Change-up (12 page)

“How’d you do with Wil?” Aaron Boone said when he passed him on his way out.

“Great,” Stevie said.

Boone nodded. “If I was a reporter, I’d love this clubhouse,” he said. “Most of our guys haven’t been around long enough to become jaded about all this.”

“You’ve been around a long time,” Stevie said.

“Oh yeah—I’m old,” Boone said, laughing. “But I’m not good enough to be jaded.”

Stevie knew that wasn’t true. Boone was famous for his home run in the eleventh inning of game seven of the ALCS in 2003 that had allowed the Yankees to beat the Red Sox and advance to the World Series. He was still known in Boston as “Aaron Bleepin’ Boone” because of it, and many of the pre-Series stories had been about his return to Boston six Octobers later.

“You’re being modest,” Stevie said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Boone said, laughing again.

Stevie was tempted to ask Boone what his read of Norbert Doyle was. Clearly, he was a smart guy with a good sense of humor. But time was up in the clubhouse, and this wasn’t the right time anyway. So he waved goodbye and headed down the hallway to see if Kelleher was in the Red Sox clubhouse. He found him among a group of reporters around David Ortiz. When Stevie walked up, Ortiz was talking about the triple play.

“Someone called me this morning to tell me I’d made history,” he said, smiling. “First triple play in the World Series in eighty-nine years. I can tell my grandkids about it someday. It’s what I’ll be known for.”

Everyone laughed. Someone asked Ortiz if he’d ever heard of Bill Wambsganss. “Not until last night,” he said. “Now I even know how to spell his name.”

“I’m glad we came,” Kelleher said, walking away while Ortiz continued to talk. “I picked up some stuff that will help my column a lot. How’d you do with Nieves?”

“So well I’m not even sure what I’ve got,” Stevie said.

Kelleher gave him a look. “I should have known,” he said. “Only you can take a story that appears to be
The Rookie
on steroids and find something hiding underneath. Let’s go outside and you can tell me about it.”

They walked back into the hallway, and Kelleher leaned against the wall while Stevie read back to him what Nieves had said.

“Whoo boy,” Kelleher said.

“Isn’t it possible he just feels guilty because he lived and she didn’t?” Stevie asked.

“Of course—likely, even,” Kelleher said. “But it feels like more than that, doesn’t it?” He paused. “It may be time for us to ask Susan Carol about her talk with David yesterday in Boston. Before we go running around on what might be a wild-goose chase, let’s find out what she knows about the goose.”

“I don’t think she’ll tell us,” Stevie said.

“Maybe not,” Kelleher said. “But we’ll ask anyway.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“One of us may be going on a road trip,” Kelleher said.

“Road trip?” Stevie said. “Where to?”

“To Lynchburg, Virginia,” Kelleher said. “And into Doyle’s past.”

On the car ride home Stevie asked Kelleher what the purpose of going to Lynchburg would be.

“You know Bob Woodward, right?
The
Bob Woodward, as in Watergate and Richard Nixon?”

Stevie nodded.

“He was my editor when I was starting out on the Metro staff at the
Post
. He was the best reporter I’ve ever met. He had a saying about stories that don’t seem to add up: ‘Get the documents.’”

“What does that mean?” Stevie asked.

“It means that somewhere, someplace, there is paperwork on almost everything that happens in the world. The
story that really got Watergate going came when he and Carl Bernstein ran down some obscure bank records. They found a check that linked the burglary at the Watergate to Nixon’s reelection committee. And, at the end, the final documents were the tapes from the White House that proved Nixon had discussed covering up the break-in right after it happened. Any time we were stalled on a story, Bob would say, ‘There have to be documents, there always are.’”

“So, what kind of documents would there be on this story?”

“Court records,” Kelleher said. “Or police records. Somewhere in Lynchburg there has to be paperwork on what happened the night Analise Doyle was killed.”

“But what can it possibly tell us that we don’t already know?” Stevie said. “She was killed by a drunk driver. What more can there be to that?”

“I have no idea,” Kelleher said. “But
if
we think there’s more to Doyle’s story, the night she died is the place to start. And if Woodward’s theory is correct—and it always is—the documents should at least give us a direction to look next.”

“So you’re going to go to Lynchburg, Virginia, in the middle of the World Series?”

