9 Hell on Wheels (3 page)

As I turned away to begin my search for Miranda, Greg reached out and grabbed my hand, this time with urgency. “Odelia, wait. Something’s wrong.”

I took my place behind his wheelchair again, placed my hands on his shoulders, and turned my eyes to the court. The crowd, also sensing something important, had hushed as the minutes ticked by and Peter Tanaka did not get up.

The air in the gym grew still and muggy, like a summer night right before a bad storm. Over three hundred people held their collective breath. One of the security guards was talking into a cell phone, keeping his voice low, while another security guard stood between the court and the crowd. The idea of his scrawny rent-a-cop body stopping the crowd should it decide to surge forward was a joke. Lucky for him, the people watching were respectful and concerned and kept their distance.

He’s dead
, I told myself.
Peter Tanaka is dead.
But I dared not say it aloud. I squeezed Greg’s shoulders, trying to convey my thoughts. In response, he twisted his head up and around until he caught my eye. He raised his eyebrows, letting me know he had reached the same conclusion.

The Viper coach was on his knees next to Peter. He pointed a finger at Rocky and shouted in Spanish, “
Asesino. Asesino
!”

Murderer
.

One of the referees left the scene and went over to the Lunatic’s bench. He whispered something to Rocky and Coach Warren. Rocky exploded again, but this time in anguish, not anger. “No! No! No!” Rocky’s guttural cry echoed against the high ceiling to its steel beams and ricocheted down to bounce off the hardwood floor. “It’s not true!” He started for Peter’s body, but his coaches and the referee stopped him. “It can’t be true!”

Except for Rocky’s cries, silence hung heavy over the gym, split only by the scream of sirens approaching the building.

“We have to do something to help Rocky,” I told Greg.

Greg patted my hand. “We will, but let’s see what shakes out first.”

I looked over at the Lunatic’s bench where Rocky was sobbing and being comforted by Coach Warren and Ian. I’m sure if he’d not been in a wheelchair, Rocky Henderson would have fallen to his knees and begged Peter Tanaka to get up.

Police rushed into the building and took charge. Behind them came paramedics. The crowd, just a few minutes before filled with cheer and encouragement, fell into a low buzz of hushed, anxious chatter.

Three

“Go find Miranda,” Greg
said to me.

I fought my way through the crowd and headed for the door. At the door I was stopped by a female officer. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to find one of the player’s wives. She left a few minutes ago.”

“No one is to leave the building,” she told me. “You can find your friend later.”

“But this is important,” I stressed. “She’s the wife of one of the injured players.”

“Then we’ll find her. Please go back inside and wait with everyone else.”

Before turning to leave I scanned the parking lot, looking for any sign of Miranda Henderson. For the tournament, the park had set up extra disabled parking spaces in the front of the building. I looked for Rocky’s van. When we had arrived this morning, I’d noticed the dark blue van parked in one of the front spots. It was now gone.

Inside the gym, the police were pushing the crowd back, away from the court. They were herding them to the other side of the gymnasium and asking everyone to be patient and quiet. They did the same with the Lunatics and the Vipers but cut them off from the crowd to another section, keeping the two teams apart. Several of the Viper players were outraged at the turn of events. They were rallying their team into an almost mob-like mentality, asking for Rocky’s blood in return for their fallen teammate until threats from the police calmed them down.

Rocky was alone, cut off from the crowd and players, with only Coach Warren by his side.

I found Greg talking with Cory Seidman and a few of the other people associated with the Lunatics. As soon as I approached, he said to the others, “I sent Odelia out to look for Miranda.” He turned to me. “Any luck?”

With a shake of my head, I said, “The police wouldn’t let me leave, but I did notice that Rocky’s van is gone.”

“What was that all about?” asked Samantha Franco.

“My guess,” said Cory, “is that Miranda has been playing around with Tanaka.”

It was the same thing that had gone through my head when Rocky had faced off with his wife.

“He’s notorious for hitting on the wives and girlfriends of other players,” continued Cory, his voice full of anger.

“And not just in this sport,” added Greg.

You always had good taste in women, Stevens. I’ll give you that.
Greg’s animosity toward Peter Tanaka was becoming clear.

“But I still can’t imagine that Rocky beat him to death,” said Greg. “He was getting in some pretty good blows, but hard enough to kill Tanaka?”

