PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 8

  Scarne’s face grew hard. It had been a long time since that day in the Florida Keys. But he never forgot.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Herrera saw the change in Scarne.

  “I didn’t kill Alva,” he said quickly. “I swear on my mother. She called me that night. Said she was in trouble. We had broken up. Started running with a faster crowd. Guys she met at the casino. I was angry, but I understood. I’m a tomato-picker. She wanted more. But she called me when she was in trouble. I have that.”

  Scarne was quiet.

  “I found her on the side of the road. I knew she was hurt, but I didn’t think it was that bad. Nothing a hospital couldn’t fix. But the cops stopped me because I was speeding and she was dead. I thought she just passed out.” Herrera’s voice cracked. “If I only knew she was that bad, maybe I could have done something.”

  “What did she say before she lost consciousness?”

  “Just like I told the cops and my lawyer. Some boys, some college boys, raped her and beat her up on a boat.”

  “Did she say where the party was?”

  Herrera shook his head.

  “No. But I know now it was in Naples. She said it was given by a man named Tony.”

  “Desiderio?”

  I didn’t know his last name until my lawyer found out when she talked to Rosalita and Carmina, her friends who went to the party with her. But they didn’t know nothin’ because they left before Alva was attacked.”

  “Did she describe the boys who attacked her? Big? Small? Maybe athletes?”

  “No. I asked her. She just said they were strong. But Alva wasn’t a big girl. She was delicado. Proud of her figure. Any bastard would have been too strong for her.”

  “Did she mention their race?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t give the police much to work with.”

  “I told them what I knew. It was the truth.”

  It occurred to Scarne that a guilty man would probably have made some things up, hoping to widen the suspect pool.

  “Why did you take a plea?”

  “If you were on a jury, how would you vote? I couldn’t take a chance on getting the needle, or life. I can get out in ten years, maybe. Then I’m going to find those boys who killed my Alva.”

  O.J. Simpson said he was going to find the real killer, too, Scarne thought. But no one believed Simpson. Scarne looked at Herrera. And believed him.

  “She called me,” Herrera said, his eyes glistening. “That means something, don’t it?”

  ***

  The prison was only about an hour from Vero Beach, where Ford Landon and Marcus Weatherly played their high school ball. Scarne decided that the proximity provided too good an opportunity to pass up. He was in Florida, where football was a religion, and that meant spring practice in high schools, too.

  Vero Beach occupied a lush strip of land between the Atlantic Ocean and the Intracoastal Waterway. Its downtown area was full of trendy shops featuring high-end jewelry, art, pottery and glass, as well as typical seashore outlets for surfboards, wet suits, beach chairs and umbrellas. Scarne stopped in at a small coffee shop and soon discovered that just about everyone in the place was proud of the hometown Touchdown Twins. He asked where they went to high school and was directed to Piper Academy, just across the causeway on the mainland.

  Piper Academy was not what Scarne expected. The land it occupied resembled nothing so much as another college campus. The school building itself looked more like a yacht club, an impression reinforced by the fact that its lawn sloped down to the water of the Intracoastal. Piper Academy was just letting out as Scarne arrived, and from the look of the cars being driven away by parents and students, its tuition probably rivaled that of some colleges.

  A student directed him to the athletic field. As he approached, he could see the occasional football arcing through the air and heard the muffled sounds of young bodies crashing into other young bodies. A sign identified the field as the “Home of the Piper Predators”.

  Scarne walked up to a kid standing by an aluminum table that was covered with water bottles, Gatorade and wet towels. Every now and then there was a break in the action and the boy ran out on the field and gave a drink to one of the players. When he came back, Scarne approached him.

  “Got to keep them hydrated, right?”

  The kid, who was wearing a baseball cap that said “Assistant Manager”, looked at him.

  “Yes, sir. Dixie is serious about safety.”

  “Dixie?”

  “Coach Bracken. Anyway, there’s all sorts of rules now, especially after what happened last year up in Jacksonville.”

  “What was that?”

  “Player died. There was hell to pay.”

  “It’s not too hot today. Shouldn’t be a problem, I’d think.”

  “We don’t take any chances. Coach works them pretty hard. We have a real good team.”

  “This isn’t that big a school.”

  “I know,” the kid said proudly. “Less than 1,200 students. Vero Beach High has almost 3,000. But players fight to get into our program.”

  “Did the Touchdown Twins have anything to do with that?”

  “Oh, yes. Ford and Marcus turned everything around. We were always getting pounded until they showed up. We won the state title when they were here and have been tough every since.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “Oh, no. They’d already graduated. But I saw them once when they came back to speak to the student body. And their pictures on the wall of the admin building.”

  “Local heroes.”

  “You bet.”

  “Did they play for Bracken?”

  “Of course. He’s been here forever.”

  “Hey, Stanley,” someone shouted. “Get your butt out here.”

  “Oh, Jeez,” the kid said. “Dixie is gonna kill me.”

  Scarne looked out on the field and saw a diminutive man wearing a baseball cap standing amid some very large boys.

  “Let me guess,” Scarne said. “Coach Bracken.”

