Deadball

By James Sheehan

Jerry Sanchez, a former major league baseball player and sports agent, has hit rock bottom. He's a lawyer living in Daytona Beach, Florida representing hookers and other folks on the lower level of the food chain when Mickey Seaver, a superstar major league baseball player with the New York Urbs, knocks on his door. Jerry and Mickey's deceased father Tony were best friends. Mickey is facing a murder charge, accused of killing one of his teammates and he wants Jerry to represent him. Jerry trie to convince Mickey that he doesn't have the talent or the experience to go up against New York's finest prosecutors but Mickey and his mother won't listen. They want Jerry. So Jerry, with no experience tryin a murder case, goes up against the best in a New York City courtroom with the whole world watching.

This book is fast-paced, funny, and you never know what is going to happen next. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: james sheehan
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386636731

James Sheehan

James Sheehan is a former trial lawyer who currently teaches at a law school in Florida. Deadball is his fifth book. His prior works were The Mayor of Lexington Avenue, The Law of Second Chances, The Lawyers Lawyer, and The Alligator Man.

Book preview

New York City, January 2013

Frankie Schmidt kept his leather jacket on as he settled into his favorite seat at Norm’s, his neighborhood bar, and caught the bartender’s eye. He was still freezing and it would take a couple of drinks before he’d warm up enough to take the coat off. He nodded ever so slightly at the bartender who nodded back. A moment later a Wild Turkey on the rocks appeared on the bar in front of him. Frankie raised a finger in thanks while at the same time reaching for his drink.

What the hell is that guy’s name, he thought but nothing came to mind. Frankie couldn’t remember ever knowing the guy’s name. He’d only found this place a few months ago. It was good to move your regular haunt every few months in case the department decided to do an IA investigation for some crazy reason or another. On that first day, Frankie had walked in and asked for a Wild Turkey on the rocks. He repeated that scenario a dozen or so times and like two old dogs learning different tricks, the bartender, whatever the fuck his name was, simply picked up the glass when he saw Frankie walk in the door, scooped the ice and headed for the Wild Turkey. The nods came later after they got to know each other better even though they never spoke another word to each other. It was a male bonding friendship thing or some shit. I don’t know your name but you nod to me and I’ll nod to you and we’re cool.

No nods were needed for the second or the third drink. The glass was empty, No Name filled it. You pour, I’ll drink. Simple.

One good thing came out of the relationship. There was one less person in the world calling him Frankie. That name had been with him since he was a snot-nosed kid from the West Side. He was ready to be ‘Frank’.  I’m forty-five for Christ’s sake! He always introduced himself as Frank but somehow everybody eventually ended up calling him Frankie. It was as if somebody from the old neighborhood was shadowing him and kept whispering in the ear of everyone he met—His real name’s Frankie.

The call came while he was nursing his third drink-nursing being a very loose term. The third one usually took four swallows versus two for the first two. He hated to answer it but what the hell. This was the life he chose. This was what he wanted to do. Or so he thought.

We’ve got a body. The voice on the other end of the line said. It was a female voice but far from soft.

Where? He asked, reaching into his jacket pocket with his left hand, pulling out a wad of bills and throwing a twenty on the bar.

"One Sixty-Eight East 81st, apartment 3C."

I’ll be there in twenty.

He got up from his seat at the bar and gave the so long nod to his friend, No Name, as he headed for the door.

He arrived twenty-five minutes later after a quick drive over the 59th street bridge, now known as the Ed Koch Bridge after that loud mouthed son-of-a-bitch who had once been the Mayor of New York. Frankie’s father told him Koch had been an obnoxious bastard but a pretty good mayor.

You’ve got to be a little bit of a prick to run this city, Frankie. He’d told his son. Frankie was nine at the time.

The apartment on 81st was alive with uniforms and technicians by the time he arrived. The body was in the bedroom on the floor in front of the bed. It was a large room in a fairly large apartment. He’s got to be pretty well off, Frankie thought. Apartments in this neighborhood don’t go cheap. He put on his latex gloves and squatted down next to the body and his partner, Trisha. Trisha didn’t even look up. It was like she knew he was there from his scent.