“Could be Peter hit his head when he fell to the floor,” I suggested, wanting it to be anything but Rocky’s punches that caused the death.

“That’s a pretty good theory,” said Cory. “Let’s hope it is something like that.”

Greg and I had been questioned by police before on numerous occasions and knew the drill. By the time the police spoke to each and every person in the gym, or at least took down everyone’s name and contact information, it would be pretty late. People would not be let out of the gym or allowed into it until the head cop was satisfied everyone had been accounted for. We had been hanging around about thirty minutes when a young cop came over to where the bunch of us were hanging out, waiting to be questioned. Many of us not in wheelchairs had slid to the floor to wait with some comfort.

“Who’s Greg and Odelia?”

After exchanging glances, Greg and I half raised our hands simultaneously.

“Come with me, please,” the officer said.

I stood up, and we followed the cop over to where the police were holding Rocky. He’d transferred himself to his regular wheelchair and was getting ready for his trip to the police station. He looked like crap. Blood had dried around his nose where Peter had landed his own blows before collapsing. His eyes were dark, his face pale. As soon as we got there, he said, “You have to find Miranda.”

“I looked for her,” I told him. “She’s gone, and so is your van.”

“What happened, Rocky?” Greg asked him. “What did Peter say to you to start this?”

Rocky looked at the cops guarding him, then back at Greg. “Another time. Just find Miranda and tell her what happened. She may help; then again, she may not. I’ll call my lawyer when I get to the station. Would you do me a favor and find my brother and tell him what’s going on? He’ll take care of any bail I might need—at least he’d better. You got the number?”

“I do.” Greg held out a hand to Rocky, but one of the cops stopped them from any physical contact.

I started to say something, but another cop stepped in and handcuffed Rocky’s hands in front of him.

“Is that really necessary?” Greg snapped. “He’s a quadriplegic.”

The cop who fastened the cuffs gave Greg a half smirk. “Yeah, a quad who just killed someone with those
useless
hands.” Another officer got behind Rocky’s chair and started pushing him toward the entrance, with the other officer walking by his side.

Rocky didn’t look at anyone as he made his departure—not at his teammates huddled and waiting their turn for questioning, not at us, not at the crowd of retained spectators, not even at the body of Peter Tanaka as it lay on the hardwood floor being processed by the authorities. Everyone was silent as the captain of one of the star quad rugby teams was pushed out of the gymnasium where just a short while before he had been cheered on in the pursuit of a championship.

Since we were already in the circle of police activity, we were approached next for questioning. We were handled separately. A bald, middle-aged detective with horn-rimmed glasses and a pronounced slouch showed me to a folding chair not far from the main entrance. He introduced himself as Detective Bill Martinez.

“You and your husband are good friends with Henderson and his wife?” he asked after taking down all my particulars.

“We get together once in a while, both down here and up in Orange County. My husband also plays wheelchair sports.”

“But not quad rugby?”

“No, he has full use of his hands and arms, so he can’t play. He mostly plays basketball.”

“Doesn’t Henderson also play wheelchair basketball?”

“Yes, sometimes. But he’s not in a regular league like Greg,” I answered. “Some of the quads with more upper limb mobility play both.”

“So that means Richard Henderson has good use and control of his hands and arms?”

Crap. I walked right into that.
“He is still a quadriplegic, Detective, with a lot of physical limitations. So is Peter Tanaka.”

“You mean
was
, don’t you? So
was
Peter Tanaka.”

“Look,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m not saying Peter deserved to die, but he was a real jerk, and right before Rocky went after him he said something to Rocky about his wife.”

“About Miranda Henderson?”

“Yes. And it must have been quite inflammatory because Rocky confronted her and she left. That’s when he went after Peter. And right before all that happened, Miranda had been crying.”

“Someone told me they saw your husband having harsh words with the deceased earlier today.”

I took a deep breath, very thankful I’d stopped Greg from carrying the interaction further. “Peter made a pass at me, and my husband intervened and told him to back off. That’s all it was.”

“So you knew the deceased?”

“No. It was the first time I’d met him. Greg told me Peter had been playing quad rugby in Canada for a few years.”

“So he knew him?”

“I think so, but it was from several years ago.”

