No Accident (25 page)

The head coach of the USC Trojans football team was a hard man to get to see. His secretary insisted that she didn’t know where he was and that he didn’t have any openings for interviews for the next three weeks.

“I don’t want an interview,” Alex said over the telephone. “I just want to speak with him.”

“And what may I tell him this is about?”

“Never mind.”

Alex drove downtown to USC’s campus, which had once been in a decent part of town, but was now an island of cultivation and promise in an otherwise dreary urban expanse.

Alex had asked himself, what was the closest thing to a home that Crash knew before he went to Liberty? The Trojans football team. And who was his protector there? The head coach. Alex had to see him. Alex was pretty sure Crash would come back to campus eventually, if he hadn’t already.

The coach wasn’t in his office, the woman at the field house told him. Then she said, “You’re the one who called before, aren’t you?”

“When will he be back?” Alex said.

“After practice,” she said, “but like I told you, he doesn’t have any time.” Alex turned to leave. “It won’t do you any good to go down there,” the woman called out after him. “It’s a closed practice.”

She was right. Alex could see that practice was closed well before he got to the field. A big guy at the gate was checking the IDs of those who tried to enter
—a football practice bouncer, of all things. Alex went back to the field house and, trying to look casual but feeling like he didn’t, took a stroll around the perimeter until he found something he could use as a prop. He found a stack of folded and laundered towels lying on a maintenance cart, which he decided would do the job. A bag of footballs would have been ideal, but the towels were better than nothing. He held the stack of towels under one arm and headed toward the entrance to the practice field.

“Coach asked for some more towels,” he told the guy who barred the way in.

The man just laughed. “Coach did?” he asked skeptically. “That’s a new one. No agents.” Alex wanted to protest, but saw that he was getting nowhere with this guy. He shrugged, put the towels down and waited.

Waiting along with him were a few of the players’ girlfriends, some with infants. After a minute one of them approached and started to tell Alex about her man who was a star on special teams. Alex waited until she took a breath and then leaned in and whispered, “I’m not really an agent.” She gave him a look of outraged disgust, like he had been conning her, and returned to the little group of girlfriends.

Practice lasted another hour. Through the gates, Alex could see the players from afar, running drills, collecting into groups and breaking up, all in response to whistles and yells from the assistant coaches that Alex could hear clearly even at a distance. The head coach never yelled—not that Alex could hear, at least—and the coach’s face was invisible in the shade cast by his cap. He would watch, and approach, then withdraw, and the players would move or gather or split up again without hesitation.

When practice was over, the team emerged from the gates like a herd of steer. Up close, they were that big. Their rubber cleats tapped the asphalt like a hailstorm. Players, coaches and assistants
—probably close to a hundred of them on the move, jogging in a loose column toward the field house and the showers. Alex picked up his towels and fell in near the back.

The woman at the desk, the one who said the coach was too busy, didn’t see Alex enter the field house among the players and support staff. Alex went with the flow, until he found himself standing near the showers, still holding the stack of towels. A crusty old assistant coach told him to take the towels somewhere. Alex nodded and turned down a corridor.

“The other way,” the coach said.

The other way led to a supply closet, which had lots more towels, and beyond that, Alex found after a minute of walking, a suite of offices. The head coach’s office was there, too, according to a nameplate on the door. The offices were all empty. Alex opened the door to the head coach’s office, entered and shut the door behind him. Inside, the walls were bare of decoration, except for a faded photograph of a sunset over the ocean, which told Alex the coach had taken at least one vacation in his life. Alex sat in the coach’s chair, swiveled a little, then kicked his feet up on the desk.

“Who the hell are you?”

Alex stood up.

“Well?” the coach said. He was smaller than any of his players, but more menacing. The room felt smaller with him in it.

“I’m
—” Alex said. “I’m here about Crash Bailey.”

The coach responded with a squint and a barely audible snort. He circled around to the back of the desk while Alex circled around to the front of it. The coach sat down and motioned for Alex to sit in one of the guest chairs. “How do you know Crash?” the coach asked.

“I know Luke Hubbard. Luke asked me to find Crash.”

“To turn him in?”

“To save him.”

The coach exhaled softly. “I’d like to think that’s possible,” he said after a moment. “But I’m not sure it is.”

The coach looked like he had more to say. “What do you mean?” Alex said.

“Crash came here. Couple nights ago, when everyone else was gone
. Hadn’t seen Crash in probably . . . eight years.”

“And?”

“I didn’t ask him about what happened. When players come back to me, I never ask.”

“But he told you.”

The coach nodded.

“About Petra,” Alex said.

