Change-up (22 page)

Hatley walked back in carrying an ice-filled glass of Coke and a coffee mug. He looked at Susan Carol. “You sure I can’t get you something?”

Susan Carol shook her head. Hatley sat down in a chair next to the couch. He turned to Stevie. “First, I want to apologize to you for Friday,” he said. “I got carried away.
Watching Norbert pitch the other night—I was so happy for him after everything he’d been through. And then this guy Walsh came by telling me there’d be reporters down here snooping around, trying to ruin it for him. And not two hours later there you were. I overreacted.”

The man sipping coffee in front of a fire on a rainy Sunday afternoon was considerably different than the snarling jerk who had confronted Stevie two days earlier.

It suddenly occurred to Stevie that he hadn’t seen or heard the dog who’d chased him. “Where’s your dog?” he asked, even though it was an irrelevant question.

“Out in the barn,” Hatley said. “I didn’t want to scare you to death again.”

This was all too weird. Two days ago Hatley sics his crazy dog on him. Then he shows up out of nowhere and half kidnaps them, and
now
he’s mister sensitive? Susan Carol was clearly thinking the same thing.

“Okay, Sergeant Hatley,” she said. “Why don’t you tell us your version of what happened that night?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Hatley said. “Where’s your tape recorder?”

The back part of Hatley’s story wasn’t all that different than what they already knew—or thought they knew—except for one key thing: Hatley had been friends with Norbert Doyle and they did hang out at the same bar, but they were not (according to Hatley) drinking buddies.

“If you do any research on cops, a lot of us drink too
much,” Hatley said. “But it wasn’t like that with me and Norbert. I went into King’s Tavern after work to
eat
. The food there was good, and it was the only place in town where the kitchen stayed open late.

“I’m fifteen years older than Norbert. He was a kid when he was here—twenty-four, twenty-five? I was closer to forty. It was a happy time in my life. My marriage was good, and my kids were teenagers. I already had fifteen years in on the force and wanted to get to twenty-five so I could have enough money to build a house like this, hunt and fish, and maybe do some part-time work teaching. I have a degree in animal pharmacology from Virginia Tech, and I teach part-time over at Radford University.”

He paused, picked up his coffee mug, and smiled.

“I’m betting Joe left that out of his story.”

Stevie and Susan Carol both nodded. He had.

Hatley went on to say that Doyle was one of several ballplayers who had come into King’s—same reason as the cops: good food and a kitchen that stayed open late.

“Norbert, sober, was a good guy,” he said. “Good sense of humor, very self-deprecating, especially after he didn’t pitch well. But he drank a
lot
. It got to the point where I was driving him home a lot of the time. That was when he’d talk about his marriage.”

“What about his marriage?”

“It was falling apart. He said he and Analise were fighting all the time. He was convinced she was cheating on him when he was on the road. That’s kind of a ballplayer’s ultimate nightmare, you know. The travel schedule is hard
on any marriage, especially when you’re kicking around the minor leagues. And drinking makes you paranoid.”

“Paranoid?” they both said.

“Yes, paranoid,” Hatley said. “Norbert thought there was something going on between Analise and Joe Molloy.”

“And you’re saying there wasn’t?”

Hatley shook his head. “Like I told you, Joe and I were never friends. He was always a pretty boy who played a lot of politics in the department. That’s how he got to where he is right now. But he loves his wife. I can’t know for sure, but I don’t believe there was anything going on.

“Sober, Norbert knew Analise would never cheat on him. Drunk, he wasn’t so rational.”

Stevie and Susan Carol looked at one another. The story kept getting more complicated by the minute.

“Just so I’m clear on this,” Susan Carol said. “You aren’t trying to say that the accident
wasn’t
an accident, are you?”

Hatley shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that. What I’m trying to tell you is the reason Joe went along with the way I wrote the report.”

Stevie started to say that they already knew why, but Susan Carol shot him a look that clearly said, “Keep quiet.”

“Joe knew that Norbert shouldn’t have been driving that night,” Hatley said. “He got a phone call from the restaurant where Norbert and Analise were having dinner.”

“He told us that,” Susan Carol said. “He got there too late.”

