06 Fatal Mistake Page 17

  “Who were his friends on the team?”

  “Until the other night, I would’ve said all of them. But he was closest to Chris Ortiz. They both grew up poor in the D.R. and found their way out with baseball. They had a lot in common.”

  “Do you know where we might find Ortiz?”

  “Probably at his winter home in Fort Myers. He goes there the second the season ends and doesn’t leave again until spring training. I think I have his number in my phone. I can check if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Jamie left the room and returned a minute later with a piece of paper that she handed to Sam.

  “If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please call me,” Sam said, handing her another card in case she’d lost the other one from yesterday.

  “I will.”

  At the door, Sam turned back to Jamie. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

  “Thank you.”

  When they were back in the car, Hill said, “Where to?”

  “Back to HQ for now to talk to Collins, and then I want to see Lind.”

  “You believed Jamie when she said there was no affair.”

  Sam found it interesting that he didn’t pose a question, but rather a fact. “I do. How about you?”

  “Yeah. And I was thinking, even if there was an affair, why would she kill him? Because he missed the ball? What would that have to do with her or what might or might not have been happening between them?”

  “Right. Nothing to do with her beyond the team losing its chance to go to the World Series.”

  “So we can knock her off our list of suspects.”

  “I’m not ready to completely eliminate anyone.” Sam dialed into the pit and reached Detective Arnold. “How’s it going with the phone dump?”

  “Slow. Lot of calls received before and after the game.”

  “Any outgoing calls?”

  “Only to his wife.”

  “Are you near a computer?”

  “Yep. What do you need?”

  “A number for the George McPhearson Agency in New York City. A sports representation firm.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Sam could hear him clicking around on the keyboard as he did a search.

  “Ready?”

  As he rattled off the number, Sam wrote it down in her notebook. “Thanks. Let me know if anything pops on the phone log.”

  “Will do.”

  Sam ended the call and began to punch in the number for the McPhearson agency.

  “You know,” Hill said, “there’s this marvelous new invention called a smart phone where you can search for things like phone numbers and then call directly from the website.”

  While she listened to the ringing phone, Sam said, “Why bother with a smart phone when I have smart people at my beck and call?”

  “George McPhearson Agency. How may I direct your call?”

  “To Mr. McPhearson.”

  “He’s unavailable at the moment. May I send you to his voice mail?”

  “Do not send me to his voice mail. This is Lieutenant Holland, Metro Washington, D.C. Police about the Willie Vasquez murder. Put me through to him. Now.”

  “Please hold.”

  “Another receptionist ripped to shreds,” Hill said.

  “My special gift.”

  “Mr. McPhearson’s office.”

  “Lieutenant Holland, Metro Washington D.C. Police, about the Willie Vasquez murder. Please put me through to Mr. McPhearson immediately.”

  “I’m sorry but he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

  “Let me tell you how this is going to go. Are you listening?”

  “Um, yes...”

  “I’m going to hang up with you and make a phone call to my colleagues in New York City. They’re going to send over a couple of uniformed officers who will march into Mr. McPhearson’s very important meeting. They will then handcuff him and take him into custody so we can ask him the questions we need to ask. Or... You could put him on the goddamned phone right now. Any part of that you don’t get?”

  “Please hold.”

  As he drove, Hill shook with silent laughter.

  “Put me on fucking hold again.”

  The phone line clicked. “George McPhearson.”

  “Ahh,” Sam said, “finally.”

  “I don’t appreciate you intimidating my staff.”

  “And I don’t appreciate being stonewalled by people who think a meeting is more important than getting justice for a dead man. In my world, nothing is more important than that.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell me who might want Willie Vasquez dead for failing to catch that ball.”

  “Other than everyone in the Metro D.C. area and surrounding environs?”

  “Yes, other than that. Sponsors, for instance, or angry agents who might’ve benefitted from a hefty new contract for a free agent after he won the World Series. We’re interested in talking to those types of people.”

  “Are you accusing me of having something to do with this?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Of course not! He wasn’t just my client. He was my friend too. I’m heartbroken over what happened to him—both on the field and afterward. He was one of the hardest-working, most dedicated athletes I’d ever had the pleasure to work with.”

  “Did your PR agency write that tidy little sound bite for you or did you come up with it all on your own?”

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  Sam held the phone away from her ear as he bellowed at her, wondering if he would’ve spoken to her that way if she’d been standing right in front of him. For his sake, she hoped not. “Murder is my problem, Mr. McPhearson. I want to know who in Willie’s orbit might’ve had something to gain by the Feds winning that game, beyond the obvious. I’m thinking sponsors or perhaps a manager or agent who had a big deal riding on a trip to the World Series.”

  He was silent for so long that Sam wondered if he’d hung up on her. “Hello? McPhearson?”

  “I’m here.”

  “And?”

