"He's a good cop. He's just young and over-anxious. Be nice to him. He'll get you home when you're through."

"Okay. Have him come at four-thirty. He doesn't have to be in uniform, does he?"

"No one has to know he's a cop. Just say he's a long lost love or something." He snickered at the thought.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks, I guess. And thanks, really, for the lunch. I enjoyed it."

"So did I."

It was still raining at four-thirty, but I decided to go to the ballpark anyway. Anything was better than sitting around talking about the Titans' chances in the playoffs with the armchair managers in the newsroom. The murders were old news. They were back to baseball. Never mind that there was a killer loose out there, probably in a Titan uniform.

Constable MacPherson, champion of ladies in distress, showed up right on time in one of those unmarked cars that no one would drive but a plain-clothes cop or a small-town high school teacher. He wasn't in uniform, but he still looked like a cop.

He was obviously annoyed at being assigned to babysit, but he was a ball fan, which mitigated his humiliation a bit. I was disgustingly nice to him, telling him all the boring inside stuff fans find so intriguing. He'd loosened up a bit by the time we got to the ballpark. I took him in to see Moose.

"You're getting your wish, Moose," I said, after introducing them. "I have someone to take care of me. Maybe you'd better give him a press pass so he can follow me around."

"I'm glad. I just hope he doesn't cramp your style."

"He's not going to follow everywhere, are you, Don?"

"No, ma'am. You can go to the ladies' room alone."

"A sense of humour, yet."

"The guys are going to love it," Moose laughed.

"Can we try to be a bit subtle about this?"

"Of course, Kate. I won't tell a soul. Do you want the weather report?"

"Not really."

"It's going to clear up at seven."

"And rain again at seven-thirty, right?"

"No. It's going to rain again at eight."

"Terrific. Just time to get it started."

"And there's a front going through at nine-thirty that will clear it all up."

"Times like this, I wish I was paid by the hour. See you later. Come on, Constable."

There was nothing doing in the clubhouse so I took my shadow to the empty dugout. We sat on the bench and watched the rain.

"I can't count the hours I've spent sitting in dugouts waiting for the rain to stop. It's kind of peaceful."

"It's kind of boring, too."

Doc Dudley came from the clubhouse with a towel wrapped around his neck, the ends tucked into his jacket. He went out onto the field and ran lonely laps in the drizzle, working off his nerves. Max Perkins, the Detroit starter, joined him half a lap behind. The two ran in step, but separately, in silence.

"Strange way to have fun," said Gloves, sitting next to me on the bench.

"Why are pitchers so weird?"

"Beats me," he said, glancing curiously at my escort. I introduced them.

"Constable, would it be all right if I had a word with Gloves privately? We'll just be over there where you can see us."

"In the rain?" Gloves protested.

"Just for a minute," I said, leading him towards the bullpen. He grabbed a towel from the bench and put it over his head.

"I'm sorry about this morning," I said.

"You are in some deep shit with that guy."

"He thinks I'm invading his turf."

"The way he was carrying on, maybe you'd better stop."

"I got it straightened out. I've got a job to do, too."

"Are you really trying to find the murderer?"

"Why not? It would be a great story."

"Well, I've been doing some thinking about what we were talking about this morning."

"So have I. I'm just more confused."

"The drug thing. We were interrupted before we could talk about it this morning. I can't think of anyone who would be crazy enough to try to import drugs. There's always plenty around for the guys who want it. One of the shoe reps has a source. He's in and out of the clubhouse all the time."

"Maybe he set it up."

"He's just small time. He gets guys grass or women or porn tapes, whatever they want. But he only deals coke in grams."

"Grams aren't enough for anyone who's seriously into coke, Gloves. Who are the guys who are using heavily?"

"Nobody I know."

"Would you know? Could you tell?"

"I have known guys who were heavy into it, like Terry Jackson, and none of the guys here now act that way."

Jackson was a pitcher who had been traded to Texas the previous season.

"Jackson? Are you kidding?"

"You didn't know that?" Gloves laughed and started back towards the dugout. "Keep at it, kid. But be careful."

I was getting sick of all this touching concern. I was sicker of it by game time after being followed "discreetly" by Constable Donny, inconspicuous as a giraffe. The other writers were born journalists, every one, and I gritted my teeth through a lot of teasing.

After dinner I took him out into the hall.

"No offence, but there really isn't room for you in the press box. Stay here in the hall with Charlie. He's in charge of security on this floor, and he'll tell you if anyone isn't supposed to be here."

"Sure, I'll take care of him," Charlie said. "You come along with me, Constable. I was in the force myself for twenty-five years."

I liked the thought of MacPherson enduring good old Charlie's stories for a whole game. With a rain delay expected at that. He glared at me as I left. I smiled.

"Be sure and show him where he can watch the game, Charlie."

Charlie, already in mid-reminiscence, waved.

