Safe at Home (14 page)

Morning came earlier than I wanted, but not as early as it was supposed to. With my mind elsewhere by the time I got to bed, I had forgotten to set the alarm. By the time I came to, it was 9:30. Joe’s press conference was called for 11:00. I showered quickly, downed a couple of Tylenols with codeine, and was on my way in twenty minutes, a record of some sort.

There was a scrawled note from Sally tacked to the front door: “See you tonight. Look in on the kid when you get home. He has to do his homework before supper. Thanks, Sal. P.S. I don’t feel so much like dancing this a.m.”

I was feeling a bit frail myself. I banged myself on the shin opening the garage door and tripped over a rake.

But it was a beautiful day. My barbecue idea was a go. I rolled back the top on the Citroën to catch some early rays and clear my head. I wanted to stop in at the office on the way. If I picked up my mail and checked my messages, maybe I could avoid going in later. Besides, the cafeteria made a decent cup of coffee, which I could use.

I grabbed one on the way up, then spilled some on my skirt. This wasn’t my day, obviously.

The sports department was all but deserted. I dumped my stuff and went to the ladies’ room to wet a towel and rub out the stain. I stood at my desk so my skirt would dry without wrinkling. There was an inch-high stack of pink message slips, mostly from baseball reporters around the league wanting the dirt on Joe. Nothing urgent. I stuck them in my briefcase and went through the mail. Press releases and other crap. Right at the bottom of the pile, though, was a strange one. Strange, but familiar.

I picked up the phone and dialled Andy’s number.

“I got another one at the office, Andy. Do you want me to open it?”

“When did it come in?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t cleaned out my mailbox since at least Thursday. Maybe even before that.”

“Is there a stamp? Did it go through the mail?”

“I don’t know. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Either it was delivered by hand or they screwed up at the post office for a really big change.”

“Open it, but carefully.”

Inside was a two-word message, in banner headline type: “STOP ME.”

“I’ll send someone right over.”

“I won’t be here. I have to go to the press conference. I’ll leave it with Jake Watson.”

“The editor? Okay.”

“How are you? Have you had any sleep since you left my place?”

“A couple of hours on a couch here. I feel like shit.”

“Poor baby. Why don’t you go home and have a shower and change your clothes?”

“Too much to do.”

“Is there anything new?”

“Well, Browning found four similar-pattern series of murders. One of them is Canadian.”

“Really? Where?”

“It happened in Timmins about three years ago. There were just two kids killed, six months apart. The police there weren’t positive they were connected. But Browning had them in his files as a possible. I have a call in to the police chief up there.”

“What were the other cases?”

“There were three kids murdered in upstate New York a few years ago, and others in Colorado and suburban Chicago. I’ve got the FBI guys on those.”

“Do you think there might be some connection?”

“I don’t know. But we have to chase any possibility, no matter how slim.”

“Maybe something will come out of it,” I said. “Any chance you’ll be by tonight?”

“Depends on how it goes, but I doubt it.”

“Okay. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Bye.”

Poor guy. I checked my watch and grabbed my notebook, computer, and briefcase. I put the letter from the creep in an envelope with Andy’s name on it and stuck it on Jake’s desk with an explanatory note. Then I ran into him as he was getting off the elevator.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a press conference?”

“I’m on my way. I’ve left something on your desk. The cops will be by to pick it up. If you’re not here, make sure someone knows about it.”

“Is it a mash note or are you playing Nancy Drew again?”

“Not of my free will,” I said, then hit the button for the lobby.

“What will you have for me today?”

The door started to close. I stopped it with my arm.

“It depends on what happens at the press conference. Probably not much. Have you got anyone else on it?”

The elevator began to buzz at me.

“Jeff wants to write a column on him,” Jake said. “And the folks upstairs want a takeout on homos in sport. Interested?”

“Not particularly, but I’ll do it if you want me to.”

“I’ll try to get someone else on it. It just needs a bunch of phone calls. I’d rather you stuck with Kelsey.”

“I’ll call in after the conference. I’ll probably be writing from home.”

“Fine.”

The door slid shut. When it opened on the next floor down, six people glared at me and crowded on.

“Lovely day,” I said.