White male, late twenties, gunshot wound to the left temple. Trisha said.

That much he could tell on his own. Trisha continued. From the powder residue around the temple, the shot was from very close range. Could be a suicide.

Or a professional hit. Frankie added, thinking out loud. It was what they did, comparing notes by throwing words into the air. Any suicide note? A gun? How long ago?

Coroner says a day, maybe less. No note but there was a gun.

Where?

In his left hand.

Your theory is getting stronger. It might be a winner if the bullet matches up and he’s left handed.

He wouldn’t necessarily have to be left handed. Trisha said.

How so?

He could have just used his left hand for some reason.

Not likely. If you’re gonna shoot yourself, it’s gonna be with the dominant hand.

Where’d you learn that one in detective school? Trisha chided. They were squatting over the dead body and kidding each other like they were having coffee at the local diner.

No, I saw it on TV. We didn’t have detective school in our day. Had to learn shit the old fashioned way—from the cop shows—NYPD Blue, Hill Street Blues. Frankie deadpanned.

You’re aging yourself, Frankie. Trisha said as she stood up. She had risen up the ranks a lot faster than he did—a sore subject that they usually handled with humor.

She knew it bugged him that she had made it to homicide so quickly and he knew it bugged her that he was the experienced hand. It was small shit though. Stuff they used to pick at each other but it never got in the way of the job. They both knew they had each other’s back.

Trisha White was tall, about five eight, with short dark hair and she was tough. It took Frankie a long time to understand why a good-looking woman like Trisha wanted to become a cop. For him it was easy. The job paid well and he was a big guy who didn’t mind kicking somebody’s ass from time to time. After a few years of watching Trisha kick ass, Frankie understood. She didn’t mind that part of the job either.

The gun already bagged?

Yeah.

What kind?

Glock 17. Just like ours. Trisha said. Easy trigger. Trisha wasn’t quite ready to give up the dominant hand argument. Many police units used Glocks as standard equipment although a lot of police departments around the country had switched to the Glock 22 because it carried a 40 caliber round—much more efficient at stopping a target. Trisha and Frankie were allowed to keep the 17 if they wanted and they did because they felt it was more accurate and easier to shoot.

Frankie shook his head as he stood up. Trisha was stubborn but she did have a point. The 17 was an easy weapon to shoot from either hand.

The dead guy was once again on the floor by himself.

Who found the body? Frankie asked.

An old man, Trisha checked her notes. Name’s Bernie Roche. He apparently had a key and did some odd jobs for the deceased. He was pretty shook up. The uniforms took his information and told him to go home before I arrived.

I guess we can talk to him later. Do we have a name for the deceased?

Yeah. His wallet was on the dresser. His name is Newton Conrad. We’re trying to contact next of kin right now.

Newton Conrad. There’s a baseball player who played for the Urbs named Newt Conrad.

Yeah. Trisha said. One of the uniforms said the same thing.

The Urbs, The New York Urbanites or the Suburbanites, whichever story you believed, were the other, other baseball team in New York. They began play in 1978. At one time there were three major league teams in New York—The Yankees, Dodgers and Giants. The Dodgers and Giants both left town in 1957, paving the way for the Mets who started in 1959. The Mets originally opened in the old Polo Grounds where the Giants had played. So, the theory, at least at the beginning of the franchise, was that the Mets replaced the Giants. Even though New York had grown considerably since the sixties, nobody had replaced the Dodgers until 1975 when Pete Owens got permission from the City of New York and Major League Baseball to start a new franchise in Brooklyn. Interestingly, the stadium was built at the intersection of Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues right where the Long Island railroad and the New York City subway system converged, which was the same site where Walter O’Malley, the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, had wanted to build a new stadium. Local folklore had it that Robert Moses, who controlled all city building at the time, nixed O’Malley’s proposal because he wanted the team to relocate to Queens. O’Malley moved to Los Angeles instead and The Mets eventually ended up at Moses’ preferred site in Queens.

