Murder Is My Racquet (34 page)

Masterson yanked the pull-top lid off the tennis ball container, and Tom heard the familiar
pfft
as the vacuum seal was broken. He even remembered the rubbery smell. He had always loved tennis. But was he really called here to play it? With his boss? “I don’t understand,” Tom blurted out, but Masterson tossed him a tennis ball.

“What’s not to understand? The governor’s having a tennis party. Round robin, buncha crap. I told him I play but I don’t. I gotta learn. I gotta play like a pro. You gotta teach me.”

“In one night?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank God.” Tom sighed with relief.

“In one hour.”

“What?”

“The party’s at eight, Moran. At an indoor tennis pavilion, whatever that is. This is the closest court I could find. Nobody uses it.” Masterson’s eyes bored into Tom’s, blazing even brighter than the high beams. “And you tell nobody about this, understand, Moran? You breathe a word,
one single word
, and I fire you. You’re
fired
! On the spot. Understand?”

Tom shuddered. “Understood.”

“If I hear back about tonight in any way at all, even ten years from now, if it comes back to me, you’re fired. I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are and fire you dead. Got it?”

“Got it.” Then Tom remembered. The police radio hadn’t mentioned Wistar Plateau at all, probably to prevent the press from picking it up on the scanners. Masterson had gone to great lengths to keep this secret, for obvious reasons. If it got out, the boss could lose the election
and
his friendship with Iverson.

“You keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell anybody. All these cops, they owe me. And they all swore to secrecy.” Masterson paused. “You married, right? It said on the résumé you were married.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell her. Kids?”

“Twins.”

“Don’t tell them. Kids yap at ‘show and tell.’ I know. Mine did. Only they call it ‘circle time’ now. Mine gave away the friggin’ store, every Wednesday morning. I never did that. I was a good kid. I kept my trap shut.”

“My kids are three months old—”

“Don’t tell them, Moran!” Masterson shouted. “Don’t make me ruin you! Don’t make me. Don’t make me leave your family in the lurch. You want your wife to go begging? Your kids? Do you know how many important people I know in this town?”

Tom nodded.
Enough to stage a taxpayer-funded tennis lesson?
“I won’t say anything, I swear.”

“It’s my ass if the press finds out. This is just the kind of nitpicky shit they love.” Masterson held up the tennis racquet. “Now how do I hold this thing?”

Tom looked around. Was this really happening? Heat simmered from the high beams, warming the court. The police ball boys crouched in readiness at the net, their handcuffs swinging in the breeze. If Tom was teaching tennis for only one hour, at least he could make dinner with Marie.
Oh, what the hell
. He took his racquet and wrapped his fingers around the leather grip, still covered with cellophane. He hadn’t taught in years, but it was coming back to him. “Shake hands with the racquet, Mr. Masterson.”

“You don’t have to call me Mr. Masterson,” he said as he gripped his racquet. “Call me Chief.”

“Okay, Chief.”

“How’s zat?” Masterson brandished his racquet like a happy schoolkid, and Tom couldn’t help but smile.

“Nice grip, Chief. Let’s hit a few.”

“Great! Great!” Masterson said, elated. “Whaddo I do?”

So Tom sent his boss down to the baseline to practice a few swings,
Keep your racquet face perpendicular to the ground, don’t break your wrist
, and in no time Masterson was returning a few shots. The Chief did surprisingly well, hustling to meet the ball on
the first bounce, his black topcoat and tie flying behind him, silhouetted in the squad car headlights. The ball cops scrambled constantly, since Tom had only three balls to work with instead of the usual basketful, and the Chief kept hitting them out of the crummy court, which required an assist from the entire Third District. Other than that, Tom began having fun.

Suddenly one of the police sirens screamed to life, and a uniformed cop from the Fifth sprinted onto the court, waving his arms. “Chief, it’s Action News! Hartwell picked up the newsvan on the Drive!”

Masterson blanched, as Tom’s volley whizzed past him. “Ticket him, for Christ’s sake! He hadda be speeding! They speed all the time! They’re Action effin’ News!”

“He did that already, that’s how he knows. Somehow they found out what’s going on up here. They’re on the way! They got cameramen!”

Tom halted, stricken, at the net.
Oh, no
. The press was on the way. They’d find out. It would be all over the papers. The TV. What would Masterson do? How would it make him look? And what would happen to Tom? Would he lose his job?
No!
Tom heard his tennis racquet clatter to the ground.

