Change-up (16 page)

“Thank you,” he said.

She stood up and Stevie felt a little bit dizzy looking up at her again. “I liked the Doyles, they were always very nice to me. The kids were cute and smart. Watching him pitch the other night, I felt happy for him. But I’ve always wondered what really happened that night. Maybe you’ll find out.”

“Maybe,” Stevie said. “I hope so.”

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you back to Miles.”

WHEN THEY WALKED BACK TO THE CAB
and Stevie asked if he could go next to the police station, Miles Hoy asked the question Stevie’d been waiting for: “When are you going to tell me what you’re
really
looking for here?”

Stevie nodded. “You’re entitled,” he said, and on their way to the police station, he filled him in. Hoy listened and said little.

“I wasn’t here back then,” Hoy said after a pause. “I was still working in Atlanta.”

“What brought you here?” Stevie asked.

“My grandparents owned a house here and they left it to me. I’d always liked Lynchburg—it’s a nice, small town.
People are friendly—even Jim Hatley, most days. I drive the cab and I also do some part-time coaching at the junior high school. Keeps me busy enough.”

Stevie asked him if he knew Joe Molloy.

“Everyone knows Joe Molloy,” he said. “He’ll be chief when Bob Lawson retires in a few years. Good man. I think you’ll like him.”

The police station, as it turned out, was behind the courthouse, just across a parking lot from the back door. It was just before four o’clock when they pulled up. Hoy volunteered to come inside and try to smooth the way for him—Stevie gratefully accepted the offer.

They walked into the small one-level building and found a burly cop with a mustache sitting behind the desk. “What’s up, Miles?” he asked in a friendly tone. Stevie doubted he would have been greeted quite so warmly on his own.

“Young man here needs a minute with Chief Molloy,” Hoy said. “Is he around?”

The desk cop, whose name tag said J. G. Brendle, looked at Stevie as if waiting for him to explain. When Stevie stayed quiet, he just shrugged. “He’s here,” he said, picking up the phone. “Let me see if he’s busy. Why don’t you guys have a seat.”

Brendle put the phone down a minute later and said: “Miles, you’re in luck. He’ll be right out.”

A few seconds later a door swung open and a tall man with blond hair and an easy smile walked over to them.

“Miles, what have you brought me today?” he asked, hand out as he approached Hoy.

“Someone who has some interesting questions for you, I think,” Hoy answered.

Molloy turned to Stevie. “Joe Molloy,” he said.

“Steve Thomas,” Stevie said, shaking the proffered hand. “I work for the
Washington Herald.”

Molloy snapped his fingers.
“Kidsports
,” he said. “You and that girl were on that show last year, weren’t you?” he said.

Stevie nodded. “Didn’t last very long,” he said.

“Too bad, my kids really liked you. Come on back and you can tell me what you need.”

Stevie looked at Hoy to see if he was going to come with him. “I’ll wait here,” Hoy said.

“You sure?” Stevie said.

“Oh yeah,” Hoy said. “You’re the reporter, I’m just the driver.”

Joe Molloy led Stevie through a maze of hallways until they reached the back of the building. They passed a door marked Chief Lawson, turned one more corner, and walked into a comfortable office that belonged to Molloy.

“Have a seat,” Molloy said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Stevie was, he suddenly realized, very thirsty.

“Is a Coke too much trouble?” he asked.

“Be right back,” Molloy said. He disappeared from the office and returned thirty seconds later carrying two Cokes.
He sat across from Stevie and said, “So, what can I do for a hotshot young sportswriter?”

Stevie figured he was going to have to go through the whole story one more time. “Well, I’ve been covering the World Series for the
Herald,”
he began.

Molloy suddenly smacked himself on the forehead. “Oh God,” he said. “Norbert Doyle. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Stevie nodded.

Joe Molloy stood up and closed the door to his office. He sat down, took a long sip from his Coke, and said: “Why don’t you tell me what you know. We’ll go from there.”

As he had done with Erin James, Stevie went through the entire tale, adding what she had told him about Molloy’s visit to the Doyles’ house that night. When he had finished, Molloy sat with his arms folded for a moment before standing up and walking to the window that looked out on a parking lot.

