I was home by six, with just enough time to shower and change before Moose came. I wore a dress Sally had talked me into buying. It was cut high in the front and low in the back, with sequins on the bodice and a short tight skirt slit halfway to my bum. Moose was even tall enough for me to wear my spike heels without looking like a giant. I was finishing on my makeup when Jerry Bergman called.

"Sorry I took so long," he said. "My buddy who took the bet was out of town yesterday. First of all, the bet came in at seven. That's a bit early."

"Seven your time. What are you, two hours earlier?"

"What time is it there?"

"Almost six-thirty."

"It's twenty-five after three here. Three hours."

"Hmm. Who made it?"

"A guy they call the Hawk. Strictly a small-time guy. The guy at Leroy's figures it was someone else's money."

"They don't know his name?"

"Jimmy Hawkins, I think. He's a rounder. Played some pro ball about twenty years ago. I doubt if he made it to the big leagues for more than a cup of coffee. But he boasts about it when he's boozing, which is most of the time."

"What does he do?"

"Drives cab, when he's working. Mainly he chases that one big score. It looks like he's found it."

"How would he have that kind of money?"

"Like my buddy said, maybe it wasn't his."

"Okay. Thanks a lot for your help. I'll let you know if anything comes of it."

"Any time."

My Baseball Encyclopedia was worth a look. If he'd played at all in the major leagues they'd have his year-by-year records.

Hawkins, James Bonner, didn't take up much room. He'd amassed a total of fifty-four major-league at bats, spread over three years, with the Seattle Pilots and Milwaukee Brewers, when the team moved. It looked as if he'd made a few trips up in September before he was dropped. I checked his birth date: September 13th, 1947, in Vulture Gulch, Arizona.

Vulture Gulch-"hard by Rooster Creek." I flipped back through the book. Same home town, same minor-league system. Close enough in age to make no difference. I felt sick.

The phone was answered on the second ring.

"Constable MacPherson speaking."

"It's Kate Henry. I have to speak to Staff Sergeant Munro. It's urgent."

"He's not here."

"Find him."

The doorbell rang downstairs.

"Tell him to get his ass over here as fast as he can. I think I'm in a lot of trouble."

Moose rang again.

"Is that your doorbell?"

"Find Munro and get here now."

Chapter 25.

I ran down the stairs and opened the door with what I hoped was a casual smile.

"Sorry, Moose. My zipper got caught. Didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"No problem," he said. "You look terrific. Are you ready to go?"

"Just about. I thought we were going to have a drink."

He came in.

"Martini? I've got the glasses in the freezer."

"Martini's fine," he said, following me to the kitchen.

"So, what's tonight going to be like? This is my first time at the big event."

"No big deal. A lot of community types to be nice to. But there's usually a suite later where the players can go and get shit-faced."

"You can hardly blame them this year," I said, getting the gin out of the refrigerator, trying not to check the clock too obviously. "It's really fun to be around them these days. I must admit I never thought I'd still be around when they won their first pennant."

"I had some doubts myself."

"Are all the credentials ready? You've been so busy I've hardly seen you in days." I added a few drops of vermouth and started an olive hunt in the cupboard.

"They came from the printers this afternoon. The girls will be stuffing the envelopes tomorrow."

"When can we pick them up?"

"Monday, at the hotel. The media rooms open at noon."

"Here you go. I hope it's to your liking."

We carried our drinks into the living room. I excused myself and went to the bedroom, stalling. I came back fastening earrings, then sat down and raised my glass to him, straining to hear the sound of a car. I hoped they wouldn't use sirens.

"To the Titans getting into the World Series."

"To the Titans."

I tried not to gulp my drink. Five more minutes passed in stupid chatter about playoff arrangements. Then he drained his glass.

"I guess we'd better get going."

"We've got time for another. I need more fortification before facing that crowd." I jumped up and took his glass. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

Where were they? I mixed the drinks slowly and was just starting to pour them when Moose came into the kitchen.