“Moran! Let’s go!” Masterson shouted, dropping his racquet, and they both sprinted for the court exit, which was when all hell broke loose. Steinmetz and the other ball police sprinted for their cars. All of the squad cars around the court were reversing out of line and taking off. It was every municipal employee for himself. Masterson and Tom reached the cyclone fence, panting raggedly.

“Chief, they’re leaving!” Tom said, panicky. “Can they leave?”

“They’re outta district. They don’t want to get caught.”

Tom looked at his boss in dismay. “But where are your people? Don’t you have people?”

“They’re at the governor’s party, stalling for me.” Masterson squinted over his shoulder in the darkness, and Tom followed his gaze. Wistar Plateau was an exodus of squad cars. At the bottom of the hill, Tom could see a bright white newsvan, and on top was a tall microwave transmitter. The newsvan! It was blocked by the squad cars, but after a minute, it bounded onto the grass and headed straight for the tennis court.

“They got us!” Tom said, hearing the fear in his voice.

“Screw ’em! We’ll make a run for it!” Masterson shot back, and took off into the darkness. The district attorney’s topcoat flew behind him like Superman’s cape.

“Run for it?” Tom said, running after Masterson in disbelief He couldn’t believe this was happening. Was he really running for it? “
Run for it
, Chief? Is that the plan? Is that the best we can do for a plan?”

“You got another idea?” Masterson snorted, as he puffed ahead. They left the gravel path, Tom sprinting right behind his boss, and plunged into the woods of the park, where Tom felt a craziness rising in his chest.

“I sure do, Chief.” Tom’s breath came in ragged bursts. “How about
run faster?
”

He started laughing, and the Chief laughed, too, but it vanished when they picked up the pace over a rocky ridge. It grew pitch black as the woods filled in, and the lawyers ran downhill, powered by momentum and fear. As they ran they raised their arms to shield their faces from the low branches. Their wingtips churned through the underbrush. Behind them came the slamming of the van’s doors,
one, two, three, four
.

“Uh-oh,” Tom said as he ran, and Masterson put on the afterburners impressively. Tom remembered the boss had played Big Five ball. Maybe they really could run away. He felt suddenly free. “We’re movin’, Chief!”

“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” boomed a megaphone behind the lawyers. “ARE YOU THERE? WE KNOW YOU’RE THERE!”

“Holy shit!” Tom said, but Masterson only chuckled.

“Must be the big game!”

“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” Another flashlight came on, then a third. “WE KNOW YOU’RE HERE! HAVING A
TENNIS LESSON!
”

Tom glanced over his shoulder as he ran. A circle of flashlight jitterbugged through the bare branches, casting around for the lawyers. “Chief, they’re right behind us!”

“Moran! Keep up!” Masterson tore down the slope, his breath labored. “Those pansy-asses haven’t got a chance! I’m a
city boy!
I
necked
on Wistar Plateau! I know this park like the back of
my effin’ hand!
” Masterson leaped into the air, expertly hurdling a fallen log, but Tom didn’t see it in the dark.

“Oh, no!” Tom wailed. He tripped on the obstacle, lost his balance, and flew face first onto the wooded path, hitting the ground with his chest. His nose landed in a pile of scratchy leaves. His ankle felt sprained.
No!
“My ankle! Shit!”

“Moran?” Masterson stopped on the path and came rushing though the underbrush back up the hill. “You okay? Moran!”

“My ankle is killing me! You’d better go ahead! I’ll slow you up!”

“No! Get up, Moran!” Masterson commanded. He grabbed
Tom by his shoulders and tried to drag him to his feet, but Tom’s ankle throbbed.

“Go, Chief! They’ll hang you!” Tom felt in the darkness to see if his ankle was broken. He reached the log and his hand fell on something soft, like cloth. It wasn’t rough like wood, and Tom bent over, squinting in the darkness. He blinked twice. It wasn’t a fallen log on the path.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
Tom found himself eye level with the wide-open eyes of another man.

“DISTRICT ATTORNEY MASTERSON!” boomed the reporter, the sound closer. The megaphone and the flashlights hurried down the ravine. “GIVE IT UP! WE KNOW ALL ABOUT IT! IT’S OVER!”

“Get up, Moran!” Masterson pulled at Tom. “What’s the matter with you?”

