PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 3

  “They gay or something? Is that why you guys are interested?”

  Scarne saw Sulzberger shake his head. During the publisher’s reign, the Times had been a champion of gay rights, likening it to earlier civil rights struggles. Baquet merely smiled.

  “Hardly. Not that there’s anything wrong with gay football players.” They all laughed. “But in Weatherly and Ford’s case that’s apparently not the case.”

  “Almost wish it were,” Baquet said. “Things would be easier.”

  Scarne wondered what he meant by that.

  “Jake is right,” Baquet continued. “The two of them are very close, almost like brothers. But there’s more to it than that. Landon grew up privileged and white, in Vero Beach. Weatherly grew up poor and black, in Riviera Beach. Towns are about 70 miles apart on the east coast of Florida, but that’s the only thing they have in common. Vero is about 90 percent white; Riviera Beach just the opposite.”

  “How did they become so close,” Huber said, “coming from those backgrounds?”

  “Like Jake said, they met in Pop Warner. Hit it off. Weatherly was fast, so they made him a receiver. Landon had an arm. He was the only quarterback on the team who could throw the ball as far as Weatherly could run. Then Weatherly’s mother died and it all started to fall apart for him. He had a grandmother, but she was sickly. He started missing games and hanging around with the wrong crowd. Landon’s family stepped in. Offered to take him in, like in that Sandra Bullock movie. The rest, as they say, is history.

  They broke all sorts of records in high school and college. Could have gone anywhere, but the coach at Collier University promised them the world. Said they would start, no matter what. Collier was just going big time. They put the school on the map. With the Touchdown Twins lighting up the scoreboard as sophomores, Collier was able to recruit some big talent from out of state, not that they had to do much of that. Football is a religion in Florida. They started getting kids who would have gone to the University of Miami or Florida State. As an independent they play one of the nation’s toughest schedules. Went 11-2 last year and got a bowl bid. They won, too.”

  The door opened and two waiters brought in their lunches, then left. The conversation resumed while they ate.

  “You seem to know all about these kids, Dean,” Scarne said.

  “I’m from New Orleans. Grew up loving Archie Manning, though I’m a Bears fan now, from my time in Chicago. And Vanity Fair isn’t the only one profiling them. Our Sunday Magazine was planning a big spread. Not only about their football prowess, but about their academic performance, as well. They graduated from an elite high school and might have gotten academic scholarships to college. At Collier, they don’t take the gut courses many of their teammates do. You know, Theory of Cheerleading or some such crap. Regular academic load and Dean’s List, both of them.”

  “You said the magazine was planning a story?”

  “We put it on hold.”

  “Why?”

  “We have information for another story.” Baquet paused. “From one of our stringers. Unsubstantiated. But we can’t afford to ignore it if any of it is true.”

  “If any of what is true?”

  Baquet looked at Sulzberger, who nodded.

  “That Weatherly and Landon raped and killed a girl.”

  CHAPTER 2 - HIRED

  “Jesus,” Huber said. “Who the hell is the victim?”

  “A girl named Alva Delgado,” Baquet said. “Worked as a cocktail waitress in a tribal casino in Calusakee, which is approximately 20 miles inland from Collier University in Coastal City.”

  “Who is the stringer?”

  “Her name is Cassie Mulloy. She strings for both the Atlanta and Miami bureaus, mostly on an as-needed basis, although between assignments she has submitted some stuff on her own.”

  “Didn’t she do a piece on migrant workers a while back? Something about some con men promising them casino jobs if they came up with ‘good-faith’ money.”

  “That’s her. She dug that one up on her own. It was a damn good story, too. Led to a bunch of arrests.”

  “And now she says these football players are murderers?”

  “Rapists and murderers,” Sulzberger corrected.

  “When was Delgado killed?”

  “Just over a year ago,” Baquet answered. He pulled a reporter’s notebook from inside his jacket and started flipping through the pages. “Cassie says the local authorities charged the wrong man, who is now doing 15 years in prison. He admitted knowing the dead girl. He was, in fact, her ex-boyfriend, a migrant worker named Herrera. They’d broken up and apparently it wasn’t pretty. He still held a torch for her. He was stopped with her body in the car, covered in her blood. Said he was rushing her to a hospital.”

  “What was she doing in his car?”

  “He says she called him for help on her cell phone. Said she was on a rural road where she was dumped after being attacked at a party in Naples. He claimed she told him that she passed out at the party and woke up with some guy on top of her. She started fighting and that’s when someone hit her. Then she passed out again and when she came to again the party was almost over. Someone drove her home but she puked in the car and the driver got mad and dumped her. That’s when she allegedly called the boyfriend, who said she was hurt when he found her. Said he got her blood and other stuff on him getting her into his pickup. Thought she had passed out again in the passenger seat on the way to the hospital when the cops stopped him. Said he was going to call them when he got to the hospital. They didn’t believe him.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “So, how did Mulloy get a bug up her ass about the case?’

  “Herrera wrote her. Said he knew about Cassie’s migrant worker article from Delgado, his dead girlfriend. Cassie had actually interviewed her for the story. Herrera claimed he would never harm Delgado. He loved her. So, Cassie went to see him in prison and promised to look into it. Now, she says the guy is innocent.”

