Big Leagues (34 page)

“This is a lot bigger than we could’ve
imagined.”

* * *

Every sheet of paper Cat had copied from the
team physician’s office was spread out on the floor of Benji’s
living room. Brow furrowed in concentration, Benji scoured each
page while Cat sat quietly on the suede sofa, watching him
anxiously while she waited for his not-so-expert testimony. She
nibbled on her fingernails, months of nail-biting abstinence out
the window, and frowned at the stubby remnants. Dismayed, she put
them out of temptation’s way by shoving her hands under her
thighs.

Benji finally looked up from the papers. “So
all this information, it was in the doctor’s office?” Enormous
black pupils eclipsed the blue in his eyes.

She nodded quickly.

He stood up and paced the tile floor once more.
“Well, if you ask me, that’s the real bombshell because this is
some disgustingly incriminating material.”

She leaned forward and scanned the floor. “Like
what?”

Benji grabbed one of the pages and joined her
on the sofa. “Research. Specifically, the results this new
pharmaceutical had on your players.”

“New? You mean new-new or like
new-and-improved-new?”

He shook his head. “New as a stem
cell.”

“I don’t get it. How do you just make a new
drug?”

With the innocent question, Benji the Boyfriend
exited and Professor Levy took over. “Well, we’re talking about
rational drug design here. It’s not so much a matter of making but
rather searching, looking for a chemical compound that, when strung
together just right, produces the desired result for the biological
target.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Think like you’re playing
with billions of Legos. As long as you know how to connect the
blocks together, you can make anything you want. The chemistry, the
pharmacology, the thermodynamic math, that’s the easy part. The
biggest obstacle in drug design is simply FDA approval.”

Cat nodded slowly. “Making sure the drug is
safe for people?”

“Companies have watched helplessly while
decades of research was thrown away because the FDA found too many
adverse side effects to approve a drug.” He flicked the sheet of
paper. “I’m guessing König didn’t have to worry about
that.”

“So … what is it?”

“Well, I thought we were looking at an
amphetamine … you see the stereoisomer in this structure?” He
pointed at a figure as he said it.

She scrunched her face at the diagram and gave
him a clueless shrug.

Benji grabbed another piece of paper off the
floor. “Oberpfalz Labs ran thousands of tox screens on their test
subjects. I don’t understand how they were able to …” Benji trailed
off as his eyes darted all over the page. “The isomers aren’t being
detected. The quantitative pharmacokinetic data
suggests—”

“Stop. Hammer time?” She rubbed her eyes and
peered up at him between her fingers.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re gonna have to break it down for
me.”

“Oh! Heh.” His dimples reappeared. “Sorry.
Okay, so when they send off a sample for drug testing and check
specifically for an amphetamine, most laboratories use a kit
designed to detect the L and D isomers. Right here, you see this
page?” He pointed at a chart. “Nothing. They’re masked to create a
false negative.”

“Masked? How’s that possible?”

“The lab found a way, I guess. My information’s
limited here. The stuff you got from Dr. Evil is really helpful,
awesome
actually, but it’s not quite
Drug Design for
Dummies
.”

“So drug tests can just be wrong? That’s
comforting.”

Benji nodded. “False positives can occur,
especially with another interaction. Like—if a guy is using
over-the-counter nasal inhalers, his drug test might register
positive.”

“False negatives? Is there a way to fool the
test? Like those kits at the so-called health stores?”

“Sure. Where there’s a will, you know?” He
rolled his eyes. “I’m familiar with the practice of ingesting
bicarbonate to raise pH levels. Bicarbonate will reduce amphetamine
excretion through the urine, although only in extremely large
quantities. Even then the trickster might pass a simple drug test
but not an extensive post-mortem toxicology test.”

“Maybe König bribed somebody at the coroner’s
office?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t
think so. Remember when we ran it through the
chromatograph?”

Cat nodded. “Big fat zero. The magic machine
had a severe case of performance anxiety.”

“Exactly. I might as well have stuck a piece of
gold kryptonite in there.” He thumbed through another stack of
papers. “They’ve figured out a way to hide it.”

“Okay, well they might be able to hide the
actual drug, but what about the results?”

He nodded and scanned the floor. “Yeah, that’s
what we need to talk about. Somewhere there was … Ah, this is it!
Clinical trials. I only peeked at the observation notes here, but
yikes.” He let out a low whistle.

“You gonna share with the rest of the
class?”

Benji handed her the sheet he was reading.
“This synthetic has some serious kick.” He pointed to the bottom of
the page. “See this section about the success of muscle
stimulation? I’d say it’s the newest Superman drug. Make that
‘Superman Meets the Invisible Woman.’ ”

Cat cocked her head. “There’s that word again.
What do you mean by newest?”

“Oh, well, you know, a couple a times a century
a drug is developed that turns mere humans into the super variety.
During World War II, there were amphetamines. In the seventies,
there was PCP.”

She looked up from the file with wide eyes.
“Whoa.”

“Yeah. PCP would probably make a great
performance enhancer if you could handle your players occasionally
freaking out and eating one another’s livers.”

She scrunched her nose. “Ugh …
next?”

He smiled sheepishly and bit his bottom lip.
“Sorry.” He handed her another sheet. “Anyway, this page says the
test demonstrated that subjects became increasingly alert and
aggressive. Stimulation of protein synthesis and internal adrenal
cortex hormones.”

“Again, translation for your remedial
student?”

“Lean mean baseball machines.”

“Damn.”

He picked up a stack from the floor. “This
novella contains all the possible side effects.”

She closed her eyes. “Let me guess. Heart
problems?”