"You know, don't you?"

"Know what?" My voice didn't sound natural even to me.

"How did you figure it out? You have figured it out, haven't you? That's why you're acting so strange."

He began to walk towards me.

"Listen, Moose. I don't know anything. I don't know what you're talking about. Honest. Look, maybe we'd better get going. I don't need another drink."

He leaned against the counter with his arms folded across his chest.

"I didn't mean to, you know. I never meant to kill Sultan. I just wanted to knock him out." His voice was flat, unemotional.

"You were looking for the glove."

"I didn't know he'd given it away."

"You got the drugs from Chambers and Wilder in New York."

"I needed the money. Gambling. I was going to sell the drugs to get the loan sharks off my back. When the coke disappeared, I had to find another way. I read the papers that Sultan had, and when Steve came to the stadium Sunday night, I tried to get him to throw the playoffs. He wouldn't do it-I had to kill him. He knew I'd killed Sultan because I knew about the blackmail."

"And you got your old friend Hawkins to make the bet for you in Las Vegas."

"It was my only chance," he said, starting to pace around the small kitchen. "Why did you have to keep on? I tried to warn you. I tried to scare you off. I don't want to hurt you. You're my friend. Why didn't you stop?"

"You sent me the blackmail files to make me think it was Sloane or Kelsey."

He took a carving knife from the rack over the counter. "But it didn't work."

"You don't want to do this. I won't tell anyone."

I backed away. He followed me. I used the only weapon I had. I threw the Martinis in his face, then the heavy crystal pitcher, and ran.

I was almost at the door when he caught up. He grabbed me from behind, by the hair.

I heard feet pounding up the stairs and screamed. The door burst open. Andy was the first one in, followed closely by MacPherson, guns drawn.

"Don't do it, Greer."

I could feel the point of the knife at my throat. Moose had my arms pinned behind me with the other hand.

"Take it easy," Andy said. "Let her go."

"Get out of here," Moose screamed. "Just get the fuck out."

Andy started to move towards us, his free hand stretched out in front of him. I heard a growl. It was Elwy, on the back of the couch, his fur standing on end.

"Just relax, Greer." Andy's voice was very calm. "Drop the knife. We won't shoot you unless you hurt her."

"No. Stay back."

Moose took the knife from my throat and gestured towards them. With a yowl, Elwy launched himself through the air. Moose looked towards him. I bent my leg and raked the spike heel down his shin and into his instep. I wrenched free while he was off balance. I could hear my dress tearing as I rolled out of reach.

He started after me. MacPherson dove across the room and tackled him. Andy held the gun on Moose while MacPherson cuffed his hands behind his back.

Moose began to cry. MacPherson, panting, read him his rights.

"Are you all right?" Andy was kneeling next to me on the floor.

"I'm fine," I said, but my voice wasn't. "I'm a bit shaky. I'll be all right."

He helped me to my feet, then sat me on the couch and went to use the kitchen phone. Elwy climbed onto my lap and purred. In a few moments, I heard sirens screaming down the street. They choked into silence outside my front door and Andy's partner ran up the stairs, followed by two more officers. Along with Constable MacPherson, they hustled Moose towards the door.

Before they left, Moose turned to me.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you, but you wouldn't stop."

"I'm sorry, too, Moose."

The door closed behind them. Andy came and sat next to me. He took my hand.

"You've got some guts, Kate. Do you feel up to coming to the station and making a statement?"

"I can't. I've got a story to write."

"Goddamn it, woman. The story can wait."

"Just let me phone the office and tell them I'll be filing. Where are they taking him?"

I told the astonished night editor to hold some space for me, then called Jake Watson at home.

"I'll write the main story, but if you want anything else, send someone down to the Hilton. There's a team party going on. They'll all be there. Someone will have to get the news to Ferguson. Problem is, he hasn't got a PR man to handle it anymore."

By the time I got back from the phone, Sally and T.C. were with Andy. They crossed the room to hug me.