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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

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BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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“Sheriff Hualga said we can leave by a back door,” said Jack, familiar with the need for behind-the-scenes routes in courthouses. “David was able to arrange with him for a police guard at home to keep the press away from the front door.”

“Please thank the sheriff for me when you see him again,” Meg said to Pierce.

“I’ll do that,” he said, ushering us down a hall to a metal door with a push bar. “My car is parked a few rows down. Wait here and I’ll drive up to the door. I’ll honk once when I get there.”

“What about our car?” Meg asked after Pierce had left.

“I’ll come back for it tonight or tomorrow,” Jack replied.

It was one of those infrequent times when I wished I had a driver’s license. I could have driven Jack’s car home for him and perhaps served as a decoy for the pursuing press. Ironically, I do have a private pilot’s license, and had hoped to get in some flying hours while in Arizona, where the weather is perfect for it. But I doubted I’d find the time to rent and fly a plane, or to do much of anything personal.

I sat next to Ty in the backseat of the car. Thankfully, the press hadn’t caught on that we had left the courthouse, and there were no suspicious-looking vehicles following us. Ty sat stiffly in his seat and stared out the window. The air outside was oppressive. You could see the heat in the shine on people’s faces, feel it reflected from the stucco walls of the squat buildings we passed. You could sense the landscape baking under the hot desert sun. It drew out our energy and replaced it with lassitude. We were too weary to talk, too hot to sleep.

David Pierce was smart enough not to play the radio, sparing us from news reports of Junior’s murder and Ty’s arrest, lest they further sour what was already a bleak atmosphere. Meg, who sat up front with the lawyer, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. I’m sure Jack would have liked to do the same, but he sat stoically next to me in the backseat, his expression a mirror image of his foster son’s.

The silence was uncomfortable. I wondered briefly if I should leave, move into a hotel. What would they prefer? This was a family matter. A legal matter. Not the place for a visiting friend with a reputation for snooping and sleuthing. But as much as I wanted to stay out of this family’s sudden troubles, I knew that Meg and Jack needed me. And I would do what they asked of me.

“I’m going take a shower and try to get some sleep,” Ty said as the car rounded the corner to Hedgehog Court—and once again faced a clog of media vehicles. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “This is a nightmare.”

Several television station vans were in front of the house, along with two police cars, their red lights flashing. An officer backed a patrol car away from the entrance to the driveway and waved us in.

Pierce pulled up to the garage, and we hurried out of the car and into the house. I watched him back out of the driveway with almost reckless abandon and wondered whether he would have taken pleasure in running over the few reporters who jumped out of his way. He didn’t hit anyone, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ty went straight upstairs. Meg, Jack, and I headed for the kitchen, which was flooded with sunshine, a welcoming contrast to the bleak emotional day it had turned out to be.

Jack walked around closing the blinds to shield us from cameras with telephoto lenses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they bribed my neighbors into letting them shoot pictures from their bedroom windows,” he said. He went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Ty to close the drapes.

“Here, Jess, have a seat on the window bench,” Meg said. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

Jack excused himself, saying, “I want to talk with Ty some more.”

“Maybe it’s best to leave him alone,” Meg suggested.

“No,” Jack said, “I think it’s a good time to follow up with him, while what happened is still fresh in his mind. I won’t be long.”

“How are you holding up, Meg?” I asked when he was gone.

“I’m worried sick, Jessica. I don’t know what to do. Jack has experience with the legal aspects of this. He knows what we’re up against. I believe Ty. I really do. But unless there are witnesses to come forward and back up his story, I don’t see how he stands much of a chance of being exonerated.”

“Have you had any messages from Buddy Washington?” I asked. “Or from anyone else affiliated with the team?”

“Not that I know of,” said Meg. She walked to a small table in the kitchen on which there was a telephone and an answering machine. “Full,” she said, shaking her head. “The answering machine is filled with messages. I’d better wait until Jack comes down to listen to them.”

The phone rang. Meg looked at the caller ID. “It’s Sylvester Cole,” she said nervously. “I’m not up to speaking with anyone.”

“Want me to talk to him?” I asked.

She nodded and handed me the phone.

Sylvester’s hello was friendly, almost too cheery considering the situation. Surely he knew what had happened. “I have to speak with Jack right away,” he said after acknowledging me. I told Meg, and she went upstairs to get him.

“Sylvester, while you’re waiting, let me ask you. What have you heard? What has been reported?”

He answered with confidence. “I just saw Karen Locke’s live report on WXYK. From the preliminary results of an autopsy, it appears now that Junior Bennett was bludgeoned to death and died from a brain hemorrhage.”

“Anything else? We haven’t had time to watch the news, for obvious reasons.”

“Ty’s arrest for Junior’s murder is all over the tube, but there’s also an unsubstantiated report that the police are now interested in speaking with someone else who was seen hanging around the hotel during the time the team dinner was taking place, and who evidently showed up later at the same bar where the murder occurred.”