Owens decided to name his new team the Urbs and indicated that the name was just a nickname, although he never said what it was a nickname for. Two theories emerged: The locals from Brooklyn thought that, since Brooklyn was the center of New York for blue-collar sports fans, the nickname, the Urbs, was short for the Urbanites. Most residents of Manhattan (Yankee fans) considered Brooklyn to be a suburb of the City, even though Brooklyn was a borough just like Manhattan and, for that matter, Queens, Staten Island and the Bronx. So Yankee fans, claimed that the nickname the Urbs was short for the Suburbanites. It was meant to be a slur and the Brooklyn fans, who always had a chip on their shoulder when it came to the Yankees and Manhattan, took it as a slur. Owens liked the rivalry so he wasn’t about to clarify what the nickname stood for. The funniest part of the whole controversy was that the Yankees were located in the Bronx and the Metropolitans (The Mets) were located in Queens—proving that rivalries in sports did not have to be grounded in any sort of facts. Sports fans liked to fight over silly shit.

Frankie was squatting next to the body again, gently adjusting the face to get a good look. He never looked at a corpse’s face at the scene even in a case such as this where the wound was to the head. He’d see the pictures soon enough. This early in the proceedings he usually chose to skip the up front and personal stuff. It was an old habit and a bad one developed from years of looking at dead bodies.

Holy shit! He finally said.

What? Trisha asked. She was still standing.

This is the Newt Conrad who played second base for the Urbs for the last four years. He had his best year ever last year—hit thirty home runs, twenty more than he’d ever hit in any one year before. It was his contract year and he just signed a five-year deal with the Dodgers for thirty million.

He left New York for LA? I thought we had the big money?

Not lately. I hear the franchise needs cash and they’ve been threatening to leave town.

Really? What franchise would leave New York City?

The Dodgers and the Giants. Frankie said. The LA Dodgers were originally the Brooklyn Dodgers and the San Francisco Giants were originally the New York Giants.

Wasn’t that years ago?

Yeah, but New York was still New York years ago.

Maybe so. I just can’t see it. It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t have to make sense. People get pissed off, they do stupid things. But I don’t think the Urbs are leaving. They’re just holding the City up for a new stadium. It’s part of the game. Although I’ll bet that’s what everybody thought in the late fifties when the Dodgers and Giants threatened to leave.

I don’t have a clue about that stuff, Trisha said. But I can tell you, suicide or not, we’re going to have a shit storm on our hands when the press gets a hold of this. I’m just wondering...

Yeah, I know. Frankie said, finishing her sentence. Why would a guy who just signed a thirty-million dollar deal kill himself?

I guess money can’t buy happiness. Trisha said.

You’re right. Cars, women, jets—but not that elusive thing called happiness. That’s for poor folks like us.

CHAPTER TWO

Ormond Beach, Florida, January 2013

Snap was moving along the beach methodically, his metal detector in hand, hoping to find a big score—a Spanish doubloon or maybe a diamond ring set in silver or gold. He had no reason to believe the Spanish had ever set foot on this particular beach or that anyone had ever lost a diamond ring here, but foraging was a combination of hoping and dreaming, not facts. It was still dark, a few minutes after five, the best time to hit the beach before his competition got out there. Snap did what it took to be the best at his craft.

Snap always found a few things to make his endeavor worthwhile—worthwhile being a very subjective term. When he actually sat down to figure out what he made versus the time put in, a very depressing exercise, it came out to about fifteen cents an hour.

Not worth it. He told whoever he was talking to at the time. But the next day, or the day after that, depending on how sober he was the night before, he was out there again in sneakers, his metal detector in one hand, a thick glove in the other.

Why the glove? Someone else had asked during a brief beach encounter. Snap didn’t usually stop to talk when he was working. He needed to be finished soon after the sun came up. The sun waits for no man!

Can’t see in the dark. Don’t know what you’re picking up. Same reason for the sneakers.

Snap’s real name was Danny, Danny Smith. He’d gotten his nickname the old fashioned way, he’d earned it. He was as pleasant a guy you’d ever want to know most of the time! But after a few shots of tequila or even something milder like Jack Daniels, he literally snapped and the nice guy became the meanest son-of-a-bitch you’d never want to meet. Snap was a big man at six feet two and surprisingly muscular for such a thin frame. Sometimes it took as many as five cops to subdue him. So, in order to avoid a long prison term, which the judge had assured him was coming the last time he appeared before her, and in order to avoid further reshaping of his cranium caused by police nightsticks, Snap switched to beer, which, for some strange reason didn’t make him snap.