“First we’re going to talk to Susan Carol,” Kelleher said. “But if that’s a nonstarter, I’m not going to Lynchburg,
you
are.”

“Me?” Stevie said.

“Yes, you,” Kelleher said. “If Susan Carol can’t or won’t
tell us what this is all about, you’re going to take a train down there tomorrow.”

“What about the game?” Stevie asked, dismayed.

“This is potentially a lot more important than writing a sidebar off game three. You can be there in only about four hours or so on the train.”

“And what am I going to do when I get there?” Stevie asked.

“You’re going to take a cab to the courthouse, and you’re going to ask for the police records from the accident. When was it—1997? It shouldn’t take them that long to find it.”

“It was in August of that year,” Stevie said, remembering what Doyle had said back in Boston.

“I doubt if there will be too many police reports under the name Analise Doyle,” Kelleher said. “You’ll be able to find it.”

“And they’ll give it to me?” Stevie asked.

“Public records,” Kelleher said. “You would be amazed how many things are in the public record. All police reports are unless they’re sealed by a court for some reason.”

Stevie was less than thrilled by the idea of a four-hour train ride and a trip to a courthouse in a strange town. He had a feeling his parents wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea either. But if Kelleher thought it was important, he wasn’t going to say no.

“Why can’t you go too?”

Kelleher shook his head. “I can’t miss the first World
Series game in Washington since 1933 to go off chasing a story that may or may not even be a story,” he said. “If it were today, no game, I’d go with you. But not tomorrow.”

Seeing the look on Stevie’s face, he patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up,” he said. “The best stories are usually the ones that are the hardest to do. This may be one of them.”

They pulled into the driveway. Tamara’s car was there. “They’re home,” Kelleher said. “Let’s go find out if you’re going to become an investigative reporter beginning tomorrow.”

Stevie sighed. He was pretty sure he liked sportswriting a lot more.

Both Tamara and Susan Carol were sitting at their computers writing when Stevie and Kelleher walked in.

“How’d it go?” Tamara asked cheerfully.

“Fine,” Kelleher said. “Ortiz was actually funny on the subject of the triple play.”

Susan Carol had barely looked up when they came in. Stevie was fairly certain if she opened her mouth, he would see her breath, given the ice-cold vibes she was putting out.

“Can the four of us talk for a minute?” Kelleher said.

Tamara shrugged and looked at Susan Carol.

“I’ve only got about a minute,” Susan Carol said. “I have to e-mail this paper to my English teacher tonight.”

“Won’t take long,” Kelleher said. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

They walked into the kitchen and sat down, except for Tamara, who headed for the empty coffeepot. “Should I make some more?” she said. “I assume you haven’t written yet.”

“I haven’t,” Kelleher said. “But hang on a minute. Let’s all talk first.”

Mearns sat down next to her husband. “So what’s up? You boys want to take us girls out for a big night on the town?”

“We’d love to,” Kelleher said. “But there’s something else first. Stevie, I want you to get out your notebook and read everything Wil Nieves said last night and then today to Susan Carol.”

“He can just tell me, that’d be faster,” Susan Carol said. “And why is whatever Wil Nieves said so important?”

Kelleher held up a hand. “Just hang on for a second and you’ll understand,” he said. “I want Stevie to read it to you exactly because I want to hear Tamara’s reaction too.”

“What in the world is goin’ on here?” Susan Carol said, lapsing into her Southern accent. Stevie knew that meant she was upset.

Stevie had taken his notebook out of his computer bag. He flipped to the page where his Nieves notes began. When Kelleher gave him a nod, he began reading. It didn’t take long. Stevie couldn’t read Susan Carol’s face because he was reading the notes, but when he got to what Nieves had said earlier in the afternoon, he heard her let out what sounded to him like a disgusted sigh.

“‘That’s what I asked him,’” Stevie quoted Nieves as
he wrapped up. “‘He just asked the waitress for some more iced tea.’”

Stevie looked up and closed the notebook. Now he could see Susan Carol’s face quite clearly. She was wiping tears from her eyes, trying to look composed when she wasn’t.

“Tamara?” Kelleher asked, saying nothing about Susan Carol’s tears.