“You’ve covered a lot of ground today. I’m sorry about Jim Hatley. That sounds more like him in his drinking days—can’t think what got into him. Maybe this Walsh guy gave him some money and told him not to talk to you. He took it a step further.”

“It’s okay,” Stevie said. “I’m okay.”

Molloy walked back to his chair and sat down again. He was having trouble staying still. “Look, I’m not sure what’s going on here. You and I have to have an agreement,” he
said. “I’ll tell you what I know, but for now you can’t quote me. I’m not saying I won’t go on the record ever, I just need to think the whole thing through first.”

Stevie thought he understood. “So for now we’re on background?” he asked.

Molloy nodded.

Stevie agreed, just as he had done with Erin James.

Molloy took a deep breath. “It was only twelve years ago, but a lot has changed. In those days we worked alone on patrol, nowadays everyone has a partner. I got a call saying someone had plowed into a tree on Route 260, and I was nearest to the site. I got there pretty quickly—under five minutes—and could see right away that it wasn’t good.

“Norbert Doyle, who I didn’t recognize because I didn’t really follow the baseball team, was sitting next to the car. He was cradling his wife in his arms. I was pretty certain she was gone, but I put out an EMS call.”

“According to the police report, Hatley put out the EMS call,” Stevie said.

“I know that,” Molloy said. “I know everything that’s in the report.”

He stood up again and walked back to the window. “After I called for the ambulance, I went back over to Doyle, who was kind of rocking back and forth. His eyes were blank and he kept saying over and over, ‘I killed her, I killed her, oh my God, I’ve killed her.’” He paused again. “I was about to ask him how much he’d had to drink—I could smell liquor on his breath—when Hatley showed
up.” Molloy paused, and Stevie was tempted to prompt him but held back.

“He said something like, ‘I’ve got this, Joe,’ and that he needed me to go to the house and let the babysitter know what’d happened.

“I said, ‘You know this guy?’ And he said that it was Norbert and that he wanted to handle the case because they were friends. I didn’t argue, I actually thought that was legit. He gave me the address for Doyle’s house, and I left just as the EMS unit was arriving.”

“So when did you know something was wrong with Hatley’s report?”

“Well, my first clue was that he didn’t ask me for a description of the scene when I arrived. That would have been SOP in a situation like that.”

“What’s SOP?” Stevie asked.

“Sorry. Standard operating procedure. When I came to work the next day, I asked Jim when he needed my report on the scene. He just looked at me and said, ‘Report’s written Joe.’ And then added very pointedly, ‘It’s over. Understand?’ I
didn’t
really understand until I read the report.”

“He covered up that his friend had been drinking.”

“Well, he didn’t exactly
un
cover it. One-car fatal accident on a dry road, even if you don’t smell liquor on the driver’s breath, you Breathalyze, or in this case, since he needed to be treated at the hospital, you run a blood test. It’s routine. So it was odd that he didn‘t. But since he didn’t, there’s no proof now either way.”

“Didn’t anyone ever question it?”

Molloy shook his head. “This is a small town,” he said. “The baseball team has been here a long time, and people tend to like the players. And the whole thing was tragic. Doyle’s wife was dead, and he was left with two-year-old twins to raise on his own….”

“So no one was going to say anything about him driving drunk, because he’d suffered enough?”

“I think it was more a question of what would be
gained
by having those kids be without their father too.”

“But if he was responsible for their mother’s death …” Stevie sighed. “One last question: You said Hatley and Doyle were friends. Do you know how they knew each other?”

Molloy nodded. “I didn’t then, I do now,” he said. “They both hung out at the same bar—King’s Tavern. They were drinking buddies, you might say.”

Of course they were, Stevie thought.

“If I get to the point where I’m going to write something, I’ll call you to see if you’re willing to go on the record,” Stevie said.

“Okay,” Molloy said. “But I don’t see how you’ll prove it unless Doyle has decided to come clean.”

Stevie knew he was right. He was pretty sure he now knew what had happened on the night Analise Doyle died, but he was just as sure he didn’t have enough to write about it even if both Molloy and Erin James went on the record. They were both just speculating. And you couldn’t accuse people of drunk driving, what was probably some kind of
vehicular manslaughter,
and
a police cover-up based on speculation.

