Green Monster (5 page)

“All right, we'll do it your way.”

Heather picked up Sam's glass from the coffee table and stood up to return it to the hutch. Her sidelong glance at Sam contained a hint of triumph.

“I'm going over to my hotel to make some calls,” Sam said. “If I turn up anything, I'll call you.”

Heather took a business card out of the inside breast pocket of her blazer and handed it to Sam.

“Anytime, day or night,” she said. This time, Sam thought he caught just the slightest upturn at the corner of Heather's mouth. Was she thawing out a bit?

Kenwood picked up the phone on the table and summoned Paul to give Sam a ride back to the hotel.

“You know what I dread more than anything?” Kenwood said as Sam headed for the door. “If this gets out, seeing some goddamn Yankee fan holding up one of those ‘1918' signs again, and underneath it ‘2004' with a line through it.”

Chapter Five

When he got back to his room, Sam placed a call to Marcus Hargrove.

“Hey, Sam,” Marcus said. “What's up?”

“Just checking to see how you are. They catch that punk who shot at you?”

“Not yet. It was a stolen car.”

“Figures.”

“We'll get him.”

“Say, Marcus, I need a phone number for Jimmy the Rabbit.”

Marcus had joined Investigations a few years after Sam became a detective. He worked out of the organized crime unit, and though his specialty was gangs, he'd come to know most of the serious gamblers in the Twin Cities.

“What do you want with Jimmy?” Marcus asked. “You betting on Vikings games, now that you're a private citizen?”

“I haven't bet football since they made us drop the office pool.”

“Yeah, same here,” Marcus said. “I don't even watch much anymore. So why Jimmy?”

“Can't say right now, Marcus,” Sam said. “I'm out of town, working on something kind of sensitive.”

Marcus asked Sam to wait while he called up Jimmy's number on his computer. Jimmy the Rabbit's real name was Jimmy Waldrin. He'd been an outstanding high school athlete who'd later become a first-rate golf hustler. Sam had met him at one of those resort tournaments in northern Minnesota, where Jimmy finished second, sold all his shop winnings for 50 cents on the dollar, won a bunch of side bets and went home with more than three thousand bucks in his pocket. He lived in a nice four-bedroom Victorian near the old Guthrie Theater, drove a Mercedes convertible, and hadn't held a job since high school. He could be found most summer afternoons at one of the Twin Cities' private golf clubs, and most evenings at the ballpark or the racetrack. In the winter, he'd be at a downtown sports bar, keeping track of his pro and college bets in front of a bank of TVs.

Sam knew the sports books in Vegas adjusted the betting lines on a given game depending on how much money was being bet on either team, and if enough money suddenly came in on one team to change the odds, it was usually because of an injury or other significant piece of information. If somebody knew—or thought they knew—that a game was fixed, they'd put as much money as they could on the game, and that would definitely change the odds. If anyone in Minneapolis knew about the betting line being suddenly shifted during the Sox-Cardinals series, it would be Jimmy the Rabbit.

“Here you go, Sam,” Marcus said. He read Jimmy's number off his contacts list. “Say, you gonna be around three weekends from now? One of the cops in the second precinct is getting married. He asked me if Night Beat could play the reception.”

“Can't commit right now, Marcus. This case might wrap up in a couple of days, or I might be out of town for a while. I'll let you know as soon as I can.”

“Damn unreliable musicians.”

Sam dialed the number Marcus gave him for Jimmy the Rabbit. It rang several times, then Sam heard crowd noise in the background and a voice say, “Yeah.” It sounded like a cell phone.

“Jimmy, it's Sam Skarda.”

Sam heard a loud cheer in the background, and guessed that Jimmy was at the Metrodome.

“Sammy! Long time, babe. How ya hittin' em?”

“I still need strokes from you, Jim.”

“I'll get a Good Citizen Award from the cops before you get a stroke from me. What can I do for ya?”

“How's the game going?”

“Twins up by three, but it's still in the sixth, and the Indians just got into the Twins' bullpen. This one ain't over.”

“How much do you have on the Indians?”

“A honeybee. What's up?”

“I need to ask you about some recent World Series. Any sudden changes in the lines over the last six or seven years?”

“Nah, nothing I can think of. Why?”

“How about the Tigers and Cardinals in '06? Tigers were a heavy favorite, right?”

“Right.”

