Dangerous Play (Kate Green), page 23
“Kate.” His voice rings with warmth as he steps from behind the bar, holding a tall crystal glass with a celery stalk bobbing up and down in red liquid that makes me think of blood. He’s wearing a polo shirt and khakis, the most casual I’ve seen him. “Can I get you a drink? I’m having a Bloody Mary.”
He closes the distance between us and reaches to shake my hand but doesn’t release it. His fingers are hot and clammy. I force myself to remain still, not wanting him to sense the change in my feelings. The disgust.
“I wouldn’t say no to coffee.” I ease my hand from his and force my lips into a smile.
“Milk or sugar?” he asks, walking to a table where there’s a tray with porcelain cups and a stainless steel carafe.
“Neither.” I step in that direction too. He pours the liquid into the cup, and I can tell by the smell, the coffee will be disappointingly weak.
“Thanks.” I sip the watery liquid. “It’s a bit strange to see this place so empty,” I say, once again scanning the vast space.
“You said you wanted to meet away from work. Seemed like a good option.” He waves his arm around, his face brimming with pride. Look at me and all I control. “Let’s go outside and take advantage of the dip in humidity.” He steps in the direction of the door leading to the plush stadium seats only available to those with luxury boxes.
Outside isn’t part of the plan. “Would you mind if we talk here? The air-conditioning feels so good.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and points to two tufted chairs facing one another. “So, how can I help you? Why did you want to speak in private?” He flashes a smile, his overly bright teeth reminding me of a vampire. “I’m intrigued.” He crosses one leg over the other, bouncing his leather shoe up and down. “I bet I know what it’s about.”
Doubt that, I think, although I’m not surprised that he believes he knows everything. The hubris of an insecure man.
“You want to talk about David Lopez.” He smiles wide, thinking himself so smart. “I’m assuming there’s an issue and you don’t feel comfortable going to Human Resources.” He uncrosses his leg and leans toward me. His breath smells of liquor and spearmint. “We’re friends, Kate. I’m glad you feel comfortable coming directly to me.” His arrogance should astound me, but, really, it’s almost predictable.
“Frankly,” he continues, “I’ve never been a fan of Lopez.” He presses his lips together. “You could do much better.” He puts his hand on mine.
“I don’t know what to say,” I respond, pulling my hand away slowly so he doesn’t get suspicious.
Outside his father’s presence, Junior’s shoulders are back, and his chest puffed up like a peacock. “You’re wondering how I found out about you and David.” He says it as a statement, not a question.
“I’m assuming you went through some HR files,” I suggest, keeping my emotions in check. Human Resource violations are not the reason I’m here.
“Not your files.” He winks conspiratorially. “Never yours. David’s.” He smiles, smug satisfaction showing. “Charlie’s been pushing David to host the sports-magazine show, but, well, you know, he’s not my first choice.”
I hear a plane in the distance and look through the window, watching the stream of white clouds in its wake. This conversation has veered off course, and I need to steer it in a new direction.
“I appreciate you looking out for me.” I force a smile. “But that’s not actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Well, color me intrigued.” Junior chuckles. “But first, I need another drink. You sure I can’t get you anything stronger?” He looks at my coffee. “I won’t tell your boss.” He winks, like he’s just told the funniest joke.
“I’m fine for now.”
“Suit yourself.” He walks to the bar. I stand, too, and step over to the photographs on the wall, a running display of big moments in Yankee history, from Don Mattingly to Derek Jeter.
Junior returns and stands next to me. Too close. “Man, that Jeter,” he says, and I feel his breath on my cheek. “He’s definitely one of my favorites.”
“You a Yankee fan?” I ask, seeing an opportunity.
“Biggest Yankee fan there is,” he says. “Since I was a kid, in fact.”
Junior might make this easier than I imagined. I carefully consider my next question.
“How did you become a Yankee fan?” I ask. “Your dad doesn’t strike me as someone who would be a super sports fan—” I stop, hoping he’ll take the bait and mention Alexa.
“Could you imagine Wyatt Hutchinson cheering over a home run?” He laughs at the thought. Good. “Actually, one of my babysitters turned me on to the team.”
Yes. Here we go.
“Really—” I begin but am interrupted by a knock at the door. Junior calls for them to come in, and a waiter enters, carrying a tray of pastries, cheeses, and fruit. Junior points to the table, and we move back to the tufted seats we were in a few minutes ago, the tray of food between us.
He picks up a few grapes and pops them in his mouth.
“You were saying a babysitter turned you on to the Yankees.” I return to the conversation.