“No, he didn’t,” Hatley said. “He never went. He called me and said, ‘Your pal’s drunk again, go drive him home
so he doesn’t hurt Analise.’ I was the one who got there too late.”

“Why didn’t he go himself?”

“I guess he thought Norbert Doyle was my problem, not his.”

Stevie’s mind was swimming upstream. At that moment he was completely convinced that Hatley was telling the truth. Molloy had lied once, why not a second time? The good cop was turning out to be the bad cop, and the bad cop was turning out to be the good cop.

“Does Norbert know this?”

“I don’t know…. Norbert was a mess after the accident, as you can imagine. I may have told him, I don’t remember, but he wasn’t in any state to take it in one way or the other. He only ever blamed himself.”

“Molloy told us the reason he went along with your report was because you agreed to get Norbert to go to rehab.”

Hatley laughed. “He told you that? Wow, that’s good. I told Norbert he was going to rehab in the hospital that night. You can ask him that if you want. Joe went along with the report because he knew if he had responded to the call from the restaurant himself, instead of calling me, the Doyles wouldn’t have been in the car that night. He was saving his own skin.”

“Does Mrs. Molloy know all this?” Susan Carol asked.

“No, I’m sure not,” Hatley said. “And I’ll be very sorry when she finds out her husband hasn’t been honest with her all these years.”

“Have you talked to Norbert this week?” Stevie asked.

He shook his head. “No. We keep in touch sporadically, mostly by e-mail now. He updates me on the kids, things like that. I wrote to him to congratulate him after game two but didn’t hear back, which certainly isn’t surprising. Then that guy Walsh showed up on my doorstep saying that if I talked to anyone in the media, it could cost Norbert millions.”

“You just talked to us,” Stevie said.

“I know,” Hatley said. “But the ship sailed on this staying secret days ago. I mean, what are the chances I could convince you this has nothing to do with baseball and that you shouldn’t write about it? About zero, I’d guess. So if it’s going to come out, it should come out the way it really happened.”

“Norbert hasn’t told the truth about what happened,” Susan Carol said. “That makes it a story.”

“Maybe. But maybe you can understand why he wouldn’t want it splashed over the headlines. Norbert was a good guy going through a very bad time: he was killing his career and his marriage with his drinking. He’s carried the guilt for Analise’s death around for twelve years, and I don’t think he’s had a drink since that night. That may not be the squeaky-clean, feel-good story people are looking for, but it’s not a bad story of redemption, if you ask me.”

There was something to that, for sure. Susan Carol stood up. “Can we get a phone number for you?” she said. “I’m sure we’ll want to get back in touch before anyone writes anything.”

He pointed at her notebook, which she handed him,
and wrote down a phone number. “There’s my e-mail too,” he said, handing the notebook back. He led them to the door. “I’m sorry again about Friday,” he said. “I overreacted. All I really want is what’s best for Norbert and those kids.”

They shook hands at the door and then sprinted back through the rain to the cab.

“You guys okay?” Miles Hoy asked when they climbed back inside.

“We’re fine,” Susan Carol said. “Just completely, absolutely, and totally confused.”

Stevie called Kelleher from the cab to tell him they had spoken to both Molloy and Hatley.

“That’s good work,” Kelleher said. “What’d you figure out?”

“It’s complicated,” Stevie said. “The next train back is at four-thirty. Why don’t I call you from the train? I’ll fill you in then.”

On the way to the train station, they told Miles Hoy about Hatley’s version of events.

“I never heard about him teaching over at Radford,” Hoy said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Easy enough to check, I guess.”

“Miles, can we possibly ask you one more favor?” Susan Carol said.

“Name it,” he said.

“I know you weren’t here back then, but you must know some of the cops who have been on the force long enough
to remember what it was like at King’s Tavern back then. We don’t have time to hang around here and try to track them down, but maybe …”

“I can do that,” Miles said. “In fact, I think I can do better than that. I know the guy who’s owned the place since it opened. Mickey DeSoto. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet. I think he’d remember those days.”

Stevie looked at his watch. “Is King’s open today?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Hoy said. “They serve a brunch and then dinner on Sunday.”

“Do you think Mr. DeSoto would be there now?”

“I’d think so….”

“We’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes until the train,” Stevie said. “How about we swing by there?”