It’s great. He told a friend. I can still drink and I don’t go crazy.

Then there was the work thing. Once again, he was the best worker in the world most of the time. And he was smart and knew how to get things done. But, he couldn’t handle pressure. Leave him alone and he would work all day uninterrupted. Get in his face and you would be a prime candidate for reconstructive surgery. Untreated, his Dr. Jeckyl/ Mr. Hyde demeanor was a permanent blueprint for unemployment. Snap had gone through every manufacturing plant in the Daytona Beach area. He was good on a forklift and he could fix anything. He just couldn’t take pressure. And nobody ever thought to send him to a doctor. Consequently, he was here on the beach well before dawn. He was also available to fix your garage door, or your car, or your blender—anything that simply required working alone.

This particular morning on the beach was very dark because the moon had taken the night off. Snap was shuffling along like a blind man. He suddenly hit something hard and heard a noise.

Unh!

It was a familiar Unh.

Jesus, Jerry. Is that you? Again?

Godammit Snap, can’t you watch where the fuck you’re going?

Why should I? I’m walking on the beach at five o’clock in the morning. Why don’t you watch where you’re sleeping?

It’s a big beach, Snap. How come you always seem to run into me?

I’m methodical. I try to cover every inch of my beach.

You’re doing a great job!

People aren’t supposed to be on the beach at this hour!

Who says?

It’s the beach, Jerry. People come for the sun.

I come for the peace and quiet.

Snap sat down in the sand next to Jerry who was dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. Jerry also had flip flops floating around somewhere. It was against Snap’s golden rule to sit down and chat before the sun came up but Jerry needed a little talking to.

Jerry you gotta cut this shit out. Snap said.

What are you talking about Snap?

You know what I’m talking about. Cops find you here they’ll arrest you.

Hasn’t happened yet.

That’s because I usually find you first. You forget the time Lou the cop found you. See, you can’t even remember shit anymore. There’s other folks out here too. Might roll you, even kill you. What the fuck you thinking?

Jerry was resting his elbows on his knees now, scratching his head. I don’t know. I just get drunk. Don’t want to get in the car and drive. And the beach is right here. It’s just so peaceful. You know. You’ve slept out here before.

I have. But I ain’t a lawyer like you. I’m just a bum, a black bum. They expect that shit from me.

Jerry started laughing. It was a hard laugh, almost infectious but Snap wasn’t buying in.

What are you laughing at?

You. The poor black man. Hell, I’m Puerto-Rican. They expect the same shit from me too.

But you’re a lawyer.

C’mon Snap. I’m a fuck up. Haven’t had a major client in years. Run my office outta my house. Nobody thinks of me as a successful lawyer, except you.

And a bunch of other people around here who you’ve helped.

Yeah, well I need some better paying clients, which reminds me, I’ve got a hearing for Shelley this morning at nine.

Shelly Keeley was a local hooker who got picked up by the cops every once in a while when they were bored and had nothing else to do.

What? Did she call you while you were out here?

She texted me. It was about two in the morning. I think I was out here. I was a little drunk and my pants started vibrating. Scared the bejesus outta me.

Snap laughed. You got strange office hours, Jerry. Shelly makes good money. Make her pay you.

I’m going to take it out in trade. It’s easier.

Snap just looked at him. It was still dark so Jerry couldn’t see the seriousness in his eyes. But he could feel it.

What? He finally said.

You’re a good lawyer, Jerry. You saved my ass a time or two. I’ll never, ever forget how you saved me from going to jail. You were big time once. You’ve been a major league baseball player and a sports agent as well. You still have that talent. I’ve seen it in action. You can make it all the way back.

Jerry slapped Snap’s leg. Thanks Snap. You’re a good man. I’ve never seen anybody who could take a machine apart and logically figure out how to put it back together like you. That’s an unbelievable talent. But you’re not finding a job anytime soon and I’m not going back to the big time. That’s just the way it is.

Snap nodded his head in resignation. You’re right, Brother. You’re right. He said.

