“Was Troy Preston one of the people you were hired to investigate?’
He nods. “Yes. On three separate occasions.”
He goes on to explain that Preston had failed a drug test, which is a red flag for the NFL. Richards was assigned to find out the extent of Preston’s involvement with drugs, and based on his initial reports, follow-ups were deemed necessary.
“Why is that?” I ask.
“Because I learned that Mr. Preston was not just using… he was selling.”
I ask Richards to provide the details of his investigation, and he doesn’t hesitate to implicate the deceased Paul Moreno and the unfortunately very alive Cesar Quintana. It’s a weird sensation that I feel while he is doing this, knowing that Quintana will freak out and redouble his efforts to kill me when he finds out that I have once again exposed his name to unwanted worldwide publicity.
Richards is on the stand all morning, and his performance is impressive. I make a note to mention him to Laurie, in case we want to add him to our team on future cases. It hits me that Laurie may well not be on that team, the first time I’ve thought about that possibility in a while. This has been a difficult and frustrating case, but if nothing else, it has served its purpose as a diversion from my personal concerns.
Judge Harrison cancels the afternoon session because of some other matters that he has to attend to, so Dylan’s cross-examination of Richards will be put off to Monday. I call and ask Sam to come to the house at three to report on what he’s learned, and I tell Kevin and Laurie to be there as well. Willie Miller joins us, along with his dog, Cash. Willie has been hanging around as part of my “security detail,” and it does make me feel more secure, though I would never admit it.
Sam starts off with an apology that he hasn’t made more progress, but he’s only had a handful of hours to work on it. Sam has learned that Adam was apparently focusing on something involving the media; he was trying to locate a Web site for a magazine called Inside Football, which hasn’t existed for a number of years. He also placed three phone calls to the New York Times in the thirty-six hours before he died.
“Any other significant calls?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, doesn’t seem to be. Mostly to players Kenny knew… families of the deceased guys… that kind of thing.”
“Any idea why he would be interested in a sports magazine and the New York Times?” Kevin asks me.
“No… but Adam’s parents mentioned that he was excited about talking to famous sportswriters. I thought they meant football players, but I didn’t question them about it. Maybe they were right.”
I call Vince, whose connections would make him the ultimate authority in matters of this type. He’s not in, and I leave a message for him to call me back ASAP. In the meantime Laurie brings us up-to-date on what she has learned.
None of the deaths were considered possible homicides by the various police entities that investigated, which we already knew. However, Laurie has checked into four of them so far, and when viewed through the prism that we now hold, they could look quite suspicious. As examples, she cites the hit-and-run and Matt Lane’s hunting accident. The five heart attacks are bewildering, and I ask Laurie to check with a doctor, one we sometimes use as an expert witness, about whether there is a drug that can cause a heart attack and not show up in an autopsy.
Vince calls back within a few minutes and sounds annoyed. “I told you I’d call you back when I set up the meeting,” he says.
“That’s not why I’m calling,” I say.
“Jesus, what the hell do you need now?”
“Vince, I’m going to ask you a question. I just want you to answer it and not assume it’s important to the Schilling case. I don’t want you to start tracking it down as a possible hot story.”
“Then you must be trying to reach a different Vince,” he says.
“You’ll get whatever I have first. But this can’t go public in any way now.”
He thinks for a moment. “Okay.”
“Did you ever hear of a magazine called Inside Football?” I ask.
“Sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“It’s a magazine that’s folded. I need a list of the people that wrote for it in the last ten years and copies of any stories that included Kenny Schilling or Troy Preston.” I have a hunch and decide to throw it in. “I also want to know if any of the writers are currently at the New York Times.”
“That’s all?” he asks.
“That’s all.”
“Give me two hours,” he says.
“You’re a genius.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Vince then proceeds to use up five minutes of the two hours making me swear repeatedly that he will get whatever story comes out of his labor, as well as any story that doesn’t. I’m happy to do so. Vince’s contacts are amazing, and if I’m going to need to learn anything in the media world, he is a person who can absolutely make it happen.
Two hours gives me just enough time to take Tara for a short tennis ball session in the park, as long as I drive there. I haven’t thrown a ball with Tara in a while, but one of her twelve million great qualities is that she doesn’t hold a grudge. Willie and Cash join us, which is fine with me: Though Tara doesn’t have many dog friends, she has always liked Cash.
Cash is the more competitive of the two dogs; it’s very important to him that he retrieve each thrown ball. Tara is more out for the fun of the game, though I toss the ball in her direction often enough that she gets her share.
Willie lets me do the throwing, and I note that his eyes are constantly sweeping the park, probably looking for one of Quintana’s people. I’m just about to suggest that we leave when I hear Willie say, “Andy, get the dogs and get in the car.”
We are near the Little League fields, and I see Willie looking off in the direction of what we called Dead Man’s Curve when we rode bikes down it as kids. It’s about three hundred yards away, and I can see a dark sedan navigating the curve, which will eventually lead to where we are. It is a classically ominous-looking car.
I don’t pause to ask questions, yelling for Tara and Cash to follow me. All three of us are in the backseat within seconds, and Willie follows along right behind us and gets in the driver’s seat. He pulls out, quickly but without screeching the tires, and in moments we’re driving in the security and anonymity of Route 4.
“Was that who I think it was?” I ask.
Willie looks at me in the rearview mirror and shrugs. “Don’t know. But I didn’t think we should wait around to find out.”
“I can’t run away every time I see a car,” I say.
“What are you gonna do, stay and fight?” he asks. “They’ve got Uzis, you’ve got a tennis ball.”
This is no way to live.
* * * * *
THE PHONE IS RINGING as I walk into the house.
“You want me to fax you the articles?” is Vince’s replacement for a normal person’s “Hello.”
“Fax them.”
“I’ll include the list of writers, but only one of them works for the Times.”
“What’s his name?”
“George Karas.”
George Karas has, over the last few years, become one of the more well-known sportswriters in the business. He’s done this, as have others, by branching out past writing into television, becoming one of the pundits that are called on to give opinions about the games men play.
Karas would therefore certainly qualify as a “famous” sportswriter, someone Adam might well have bragged to his parents that he had spoken to. It gives me more hope that we’re on the right track.
“How do I get to him?” I ask.