The Titans had set up an interview room in the visiting clubhouse for Joe’s press conference. There were cameras from the two Canadian networks, the cable sports channel, and several local stations. The American nets were there, too. In front of the camera stand were a dozen rows of chairs, mostly full. Some reporters were sitting on the players’ stools in front of the lockers. There were a dozen microphones taped to a stand at the front of the room.

I found a seat next to Christopher Morris.

“Thanks for calling your brother-in-law,” I said.

“He was glad to help,” he said. “Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Help?”

“I think so. But, as you saw last night, I’m not supposed to talk about anything.”

“Right,” he said, smiling. “I liked your Andy, by the way. Unusual for a cop.”

“He liked you, too.”

The door opened, and Joe Kelsey walked in, accompanied by an uncomfortable-looking Hugh Marsh and a third man I recognized as his agent, Peter Moir.

“Can I have your attention please, gentlemen, and Kate,” Marsh said, looking around the room. “Joe Kelsey is here to answer any questions you might have, but first he has a brief statement. Joe.”

Nothing Joe was saying was new to me. I watched the room for reaction. The reporters looked uncomfortable. Most of them have so completely bought into jock myths that they are as conservative as the fellows they cover. There was hostility in the room, both because of Joe’s homosexuality and because of the way they were being forced to cover it. Sportswriters, especially heavy hitters like some of the ones in the room, don’t like sharing their interviews with others. The columnist from the
New York
Times
led off.

“Why did you come out? Couldn’t you just go on the way you’ve been and save everybody a lot of pain?”

“I have to think about my own pain,” Joe said. “If I am no longer ashamed of being gay, why should I hide it? With all respect, it’s not my problem anymore.”

“But surely you knew what this would do to baseball?”

“Last time I checked, baseball was the same game it’s been for one hundred years. It takes more than something like this to change that.”

“Do you know of any other gay ballplayers?” asked a guy from the
New York
Post.

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you think you’re the only one?”

“I doubt it.”

“Would you urge them to follow your example?”

“That’s not for me to do. I imagine there might be some people right now waiting to see what happens to me.”

The man from
Sports Illustrated
interrupted the line of questioning impatiently.

“You’ve put your teammates in a difficult position by asking them to accept you. Baseball is based on team play, on the chemistry among the players. How is this going to affect the Titans?”

“If we can have Dominican players and black players and redneck players and even a Japanese player on the same team and keep on winning, I don’t see what difference I’m going to make. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m having the best start of my career. I don’t see how that is going to hurt the team.”

“That fight in the locker room yesterday after the game wasn’t exactly team spirit at its best, Joe,” said one of the writers from Detroit.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Joe smiled. “Stinger and me didn’t exactly get along before last week, either. So our relationship hasn’t changed because I’m gay.”

He was magnificent. He never lost his temper and never let them make him feel like a freak. Every challenge the reporters threw at him, he threw right back. The overall message implicit, though never stated, was that any problem his homosexuality was causing was the bigots’ fault, not Joe’s.

The press conference lasted for an hour. Afterwards, Joe was mobbed by reporters looking for their own angles and cameras trying to get an exclusive shot. He patiently answered questions for another half hour.

There wasn’t much of a story for me. A mood piece. I hit up a couple of the high-profile American reporters for their thoughts, and grabbed Joe on the way out the door for a few quotes on the reaction so far.

“It hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be,” he said. “The fans have been very accepting, and most of my teammates have been all right.”

“Except for Stinger.”

“You know that’s not the first time we’ve mixed it up. And it won’t be the last time, but not getting along hasn’t stopped us from playing winning baseball together.”

“Thanks, Joe, I’ll see you later. I should be finished early. Why don’t you guys come by at about four? We can sit in the garden. And besides, that means T.C. won’t be bugging me every five minutes about when you’re going to get there.”

“Sure. It will be nice to be somewhere quiet. These guys are still outside my place all the time.”

“Just don’t let them follow you to my place.”

“No worry. I watch
Magnum P.I.
every afternoon. I can shake a tail.”

“As the actress said to the bishop.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind, Joe. The joke is older than you are. I’ll see you at four.”

I stopped at the supermarket on the Danforth on the way home and picked up a couple of dozen shish kebabs, already assembled and marinated, for dinner. I didn’t know how many I would be feeding or how big their appetites might be. I could always freeze the leftovers. I got garlic tzatziki at Alex Farms, salad stuff at Sunland, and buns at the corner store. It was just a typical lazy person’s Danforth meal, but I hoped it might seem more exotic to Joe and Sandy. Then I hit the liquor store for red wine and the beer store for a dozen.

