CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

That night, Dwayne took the Neptune visitors, along with three players they’d met earlier, for steak and seafood at a waterfront restaurant. The decor was mahogany and green carpet. A jazz quartet played in the bar. Lights from passing yachts twinkled in the bay. Otis sat between Josh Randall, a forward from some hog-farming burg in Missouri, and Isaiah Dempsey, a fast-talking guard from L.A. Across the table sat Art Templeton, a center from Juneau who looked like a six-ten Kurt Cobain. Between mouthfuls of rib eye and prawns, they engaged in a scholarly project of rating Nicki Minaj, Miley Cyrus, and Azealia Banks on a Mostly Hot to Mostly Crazy continuum. Veronica picked at her green beans and sipped Nebbiolo. During a lull in the conversation, she broke in.

“So, do you guys like Coach Bellamy?”

Art’s eyes lit up. He swallowed the mashed potatoes he’d just shoveled into his mouth. “Oh, man, Coach is great. I mean, all the coaches are—Coach Zabka is one of the smartest guys I know. He pushes us really hard, doesn’t let us slack. But Coach Bellamy’s more about encouraging us. Building us up.”

Veronica had met Coach Zabka that afternoon, a wiry man in his mid-sixties who wore a trim-cut suit. He’d greeted Otis without fawning—he was businesslike and polite, asking questions about Otis’s game and his goals, all of which were answered in mono- and duo-syllables.

“So Coach Bellamy’s the good cop?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, I guess.” Art shrugged. “I mean, I want to get better, you know? You gotta have the bad cop around too. But we hear about every little thing we do wrong, so you learn to appreciate someone like Coach B.”

“He ain’t always good cop,” Josh said, eyebrows raised significantly. “Remember Tucson?”

“What happened in Tucson?” Veronica asked, putting her fork down.

The boys exchanged glances. It was Josh who spoke.

“Two years back, we went to a Thanksgiving tournament in Tucson and played Northern Arizona in the championship game. Well, when we all went back to the hotel, Coach B was just fine—but the next morning, he came down to the bus beat all to hell. Black eye, broken nose, the works. We were all ready to go find who’d jumped him but he told us he’d been out getting a beer the night before, and on his way home he saw a guy beating up his girl in an alley. He said he just kind of…snapped. Went berserk on the dude. He kept saying, ‘Guys, it wasn’t heroic, it was stupid, I should have just called the cops,’ but we were like, Coach B’s the man, you know?”

Veronica mentally filed Northern Arizona game; 2013; Thanksgiving tournament final. She took a sip of water, struggling to keep a neutral expression. It could be nothing, of course—a drunken brawl with a stranger, just like Bellamy said. But she pulled out her phone and texted Mac. Maybe she can check the game date on the 2013 schedule, pull up the Tucson hospital admits and police statements from that night, see if there’s another side to the story.

The waiter drifted up with the water pitcher, refilling all around the table. Otis put down his fork, his plate scraped clean, and stared longingly at a passing dessert cart.

Veronica’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Mac.

Veronica took a deep breath and settled in for another course.

—

Campus was dark when Veronica pulled into the arena’s parking lot. It was almost eleven, and she’d just dropped Wallace and Otis off at the San Diego Hilton. Wallace had given her a resigned wave as she pulled away from the curb. By now they’d be in their room, watching SportsCenter and getting ready for bed.

It was time for Veronica to clock in.

The Castillo Center loomed as she approached. Through the windows she could see the pale security lights that lit the halls. She stepped lightly up the walk to the plain glass door where Dwayne had swiped them in earlier. Some key cards were attached to timers and wouldn’t work past certain hours. She held her breath, hoping this wasn’t one of them.

The red light on the reader turned green as she touched the card to it. She heard the lock click softly.

Veronica’s footsteps echoed with unnerving loudness as she made her way up the hall. She’d been half afraid she’d run into janitorial or security, but so far there was no sign of anyone.