“About a lot of things, in a roundabout way.” The coach tipped up his cap and scratched his forehead. “I’ve always believed that football tells you all you need to know about a man. I saw Crash play, and I thought I knew him.”

“That’s why you called Luke, back when Crash got in trouble in college.”

The coach nodded glumly. “I don’t know Crash anymore.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t make any damn sense,” the coach said. “The only coherent thing he said is that he wanted to get someone named Dmitri. Said he was his son. I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was talking about. I sat him down and said, son, you need some help. The man thought I was offering to team up with him in some sort of shoot out. No, I said, professional help. That’s when he got offended. Accused me of wanting to turn him into the cops.” The coach shook his head. “Of course not, but he wasn’t hearing it. That’s when he left, yelling about making me pay.” The coach pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in his desk. “The next day I bought this.” The coach took a polished steel revolver out of the drawer and set it on the desk. To Alex, the gun looked comically large, but the coach wasn’t smiling.

“Did you tell the police?” Alex said.

The coach just scowled at Alex in a way that told Alex his question had been terribly rude. “Sorry,” Alex said, but the coach didn’t acknowledge the apology.

Instead, he tossed his cap wearily onto his desk, revealing a matted head of salt-and-pepper hair. “You win a bunch of goddamn football games, and everyone thinks you’re a winner.” Alex waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Does Luke know how bad off Crash is?” the coach asked. Alex shook his head. “He should,” the coach said.

“I’ll tell him,” Alex said.

“I sent my wife and kids out of state.”

Alex thought of Sheila and was glad he had given her the pistol. “Luke’s getting divorced,” Alex said.

“Right.”

Neither said anything for a moment.

“Well, I’ve got work to do,” the coach said, and so Alex nodded and stood.

Alex looked back at the coach before he closed the door. The gun was on the desk.

*
* *

Alex called Luke straightaway and told him about the meeting with the coach. For the first time, Alex heard worry in Luke’s voice
—not so much for himself, it seemed, but for Crash. Alex thought Luke was in denial. He suggested that Luke get out of town for a while, like the coach’s family, or add a personal security detail, but Luke was unperturbed. “Crash needs my help, not my fear,” Luke said.

They talked about what Alex would do next. Alex’s plan was to take some of the Liberty security crew out for drinks. Some of them were friendly with Crash, and so Alex figured maybe
—knowingly or not—they would have something useful to tell Alex about where Crash was hiding.

Luke was cool to that idea. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go see Les Frees instead? He and Crash are pretty close, as I recall. If anyone knows where he is, Les might.”

Brad stood before the mirror that hung from the back of his office door. Quietly, he cleared his throat. He flashed himself a smile, didn’t believe it, and shut his mouth. Now that Sheila had money to pay Brad’s past due bills, he’d gone out and bought a new tie. He liked it. He thought Cindy would like it. He straightened his tie, and straightened the mirror. Then, with a sweeping, unstoppable motion, he threw open the door.

Cindy sat in the reception area typing on a keyboard. The rush of air from the door startled her, and she emitted a chirp like a small bird. “Oh, sorry, Brad, you surprised me there. Got something for me?”

“Yes,” Brad said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he stiffly handed her a short stack of signed checks. “These should go out today.”

Cindy flipped thro
ugh them. “Ted’s Speedee Copies . . . I sure won’t miss the collection calls from ol’ Ted. Nice tie, by the way.”

“Thanks. Yeah, now that I’ve got this case under control, I actually have
time to go out for a real lunch . . .” Brad cast a glance toward the closed doors of the other offices in his suite. Walt Peters and the others were either away or in meetings. “Have you had lunch yet?”

“No, I’m meeting a friend.”

“Walt?” Brad’s voice broke a little.

“No,” she said. Then she added in a whisper, “Does that guy
have
any friends?”

Brad smiled at her. “Tons
—just ask him.”

Cindy giggled.

“If not lunch, how about dinner?” Brad said.

Cindy narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Brad blushed and stammered. Cindy laughed. “Is this how you answer questions in court?” she said.

“If we were actually in court, now is when I would make an objection
—harassing the witness.”

Her eyes sparkled at his little joke. “Well, I don’t object to dinner,” she said.

“Great, how about tomorrow? I mean, whenever you’re free.”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“You like French? How about Le Chat Riant?”

“How about somewhere I can see you without a tie on? A good burger and a cheesy movie would be great.”

“Or a cheesy burger and a good movie?”

“You pick. But nothing with subtitles, all right, Mr. Harvard?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got enough trouble with English.”

She laughed again, this time with a silvery tinkle in her voice. “You’ve got that right.”