I was home just before 2:00. I unpacked the groceries, mixed some red wine, garlic, hot sauce, and olive oil and set the kebabs in to soak. I changed into jeans, then made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it in front of my computer in the study, going through my notes and figuring out what to say about the morning’s session.

I got the story done and filed by 3:30, then lay down for a recuperative catnap. Literally. Elwy lay purring on my chest, to make sure I didn’t really fall asleep. I got up after forty-five minutes, feeling only marginally better, threw cold water on my face, then went to the garage to dig out the barbecue stuff. I left a note for Joe and Sandy on the front door, telling them to come around the back.

The barbecue was in the garage, covered with a winter’s worth of dust. To my horror, but not surprise, I discovered that I hadn’t bothered to clean the grill after my last cookout. I was just dusting off the outdoor furniture when they arrived. Joe had flowers, Sandy a bottle of good California wine.

“What wonderful guests,” I said. “Here, sit down and let me get you something. Shall I open the wine, or do you want a real drink?”

“Just a beer for me,” Sandy said.

“Me too,” said Joe.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Sandy came up the back stairs to the kitchen while I was arranging the flowers in an old cranberry-glass pitcher that had belonged to my grandmother.

“That looks nice. It’s a beautiful vase.”

I thanked him and put it on the kitchen table and went to the fridge.

“How is he?” I asked. “And how are you, too? Sorry.”

“We’re fine,” Sandy said. “A little shaky, but strong, too. How do you think it went this morning?”

“He was really terrific.”

“He told me he did all right,” laughed Sandy.

“Joe has never been known for overstating things. He was superb.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

I gave him the tray with the beers and followed him down the stairs.

“So, where is T.C.?” Joe asked. “I thought he would be here.”

“Oh, Christ. I forgot I was supposed to look in on him,” I said. I went to the downstairs back door and pounded on it. There was no response.

“Maybe he’s changed his mind about wanting to see me,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” I said. “He is an extremely liberated young fellow. If he wasn’t, Sally and I would wring his neck. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting you until later. He’s probably just stopped off to play catch.”

I rolled out the hose and wet down the grill, sprinkled it with cleanser, and got the wire brush. Joe jumped up and took it from my hand.

“Let me do it,” he said. “This was my job at home.”

“Are you any good?”

“At barbecue cleaning, I’m an all-star. My mama made sure of that.”

The phone rang. I ran up the stairs to catch it before the fourth ring, when the answering machine usually takes over, but it just rang twice. I tripped over the doorsill and swore, then grabbed the receiver. I could hear my voice droning on, and shouted over it to the person on the other end. After the beep, I could hear Sally laughing.

“Get it together, woman,” she said.

“The machine kicked in early. There must be a message. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I want to talk to my son.”

“He’s not here yet.”

“Are you sure? He’s not at home, either. He’s usually there by three-thirty.”

“It’s not much after four. Not to worry. I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets in.”

“I’m going out myself in half an hour to meet with a big bucks Rosedale client. I should be home by six-thirty, seven at the latest.”

“See you then. I hope you’ll be fat with commissions. I’ll have T.C. call if he gets here in the next little while. If he doesn’t, I’ll give him shit for you.”

I went to my study to check the machine, which was still rewinding from my conversation with Sally. There were three messages, in all.

Probably one was from T.C.

The first one wasn’t. At first all I heard was breathing. I suddenly remembered the phone call I had ignored when I went to bed. The breathing turned to sobs, then the familiar husky whisper.

“Oh, God, Kate. Help me. Stop me. Don’t let me do it again.”

I stopped the machine. There was something about the voice, something I recognized behind the disguise. The message ran a second time. I still couldn’t quite place it. I let the machine run on past the beep, which was followed by T.C.’s cheery, excited voice.

“Hi, Kate. I’m just reporting in, like the absolutely perfect, well-behaved kid I am. I’ll be a little late getting home. I have practice, then I’m going to meet Mr. Greaves at the park at four-thirty. They need to take another picture. I’ll be home around five. See you later, alligator.”

The realization hit me like a fist in the stomach. I doubled over and screamed. In the background, the tape rolled on, replaying my conversation with Sally: “He’s not here yet . . . Are you sure? He’s not at home, either . . . It’s not much after four. Not to worry. I’ll have him call you . . .”