Thanks to the tour Dwayne had given them that afternoon, Veronica knew the coaching offices were in a large suite on the third floor. If she could get into Bellamy’s office, she should be able to find a stray hair on his chair, a used tissue. Something. She started up the stairs, not wanting the ding of the elevator to alert anyone to her presence.

A few steps from the top, she froze. Somewhere, muffled and distant, she could hear voices. She clutched the railing with one hand, listening hard. The sound wasn’t getting closer or farther away. Someone was stationary, maybe behind closed doors, in conversation. She crept up the last few stairs, listened for a second at the stairwell door, and slipped into the third-floor hallway.

The sound was louder here, though still muffled. She hugged the wall as she stepped toward the open reception area. A lamp on the secretary’s desk was lit, its downturned shade diffusing mottled green light through the room. She paused at the corner and once again tried to gauge where the voices were coming from. The doors, labeled with names etched in brass, were all closed.

The team had two assistant coaches besides Bellamy, along with a “Professional Development Coordinator.” Coach Zabka’s office was in the back of the suite, a personal assistant’s desk sitting in front of it. From where Veronica stood, she could see light under his door.

She took a deep breath, then edged her way along the line of doors until she was at Bellamy’s.

She pulled a hairpin from her wallet and snapped it in half. It was a simple lock, pin-and-tumbler. All you had to do was line up the pick just so; a few minutes of fiddling usually did the trick. She wiggled the hairpin back and forth, probing for the pins.

From down the hall, she heard furniture dragging across a floor and the click of a door latch opening.

The reception desk was right behind her. She dove underneath it, pulling the chair in front of her to block her from view. The light from the desk lamp above her swayed a little. She caught her breath in her throat as Zabka’s door opened.

Footsteps came toward her, down the hall. A pair of brown leather loafers shuffled into view. She couldn’t tell who they belonged to, but she could hear a low murmur down the hall—there were more than two people in Zabka’s office. The loafers stopped right in front of her, so close she could see their fraying tassels. The man seemed to be looking through a stack of paperwork on the desk over her head.

Veronica pressed her knuckles to her lips, breathing as shallowly as she could. Above, she could hear things being moved around on the desk. She waited.

Finally, the man heaved a sigh, turned, and walked back down the hall. A moment later, the door opened again. This time she could make out the sounds of dribbling and courtside noise. They’re watching game tape, she realized. A moment later, the door shut, and the sound was muffled.

Veronica sat very still for several long moments, listening. Then slowly, carefully, she crawled out from under the desk and went back to Bellamy’s door. After a few more quick twists of the hairpin, the door swung inward with a soft groan. She stepped through and closed the door behind her.

She snapped on her penlight and swept it over the dark room. The office was immaculate. She could make out a leather loveseat against one wall, a green plaid throw folded over one arm. The desk was almost Spartan, with nothing but a computer and a container of pens. A framed photo of two teenagers, a boy and a girl, sat on a bookshelf. The walls were covered in roster photos, all of them signed by former players.

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING COACH!

YOU’RE THE BEST, COACH B!

YOU’RE THE MAN.

She started to open drawers, moving quickly but carefully. In one there was nothing but a pair of scissors and a roll of tape. In another, a small assortment of screws and nails rolled on their sides. There were almost no personal effects—no sweater draped over the back of the chair, no hat hanging by the door. The wastebasket was completely empty.

Of course he has to be a neat freak. Of course.

She ran her hands over everything, looking for something she could use. Her frustration mounted. And then she saw it. A small smile spread across her face.

There, tucked behind the photo of his children, was a blue toothbrush case and a small tube of Crest.

Looks like Bellamy likes to stay minty-fresh throughout the day. Here’s hoping he really works that gum line hard.

She picked it up and slid it into her purse. That was when the door swung open again, and light flooded the room.

It was Mitch Bellamy, plainly as stunned to see her as she was to see him.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 534