“Any late money come in on the Cards?”

“Not really. Tigers just played bad.”

“Marlins and Yankees in 2003?”

“Yanks were favored. Another upset, but the schmoes never saw it coming. I did okay.”

“Sometimes the underdog wins,” Sam said.

“That's right. That's why guys like me don't need real jobs.”

“Red Sox-Cardinals?”

“Aw, Sammy, why you gotta bring up bad memories? I got killed on that one. Murdered. Lost the kids' college fund.”

“I didn't know you had kids, Jimmy.”

“I don't. But if I did…”

Sam heard the familiar foghorn voice of Wally the Beerman, the Dome's most recognizable vendor, bellowing “Who's ready?” as he passed Jimmy's seat.

“The Cards were underdogs, right?” Sam said. He was trying to steer Jimmy back to the subject at hand without sounding too focused on the Sox.

“Slight. After the miracle comeback against the Yanks, the Sox were the feel-good story. The rubes bet enough to make the Sox 8-5 favorites. Hell, I was hoping the line would go even higher. The Cards had the best record in baseball that year. They won 105 games—a great underdog buy. Besides, I thought the Red Sox would never win a Series.”

“And the line never moved much?”

“Nah. I mean, maybe a little more St. Louis money came in after the initial line was set. But the dopes never stopped betting on the Sox. Pretty much 8-to-5 right up to the first pitch, if I remember right. What's this about, anyway?”

“Probably nothing. You know any bookies in Boston?”

“Sure.”

“I'd like to talk to the guy who takes the most action.”

Sam heard the pop of the catcher's mitt over the phone. Jimmy must have had good seats. Not surprising.

“There's a guy named Sal Bucca—I bet Big East basketball with him,” Jimmy said. “I got his number on speed dial. Hey, you're not a cop anymore, right, Sam?”

“Come on, Jimmy, you know I left the force. You know everything.”

“Yeah, but I gotta be sure. You're not working for them on this…whatever it is?”

“Nope. This is strictly private stuff. Nobody's going to get busted.”

Jimmy gave Sam the phone number for Sal Bucca, but told him to hold off calling for an hour or so. Jimmy wanted to call Sal first, to let him know he could trust Sam.

“Tell him I'm staying at the Taj Boston,” Sam said. “I'll call him from there.”

Sam heard a sharp crack, heard the Metrodome crowd moan, and Jimmy shouted, “Double off the baggie! Gotta go, Sammy!”

Sam shut his cell phone and put it on the desk next to the television cabinet. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV—not exactly the most productive or entertaining way to spend his first night in Boston, but he had time to kill, time while waiting to call Bucca.

He was watching a rundown of the day's home runs on ESPN and listening to the raindrops on his window when he heard a knock on his door. He hadn't asked for anything from room service, and none of his old New England friends knew he was in town. He glanced at the shoulder holster he'd taken off and hung on the back of the desk chair.

Sam walked to the door and looked through the eyehole. Heather Canby was standing in the hallway with a leather bag over her shoulder, wearing the same blazer she'd had on in Kenwood's office. Sam opened the door.

“Hello, Sam,” she said. She offered a cool smile, but still maintained the professional reserve she'd displayed in Kenwood's office. “I brought some homework for you.”

Heather walked into the room and placed her shoulder bag on the coffee table. Her neck-length blond hair swayed softly from side to side as she walked. Sam could have stared into those soft, silky strands all night, if it had been polite to do so. Or even if it weren't…

She pulled a DVD case marked Red Sox-Cardinals World Series out of the bag and went to the entertainment unit, opened the TV cabinet, turned on the set, and inserted the disk into the DVD player. She quickly punched some buttons on the remote and the screen filled with a scene of riotous celebration in the Red Sox locker room following Game 4, accompanied by the Standells' recording of “Dirty Water.”

“We must have sold 200,000 of these.” Heather fast-forwarded through the introductory section. “But we never really looked at it before.”

“We're going to now?”

“Is there somewhere you need to be?”

“No.”

“Then have a seat.”