  “We all had a lot riding on that game, Lieutenant,” he said in a far more weary, conciliatory tone. “There were deals lined up if the team made it to the World Series, not just for Willie but for several other players on the Feds as well.”

  “Who else do you represent on the team?”

  “Lind, Mulroney, Hattie, Smith and Ortiz.”

  “Who among them had the most to lose?”

  “Willie.”

  “Second?”

  “Lind.”

  “Have you spoken to him since the game the other night?”

  “I’ve left him a couple of messages. Haven’t heard back from him yet.”

  “What about you? A lot to lose?”

  “Of course, but I also represent six players on the Giants, so either way, I come out fine.”

  “Any of his sponsors stand to lose big-time because of Willie dropping that ball?”

  “Not enough to kill him over it. They spread it out over the big names so they don’t have all their eggs in any one basket.”

  “Just like agents, right?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  “Why weren’t you at the game with so many of your players in it?”

  “I was there. I flew back to New York afterward.”

  Sam’s phone beeped with another call that she ignored. “What about Willie’s manager?”

  “Charlie Engal. He’s in Europe for a month with his wife, celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

  “During the baseball play-offs?”

  “He didn’t manage baseball players when he got married. What do you want me to say?”

  “I’d like to give you my number in case you think of anything that might be relevant to the investigation.”

  “Um, sure. Hang on while I get a pen. Okay, go ahead.”

  Sam gave him the number. “And you
might want to train your people that when cops call for you, put them through.”

  “You’ll have to pardon our ignorance. We don’t get many calls from the police.”

  The phone beeped again, indicating whoever was trying to reach her was calling again. “I’ll pardon it this time, but if I call you again and hit a brick wall, I won’t be so forgiving. Thanks for your time.”

  Sam ended the call before he could say anything else. It pleased her to get in the last word.

  “You told him,” Hill said.

  “I don’t like when people get in the way of my investigation. They always think they’ve got something more important going on than I do.” Speaking of that, she remembered the calls she’d ignored and checked her list of recent calls. Shit. They were both from Scotty’s school. She called right back.

  Chapter Eleven

  “This is Sam Holland. I mean... Cappuano. You called me?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Cappuano. Your son Scotty is in the nurse’s office. He’s complaining of a stomachache, and he asked us to call you.”

  “Oh, um, okay, I’ll be there to get him right away.”

  “We’ll let him know. Thank you.”

  “Drive faster,” she said to Hill. “My son is sick at school. I need to get him.”

  “Sure.”

  Sam’s own stomach began to ache with anxiety. There were a lot of people she could call to pick him up—Shelby, either of her sisters, her stepmother, Nick, even Scotty’s Secret Service detail could escort him home. But because Scotty had asked for her, no one else would do. At the last light before the parking lot to HQ, she turned to Hill. “You’ll go to the Dominican Republic and work that angle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “You do the same. Hope your son is okay.”

  “Thanks.” Sam got out of the car and ran for the parking lot. Once inside her own car, she called Nick, but got his voice mail. “Hey, babe, just wanted to tell you I’m on my way to get Scotty from school. He’s got a stomachache. I’ll keep you posted. Love you.”

  Sam took a circuitous route to Capitol Hill, trying to avoid midday traffic. Her blood pressure was through the roof by the time she illegally parked outside the school and ran inside. In the main office, the receptionist was on the phone. Sam held back her inclination to use her usual receptionist skills on this one, until she realized the woman was on a personal call.

  “My kid is sick,” Sam said.

  The woman had the nerve to hold up a finger.

  Seriously? Sam wanted to reach out and snatch the phone out of her hand—and break the finger. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that Scotty would have to come back here tomorrow. “My kid is sick,” she said again, louder this time.

  This time the woman frowned at her. “I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”

  “Where can I find the nurse’s office?”

  “I’ll call down there for you. Your son’s name?”

  “Scott Cappuano.” The sound of his new name rolling off her tongue made her smile—on the inside. She refused to smile at the receptionist.

  She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. “Scott Cappuano’s mother is here to pick him up.”

  Scott Cappuano’s mother is here.

  Her knees nearly buckled from the emotional wallop that accompanied five perfectly innocuous words that meant the world to her. When tears threatened, Sam turned away from the reception desk, fighting for composure. Her heart felt like someone was squeezing it. And then Scotty came into the office, dragging his backpack behind him, and nothing in the world mattered but whatever he needed. His Secret Service agents followed at a respectful distance.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said, reaching for him and starting for the door.

  “You have to sign him out, Mrs. Cappuano,” the receptionist said, pointing to a binder on the counter.

  “Oh, right.” Sam released Scotty, signed where directed and guided him from the office. Outside, she took a couple of deep breaths to regain her composure. Who knew that picking your kid up from school could be so fraught with emotion? She kept an arm around him. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  The one-word answer was so out of character that Sam stopped walking and turned to face him. She was shocked to see his brown eyes brimming with tears. She rested her hands on his shoulders and bent to look him square in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

  He glanced at the school. “Not here.”

