"Slow. Lot of calls received before and after the game."

"Any outgoing calls?"

"Only to his wife."

"Are you near a computer?"

"Yep. What do you need?"

"A number for the George McPhearson Agency in New York City. A sports representation firm."

"Hang on a sec."

Sam could hear him clicking around on the keyboard as he did a search.

"Ready?"

As he rattled off the number, Sam wrote it down in her notebook. "Thanks. Let me know if anything pops on the phone log."

"Will do."

Sam ended the call and began to punch in the number for the McPhearson agency.

"You know," Hill said, "there's this marvelous new invention called a smart phone where you can search for things like phone numbers and then call directly from the website."

While she listened to the ringing phone, Sam said, "Why bother with a smart phone when I have smart people at my beck and call?"

"George McPhearson Agency. How may I direct your call?"

"To Mr. McPhearson."

"He's unavailable at the moment. May I send you to his voice mail?"

"Do not send me to his voice mail. This is Lieutenant Holland, Metro Washington, D.C. Police about the Willie Vasquez murder. Put me through to him. Now."

"Please hold."

"Another receptionist ripped to shreds," Hill said.

"My special gift."

"Mr. McPhearson's office."

"Lieutenant Holland, Metro Washington D.C. Police, about the Willie Vasquez murder. Please put me through to Mr. McPhearson immediately."

"I'm sorry but he's in a meeting and can't be disturbed."

"Let me tell you how this is going to go. Are you listening?"

"Um, yes..."

"I'm going to hang up with you and make a phone call to my colleagues in New York City. They're going to send over a couple of uniformed officers who will march into Mr. McPhearson's very important meeting. They will then handcuff him and take him into custody so we can ask him the questions we need to ask. Or... You could put him on the goddamned phone right now. Any part of that you don't get?"

"Please hold."

As he drove, Hill shook with silent laughter.

"Put me on fucking hold again."

The phone line clicked. "George McPhearson."

"Ahh," Sam said, "finally."

"I don't appreciate you intimidating my staff."

"And I don't appreciate being stonewalled by people who think a meeting is more important than getting justice for a dead man. In my world, nothing is more important than that."

"What do you want?"

"Tell me who might want Willie Vasquez dead for failing to catch that ball."

"Other than everyone in the Metro D.C. area and surrounding environs?"

"Yes, other than that. Sponsors, for instance, or angry agents who might've benefitted from a hefty new contract for a free agent after he won the World Series. We're interested in talking to those types of people."

"Are you accusing me of having something to do with this?"

"Should I be?"

"Of course not! He wasn't just my client. He was my friend too. I'm heartbroken over what happened to him-both on the field and afterward. He was one of the hardest-working, most dedicated athletes I'd ever had the pleasure to work with."

"Did your PR agency write that tidy little sound bite for you or did you come up with it all on your own?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

Sam held the phone away from her ear as he bellowed at her, wondering if he would've spoken to her that way if she'd been standing right in front of him. For his sake, she hoped not. "Murder is my problem, Mr. McPhearson. I want to know who in Willie's orbit might've had something to gain by the Feds winning that game, beyond the obvious. I'm thinking sponsors or perhaps a manager or agent who had a big deal riding on a trip to the World Series."

He was silent for so long that Sam wondered if he'd hung up on her. "Hello? McPhearson?"

"I'm here."

"And?"

"We all had a lot riding on that game, Lieutenant," he said in a far more weary, conciliatory tone. "There were deals lined up if the team made it to the World Series, not just for Willie but for several other players on the Feds as well."

"Who else do you represent on the team?"

"Lind, Mulroney, Hattie, Smith and Ortiz."

"Who among them had the most to lose?"

"Willie."

"Second?"

"Lind."

"Have you spoken to him since the game the other night?"

"I've left him a couple of messages. Haven't heard back from him yet."

"What about you? A lot to lose?"

"Of course, but I also represent six players on the Giants, so either way, I come out fine."

"Any of his sponsors stand to lose big-time because of Willie dropping that ball?"

"Not enough to kill him over it. They spread it out over the big names so they don't have all their eggs in any one basket."

"Just like agents, right?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"Why weren't you at the game with so many of your players in it?"

"I was there. I flew back to New York afterward."

Sam's phone beeped with another call that she ignored. "What about Willie's manager?"

"Charlie Engal. He's in Europe for a month with his wife, celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary."

"During the baseball play-offs?"

"He didn't manage baseball players when he got married. What do you want me to say?"

"I'd like to give you my number in case you think of anything that might be relevant to the investigation."

"Um, sure. Hang on while I get a pen. Okay, go ahead."

Sam gave him the number. "And you might want to train your people that when cops call for you, put them through."

"You'll have to pardon our ignorance. We don't get many calls from the police."

The phone beeped again, indicating whoever was trying to reach her was calling again. "I'll pardon it this time, but if I call you again and hit a brick wall, I won't be so forgiving. Thanks for your time."

Sam ended the call before he could say anything else. It pleased her to get in the last word.

"You told him," Hill said.

"I don't like when people get in the way of my investigation. They always think they've got something more important going on than I do." Speaking of that, she remembered the calls she'd ignored and checked her list of recent calls. Shit. They were both from Scotty's school. She called right back.

Chapter Eleven.

"This is Sam Holland. I mean... Cappuano. You called me?"

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Cappuano. Your son Scotty is in the nurse's office. He's complaining of a stomachache, and he asked us to call you."

"Oh, um, okay, I'll be there to get him right away."

"We'll let him know. Thank you."

"Drive faster," she said to Hill. "My son is sick at school. I need to get him."

"Sure."

Sam's own stomach began to ache with anxiety. There were a lot of people she could call to pick him up-Shelby, either of her sisters, her stepmother, Nick, even Scotty's Secret Service detail could escort him home. But because Scotty had asked for her, no one else would do. At the last light before the parking lot to HQ, she turned to Hill. "You'll go to the Dominican Republic and work that angle?"

"Yes."

"Keep me posted."

"You do the same. Hope your son is okay."

"Thanks." Sam got out of the car and ran for the parking lot. Once inside her own car, she called Nick, but got his voice mail. "Hey, babe, just wanted to tell you I'm on my way to get Scotty from school. He's got a stomachache. I'll keep you posted. Love you."

Sam took a circuitous route to Capitol Hill, trying to avoid midday traffic. Her blood pressure was through the roof by the time she illegally parked outside the school and ran inside. In the main office, the receptionist was on the phone. Sam held back her inclination to use her usual receptionist skills on this one, until she realized the woman was on a personal call.

"My kid is sick," Sam said.

The woman had the nerve to hold up a finger.

Seriously? Sam wanted to reach out and snatch the phone out of her hand-and break the finger. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that Scotty would have to come back here tomorrow. "My kid is sick," she said again, louder this time.

This time the woman frowned at her. "I've got to go. Talk to you later."

"Where can I find the nurse's office?"

"I'll call down there for you. Your son's name?"

"Scott Cappuano." The sound of his new name rolling off her tongue made her smile-on the inside. She refused to smile at the receptionist.