Sam and Heather pulled the arm chairs close to the TV and went through the entire DVD, studying each key mistake by the Cardinals in slow-motion and freeze-frame. There was nothing on the highlight reel that would have ordinarily caught Sam's attention as being suspicious—but now, after reading the extortion note, several plays stood out. The first was the fly ball Ivan Hurtado dropped in the second inning of Game One. Alberto Miranda, the starting pitcher, was already on the ropes, having given up three hits and a walk. Two runs had scored, and the Sox had runners on first and third when Luke Bowdoin lifted a lazy pop fly to shallow right. It was an easy play for Hurtado, who called off Cardinal second baseman Paul Weatherby and then seemed to take his eye off the ball at the last second, possibly watching to see if the runner on third was going to tag up. The ball hit off Hurtado's glove, and the runner on third scored. That made it 3-0 with runners on first and second, one out, and Miranda finished the Cards' chances when he fielded a grounder back to the mound on the next pitch and threw it into center field.

“I've seen stuff like that happen dozens of times,” Sam said to Heather.

“I know,” she said. “But if you were trying to throw a ballgame, isn't that how you'd do it?”

Hurtado later homered, but by then the score was 7-1. The final was 9-2, and the Cardinals were off to a demoralizing start. Neither Hurtado nor Miranda had a significant hit in the next two losses, and then Miranda overthrew third base on a one-out force play in the first inning of Game Four. The right play would have been to throw to second to start a double play. Instead, the first two runs scored in what became a five-run inning, almost assuring the championship for the Sox.

Heather replayed Miranda's overthrow to third a dozen times, and though it was hard to explain how one of the best players in baseball could make such a dumb mistake, it didn't look intentional. Then again, how could they tell for sure?

“There's no proof of anything here,” Sam said. “You can see what you want to see.”

“I see a couple of All-Stars playing like Little Leaguers,” Heather said.

“Didn't Hurtado drop an easy one the other night? It happens.”

“We're expecting you to give us more than that.”

Sam started to speak, but managed to hold his tongue. He didn't need an office-bound twenty-something telling him how to do his job. If he had to report his every move to her—or worse, have her looking over his shoulder while he ran down every lead—he was tempted to catch the next plane back home.

Heather dug into her leather shoulder bag and took out a folded bundle of yellowing newspapers. They were October 2004 sports sections from the Globe, Herald, and New York Times, with game stories about the Sox-Cardinals Series.

“Lou and I have read through these, but we want you to look at them, too,” Heather said. She handed Sam the stack of papers. “See if you can detect any sign that the writers thought something funny was going on.”

Sam had to agree that rereading contemporary coverage of those games was a good idea.

“Why the Times?” he asked.

“For a neutral opinion.”

Sam skimmed through the game stories, looking for accounts of Hurtado's muffed fly ball and the throwing errors by Miranda. All the writers ridiculed the horrible plays, but none suggested there was anything suspicious going on. As for Miranda's pitching, the beat guys from New York and Boston agreed: In those two big games, Miranda just didn't have it.

“Nothing here,” Sam said, putting the papers down.

“That's what we thought,” Heather said. “Now what?”

“A guy I know in Minneapolis gave me the number of a bookie here in town. I was about to call him when you dropped in.”

“Don't let me stop you.”

She gave no indication of leaving.

Sam used the hotel phone to call Sal Bucca, assuming the bookie would probably have caller ID The bookie would know the cops weren't likely to set up a sting operation at the Taj.

The call picked up on the first ring, and a heavy Boston accent said, “Yeah.”

“Sal Bucca?”

“Who wants him?”

“Sam Skarda. Jimmy the Rabbit said to call this number.”

“Hold on.”

Sam waited about a minute, and then a different, raspy voice said, “Sal.”

“Sal, my name is Sam Skarda. I'm a private investigator—I think Jimmy told you I'd be calling.”

“Yeah.”

They weren't a talkative bunch at Sal's place.

“Can I ask you a few questions over the phone, or do you want to meet someplace tomorrow?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“What you wanna know, and why.”

“I can't tell you why. It's confidential. But it has nothing to do with the cops. I need to know about some betting lines a few years back. No names. Just some numbers.”

“What, you think we keep records on that stuff?” Sal uttered a harsh laugh.

Time to sweeten the pot.

“You think you could remember for ten grand?”

Sam looked across the room at Heather. She gave him a scowl and mouthed, “Ten grand?”

Sam nodded emphatically. She tilted her head to the side and put her palms up in resigned agreement.

“Still depends,” Bucca said. His interest was now oozing through the phone. “I gotta see the money first.”

“I can meet you tomorrow anytime before five p.m.”

“You're at the Ritz, right?”