They sat there for a few more minutes in silence.

You’ve been here now for about fifteen minutes. Jerry said.

That’s about right. Snap replied.

The way I figure it from what you’ve told me in the past, you’ve already lost about four cents in profit.

Snap chuckled as he stood up.

Yeah. He said. Best be going if I want to eat today. Say hello to Shelly for me. I’ll probably see you later.

For sure. Jerry said.

Snap put his glove on, picked up his metal detector, and sauntered on down the beach. The sky was beginning to lighten.

CHAPTER THREE

Frankie and Trisha met with Bernie Roche in his apartment the morning after the discovery of Newt Conrad’s body. He lived a few blocks from Newt Conrad in a rent controlled apartment off First Avenue. Bernie was a white haired elderly man from Massachusetts who had a youthful appearance and a small, agile frame. He was quite shaken up by the events of the previous day. He was also afraid to talk to the police.

I have a friend, Jim, who is a lawyer and he told me not to speak to you unless I have a lawyer present.

So call your lawyer. Frankie said a little abruptly. Trisha glared at him. Yes, they were in a hurry but Bernie was just scared. He had that Massachusetts accent which New Yorkers hated for some reason or another—maybe it was the Yankees/Red Sox thing—Trisha had no idea. She didn’t even know if Frankie was a Yankee fan. He seemed to know an awful lot about the Urbs. 

I don’t have a lawyer. Bernie replied.

What about your friend Jim? Frankie chided.

He moved to Florida. I called him on the phone right after you called me. He’s retired. Frankie was beside himself. This was a major investigation, just getting started, and the guy who found the body was clamming up.  This was not going to go well with the brass downtown. Trisha noticed that Frankie was not handling things well so she took over.

Mr. Roche, why don’t we call your friend Jim in Florida and we can explain to him what we’re doing and maybe he can stay on the phone while we ask you a few questions.

Call me Bernie. Bernie said. He seemed to relax a little when he was talking to Trisha rather than Frankie. I don’t wanna impose on him. I’ve got no money to pay a lawyer and I already called him once.

Let’s just see. He may want to help you as I know you want to help us.

Okay. Bernie said and they called Jim, the lawyer, who luckily picked up on the first ring. Trisha was emphatic that Bernie was not a suspect but they needed to talk to him since he found the body. Jim gave Bernie the okay to talk and agreed to stay on the line. Trisha put him on speaker.

Tell us how you met Newt Conrad and a little bit about what you did for him. Trisha began.

"I met him at the coffee shop. There’s a neighborhood place called the Gold Cup. It’s kind of a throwback to the old diners. It’s got a long counter and, if you’re a single person like me, you can walk in and sit down at the counter and get a quick breakfast. Anna is the waitress and she’s a mover and a real talker. She’ll get a conversation going between two or three people at the same time about anything.

I didn’t even know Newt was a ball player at first. He was just the guy who sat next to me at the Gold Cup. One day I was talking about having to get a job because social security didn’t pay my bills and Newt asked me if I wanted to work for him. so I said ‘Sure’. That was it. We didn’t even talk about what he was going to pay me although when I started working for him he paid me real well.’

How long did you work for him? Trisha asked.

About six months.

And what did you do?

I’d get his mail every day when he was out of town. I’d get his clothes from the laundry and the cleaners. I’d shop for groceries, I did some light straightening up around the apartment, checked the fridge, threw out old food—things like that. Anything he needed. He had a cleaning service that came in every couple of weeks to do the heavy duty stuff. It was a nice, easy job.

So you had a key to his place?

Yeah. Not at first but after a couple of months I guess he trusted me enough to give me a key.

Let’s go to the day you discovered the body—why were you there?

I had picked up his clothes from the cleaners and I was dropping them off. He told me he was going to be out of town so I didn’t expect him to be there.

What time was that?

Well, I got the clothes at six before the cleaners closed—Fleming Rose on 81st and third. I know you gotta check that out—then I went home. Since he wasn’t there, I figured I didn’t have to deliver the clothes right away. I didn’t bring them over to the apartment until about ten that night. I’m kind of a night owl. Anyway, that’s when I found the body.