Tom’s breath remained lodged in his throat. He was too horrified to speak. The whites of the man’s eyes bugged out and they stared at Tom in the darkness. Unmoving, as if they were dead. Were they, dead? Dead! “Chief!” Tom squeaked. “Chief!”

“MASTERSON!” Suddenly a set of TV klieg lights came on, whisking the woods with hot white light, searching for the lawyers. “ALL WE WANT IS A COMMENT! WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE VOTERS ABOUT THIS FLAGRANT ABUSE OF POWER?”

“Moran, let’s go!” Masterson said, finally yanking him upright, but Tom’s knees had gone weak from shock. Between Jell-O knees and a swollen ankle, he almost fell down again.

“Chief, it’s a… a…
stiff!
” Tom blurted out. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He had never seen a freshly dead body before. “Right here!”

Masterson yanked again. “What’s a stiff?”

“A dead body!” Tom whispered, horrified. He could see the corpse clearly now The man, a large man, was dressed in a heavy coat. A hunting knife protruded from his chest. His pallor was chalk. “It’s a dead man! Right here! In the woods! I tripped over the body!”

“A body?” Masterson grabbed Tom’s shoulders. “Did you say, a
body?
”

“Yes. A
murdered
body.”

“You’re shittin’ me!” Masterson said, and leaned over. Tom couldn’t place the sudden note of glee in his boss’s voice, but he almost fainted as Masterson straightened up and slapped him five. “All right!”

“MR. DISTRICT ATTORNEY!” the megaphone blared. Suddenly the TV klieg light found Bill Masterson and the body with its spotlight, and Tom watched in amazement as the scene unfolded before him.

Masterson stood protectively over the corpse, raising his arms. “No cameras!” he boomed, almost as loud as the megaphone.

“OH, MY GOD!” The reporter was a stunned shadow in front of the klieg light. He lowered the megaphone. “Is there a
body
there?”

“Of course! What do you think we’re doing here?” Masterson scowled for effect. “I said, no cameras! Next of kin haven’t been notified! I don’t permit cameras on a murder victim before next of kin have been notified! And
kill those lights!
”

The TV lights went suddenly black. But not so black that Tom couldn’t see his boss’s smile. Tom felt a mixture of admiration and revulsion for the man. He whistled softly. “Jeez, Chief.”

“Lemme do the talking, altar boy,” Masterson said, with a chuckle that vanished as soon as the reporter approached.

• • •

T
om and Marie sat at the best table in the main dining room, before a roaring fire that wasn’t even gas-powered. Fresh white roses adorned each covered table, and the rack of lamb had been pink and perfectly juicy at the center. When the coffee arrived after dinner, it was just hot enough, and Tom had tasted crème brûlée for the first and last time in his life. His dessert loyalties would stay with apple pie and vanilla ice cream, but this restaurant didn’t offer that. It was a classy restaurant. Much classier than Tom could have afforded before he tripped over a dead body.

He poured Marie another glass of champagne, from a chilled bottle that stood in one of those freestanding ice buckets beside the table, then rewrapped the bottle in its thick cotton napkin and returned it with a flourish. “Pretty good for a kid from East Falls, huh?”

“Very good.”

They were celebrating. Tom had been only an hour late to dinner. He’d bribed the sitter to stay. He’d upgraded the restaurant. Plus he’d been assigned to try the body-in-the-park case by himself, and a promotion to the Homicide Unit was automatic. Even his ankle felt better. Life could be good, when death intervened. Tom watched as Marie’s pretty face disappeared behind her champagne flute, then reappeared when she set it. down. “Happy?” he asked.

“Extremely,” Marie purred. “You?”

“Absolutely.”

“Champagne is fun.”

“So are you.” Marie was smiling at Tom. She hadn’t stopped smiling at him all night. She had balanced his dinner conversation of defensive wounds and fingernail scrapings with chatter of stuffy noses and baby droppers, and somewhere inside it struck Tom that he needed his wife more certainly than he needed oxygen.

“I love you,” he told her, when the thickness in his throat went away.

“I love you, too, and I’m very, very proud of you. I think it’s wonderful that Masterson picked you for this new case. I told you he’d see, in time, how great a prosecutor you were.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Tom managed a modest smile. He didn’t feel great about lying to Marie. He hadn’t lied to her before, except once when she was nine months pregnant and had asked him if she looked fat. She’d been bigger than a courthouse, but of course he wasn’t going to say so.