I immediately thought of the man I’d overheard speaking on his cell phone outside the hotel’s entrance, the one who said that Ramos would pay someone money. But there were so many people at the hotel, between its guests and those who attended the team dinner, that it was silly of me to speculate about one man.

“Has Harrison Bennett or anyone else associated with the team been quoted on the news?” I asked. “Have you spoken to any of the players?”

“Spoke to Matt Muscarel, one of the guys on the team whose father is a pain in the butt, always insisting that I sign him. Matt’s a good kid, but he isn’t going anywhere. I ran into him this morning at Scorpions. Only news he had—and it’s just scuttlebutt from him—was that the TV reporter, Karen Locke, and Junior Bennett had a big fight last night and broke up.”

“Broke up?”

“Yeah. According to Muscarel, they had just started dating. It was a big secret because Junior didn’t want his dad to know because—well, the old man isn’t fond of reporters. Besides, the players were discouraged by Buddy Washington from having girlfriends during the season.” He laughed. “Seems old-fashioned in this day and age, but Buddy is an old-fashioned kind of guy. He sees girlfriends as a threat to a player’s commitment to the team.” Another laugh. “Buddy means well, loves his players like they were his own kids, but preaching celibacy is a bit much.”

“And Scorpions?” I asked, remembering my nightmare. “What is that?”

“A local breakfast and lunch place. Kinda like a New York diner, I guess, except no egg creams.”

“Was his father with him?” I asked. “Was Muscarel with anyone?”

“Didn’t see his dad. And believe me, if he was there I would have known it. That guy is always in my face. No, Muscarel was there alone.”

Jack and Meg came downstairs. I handed the phone to Jack, who opened the sliding glass doors off the kitchen that led to the enclosed patio and pool—his
shpool.

“Ty’s in the shower,” Meg said. “He and Jack had a talk. Jack told me that he’s one hundred percent convinced that Ty had absolutely nothing to do with this. He said he could see it in Ty’s eyes more than anything.”

Meg seemed relieved, calmer than I’d seen her all day, obviously relieved to have Ty home again. It must have been dreadful for her to think of him sitting in a jail cell.

As we sat and sipped our coffee, I watched Jack through the sliding glass doors, pacing back and forth while speaking on the phone. He’d changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a green-and-blue-striped polo shirt. Eventually he came into the kitchen and put the phone back onto its base. “I spoke to Buddy Washington,” he said. “He says they’re planning a memorial for Junior at the stadium.”

“Washington?” said Meg. “I thought you were on the phone with Sylvester.”

“I was. He was at Washington’s house. Buddy got on the phone.”

“I thought Sylvester was going to L.A.,” I said.

“Must have changed his mind,” said Jack.

Meg excused herself and went upstairs, returning a few minutes later to say that Ty was already asleep.

The three of us went into the den, where I sank into a buttery-soft, ivory leather couch. Jack sat in what he called his “Archie Bunker chair,” worn around the edges but his favorite nonetheless. Meg curled her legs beneath her on the matching ivory leather love seat. The plasma-screen television set was too much of a temptation. Jack took the remote and hit the buttons until he got to Channel 5, WXYK. A commercial for the Arizona Diamondbacks played. It was interrupted by a blue screen that read, BREAKING NEWS. And there stood Karen Locke, in front of Jack and Meg’s house, right outside the front door.

“This is Karen Locke reporting from the rented home of Judge Jack and Meg Duffy, foster parents of Ty Ramos, who has been accused in the murder of teammate Junior Bennett. We’ve learned that Ramos was released on two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ bail by a local judge with reputed ties to Ramos’s foster father, himself a judge in Jersey City, New Jersey. The animosity between these two players, Ramos and Bennett, was well known. Both were shortstops. Some fans I’ve spoken to say that Junior was the more talented of the two but that Ramos was poised to make a jump to the major leagues ahead of Bennett.”

The picture switched to a fan in a Rattlers cap giving his opinions. With the camera back on her, Locke turned and indicated the house. “Ramos and the Duffys are holed up inside, obviously avoiding the press. Meantime, Junior Bennett’s family are planning their son’s funeral. Friends say his father, Harrison Bennett, Sr., who owns the Mesa Rattlers, is devastated. When I spoke with him earlier today, he told me that Ramos is a troubled young man with a criminal past, and that his past has caught up with him. Our hearts and prayers go out to the Bennett family. That’s it from here. I’m Karen Locke with WXYK.”

“The more talented of the two?” Jack said. “She’s got to be kidding.” He went to a window next to the television, lifted the checkered curtain, and peeked out. “There she is,” he said, letting the curtain swing back into position.

“Jack, did you know that Junior had a girlfriend?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I cocked my head toward the television. “I was told that she was dating Junior Bennett,” I said.

Meg and Jack looked at me and then at each other. “Who are you talking about?” Meg asked.

“The reporter, Karen Locke.”

“How do you know?”

“Sylvester Cole told me. Didn’t he mention it to you?” I asked Jack.

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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