slightly as the door slammed shut behind us. Now what?

  The room looked like a gentleman’s study out of an old movie: rich, wood-paneled walls, a long bar with shiny brass fittings, and thick, felt-topped tables scattered over the cherry floors. I scanned the faces at the tables, looking for Grayson and trying not to sigh when I didn’t see him.

  A tall, thin man with graying temples pointed Parker to an empty seat in the far corner, and I followed.

  “Hey!” A debonair guy with a Sean Connery vibe looked up from his hand and laid his cigar in a marble ashtray. “You’re Grant Parker!”

  I sucked in a deep breath, waiting for Squatty the doorman to come throw us out on our asses. Parker flashed the million-dollar grin and offered a hand.

  “Guilty. Mind if I sit in?”

  “Hell, no.” The man stuck the cigar back in the corner of his mouth and shook Parker’s hand. “Not every day I get to play cards with a star pitcher.”

  “Isn’t it?” Parker spoke so softly I wasn’t sure I heard him, and I really hoped no one else did. He pulled out the empty chair, folding his long frame into it. I stood behind him, a disinterested half-smile fixed on my face. Captain Cigar glanced at me as he dealt Parker in.

  “You don’t want to play, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” I said, winking. “I’ve been told I have a lousy poker face.”

  I turned, looking around at the fifty or so faces hunched over cards and hoping to pick out Ted Grayson’s features. Still no luck.


  I made my way around the room, chatting up the doorman, catching dirty looks from a few of the players who shielded their cards when I walked by, and coming up with diddly squat.

  Reaching the bar, I boosted myself onto a stool, and ordered a glass of Riesling. I studied my six female barmates. All pretty. All dressed well. All young. What were they doing hanging out here? I caught a snippet of the conversation two stools over, where a blonde was carrying on about the miracle of Botox.

  “Nice shoes,” a voice from my left shoulder said. “Kirkwood?”

  “Manolo,” I said with a grin. “And thanks. I’ve had these a long time.”

  My eyes met large, dark ones set perfectly in deep olive skin. The woman leaning on the bar next to me had flowing jet tresses that were thicker than mine, a straight nose, full lips, and eyelashes most women would trade a kidney for in a heartbeat.

  “They’re timeless,” she said. “And you’re new. Please tell me you don’t give a shit about having someone shoot poison into your face.”

  I laughed.

  “I’d rather spend my money on shoes.”

  “My kind of girl.” Her teeth flashed white against her dark skin. “I’m Lakshmi.”

  “Nichelle,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she said. “Who’d you come with?”

  I pointed to Parker.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  She gestured to a goateed man with thin shoulders and dark hair.

  “He’s a brilliant doctor, but he sucks at cards,” she said. “I’m still not sure why he likes for me to hang around and watch him play, but at least he’s not the only one.” She nodded and raised her glass when the man winked at her.

  I eyeballed the women in the room and figured they were walking trophies for these guys, but returned her smile.