  “Based on what?”

  Scarne put down his sandwich.

  “Excuse me fellas, but do I have to be here for this meeting.”

  The other three looked at him.

  “Sorry, Jake,” Baquet said. “Journalists tend to get carried away.”

  “So far, I haven’t heard Weatherly or Landon’s name mentioned in connection with this alleged rape and murder,” Scarne said. “Did Herrera finger them, and if so, did the police follow up? I don’t remember hearing or reading anything about it.”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” Baquet said, again flipping through his notebook. “Mulloy says Herrera told her that the girl didn’t know who attacked her. The local cops actually looked into his story, probably to cover their asses and short-circuit any defense that claimed they didn’t do their job. Anyway, they managed to find the party Alva Delgado claimed she was at. Wasn’t all that difficult. She went there with two of her friends, one of whom drove. They left early. Alva seemed to be having a good time and wanted to stay. Figured she was planning to hook up.”

  Baquet looked at the other men.

  “That’s what they call it nowadays, right? Anyway, they spoke to the guy who lives there, rich guy named Anthony Desiderio, who confirmed that he’d invited Delgado. Said he lost track of her until she approached him and said she had no way to get home. Said she never said anything to him about an attack. Said that kind of thing didn’t go on at his place. He wouldn’t allow it. He said he told one of his employees to see her home safely. Cops said he appeared shocked when they told him she was dead. Called the guy who drove her home on the carpet right in front of them for leaving her on the road. Fired him on the spot. Said he hoped the boyfriend got the chair and wondered if he could help out Delgado’s family. Funeral expenses and so forth.”

  “A real prince,” Scarne said. “What about Landon and Weatherly? I still don’t understand where they fit in. Did Desiderio say they were at the party?”

  “Their names never ca
me up. The cops had no reason to ask him. Cassie says Desiderio is known as a big booster of Collier football. There were dozens of students and athletes at his house that night.”

  “So, that’s where the cops left it.”

  “Yes. They had a dead body and an ex-boyfriend with blood on his hands. To them it was a slam dunk. But Mulloy believed the guy.”

  “She undoubtedly has a soft spot for migrants,” Huber said. “It was probably an easy sell.”

  “No doubt,” Baquet said. “But she also insists that she has proof that Landon and Weatherly were at the party.”

  “So what?”

  “And went on the boat with Delgado.”

  For the first time Scarne felt a tinge of real interest.

  “Which means nothing,” he said, pausing. “Unless the boyfriend is telling the truth about not hurting her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s Mulloy’s proof?”

  “She claims Delgado’s friends saw her get on the yacht with the two boys.”

  “The cops didn’t know that? They must have talked to her friends.”

  “Sure. But Cassie says the cops were basically interested in establishing a timeline. They never really believed the boyfriend’s story. The girls didn’t know who Landon and Weatherly were. They said they just saw Delgado go on the boat with a couple of guys. It was no big deal.”

  “Then how did Mulloy identify them?”

  “Because she’s sharp. We don’t have dummies stringing for us. She did something the cops didn’t. She got a Collier University yearbook and showed the girls the class pictures. Started with the ball teams. Weatherly and Landon apparently jumped right off the pages. They are all over the yearbook. Makes you wonder why Desiderio didn’t mention that he had two Heisman Trophy winners at his shindig.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to protect two innocent guys from some bad publicity.”

  “Maybe. And after the Duke lacrosse team rush to judgment I’m not about to destroy their reputations without iron-clad proof. Those Duke kids were crucified for something they didn’t do.”

  Scarne sympathized with Baquet, a black man whose every decision would be measured by his race. The Duke University lacrosse players, white, had been accused of raping a black girl until exonerated. But their reputations had been destroyed and their families had spent millions defending their innocence.

  “You want me to find out if Mulloy is blowing smoke, or if there is something to Herrera’s story.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Why don’t you sic a couple of your crack reporters on the case?”

  “That would give it credence,” Sulzberger said. “Once we start nosing around officially, there would be no way to keep a lid on it. We’d have to go through either the Atlanta or Miami bureau chiefs, even to clear sending someone from New York. For something this potentially explosive we’d want someone who reported directly to us.”

  “I don’t get it. Don’t your people in Miami or Atlanta already know about this?”

  “No. Mulloy sent a memo directly to me,” Baquet said. “Eyes only. Said she was sitting on something so big she couldn’t share it with anyone but me.”

  “Dean, I wouldn’t let it get out that you actually converse with a lowly stringer,” Huber teased. “We have standards to uphold.”

  “The migrant story gave her a lot of cred with me,” Baquet explained. “And she said this story was much worse than the Duke lacrosse scandal.”

  “Not our finest hour,” Huber said.

  “Not anyone’s finest hour,” Baquet said, slightly nettled. “Anyway, I was intrigued. So, I called her. When she explained to me what it was about, I told her we certainly couldn’t run a story without her coming up with something more concrete, or our independently confirming the gist of it. She said she understood, but insisted that it was her story and she didn’t want any other Times reporters snooping about. If they did, she’d go elsewhere.”

