Double Play

it."

  "Let's get those drinks first," Clay says, motioning for Eddie at the other end of the bar. Eddie wastes no time getting back, bottle of scotch in hand. "I'll have another, and Wayne will have…"

  "I'll have whatever he's drinking."

  "And just put that on my tab, Eddie," Clay says.

  "So, what'd you find out?"

  "You might want to wait on that drink," Clay says.

  "That bad?"

  "Depends on how you take it?" Clay says as Eddie places the two drinks on the bar. "Remember, though, a lot of what I have is just background. I'm still fleshing things out."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "I went to see the sheriff this morning."

  "You what?" Wayne asks, clearly upset. "Why'd you go and do that?"

  "You sound alarmed."

  "I didn't want anyone to know you were even looking into this."

  "No, you said you didn't want anybody to know that I was looking into this for you. You said to be discrete. And I was. Besides, it's pretty hard to get anywhere on a case if you can't ask anyone anything about it."

  "I should've been more specific."

  "Relax. Have a drink," Clay says, and Wayne does what he's told and takes a drink. "Anyway, the sheriff says they got a positive dental identification on Brett, but the only positive ID they could get on the passenger was from Kevin. And, from what you've told me about the changes to the will before the accident, that presents some… Curiosities.

  "Also, I found out while I was drinking your dollars here at the bar that Brett was picking someone up in Milpitas before the card game that night, and, since the accident happened just outside Milpitas, I'll assume that whoever he picked up was the passenger in the car. And since Emma wasn't even in the habit of watching Brett play poker… And if it's true that you saw her later that night… It is true that you saw her walking that night?"

  "That's what I said."

  "I know what you said, but is it true?"

  "Why would I lie about that?"

  "Because you were sleeping with her," Clay says, looking directly at Wayne for the first time since he arrived.

  "Who told you that?"

  "It's more believable than you paying an investigator to look into a nagging curiosity you've been carrying."

  "I said it was a guilty conscience, not a curiosity."

  "Whatever you said, it was a stretch."

  "I didn't think our relationship had any relevance to the—"

  "You're paying me to get to the truth of this thing, and if you're withholding anything from me, you're making it more difficult for me to arrive at the truth you want. So, from here on out, I'll decide what's relevant and what's not."

  "But it's very important to me that nobody finds out that Emma and I were—"

  "Nobody cares," Clay says, a little too loudly.

  Wayne visibly winces, and leans back on his stool to see if anyone else at the bar is looking at them. No one's looking.

  "Clay, please."

  "Nobody cares," Clay says, lowering his voice. "Nobody gives a damn about you and Emma. And you're crazy if you think I'm going to reveal delicate facts about you like some bored, chatty busybody. It may not end up being relevant to the case, but it's relevant to me if it gives me any insight into Brett, Emma, or the accident. You have to be upfront with me, delicate or not."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "All of it."

  "From the beginning?"

  "Everything," Clay says.

  "How we met?"

  "Seems as good a place to start as any."

  "Alright," Wayne says, taking a quick drink. "I had seen Emma at the ball games, and I saw her sometimes around town with Brett. I never took any special notice of her, really. She was a pretty, young girl, sure, but she was taken. I'm not even sure I could've told you her name then. She was just Brett's girl.

  "But, one day, as I was closing up shop, I heard what sounded like crying in the alley between my storefront and the drugstore. At first, I thought it was best to ignore it. 'It's none of your business,' I thought. But, as I started to walk away, I just couldn't let it go. I knew it would needle at me if I walked away. So, I turned into the alley, and there she was, lying on the ground with a bloody tissue covering her mouth."

  "What was wrong?"

  "Her and Brett had a fight, and he'd hit her."

  "Sounds like he made a habit of it."

  "You knew?"

  "Not 'til today."

  "It's strange, isn't it? He seemed like such a nice guy on the ball field, and, even in public, when I saw him out, he seemed like a pretty jovial guy—a big kid, really. But he was a bad guy, Clay. Seriously. He was no good."

  "You don't have to convince me."

  "Sorry, it's just—"

  "He hit her a lot?"

  "Once is too often."