  Suddenly filled with anxiety, she said, “Come on.” With a wary glance at the agents who followed them from the school, she shepherded him into her car and went around to the driver’s side. She had him settled before they could insist on driving him home. “What happened?”

  “Some kids were saying that Willie was a loser for not catching the ball. They said he deserved what happened to him.”

  “Oh, man.” She could already see where this was going. “What did you say to that?”

  “I told them he made a mistake, and no one deserves to die for that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “They didn’t agree with me. This one kid... Nathan Cleary...”

  “What?”

  “He punched me in the stomach.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? I’m going back in there to have a conversation with the principal.” Not to mention the words she planned to have with his detail. What the hell were they doing letting another kid hit him?

  Scotty grabbed her arm to stop her from getting out of the car. “No, Sam. No. You can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean I can’t do it? You were assaulted in school. You bet I can make a stink about that.”

  “If you do, the other kids will hate me. He’s popular, and I’m still new. You can’t make a stink. You can’t.”

  Sam wasn’t used to being told she couldn’t do something, especially when it came to protecting her loved ones.

  “Please?”

  The single word, uttered in a small voice that was so not him, did her in. “Okay, fine, but if he hits you again, I’m getting involved.”

  “He caught me by surprise this time. If he hits me again, I’ll hit him back.”

  “Yes, you will, and if they suspend you for that, we’ll get ice cream and celebrate your first suspension.”

  That drew a hint of a smile from him.

  “So you’re not really sick.”

  He shook his head. “My stomach kinda hurts from being punched.”

  Alarmed, Sam said, “Should I take you to see Dr. Harry?”

  “No,” he said, full of preteen disdain.

  Another thought occurred to her, one that she hoped would cheer him up. “Wanna come to work with me this afternoon?”

  His eyes got very big. “Could I help figure out what happened to Willie?”

  She started the car. “Absolutely. I could use all the help I can get, pal.”

  “So you’re not mad that I pretended to be sick so you’d come get me?”

  “I’m not mad because you were upset. But I don’t want you doing that when you’re bored. Got me?”

  “Yeah, I got ya. I just couldn’t stay there after what happened.”

  “I hope that bully Nathan is sweating his balls off worrying that he’s going to get in big trouble when your badass cop mother finds out what he did.”

  Scotty snorted with laughter that warmed her heart. “That’s two swearwords in one sentence.”

  “Balls is not a swear word.”

  “It’s vulgar. Mrs. Littlefield said so.”

  His former guardian had instilled some rather rigid values into the kid. Living up to them was proving to be a challenge for Sam. “If Mrs. Littlefield says so it must be true, but in my book, body parts aren’t vulgar.”

  They debated the vulgarity of various body parts all the way to HQ, laughing most of the ride. His detail followed behind in one of their signature black SUVs. Sam pulled into the parking lot and took her usual spot. “Stay h
ere for a second, buddy. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Sam got out of the car and walked over to the SUV, rapping on the window with her knuckles.

  The window was lowered, revealing a female agent at the wheel and a male agent in the passenger seat. Sam couldn’t remember their names, but their faces were familiar.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said.

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” the female said.

  “How’s it possible that my son manages to get punched in the stomach when he has two federal agents watching his every move?”

  “We’ve been trying to keep our distance so he’s able to have somewhat of a normal experience,” the male said. “The incident with the other kid escalated very quickly. We regret that it happened and that we weren’t close enough to stop it.”

  Sam could tell by his expression and his tone of voice that he did regret it. They both did. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to jump all over you, but I need to know he’s safe at all times so I can function.”

  “We’re sorry we let you down,” the woman said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “What’re your names?”

  They exchanged nervous glances, no doubt concerned that she was going to report them.

  “I’m Toni, and he’s Brice.”

  “Thanks for keeping an eye on Scotty, Toni and Brice. He’ll be with me this afternoon. You’re welcome to make yourselves comfortable in our reception area, but I can’t have you in the back where we’re working.”

  “We need to have eyes on him at all times when he’s not inside your home,” Brice said.

  “Surely we can work something out as his mother is a police officer.”

  Toni shook her head, making her ponytail bob. “All times.”

  “Fine,” Sam said with a huff of exasperation. She understood about having a job to do and how often it could be inconvenient for everyone involved. “But don’t get in the way.”

  “We’ll do our best to be unobtrusive,” Brice said.

  Sam was walking back to her car when Nick called. “Hey, babe.”

  “What’s wrong with the boy?”

  “A fight in school.”

  “What? What the hell?”

  “My questions exactly.” She relayed a quick synopsis of the incident at school to her husband.