  “Can she do that?” Scarne asked.

  “Of course. She’s a stringer, basically freelance. Paid by the piece. No contract. We don’t have an exclusive on the work she develops herself. She strings for other media, including some Internet blogs.”

  “Why doesn’t she just go to the blogs? They print anything, whether it’s true or not.”

  “She wants a job here, on staff. It’s still every journalist’s dream. And she’d get it if the story pans out. And, look, if it’s true, I want the goddamn story. We’re not talking about some college administrators giving out A’s and B’s to athletes in courses that didn’t exist. Or universities hiring local cops to handle security at games and look the other way when a player commits a crime. This would be rape and murder and letting an innocent man rot in prison. I certainly don’t want to hear about it on FOX News, especially if she’s right. We’re still the paper of record and this is not some NFL jerk punching out his wife in an elevator. This is Pulitzer-level. That’s why we asked Bob to not only contact you, but also to sit in today and then pursue the financial side of the story if it comes to that.”

  “That will go over well with the sports department and the crime boys,” Huber said dryly. “Just what I need. More enemies at the paper.” He smiled. “Other than you guys, I mean.”

  “You’ll live, Bob,” Sulzberger said. “This is more than a sports or a crime story. There are millions, maybe billions, at stake for Weatherly and Landon, as well as the college and the NFL.”

  He turned to Scarne.

  “We’d like your help, Jake. What do you think?”

  Scarne leaned forward.

  “Going from an arrest to prison in a year is fast track, even for Florida” he said, “although the boyfriend’s story certainly might have greased the skids. I presume the cops had all sorts of forensic evidence. If he beat her up, there should have been abrasions on his hand. He claimed she said she’d been raped. They must have checked that, if only to disprove his story. They must have traced the alleged cell phone call, as well.”

  “She did call him,” Baquet interjected, “but the cops said that didn’t prove anything. They surmised he picked her up somewhere, they argued about her party-going and he went berserk. She died of internal bleeding, broken spleen and some other things. There were no abrasions on his hands, but they said that was because he’d hit her in the body. There was semen in her vagina but that didn’t prove anything. They had the poor kid tagged as a party girl. No signs of forcible rape. Most of the fibers and DNA on her clothing and body came from the boyfriend. She had skin under her nails that came from him. As for the fast track to prison, he pleaded to manslaughter rather than take a chance on a murder charge. Cassie says Delgado didn’t have the best representation. A lawyer from some sort of legal aid society that helps the migrant community was given the case. The lawyer apparently said the situation was hopeless and told the guy to take the plea.”

  Scarne leaned back.

  “Most guys in prison claim they are innocent, even the ones who plead guilty. Maybe the boyfriend was driving Delgado to a hospital, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hit her. It does bother me a little that she was hit in the body and not the face. That’s not what a lover would do in the heat of the moment. And lack of indications of forcible rape doesn’t completely demolish his story. An assailant, or assailants, wouldn’t have to force the issue with an unconscious victim. How did he explain his skin under her nails?”

  “Herrera said it was accidental. She thrashed around when he put her in the truck.”

  “His mother must have raised him to be a suspect,” Scarne said. He paused. “Mulloy might not like me snooping about.”

  “I made it very clear to her that for us to even consider pursuing the story,” Baquet said. “we’d have to go through our lawyers, who had their own resources. If you go down there, she may not even know what you are doing. And if she finds out, you can always say you are working for our legal department and not the journalistic side of the paper. In fact, that�
��s how I would like you to approach it. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pick the brains of anyone here at the Times, other than Bob’s.”

  “Easy pickings,” Scarne said, smiling. “Won’t take long.”

  Huber gave him the finger.

  “It’s just that our people are very astute,” Baquet went on. “They’ll know something is up.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I know people who can fill me in on the Touchdown Twins and other stuff. And they will keep their mouths shut.”

  “How can you be sure?” Sulzberger said.

  “Because they are crooks. You can always trust an honest crook.”

  “Then we can count on your discretion in this matter.”

  Again, the discretion thing. It was getting tiresome.

  “It’s my middle name,” he said.

  “You’ve had some notorious cases,” Sulzberger said, doubtfully.

  “The juicy details of which you people helped cover up. But don’t worry. I probably won’t stir the pot up any more than Mulloy already has. Now, what happens if I determine that her story is all smoke?”

  “Then we won’t touch it,” Baquet said, “I won’t risk the paper’s reputation on a stringer’s hunch. We’ll try to convince Mulloy to walk away and not destroy those kids’ lives with innuendo.”

  “And if she goes elsewhere?”

  “Then we’ll do our best to play fair with Landon and Weatherly. Maybe that will help restore their reputations, although I fear it won’t be easy. It’s almost impossible to put the genie back in the bottle on something like this.”

  “What’s your time frame?”

  “Well, we want a thorough job, of course, but I don’t think I can stall Cassie Mulloy forever.”

  “I can start right away, but I’m going to Europe for a few days around the end of the month. I may have something for you before then, but I might not. It could take longer.”