When had you last talked to him?

It was the morning before. He told me he was going out of town the next morning and he asked me to pick up his cleaning. That was it.

Did he tell you where he was going?

No. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. He just said he was going out of town.

Trisha looked at Frankie to see if he had any other questions to ask Bernie. Frankie just shrugged.

Thank you, Bernie. Trisha said. I’ve got your number if we need to ask you any more questions. And thank you, Jim. She said to the telephone. We couldn’t have done this without you.

They went directly to the Gold Cup after leaving Bernie, sat at the counter and met Anna. She was just as Bernie had described her, moving and talking, to anyone and everyone and she was a pretty woman with short, blond hair and a slim build. It was late in the morning so she wasn’t too busy. Frankie and Trisha waited until she had a free moment to introduce themselves. Anna backed up everything Bernie had said.

They met right here at my counter. Anna said. Newt was a nice young man. Quiet. You would never know he was a major league ball player. At least, I didn’t.

When was the last time you saw him? Trisha asked.

Two days ago. He was sitting with Bernie.

What’s going on with you, Frankie? Trisha asked after Anna had left to tend to some new customers.

Whattya mean what’s going on with me?

You know what I mean. I thought you were going to bite that poor old man’s head off when he said he didn’t want to talk to us without a lawyer.

What was I supposed to do, kiss him?

Jesus, Frankie, you’ve been at this long enough. You even taught me how to use the old silver tongue. That was not your finest moment. Bernie was about to clam up on you for good and you couldn’t sweet talk him. Didn’t even try. Something’s going on with you.

Frankie knew she was right. Trisha knew him better than anyone.

I don’t know. I guess I’m wound a little tight right now.

Well, you better un-wind pretty quick. We’ve got a murder to solve. And everybody’s watching." 

Frankie took Trisha’s suggestion about unwinding a little too literally. A few days after his conversation with her, he arrived at the precinct looking like dog shit.

Jesus, Frankie! Trisha said. It’s Monday morning! Did you even go to bed last night?

What are you talking about?

You need to go look in the mirror and try and clean yourself up before anybody else sees you—anybody else meaning Captain Crawford.

He wants to see us?

Yup. Said he wants us in his office as soon as you come in. I think we should delay that a few minutes while you take a shower.

I look that bad?

Worse. What the hell is up with you? You need a dog.

Why in God’s name would I need a dog?"

Because if you had a dog, you’d have to go straight home from the job to feed it and then you’d have to take it for a walk. And since you’d be home already you might want to make yourself something to eat, which would cause you to sit down and relax and maybe watch a little television and maybe decide not to go out which—

Alright, alright Mother Teresa. I hear you. Spare me the rest of the sermon please.

Go get yourself together and I’ll think about it.

Frankie took one look at himself in the bathroom mirror and realized Trisha may have had a point. His face was greasy, he hadn’t shaved, and his dirty blond hair was  going every which way on his head.

What the fuck was I thinking, he asked himself, realizing that he hadn’t been thinking this morning after rolling out of bed with no more than three hours sleep still half drunk. Late, he threw his clothes on and fumbled out of the apartment without so much as glancing in the mirror. Now, he had a meeting with the captain.

You’re a New York City detective for Christ’s sake. Start acting like one.

He took a quick shower, shaved, using one of the throw away razors always available in the locker room. Combed his hair and put his rumpled clothes back on. Then he looked in the mirror to take stock. At forty-five, he wasn’t a bad looking guy by his own estimation. Still had all his hair with only slight traces of gray. He was in fairly good shape too through no help of his own. He didn’t exercise much but he didn’t eat much either—and he didn’t smoke. My years as an athlete have probably saved me, he thought but he knew his time was running out. Stop drinking and start exercising or you’re going to fall apart real soon!

Trisha was waiting for him in the squad room.

Much better. She said. Let’s go. He’s waiting.

Nice of you to make it in, Frankie. The captain said when they walked in. Frankie didn’t respond. He just nodded like he did with his friend No Name, the bartender.