* * *

Cindy’s musical laughter echoed through the empty street. The street was quiet, except for the voices of Brad and Cindy, who slowly followed the gentle rise of the sidewalk to her apartment building. The night was pleasant. It was nice to get out for a few hours and think about something other than his case, and the deposition of Luke that was only two days away. It was especially nice to spend a few hours with Cindy.

What Brad liked about Cindy wasn’t innocence so much—she was nobody’s fool. It was that she gave people the benefit of the doubt. She assumed you were a good guy until you proved otherwise. It was so different than most lawyers that Brad knew—hell, even different than Brad himself. When he was with Cindy, he could imagine himself as the lawyer and man he came out of law school wanting to be, because she assumed he already was that man.

Her street was in an older but well maintained part of town, with lamp posts that alternated with palm trees along the sidewalk. The lamp posts were attractively styled and bore acorn-shaped bulbs on top that radiated a soft white light.

On the sidewalk each lamppost was the center of a glowing circle with edges that bled slowly into the darkness. Each time they came into the light Brad could see Cindy smile, and each time they left the light he could see her eyes sparkle in reflection of the next light to come. He didn’t mind if the evening ended early. It had been a good beginning.

“It’s good to finally get you out of the office,” she said. “And I like the suit without the tie.”

“Did you notice the actor in the movie?” Brad said. “The leading man? Sure enough, suit with no tie.”

“See, you could be an international spy.”

Brad laughed. “I think I need more hair for that,” he said. “Actually, I feel more like Ahmadinejad,” he added, referring to the Iranian leader who favored the same attire.

Brad suddenly worried that she might not get the reference and he hoped she wouldn’t feel embarrassed if she didn’t, but she laughed warmly.

“I know,” she said. “Why can’t that guy put on a tie?”

“Because he rejects all decadent Western practices. Like secular democracy.”

She laughed again.

They reached the steps of her apartment building and spoke over each other with friendly farewells, each watching the other’s eyes more than they listened to each other’s words. He kissed her. It was short but nice
—it sent warmth through his body—and then they said good night. Cindy walked the steps up to the front door of her apartment building, looked back and smiled.

Brad stood on the sidewalk and watched her open the front door and go in, and waited until he saw the light go on behind the curtained window to her second-floor apartment.

He was still smiling when he turned away.

The man who stood facing him was not smiling. He wore a windbreaker and stepped out from behind the shadow of a palm tree. His face was obscured by a baseball cap pulled down low.

“Hey Brad,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Brad said.

“You know me.” The man stepped into the light.

“Jeff Smiley,” Brad said coldly. “What happened to the fedora?”

“For crying out loud, don’t say my name. I need to speak with you.”

“Were you
 . . . following us?”

“In private.”

Once again, Brad thought, this guy seemed incapable of actually answering questions. Brad looked around. There was no one else to be seen. “I’m comfortable here.”

The man rushed toward Brad and hooked him by the arm, hustling him off balance and into the shadows on the far side of Cindy’s apartment building. Up close, it was clear that Smiley was nervous.

“I’ve got the solution for your case,” Smiley said.

“What are you talking about?” Brad said.

“Luke’s not just a jerk, Brad, he’s a murderer. And I’m going to give you the chance to prove it.” Smiley pulled a manila envelope from inside his jacket and pressed it into Brad’s chest. “Take it,” Smiley said.

“What is it?”

“A transcript.”

“Of what?”

“Luke’s testimony before a grand jury.”

“Why give it to me?” Brad said.

Smiley leaned in and whispered. He whispered so hoarsely that spittle kept flecking his lips, and he kept wiping it off. “You know I work for Grant Steele. We had a federal grand jury convened and were ready to indict Luke—until Luke testified and threw up a bunch of smoke and mirrors and the grand jury fell for his smooth B.S. and refused to indict. But we”—Smiley caught himself—“
I
know that Luke is one bad dude, and I know you know that, too. We”—he caught himself again—“
I
want you to run with this information from Luke’s testimony and use it your divorce case, then tell me what you learn.”

“Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?” Brad whispered.

“The transcript’s under seal.”

“Then I don’t want it,” Brad said out loud. Brad tried to give the envelope back, but Smiley pushed it back.

“Read first, then decide,” Smiley said.

“I’m an officer of the court, I could be disbarred. You know that.”

The man shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and laughed bitterly. “Tell me about it, pal.”

With that, Smiley turned and walked back toward the sidewalk, his short legs ferrying him along with surprising speed. Smiley di
dn’t look back. “Think about it . . .” he called out in a singsong voice.

Brad stood on the sidewalk with the envelope in his hand and watched the little man go. Finally Brad turned around to leave and noticed the light still on in Cindy’s window. There, a corner of the curtain that had been lifted up now floated back down into place.