He wondered if all this was what David had told Susan Carol.

The craziest part, though, was that it was Doyle—or Doyle’s guilt—that had started Stevie down this confusing road in the first place.

He filled Miles Hoy in on the way back to the train station, finishing by telling him he was pretty convinced he didn’t have a story.

“Would you do me a favor and keep me informed?” Hoy asked. “My e-mail address is on the bottom of the card I gave you.”

They pulled up to the station. “How much do I owe you for all this?” Stevie asked.

Hoy put up his hand. “You know what, it’s been a really interesting day, and I was really happy to help you out a little,” he said. “When you’re rich and famous, remember me, that’s all I ask.”

“Come on,” Stevie said. “The paper’s going to pay for it.”

“In that case, it’s a thousand dollars,” Hoy said, causing Stevie’s mouth to drop for an instant, until he realized he was kidding.

“Take the money and buy that girl a nice dinner,” Hoy said. “Charge
that
to the paper. They owe you.”

They shook hands and Hoy drove off as Stevie headed into the station. Stevie realized he was becoming so jaded that he couldn’t help but wonder if Hoy had an agenda—maybe Walsh or someone had been paying
him
to keep an eye on him all day. He hoped not.

He had just missed the 4:45, so he was stuck waiting for the 7:25. He grabbed some pizza in the station and called Kelleher. When he pulled his phone out, he realized he’d turned it off when he went into Molloy’s office and forgotten to turn it back on. There were six messages—three from Kelleher—waiting for him.

“Where’ve you been?” Kelleher asked. “I’ve been worried.”

“I’m fine,” Stevie said. “I’m waiting on the seven-twenty-five train.”

“Good. Before you fill me in, let me fill
you
in. I found out who Donald Walsh is—get this, he works for David Felkoff.”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah. For the first time in my life, I’m actually looking forward to talking to that SOB.”

Stevie caught Kelleher up on what had happened with Erin James and Joe Molloy.

“You’re right,” Kelleher said. “We can’t write anything based on what you’ve got now, but I think at some point we need to try to talk to Doyle about it. We can also make another run at Susan Carol. It may be that the story she got from David was different, and if she thinks either she or
David was lied to, she might decide to fill in some of the blanks.”

“We’d still need to talk to Doyle, though, right?”

“Absolutely. You can’t accuse a man of being responsible for his wife’s death without giving him a chance to tell his side of it.

“Look, when you get in, take a cab to the ballpark. The game will still be going on, and even if it’s not, we’ll all still be here working. We can talk more tonight.”

Stevie hung up and finished his pizza. He boarded the train an hour later and put his head back to think about the day. He wondered exactly what he was doing—or trying to do. He had started writing about sports because he loved sports. Going to the Final Four and the Super Bowl and the World Series had been amazing, even if he was becoming a bit jaded.

He certainly had
not
started writing in order to be chased by a giant dog or threatened by a drunken ex-cop. And beyond that, he couldn’t escape one nagging thought:
why
was he chasing this story? Was it, in fact, a story? Doyle and his family had been through a tragic experience that still clearly affected them to this day. Doyle hadn’t been as forthcoming as he might have been about the facts, but maybe he was entitled to that. It happened twelve years ago and was still painful. Who could blame him for not saying more?

Stevie sighed, wondering where it would all lead next. He closed his eyes and listened to the train as it chugged
through the night. The next thing he knew, he heard the conductor’s voice: “Washington, DC, in five minutes!”

He looked at his watch: 10:50. Maybe he would catch the end of the game. After all, that
had
been the reason he’d made the trip to Washington in the first place.

THE CABDRIVER
, who was a little surprised when Stevie asked to go to the ballpark, had the game on the radio. It was the bottom of the seventh inning when Stevie got into the cab, the top of the eighth when he got out at the corner of South Capitol Street and Potomac Avenue. The Red Sox were leading, 4–3.

His press credential got him into the ballpark easily enough, and as instructed by Kelleher, he rode the elevator up to the sixth floor rather than heading for the auxiliary press box.

“Doug Doughty is in the writing room watching on TV,” Kelleher told him when he arrived. “The wireless works better back there for some reason, and he’s got to file his whole story as soon as the game’s over. You can sit with me.”