  "Sure, but I'm trying to get at the root of how violent he was."

  "I obviously only knew their relationship from what she told me, and only for the three months that I was… Close to her. But he was a mean drunk, particularly if he came home late and had a bad night at the card table."

  "Is that why she didn't like to watch him play cards?"

  "That's right," Wayne says, looking over at Clay. "You have been putting your ear to the ground."

  "That's why you're paying me."

  "Anyway, I brought her into my office that day. My secretary had already gone home by then, and we just talked. She told me about Brett, and how frightened she'd become of him, how he only seemed to be getting worse. I asked her to go to the police, but she wouldn't even entertain the possibility."

  "Why not?"

  "She didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his ball career. She was as attached to him getting to the big leagues as he was."

  "When did you start sleeping with her?"

  "The next day—the day after she was crying in the alley. I had told her that if she ever felt scared, or in danger, she was welcome to call me anytime day or night. And, the next day, she showed up at my doorstep."

  "Is that a service you'd offer all your clients, or just the pretty twenty year olds?"

  "There's no question I was sweet on her, and I made no secret of that to her. But I didn't force myself on her either."

  "But if they weren't married, and he was hitting her, why'd she stay with him at all?"

  "Like I said, she was attached to the dream as much as he was. Also, I think she had grown accustomed to the lifestyle he provided her."

  "So, it was his money she was attached to?"

  "Could be. I don't know. But it wouldn't have been surprising. As she tells it, she grew up dirt poor. Her family worked land in Kansas before the dust bowl. After the crops were gone, her family moved here in the mid-thirties with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Her mother was not a healthy woman, and didn't survive long after they got here. And her dad was a hard worker, but a drinker—no kind of a father. So, as far as I know, she was stuck raising her brother from an early age. If you were to spend any time with her, it's clear she's struggled all her life to get anything. Brett rescued her from all that. It's safe to say that she might've been scared to lose the security he offered her."

  "But he wouldn't marry her?"

  "Nope."

  "Thus the will."

  "The will was my idea. I thought since they weren't married, she needed to protect herself. Besides, everyone knew how reckless Brett was off the field. She owed it to herself to be insured against that recklessness."

  "Whose idea was it to add Kevin to the will? Was that her idea?"

  "Yeah, I had nothing to do with that."

  "And the night of the accident, when you saw her, were you together?"

  "Yeah, we were together, but that wasn't unusual. We were always together on nights when Brett left town to play cards."

  "She was with you the whole night?"

  "No, she would usually slip out before I got up. She didn't want anyone to see her, o
bviously."

  "You have any idea when she left?"

  "No idea. I was sound asleep."

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "It was late. After midnight."

  "And she usually walked home from your place?"

  "Yeah, their house was less than a mile down the road."

  "And you never tried to persuade her to leave him?"

  "Of course I did. All the time. I hated the idea of her being with him. I was scared for her."

  "She must have slipped town pretty soon after she left your place."

  "Seems likely."

  "Any idea where she might have gone?"

  "That's what I'm paying you to find out."

  "How would she have known to leave town? How would she have known about the accident? And, even if she knew about the accident, how could she have been sure he was dead?"

  "I don't know."

  "No, I don't suppose you would," Clay says, and takes another drink of his scotch. "You think her brother helped get her out of town?"

  "I don't know how. He doesn't have a car."

  "How'd she get out of town?" Clay asks, looking away from Wayne, clearly talking to himself.

  "These are the questions I've been asking myself for two weeks."

  "If you want answers, I'm going to need some money up front."

  "What for?"

  "I'm going to need something for today—about thirty-five bucks, twenty-five for the day and ten for expenses. These drinks aren't going to pay for themselves, after all. And I'll need at least that much for tomorrow too."

  "That's seventy dollars."

  "That's the math."

  "Boy, I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this up," Wayne says, pulling out his wallet.

  "If you want me to find her, I'm going to have to travel."

  "Where to?" Wayne asks, placing cash on the bar for Clay.

  "I'll need to go to San Francisco tomorrow."

  "You think she's in San Francisco?"

  "Not necessarily, but I think that's where our questions start to find answers,"