Ballistics came back. The captain told them. The coroner had extracted the bullet that killed Newt Conrad from his skull and ballistics had compared it with a bullet from the gun that was found in Newt’s left hand. Turns out the bullet that killed Newt Conrad did not come from the gun in his hand. It was from the same type of gun, a nine millimeter automatic, and our guy’s opinion even goes so far as to say it was the same model weapon, a Glock 17 or 19, but it definitely was a different gun. So, it was a murder.

The captain was good at his job and he was a decent enough guy, but he’d worked in administrative positions almost his entire time on the force. He’d spent a year or two in patrol where he came across a few bodies now and then but he’d never investigated a homicide in his life. Why was the ballistics report sent directly to the captain and not the detectives working the case? Frankie thought. Something’s not right in Denmark. Then, of course, he wondered how the hell that phrase popped into his head. Shakespeare? High school? He shook his crazy thoughts off and got back to the meeting.

What have you guys found? Anything? The captain asked.

Not much. Trisha replied. We’ve got no forensics. None of the neighbors saw anybody at the apartment that night and nobody heard anything. The guy who found him, a fellow named Bernie Roche, said he was supposed to have been out of town.

How is it that nobody heard anything? The captain asked. Aren’t there other neighbors on the floor. Somebody must have heard the shot.

There is one other apartment on the floor. Trisha said. An elderly couple. They were in their bedroom and they didn’t hear anything. It sounded strange to us at first but these are large apartments and their bedroom is on the opposite end of the floor from Frankie’s. Add in the fact that they are old and probably hard of hearing with absolutely no reason to lie, what they said makes sense."

On to the next question.

So who is Bernie Roche and why would he know where the deceased was supposed to be?

He was Newt Conrad’s man Friday. Newt told him he was going to be out of town and asked him to pick up some clothes at the cleaners the next day. Bernie went to drop the stuff off about ten that night and there was Newt, dead on the floor.

Did you check this Bernie guy out?

Yeah. He’s clean. Checked his story and everything.

I guess we need to find out why Newt didn’t go out of town and where he was supposed to be.

We’re working on it." Trisha said. It wasn’t a lie exactly. They hadn’t done anything but they planned to. We’re working on it, was simply a stock answer cops and detectives gave to sergeants, lieutenants and captains when no other answer fit. The captain understood. At least, he seemed to understand because he didn’t pursue that issue any further.

Anything else?

Yeah. Trisha continued. A woman named Paula Thomas saw the deceased on the street about 8 P.M., on Second Avenue and 82d. He was with his teammate Mickey Seaver. The uniforms that interviewed her said she was a big Urbs fan. That’s why she recognized both Conrad and Seaver. She was positive about the ID. That’s the best we can come up with as far as a time line.

What about the Glock that was in the deceased’s hand?

I spent the whole day tracking that down yesterday. It was registered to a William Colson in Fayetteville, North Carolina. He reported it stolen two years ago. The Fayetteville P.D. is sending us a copy of the police report from that robbery today. The gun was probably sold at a gun show, carried across state lines and ended up here. Newt Conrad probably bought it in a private sale.

Those fucking gun shows. The captain said. Did the Fayetteville police check Colson out just in case?

Yeah. He’s seventy-five years old and disabled. Lives with his wife and daughter. He bought the gun for protection and it was stolen. Go figure. Anyway, he’s got an alibi and it checks out.

Has anybody talked to Seaver? The captain continued, going down his checklist.

Not yet. Frankie said, figuring it was time for him to add his two cents just in case the captain thought he was doing as bad a job as his appearance suggested. He lives in LA. We’ve been in touch with his agent, trying to set up a telephone interview.

That last part was a lie. They’d talked about getting in touch with his agent after the Urbs informed them that Mickey Seaver was back in LA.

Go to LA and interview him if he won’t come here. I’ve got the Mayor, and every son-of-a-bitch who owns a pen or a television camera breathing down my ass on this case already. We need to get to the bottom of it yesterday!

Alright. Frankie said. The headache was starting to hit him now. The thought of hopping a plane to LA wasn’t helping. But something is bothering me about this whole setup. He said out loud, trying to wrap his brain around what the captain had just said about the bullet. "Somebody shot Newt Conrad and then put a gun in his hand presumably to make it look like a suicide but the bullet didn’t come from that