Detective Martinez asked me several more basic questions before asking me to describe what I’d seen during the fight. I told him everything I could remember. At the end, he handed me his card and said, “Call me if you remember anything else or if you find Miranda Henderson.”

Four

We’d taken my car
to San Diego because it was easier to park than Greg’s van, even though in the past year he’d downsized from a full-size behemoth of a van to a sporty modified Honda Odyssey in a cool metallic silver. As soon as we were both tucked away and heading back to our hotel, we exchanged notes on our interviews. They had gone pretty much the same, even down to being questioned about Greg’s run-in with Peter.

“Who do you think saw that?” I asked Greg.

“There were several people milling around just outside the entrance at the time. Could have been anyone.”

“Why do you think anyone mentioned it?” Annoyed that Greg’s name had been brought into the investigation, I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

My husband glanced over at me. “Now don’t go getting all huffy about it. Whoever told the police was probably trying to point out how antagonistic Tanaka was. After all, he provoked Rocky, and if that’s proved, it could go easier on him.”

“At the most it should be manslaughter. There is no way that was premeditated.”

“I totally agree. But I’d love to know exactly what Peter said to Rocky about Miranda.” Greg stared out the windshield while he gave it more thought. I’m sure if I peeked into his left ear I would have seen gears moving.

“Do you think Peter was sleeping with Miranda like Cory suggested?”

Greg waited a long time before answering. “Knowing Tanaka, I think it’s a very good possibility.”

Over the years, Greg and I had shared information about our various relationships and heartbreaks. I couldn’t remember any that involved a problem with another guy, but that didn’t mean it had happened, just that Greg didn’t mention it.

“Which of your old girlfriends did he hit on?” I finally ventured.

Greg’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Sometimes—not often—I know when to keep my mouth shut. This was one of those times. I continued driving until we were at our hotel. Valets opened both of our doors. The one on Greg’s side pulled his wheelchair from the back seat and set it up for him. By the time Greg had transferred himself to his chair, I was by his side. Obviously, plans for dinner with the team were not going to happen. Those players who had been released by the time we had were definitely not in a social mood. And everyone was too stunned to talk about what had happened in a group setting, though I was sure there would be a lot of whispering and speculation behind closed doors tonight.

“Should we go to the hotel restaurant,” I asked Greg as we entered the hotel lobby, “or order room service?”

Without answering, he went straight to the elevator. We rode up to our floor in silence. When we got into the room, Greg went to the patio sliding doors and opened them, rolling outside into the cool sea breeze. I put down my purse and joined him, taking a seat on a chaise longue. It was already dark out, and the beach couldn’t be seen except for the few yards caught in the lights lining the hotel property. Beyond that the dark waves, their backs shimmering with snatches of moonlight, rolled in to spend themselves on the sand. We could hear the ocean clearly. Its rhythmic ebb and flow was the heartbeat of our silence.

“It was Linda Atwater,” Greg finally said.

It took me a minute to place her in my memory of Greg’s past girlfriends. “You mean the girl you dated a few years before you met me—the one you almost married?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said she moved away to attend grad school.”

My husband turned to me, his eyes sad. “And that’s the truth, but not all of it.” He looked back to the sea. “At one point we were talking about getting married, then she stopped talking about it and avoided the subject when I mentioned it. I thought she was mad because I hadn’t formally asked her yet. I was going to do it right, with a big romantic gesture. I’d already started shopping for her ring.” Greg turned and faced me. “One night over dinner she confessed that she’d been seeing Peter Tanaka behind my back.”

“How well did you know him then?”

“Quite well. He was very young and brash and making a splash on and off the courts. He’d met Linda when I brought her to one of the rugby matches. The night she confessed, she also told me she was leaving California and going to Canada with Tanaka. He was becoming more and more unwelcome around here for his conduct on the court, and none of the teams would have him anymore. He received an invitation to play for a team in Montreal and asked Linda to go with him.”

“Greg, I’m so sorry.” Truth be told, I wasn’t sorry Linda Atwater had dumped Greg. If she hadn’t, we might not have met. But I was sorry for his obvious pain.

He reached out and took my hand. “I’m not. If that hadn’t happened, I would never have met you.”

Geez—add mind reader to his other talents.

I squeezed his hand back. “True, but it’s still something that hurt you. It makes me want to slap her while thanking her at the same time.” I dug through my memory for a second. “I didn’t see Peter with anyone today.”