  “Yup,” the boy said, and hurried onto the field with some water bottles.

  There were perhaps 20 people sitting in the stands watching the practice. Scarne joined them. The sounds and sights of the football practice of a well-coached high school team are not unpleasant. He enjoyed the intricacies of the plays, especially the pass patterns. When Bracken took a group of the largest boys down toward one end of the fields, leaving the rest of the team with his assistants, Scarne came down from the stands and followed them along the sideline. He stood just opposite the head coach, who was gripping the face mask of the rotund lineman who had apparently just missed his block.

  “How much do you weigh, boy?”

  Bracken’s voice was reasonable, measured.

  “I don’t know, coach. Maybe 260.”

  “No maybes about it. You were 263 on the scale this morning. I checked.”

  “I’m sorry coach. I’m trying to take it off.”

  The other linemen, on both sides of the ball, had started taking a knee and removing their helmets.

  “Are you guys praying?” Bracken’s voice rose a notch. “Stand up and get those helmets on!”

  They all jumped up. Bracken turned his attention back to the unfortunate lineman.

  “Son, you think I’m worried about your weight? I love big lineman. Maybe not with as much lard as you are carrying. I’ll get that off before the season and put some muscle on you to replace it, mark my words. But I’m worried about your three-pound brain, which I don’t think is getting much exercise out here either. Yessir, I love big lineman, but I also love my quarterbacks, who don’t weigh no 260 damn pounds, even soaking wet.”

  He twisted the kid’s head by his face mask until he was looking down the field where quarterbacks were throwing passes to wide receivers.

  “You see those boys down there? They are your schoolmates and your teammates. If you miss a block as badly as you just did, so th
at a steam locomotive with wings could get through, one of those boys is gonna get mashed flatter than a blueberry pancake at Denny’s by someone as big as you playing for the other team. Do you want that to happen? Then who is gonna throw the football for us? Don’t you like our quarterbacks?” Bracken’s voice was now up several notches. “Don’t you like me?”

  “I like you fine, coach. It won’t happen again. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, we certainly will.”

  Bracken let go of the face mask.

  “OK. One more time. Let’s go!”

  The kid didn’t miss his next block. In fact, he took out two defenders and kept pushing one of them so far they were both 10 yards into the end zone before they were stopped by Bracken.

  “How was that, coach?”

  “Just fine, son. Just fine. Now, let’s do it again.”

  After about ten minutes, Bracken started looking over toward Scarne. Finally, he told his players to join the rest of the team at midfield. They started ambling away.

  “Run!”

  They ran. Bracken walked over to the sideline.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know, you’re not as small as you looked from the stands, Dixie,” Scarne said. “I guess the kids are just big.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I’ve been debating what to tell you. NFL scout? Sports journalist? College recruiter? But I’ve had a long day and don’t feel like dancing. How about the truth?”

  “That works for me.”

  “Name is Jake Scarne. Private detective.” He pulled out his credentials. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Marcus Weatherly and Ford Landon.”

  Dixie Bracken scowled.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t promise I’d never lie, coach. Let’s just say it’s a legal matter and the people I’m working for are very circumspect.”

  “I won’t say anything bad about them.”

  Scarne noticed that Bracken didn’t say “can’t”.

  “You ever play football, Scarne?”

  “College rugby.”

  Bracken smiled.

  “Well, then you know what it’s like to get hit. Looks like they fixed your nose pretty good.”

  “Doc in the E.R. just pushed it back in place. Guess it set almost right.”

  The assistant manager ran up to them.

  “Want some water, coach?”

  “Thanks, Billy,” Bracken said, taking a bottle of water. He looked at Scarne, who nodded.

  The kid gave Scarne a bottle of water and scurried off.

  “Marcus and Ford liked to hit,” Bracken said, “and they didn’t mind taking one either. Most wide receivers and quarterbacks I know don’t like to mix it up. They seemed to like it. I had to tone them down a bit. I never saw a kid with an arm like Ford. And never met a kid as cocky. First day of practice he told me he was gonna be the starting quarterback and his buddy, Marcus, was gonna start at wide receiver. And they were only sophomores! That didn’t go over too well with me, not to mention my existing quarterback and receiver corps.”

  Bracken smiled.

  “I told him to shut up and behave himself or he’d be carrying the water bucket at games if he even made the team. He told me there were other high schools they could play for, like Vero Beach or Sebastian. And it wouldn’t cost his folks no 50 grand a year, either. They were payin’ for Marcus, too. Then he said he wanted to show me something.”

  Bracken smiled at the memory.

  “We were standing on the 35-yard line and he picked up a ball and said he could throw it through the uprights. Big deal, I said. My mother could do that. Not those uprights, he says. And he turns around, takes a two-step drop and throws the goddamn ball through the goalposts on the other end of the field. On the fly. A spiral. Must have gone 75 yards. Still want me to carry the water bucket coach, he says. All the other kids and coaches are standing around with their mouths open. Except this lanky black kid, who was laughing his ass off. That was Marcus Weatherly. He looked like he could run, but at that point I didn’t care if he was in an iron lung. If Ford wanted him to start as wide receiver, he was gonna start as wide receiver.”