Tamara looked at Susan Carol for a moment, then at Stevie. She took a deep breath. “I hate to say it, but it certainly sounds as if there was more to that accident than Doyle has said so far. It may not even be that big a deal, but it’s clearly something that’s bothering him. But short of him telling us, I’m not sure how we find out what it is.”

Kelleher looked at Susan Carol. Very softly he said, “Susan Carol, if I’m wrong, just tell me, but I think you know what it is that’s bothering him, don’t you?”

Susan Carol shot Stevie a look. “Please, Bobby, don’t ask me this,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

“Why isn’t it fair?” Stevie said, jumping in, then wishing he hadn’t.

“Because I was told in confidence. It was all off the record. Have you ever heard of off the record, Mr. Can’t Let Anything Go?” she said. “If someone tells you something off the record, that means you can’t talk about it to anybody. Isn’t that right, Tamara?”

“Sort of,” Tamara said. “You aren’t supposed to tell anyone specifically what you know. But the point of letting someone tell you something that’s off the record is that
knowing that fact can lead you to other facts that aren’t off the record.”

“I’m assuming we’re talking about your conversation yesterday with David Doyle?” Kelleher said.

For a moment Susan Carol said nothing. Finally she just nodded.

“You aren’t violating anything if you tell us whether your conversation with him had anything to do with what Nieves told Stevie,” Kelleher said.

Susan Carol looked at Tamara. “He’s right,” Tamara said. “That’s fair for off-the-record info.”

Susan Carol looked at Kelleher again and nodded once more.

“Let me ask you one more question,” Kelleher said. “If we were to go to Lynchburg and pull the police records from the night Analise Doyle was killed, will they tell us anything about what David told you?”

Susan Carol grimaced and rubbed her forehead for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know,” she said. “And that’s the truth.”

Stevie was pretty sure he should keep his mouth shut but couldn’t resist. Trying to sound gentle, the way Kelleher had sounded, he said, “Why did David confide in you, Susan Carol?”

The soft voice didn’t fool Susan Carol for even a second. “That, Mr. Steven Richman Thomas, is none of your business,” she said. Then she stood up and fled the room.

Stevie looked at Bobby and Tamara. “I’ll go talk to her,” Tamara said, and headed after her.

Stevie looked at Bobby. “That went well,” he said.

Bobby laughed. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m going to go online and find you a train tomorrow morning.”

“Oh joy,” Stevie said as Kelleher got up and left him sitting alone at the kitchen table. He looked around the empty room and said, “Lynchburg, here I come.”

STEVIE WAS STILL SITTING
at the kitchen table when Kelleher returned a few minutes later.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is it only takes about three and a half hours to get from Union Station to Lynchburg.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“The train leaves at seven in the morning.”

Stevie groaned.

“It won’t be so bad,” Kelleher said. “You fall out of bed into a shower, I’ll drive you to the station, and then you can sleep again once you’re on the train.”

Yeah sure, Stevie thought, sleeping will be easy when I’m having a panic attack about what’s going to happen
once I get there. “What time do we have to wake up?” he asked.

“I’d say five-thirty,” Kelleher said. “If we leave here by six, we’ll miss serious rush-hour traffic and you’ll be at the station by six-thirty.”

Stevie sighed. He didn’t have the heart or the guts to try to talk Bobby out of the trip, but he really didn’t want to go. He also wondered what his parents would say about it.

“One more thing, I talked to your dad,” Kelleher said, as if reading his mind. “I told him I needed you to go to Lynchburg to do some reporting for me and that you’d be back tomorrow night.”

“What’d he say?” Stevie asked.

Kelleher laughed. “His first reaction was, ‘Oh God, Bobby, what are they into now?’ I told him we were trying to dig up some important background on Norbert Doyle but there were no bad guys involved in this one. He said your mom wouldn’t be thrilled.”

“I’ll say,” Stevie said.

“But he said it was all right as long as you took some homework with you on the train.”

That reminded Stevie that he was supposed to write a report on
The Great Gatsby
, and he had barely started the book.

Tamara walked back into the room.

“What’s going on upstairs?” Kelleher said.

“Nothing good,” she said, sitting down. “Susan Carol feels that you two have put her in an impossible position: either she gives away something she was told in absolute
confidence or she’s betraying you guys by not helping with the story.”