“No,” answered Greg, his eyes growing dark. “They were gone about a year, maybe a little more, when I heard he had dumped Linda. She returned to California and eventually contacted me, not to get back together but to apologize for what she’d done. Soon after, she left for grad school in the East, like I told you. She wanted to start over.”

“And that’s the last you heard of her?”

He shook his head. “I ran into her mother a few years after she left. She told me Linda had finished school and gotten married. She lives outside Philly, I think.”

He gave my hand one last squeeze and let go. “So, how about that room service?”

I got up and retrieved the room service menu. Greg followed me inside. “So it’s not far-fetched that Peter was seeing Miranda?” I scanned the menu, but my mind wasn’t on dinner.

“Not far-fetched at all. He seemed to go out of his way to steal women from other quads and paraplegic athletes, like it’s part of the sport. He’d done it a couple of times to other players before he took up with Linda.”

“For sport,” I repeated, processing that information. “To men on his own team or on opposing teams?”

“Never his own teammates.”

“So it was like a strategy to get inside their heads?”

“Maybe.” Seeing me making no progress on our dinner, Greg took the menu from me. “Or maybe it was just to prove his virility off the court as well as on.”

“Seems to me his bad sportsmanship wasn’t just reserved for the games.”

“Nope,” Greg said. “He’s a dirty player all around.” He put down the menu and looked me square in the eye. “I’m not saying Peter Tanaka deserved to die for being an ass, but I’m not sorry he’s dead. I’m only sorry, deeply sorry, that Rocky got caught up in it. We have to help him.”

As soon as he said those words, Greg pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I forgot—Rocky wanted me to call his brother.”

“Yes, I noticed Lance wasn’t at the tournament. He usually is, isn’t he?”

Greg nodded as he looked through his contacts list for Lance Henderson’s information. “Yeah, but Rocky said he had to work this weekend.”

Greg made the call, reaching only voice mail. He left a message for Lance to call him. I tried calling Miranda and also only reached voice mail. I told her what had happened and asked her to call me or Detective Martinez as soon as possible. I left both of our numbers and Greg’s. We then ordered dinner, but when it arrived we only picked at it, our minds trumping our hunger as we went over what had happened right in front of us.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone die or be killed right in front of me. It’s not like I keep track of it, but I think it’s close to a half dozen people whom I’ve seen gasp their last breath. And, sadly, the number of dead bodies I’ve seen is far more than that. I seem to attract them like cat hair to a sofa or like Velcro to…well…most anything. I know women who keep track of how many sexual partners they’ve had. I’ve never understood that. Was there a magic number where if they reached it, they stopped having sex? Or was it a matter of secret and sometimes not-so-secret pride of conquest, like jocks in a locker room? In my case, it’s dead bodies that pile up like cords of wood in my brain. Seth Washington, friend and husband of my best friend, Zee, had dubbed me Corpse Magnet several years back, and the nickname has clung to me like a sticky booger.

Several years ago, I even pulled the trigger of a gun that ended someone’s life. In doing so, I’d saved another person from death. But even though it was not considered murder, it changed my life forever. For the first six months there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about it. I’d walked around in a dense fog of depression and cried without warning. I’d even gone into therapy for a short while to deal with the overwhelming sense of guilt. Now I only think about it occasionally, like on the anniversary of the event or whenever I see another dead body. Seeing Peter Tanaka’s corpse on the floor of the gym had brought it all back. Tonight I’ll beat it down until it’s no longer in the forefront of my mind. It takes much less time and effort to do it now, but the knowledge that I’m a killer will remain, buried deep, like a fungal infection that lives under toenails, just waiting for a weak-willed moment to pounce and make me feel like shit again.

Two hours later, neither of us had heard from Lance or Miranda yet, so when my cell phone rang, both Greg and I jumped eagerly. But it wasn’t Miranda returning my call. Instead, it was Devon Frye, a Newport Beach detective and a good friend.

“Hey, Dev,” I said.

“I hear you and Greg are in San Diego.”

“Yes, we are. We’ll be coming home tomorrow.” I wondered if Dev had heard about the murder at the tournament and was wondering if we were in the thick of it, since we always do seem to be involved with murder. Finding dead bodies and becoming embroiled in nasty situations seems to be the lot of a Corpse Magnet. It’s more my curse than Greg’s, but he’s often along for the ride. “Why? Is there a problem?”