  Braken laughed.

  “Shee-it! How was I to know he was probably the only kid in Florida who could run down those rainbows Ford could throw? Found out soon enough. Also found out that I now had something we lacked. An offense. ”

  “How did the other kids take to them?”

  They started walking toward midfield.

  “Well, I can’t say they were well-liked, at first. I mean they were so much better than anyone else and we have a lot of egos around here. Most of the kids come from money. But we started beating teams that used to embarrass us and Ford and Marcus became real popular, real quick,” He paused. “With the girls, anyway. And the parents and administration were over the moon. Man, I think I’m a good coach, but I’d been working with kids that were a lot smaller than the kids on other teams. Suddenly we’re winning and the next year bigger, faster kids started coming here and I’m the resident genius.”

  “Where did the new kids get the money to come here?”

  Bracken smiled.

  “With Landon and Weatherly scoring touchdowns, a lot of the richer parents kicked in for scholarships. Hell, we didn’t even have to lower academic standards. Who knew that there were so many bright kids in Vero? That big palooka I was yellin’ at before? Straight-A student.”

  “And you’re still winning, Dixie?”

  “I said I was a good coach. I just needed some players. Ford and Marcus turned this program around, but I keep it going in the right direction.”

  “Weatherly and Landon ever give you any trouble? Drinking? Girls? Drugs?”

  Bracken closed down.

  “You lookin’ for dirt, pal?”

  “I’m just looking.”

  “You’ve come to wrong place.”

  The coach abruptly walked away. Scarne watched him go back to the practice. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Bracken had portrayed Weatherly and Landon as cocky kids who liked “to mix it up” on the field and apparently didn’t lack for female companionship. That didn’t make them rapists and murderers. But they didn’t sound like choir boys, either. Scarne shrugged. Choir boys don’t usually win state championships.

  Scarne headed toward his car and then stopped. He walked into the school building.

  CHAPTER 8 - MRS. HINTON

  “Excuse me.”

  Scarne stood at the counter in the school office, where a woman was working at her desk. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m working with Dixie on a story about Piper Academy football and wonder if I could look at some yearbooks. Just to see what the team’s records were over the years and get a flavor of what the players looked like. Is there a school library?”

  She was a plain but not unattractive woman, with a pale face and light blue eyes, framed by tiny wrinkles. There were flecks of gray in her light brown hair.

  “You don’t have to go to the library, unless you want yearbooks from more than 20 years back. We have the recent ones here.”

  “Just the last 10 years should suffice.”

  “Why don’t you take a seat over there,” she said, pointing to a small couch, “and I’ll bring them over.”

  “That’s very kind, Miss …”

  “Stoner. Mary Stoner.”

  “Can I give you a hand?”

  “That’s not necessary. Small school, small yearbooks. But I didn’t get your name.”

  Scarne introduced himself and then sat. A moment later she deposited the yearbooks on the table and went back to her desk. He went through the motions of riffing through all the books, but concentrated on the year when Landon and Weatherly were freshmen. That was the year when the football team would have had the quarterback that Landon unceremoniously ousted.

  There were several stories about the boy
, who was named Michael Hinton. From his photos, he looked like an athlete, but probably not one who could throw a football 75 yards on a clothesline. Scarne checked the following years, when Landon and Weatherly were the star players. Michael Hinton apparently didn’t play football after he was supplanted but did graduate with his class.

  Scarne brought the books back to the counter. Mary Stoner rose to take them. He opened one yearbook to Michael Hinton’s senior photo.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know how I could get in touch with this boy,” Scarne said, tapping Hinton’s picture.

  “Michael? Why would you want to speak to him? He didn’t play on our winning teams.”

  “You mean he didn’t play after the Touchdown Twins went out for the team. I presume he was the big man on campus before they showed up.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I don’t think Michael took it well. But Ford was just so much better.”

  “Did you know Landon?’

  “Of course. Everyone knew him. He was a wonderful boy.”

  Mary Stoner practically glowed when talking about Landon.

  “I would love to talk to the Hinton boy. You know, get some perspective on Piper Academy football in its lean years.”

  “Well, like I said. I don’t think he was too happy the way things worked out. Besides, I think he’s away at school in California. Pepperdine.”

  “But he still lives in Vero Beach?”

  “Yes.”

  Scarne knew better than to ask for an address. He didn’t think he’d have any trouble finding it out, anyway. He thanked Mary Stoner and left. When he got to his car, he pulled out his iPhone. There were only two Hintons listed in Vero Beach, and Scarne soon found himself talking to a young girl who was the sister of Michael Hinton.

  “He’s away at college,” she said, in a bored teen-age voice.

  “I know. Is your mom home?”

  “It’s happy hour.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s happy hour. She’s at the club. Like always. Unless it burnt down or they ran out of vodka.”

  “And what club is that?”

  Scarne heard a loud sigh.

  “Duh. The Sebastian Inlet Yacht Club.”

  The girl hung up.

  ***