He looked at Susan Carol, who nodded. “Great idea,” she said. “Maybe we can get a better sense of who—if
anyone
—is telling the truth.”

KING’S TAVERN LOOKED NOTHING
like Stevie had pictured it. He’d imagined a dark place with tattered furniture and a bartender named Joe.

Instead it was brightly lit, with comfortable-looking booths and tables with white tablecloths on them. The bartender was definitely not named Joe. Her name tag said Amber, and she reminded Stevie a little bit of Tamara Mearns.

“Hey, Amber, is Mickey around?” Miles asked as the three of them approached the bar.

“In his office,” she said, pointing in the direction of a hallway. “You want me to bring you something to drink back there?”

The place was pretty full, considering that it was mid-afternoon. Stevie noticed TV screens placed strategically
around the bar area, with a different NFL game being shown on each screen.

“No thanks, hon, I’m fine,” Miles said, waving at Amber and leading Stevie and Susan Carol down the hall.

“Are you the mayor of Lynchburg or something?” Susan Carol asked. “Does everyone know you?”

“Something like that,” Miles said with a smile. He knocked on a door that was marked Big Boss and pushed it open just as they heard “Come on in” from the other side.

The office wasn’t very big, or maybe it was but it appeared small when Mickey DeSoto stood up from behind the desk, hit a remote to turn off the TV, and came around to greet his visitors. He was, by Stevie’s estimate, at least six foot five, and although he wasn’t fat, he was just plain
big
—big shoulders, long arms, big all over. He had a shock of white hair and an easy smile.

“Hey, Miles, what’s up!” he said enthusiastically. Seeing Stevie and Susan Carol, he stopped short and pointed. “I know you kids. Why do I know you kids?”

“Kidsports,”
Miles said.

“That’s it!” DeSoto said. “Hey, grab chairs. What in the world brings you two to Lynchburg and my little establishment? Are you hungry?”

Actually, Stevie was starving. “We’re kind of in a rush, Mr. DeSoto,” Susan Carol said as they sat down. “We’re trying to catch the four-thirty train to Washington.”

“That’s in an hour!” DeSoto roared. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get the kitchen cranking. We’ll have you fed and out of here with time to spare, won’t we, Miles?”

“Take him up on it,” Miles said. “The food’s good.”

Stevie ordered a hamburger and French fries and, coaxed by DeSoto, a vanilla milk shake. Susan Carol asked for lemonade and a Cobb salad—which made DeSoto wince noticeably.

“Come on, girl, we need to put some meat on your bones,” DeSoto said. “Best steaks in town. It’s on me. Give it a shot.”

She thanked him but said no, and he raced off to put in the order.

“We need to get cracking here,” Susan Carol said to Miles.

“If we’re out of here at four-fifteen, even four-twenty, you’ll make the train,” Miles said. “Station’s five minutes away.”

DeSoto came back in and sat again. “So, much as I wish it were true, you didn’t come to see me because you’ve heard how good our food is. What can I do for you?”

They had decided before coming inside that the best way to get a straight answer about Hatley and Doyle was to just ask about what he remembered about the two of them from twelve years ago without going through the whole story again.

“Mr. DeSoto—” Susan Carol began.

“Mickey, please,” he interrupted.

“Okay, Mickey. I’m sure you know what a great story Norbert Doyle has become during this World Series. We’re wondering what you remember about him from his days in Lynchburg.”

The big smile vanished from Mickey DeSoto’s face. “Is this to be quoted?” he asked.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “We’re just trying to confirm some things….”

“Like the fact that he drank?” DeSoto said. “Look, the guy straightened his life out. He went to rehab. He’s raised those kids. Why revisit all this now?”

“We understand what you’re saying,” Stevie said. “But there are conflicting stories.”

“About what?” DeSoto said.

Stevie looked at Susan Carol. She squared her shoulders. “How about if we ask it this way: what, if anything, can you tell us about Norbert’s relationship with Officer Jim Hatley?”

The smile returned. “His relationship with Jim? Hell, he probably wouldn’t be alive if not for Jim Hatley. The number of nights Jim drove him home from here when he was drunk are almost countless. I remember one night the two of us couldn’t even stand him up. I had to throw the poor guy over my shoulder to get him to the car. How Jim got him inside his house, I have no idea.”