In my head was another conversation, from lunch on Friday: “I’d forgotten you worked in Timmins . . .” And: “This killer is smart. He’ll find a way.”

I was screaming and swearing incoherently. Joe and Sandy came running. Sandy grabbed me and shook the hysteria out of me.

“What is it?”

“T.C. . . . I know who the murderer is . . . we have to get to the park . . . which park? . . . Oh, my God. Oh shit, fuck . . .”

I grabbed the phone, and dialled Andy’s number. He wasn’t there. Neither was Jim.

“Can I take a message?”

“No, there’s not time. You’ve got to find them. And send some cops to Riverdale Park and Withrow Park fast. I’m not sure which one, but the murderer has got T.C. in one of them.”

We wasted minutes in explanations before the poor guy on the other end of the phone made sense of what I was saying. It wasn’t his fault. I wasn’t making much sense either.

“You stay right there, ma’am. We’ll have an officer with you in a minute.”

“I’m not staying anywhere. I’m going to find him. This is all my fault. I should have realized. I have to stop him. He’ll listen to me. I know I can stop him. Just get those cops there fast.”

“Leave it to us. There’s nothing you can do except stay where you are.”

“Want to bet?”

I hung up the phone and turned to Joe and Sandy.

“Do you have your car?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go. We’ve got to find him.”

The three of us raced down the stairs and got into the ludicrously small car a local Honda dealership supplied to all the players. I made Sandy jam in the back so I could hang out the window and look for T.C. and the man who wanted to kill him. I explained what I thought was happening and directed Joe to Broadview, then told him to drive slowly in the curb lane south past Riverdale Park. I had him stop the car just past the tennis courts while I got out to look down the hill towards the softball diamonds and running track.

“Damn, why didn’t I bring my binoculars!”

Joe joined me on the sidewalk.

“There must be a hundred kids down there,” he said. “Do you want to go down and look?”

“If he’s not there, we haven’t got time.”

“I’ll go. I can run better than you.”

“We’ll meet you at the bottom of the park.”

He took off down the hill faster than he ever beat out an infield hit. He zigzagged through the groups of children, some of whom recognized him and began to chase after him.

I got back into the car on the driver’s side. “What does T.C. look like?” asked Sandy, who had pushed the seat forward and was kneeling on the back with his head out the passenger window.

“He’s blond, with glasses. He’ll have a baseball glove with him, and probably a cap. Can you see Joe?”

“Yeah, he’s still running. What about the guy you think is the murderer?”

“He’s medium height, brown hair, good-looking. He’ll be wearing a suit or sports jacket. Do you see anything?”

“Nothing. Joe’s almost at the bottom of the park. Let’s go get him.”

I drove. When we got to him, he was out of breath. A gaggle of excited children surrounded him. He jumped into the passenger’s seat.

“Sorry, kids, I’ve got to go,” he called to them as I pulled away from the curb. “I’ll catch you later.”

I did a U-turn back up Broadview, turned right on Riverdale, tires squealing, then gunned through the 40 km-per-hour zone, past the closely spaced brick houses with their tiny lawns, keeping an eye out for kids, dogs, and cats. Pausing for a nanosecond at the stop sign, I turned left up Logan, by Withrow Park.

Ordinarily the park is one of my favourite spots. It’s a lovely place, a hilly park with ball diamonds, playgrounds, trees for strolling under, benches for conversations, a soccer field, and a hockey rink spread out on different levels over an area five blocks long and two blocks across. But this time it seemed full of menace, with too many places to hide.

I drove slowly north, past the lower ball diamond. Nothing. Nothing in the kids’ playground or the tennis court. Right on McConnell across the top of the park, past the Greeks arguing on park benches, then right again down Carlaw. He wasn’t at the skating rink or on the soccer field. I saw a small figure wearing a Titan’s cap sitting on the bleachers at the far side and my heart leaped with hope for a minute, but he turned his head and I saw it wasn’t T.C.

“Damn. Damn.”

I pounded the steering wheel in frustration, then turned right on Withrow, then right again at Logan for one more pass around.

“What other park could it be? It’s got to be somewhere nearby. Think, Kate, think.”

Joe grabbed my arm.

“Kate, look. There he is.”