On the other end, Dev hemmed and hawed. “Yes and no. Have you been getting calls from Mike Steele?”

“Yes, both Greg and I have today, but we’ve been too busy to answer. I think Greg texted him that we’d call him tonight.”

“Don’t bother; I’ve taken care of it.”

“You?” Panic started to rise, starting in my shoes and moving upward like a sharp pain. “What’s happened to Steele, Dev? Is he okay?”

My words put Greg on alert. He asked me to put the phone on speaker.

“Dev, you’re on speaker, and Greg’s here. So what’s up with Steele?”

“He’ll be fine. He just had a little scrape with the law in Perris.”

“Paris, France?” I searched my brain but couldn’t remember Steele having international travel plans on his calendar.

Dev laughed, his gravelly voice rolling over the chuckle like rocks in a tumbler. “No, Perris, California. It’s a small town off the 215 Freeway.”

“I know where it is. I just didn’t think Steele did.” I paused, then said, “So Steele called you when he couldn’t get us?”

“Yeah, and good thing. I have a buddy who works with the sheriff’s department out that way. With his help, I was able to convince the owner of the bar not to press charges in return for full restitution.”

“Charges? What in the hell happened?” asked Greg.

“I’ll let Mike fill you in on the details, but here’s the overview: it seems our fine Mr. Steele got intoxicated at a bar in Perris frequented by unsavory characters. He somehow managed to start a brawl, get his tailored ass kicked, and was almost thrown in jail.”

Greg and I stared at each other, speechless as mimes.

“Odelia, you still there?”

“Yes, Dev,” I said after a long moment, “we’re here. I’m not surprised Steele started a fight. All he has to do is open his snobbish mouth to do that. I’m in shock that he was even there in the first place. Do you know why?”

“No clue, but from what I’ve pieced together, he called you before the fight and me after he was detained.”

“And where is the illustrious Michael Steele, Esquire, now?” asked Greg.

“At his place in Laguna Beach, probably passed out from the pain pills the doc gave him.”

“Pain pills?” I barely got the words out.

“He was worked over good by the boys at the bar. I took him to urgent care, and they said he should be fine with several days of rest. But his pretty face isn’t so pretty right now.”

My mind was spinning like a top. “This isn’t like Steele, Dev. No matter how obnoxious he can be, it’s not like him to get drunk and start a fight. And why Perris?”

“Again, no clue. He couldn’t talk much through his swollen mouth. I’m guessing he’s going to need some dental work.”

“Jesus,” said Greg, running a hand through his hair. “When it rains, it pours.”

Dev cleared his throat. “I heard there was a homicide at the rugby tournament in Balboa Park today. You two aren’t involved in that, are you?”

I twitched my nose in annoyance, not at the question but because I really didn’t want to answer. “If you’re asking if we found the body, the answer is no, nor did we cause the death. But it’s why we haven’t called Steele back yet.”

“So what happened?” asked Dev with interest.

Greg filled Dev in on everything that had happened at the gym.

“I know Bill Martinez,” Dev said when Greg was finished. “Let me give him a call and see what gives. Your friend probably won’t be arraigned until tomorrow or even Tuesday. Meanwhile, you two stay out of it.”

“No guarantees there, Dev,” Greg said, getting closer to the phone. “Rocky Henderson is a good friend, and I can’t imagine the blows he landed were enough to kill Tanaka.”

“The right blow in the right place can take down a man easily, Greg. You know that.”

“Rocky is a good guy,” I added, “and Tanaka clearly provoked him. Everyone watching saw that.”

“Still no reason to kill a man, Odelia.” Dev paused. “But like I said, I’ll give Bill a call, and you two finish up your trip and head home. Got that?”

“But,” I said, “we promised Rocky we’d find his wife. No harm in that, is there?”

“There’s always potential harm when you get involved, Odelia,” Dev replied, his voice devoid of humor. “Mostly to yourself. I do know, however, that the San Diego police put out a BOLO on the wife’s vehicle; that’s how I know about the murder. Stay out of it, both of you. Let the cops do their job.” A dry chuckle came from the phone. “Then again, look who I’m talking to.”