“Rapid heartbeat, irregular heartbeat, high
blood pressure, convulsions. Plus, the psychological effects of
loss of ego boundaries, changes in libido, depersonalization,
excessive feelings of power and superiority.” He paused and smiled.
“I guess those are issues most jocks are already given to,
huh?”

She yanked the page out of his hands, scanned
it and said, in a soft, incredulous voice, “Chances of heart
attacks, strokes … Benji, this is crazy.”

He nodded. “Believe me when I say they created
a monster. I shudder to think what animal suffered during the years
of lab testing before this product made its way to the
field.”

“Maybe the players were the test subjects.
König might have seen Jamal Abercromby as little more than a lab
rat.” She slowly picked up the documents from the floor, trying to
keep them in logical order. “So, we have physical evidence and a
paper trail to back it up. I’m calling the commissioner’s
office.”

“Screw that. Call the cops.” He pointed to his
cell phone on the end table.

“You do realize how crazy this sounds. I mean,
what do we say? ‘Hi, nine-one-one? I’d like to report a mass
baseball conspiracy.’”

“Well, probably not.” He pushed his hair off
his forehead. “Don’t they have departments for this? Like vice?
Isn’t this a vice thing?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her temples in a
circular motion. “I thought vice was all hookers and coke, not
ballplayers and uh, whatever this is.”

He grinned. “I think you’re confusing vice with
Miami Vice
.”

“I’m just saying, where’s Crockett when you
need him?”

“Oh no, ya gotta go to Tubbs.”

Cat started to laugh, but her smile soon turned
to a grimace. “Commissioner Ramirez wouldn’t appreciate being
sidestepped.”

She pulled out her cell phone. It was nearing
twelve a.m. Las Vegas time, which meant that in the commissioner’s
New York headquarters, the midnight oil had burned up three hours
earlier. Still, there was a chance someone might answer the
phone—maybe an overzealous associate or an off-hours call
service.

Ringing. She exhaled at the sweet sound and
followed the prompt to the commissioner’s extension. Four rings
later, an automated message picked up. She assumed the harmonic
voice was that of Liz Baston, Joseph Ramirez’s
secretary.

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of
Commissioner Ramirez. The office is currently closed. Our normal
hours of operations are nine a.m. to five p.m. Monday through
Friday, Eastern Standard Time. Please leave us a message with your
name and number and we’ll return your call when the office
reopens.”

Cat hung up. “What am I supposed to
say?”

“Tell him there’s a maniac on the loose poking
players with needles.”

“I gotta play this carefully. I doubt he checks
his own messages and you never know who König’s friends are.
Besides, I tend to sound like Elmer Fudd when I don’t have a
script.”

She pressed redial and took a deep breath. When
she finally heard the beep, she spewed her frantic
message.

“Hi, um, th-this is Catriona McDaniel, the
senior r-reporter with the Las Vegas Chips. I’ve stumbled upon some
pretty shocking information I think you and I should discuss. The
matter concerns some of the team, so this is highly sensitive
information. Please give me a call back as soon as possible on my
private cell phone at 559-555-0526.” She sat the phone on the
coffee table and took a deep breath. “Boom goes the
dynamite.”

He exhaled. “It’s out of your hands
now.”

Da-da-da-dut-da-duh … Charge!

Their eyes shot to each other and down to the
phone.

“The commissioner.”

“Answer it!”

Cat fumbled for the phone. “Oh.” She rolled her
eyes. “It’s only Dustin.”

“Little late for groveling. Can’t you just let
your voicemail pick up?”

She mouthed “sorry” as she hit the send button.
“Hey Dustin, what’s up?”

“Just got a call from Maria, we’re supposed to
report to the fourth floor asap.”

“Now?”

“That’s what ‘asap’ means.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“Well, last time it was a dead player so let’s
hope it’s not that. Trade deadline’s in less than two days, I’m
thinking we snagged McClure from San Fran.”

“I thought they shot that down?”

“Get your butt to the stadium and let’s find
out.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten. Bye.”

She hadn’t even pressed END when Benji stood
up. “No, no, no, no, no. You can’t be serious.”

She carefully placed the paperwork back in the
file folder. “Would it be incredibly trite to say I am
deadly
serious?”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him.
“You wouldn’t be trite, but you might be right.” He cringed. “I
didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”

She closed the laptop and shoved it back into
her carrying bag. His eyes took in her every move; then he pulled
her hand from the bag and tugged her close. “Why don’t you blow it
off?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “We’ve
come too far to screw up now. If I don’t show up, it’s going to
arise suspicion.”

“I guess.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “Besides, we
have nothing to worry about. It’s just gonna be some media people.”
Using a cow-print potholder, she reached across the counter and
grabbed the syringe. “Besides, I have evidence.” She stuck the
syringe in the bag’s side pocket but hesitated before zipping it
up. “Unless you think I should leave it with you?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve already got a
sample. What about König? Or the doctor?”

“Uh-uh.” Cat’s hair swished around her
shoulders as she shook her head. “Dr. Goodall’s off hobnobbing with
real doctors and König’s not due back from the Dominican Republic
until morning. I’ll be back before
mein Führer
even has his
Frühstück.
”

Benji cocked his head. “Huh?”

“Boss, breakfast.”

“Ah.” He grinned. “Then you and me can have uh
… fur sticks?”

She smacked her lips playfully. “In
bed.”

His lips graced hers as he whispered, “Be
careful.”

The parking lot looked exactly the same as when
Cat had left the stadium three hours earlier—just two lone trucks
in the first row and the Cowboy Cleaners van parked in front of a
fire hydrant.