I almost danced to my seat. Moose gave me the game notes. Alex Jones had a seven-game hit streak (big deal); Stinger Swain was celebrating his thirty-fourth birthday (thirty-four, going on thirteen); Mark Griffin hadn't given up an earned run in nine innings; and Mitch Saxon, the Tigers' backup catcher, wouldn't be available because he had "pulled his groin." (Keep it up and you'll go blind, kid.) Invaluable stuff.

It was a terrible night for a ballgame, damp and chilly. All the players were wearing thick woollen sleeves under their uniform jerseys, except for Swain, who always has bare arms, even when it's snowing. He thinks he looks manly. I think he looks like a jerk, but what do I know?

It would probably be a sloppy night. Batted balls are unpredictable on wet artificial turf. Some speed up when they bounce, rocketing through the infield, giving even the best fielders no chance. Some get trapped in puddles, leaving the outfielders poised like idiots ten feet back.

Nothing happened until the top of the fifth, when Rafe Morgan, the Tigers third baseman, hit a homer to right, driving in two guys who had reached base on a walk and an error to Owl Wise.

In the bottom of the inning the rain got heavier and lightning flashed out over the lake. The outfielders looked nervous.

"Why don't they call the damn thing?" I asked.

"If they get the rest of the inning in, it's an official game," Moose said.

"Thank you, Moose. I can always count on you to explain the finer points of the game."

"You're getting testy, Hank. Maybe I should call your babysitter."

"Put a sock in it."

Red O'Brien obviously wanted to avoid the loss if he could. With the soggy fans shouting approval he trudged out of the dugout towards home plate. As he got within talking range, lightning flashed, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Red shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the sky, as if to say, "See, even He agrees with me," and the umpire broke up.

"Call it, call it," chanted the crowd.

The four umpires huddled at home plate with O'Brien and Billy Saunders, the Tigers manager. After a few seconds the crew chief stepped back and waved his arms, delaying the game. The crowd cheered.

"Cards, Kate?" As usual, Stan Chapman was looking for a fourth for bridge.

"Not tonight, Stan."

I had come prepared with the latest Martha Grimes mystery in my briefcase. I put my feet up on a chair and escaped into the English countryside until the game resumed at 10:45.

The rest was anticlimax. The Titans couldn't put together enough hits to score, and the game ended at midnight, 30 for the Tigers.

"Oh, goody. Now we get to go chat with the cheery chaps downstairs. What jolly fun."

Cheery they weren't. But with the pennant won, there was none of the gloom that had become habitual after losses. I grabbed a few philosophical quotes from the ones who were talking, and left. Game stories weren't really big news any more.

My faithful bodyguard was waiting for me in the corridor. He fell in step beside me on the way to the elevator.

"Enjoy the game, Constable?"

"Not much. What's it like in there after they lose?"

"You don't want to know. Your illusions would be shattered."

"How come?"

"They all pretend they care about the team, but they're really thinking about their own numbers and how good they'll look come contract-renewal time. But they'll get the Tigers tomorrow."

"I hope so. I just want to see them beat the Yankees. Those are the guys I can't stand."

"And with any luck, you'll still be stuck with this lousy assignment and you can see the games."

He looked at me sheepishly.

"Hey, if I were in your shoes I'd feel the same way. And I appreciate your discretion tonight. Thanks."

I invited him into the deserted press box while I filed my story. Then he drove me home, full of questions about my glamorous job. He walked me to the door, like a prom date, and asked when I'd need him in the morning.

"Get a good night's sleep. I won't be going out until the afternoon. I'll call Staff Sergeant Munro and tell him."

He waited until I'd unlocked the door, then made sure there weren't any villains lurking in the hallway before he left.

I locked up and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I went to my study, Elwy racing me up the stairs, and turned on the TV. We watched a Perry Mason rerun. Elwy is particularly fond of Raymond Burr.

Chapter 20.

The sun backlit Father Michael Scanlon's full head of white hair, making a halo, and didn't he know it as he beseeched the Lord to take Sultan Sanchez and Steve Thorson to His heavenly bosom. The phony old priest's list of their virtues sounded more like a scouting report than a eulogy. He had been chosen for the service not for his position in the religious community-his was an insignificant suburban parish-but because he was a charter member of the Titan booster club. He said grace at all the Player of the Month luncheons.

It was a glorious day, the sky a deep autumn blue and the air Indian-summer warm. The mourners, at least ten thousand of them, filled the seats between the bases behind home plate. The players, their families, Titan personnel, league officials, and local bigwigs were in folding chairs on the field. The widows were veiled in black, sitting together near the visitors' dugout.

The priest stood on a crpe-draped dais behind the mound, praying into a microphone. His amplified voice was out of sync with his lips. A small plane flew over the stadium, trailing a banner that read "Pedro Sanchez, Steven Thorson, Rest in Peace." At game time, the same plane would be advertising the appearance at a local strip club of Miss Nude Northern Ontario.