“Ummm, yeah.” He sounds distracted. “Excuse me a minute.” He picks up his phone, which must have been on vibrate because I didn’t hear it ring. I watch him—his shoulders sag as he nods his head, throwing in a yes and uh-huh. He clicks off. “Sorry about that.”
“Wyatt?” I ask.
“How’d you know?” He tilts his head, appearing embarrassed.
“Just a guess.” I shrug.
Junior clears his throat, no longer smiling. “I hate to rush you, but I need to take care of something. What is it you wanted to talk about?”
To know if you or your father killed Alexa. Last night, after I figured out the message in Alexa’s diary, I realized the phone call Alexa made to TRP the morning of her death might not have been for me. Originally, I thought she called to speak with me when I didn’t immediately respond to her email. But now I think she might have tried to reach Junior. Knowing how thoughtful Alexa was, she probably wanted to tell Junior of her plan to go public. From the diary, it seemed like she truly cared about him. If she was going to expose what Wyatt did to her, she could have decided to first warn Junior. She likely still thought of Junior as the scared child from her years as his babysitter.
“I’m here because of the babysitter who made you a Yankee fan,” I say, watching his face closely. Junior twitches at my comment but doesn’t speak.
I continue. “It was Alexa Kane. Right?”
He stares at me but remains quiet, and I wonder if he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.
“It’s a funny coincidence.” I keep my tone light, hoping to put him at ease. “Alexa and I played soccer together as kids.”
His shoulders loosen, and he nods his head. “Right, I remember she used to play soccer at a high level. Yes, she was the babysitter who turned me on to the Yankees. Why? Are you planning a sports story on me?” He forces a chuckle. “Assuming you get the job—which, as you know, I’m pushing for.”
I ignore the gross attempt at manipulation and continue. “I’m confused about something. A few days ago, I asked you why your brother Curls went to Alexa Kane’s candlelight vigil. You acted like you never heard of her.”
He folds his arms across his chest. I sense I’m losing him. “Was it because of your dad?” I ask, leaning close in a conspiratorial motion. “He didn’t like Alexa—did he?”
“He didn’t,” Junior says quickly, and I glimpse the little boy who feared his father and worshipped Alexa.
“I know how much you meant to Alexa,” I tell him.
“She told you that?” he asks, his eyes misty.
I nod my head, technically not a lie since writing is a form of telling.
He rubs his chin, lost in thought. “She was a great babysitter. But she stopped coming. They all did.” He hangs his head—still the wounded child.
“I need some air.” He stands and walks toward the door leading to the outside seats. I hesitate. I know I’m supposed to remain inside, but I’m so close to getting Junior to open up. I can feel it.
I follow him outside, using my hand to shield my eyes from the blazing sun. I don’t feel any dip in humidity, despite what Junior suggested earlier, the muggy heat causing my silk tank top to stick to my skin.
He motions me to the front row as he slides over, patting the cushioned stadium seat next to him. “Best seats in the house,” he says, the proud child who believes he owns the world.
“It is a great view,” I say, looking down at the ground crew laying the sod for the soccer match as they convert the baseball field into a soccer pitch.
“This process used to take three days.” He turns to me. “Now these crews get it done in less than twenty-four hours.” He smiles as if this is his achievement. You don’t own the stadium or the team, dude. “Look over there—about a hundred feet down.” He points to a man driving a golf cart on the field. “He’s the head groundskeeper. Best in the business.” I stare at the cart below us, and see a man with salt-and-pepper hair in the driver’s seat.
“You’re not scared of heights—are you?” Junior gives me a nudge. “My brother won’t sit in this row, worried about falling.” As if to make his point, Junior bends his body over the metal bar to stare at the steep drop. He straightens up and curls his lips.
“So, why the questions about Alexa?” Junior asks, his expression appearing benign but his tone menacing.
“Alexa reached out to me the day she was murdered,” I say, watching for a reaction. He gives away nothing. “I wondered if she reached out to you?”
“To me?” He tries to appear surprised, but something slips, a blink of his eye. “Why would she reach out to me?”
I pull out the folded paper I’ve been keeping in my pocket and straighten it. “Because of this.” I hold up the lined sheet. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing.
“She kept a diary when she was young,” I continue. “Some of it was written in a code Alexa and I used as kids. I thought she might have wanted to tell you about this.” I point to the paper. “I think she planned to go public with this information.”
I pause, hoping he’ll say something. He doesn’t. Does he know what’s coming? I clear my throat and start reading.
“He came home early. Junior jumped out of his seat, spilling juice on the rug. Mr. Hutchinson slapped Junior, who ran and hid behind me, and I tried to protect him.”
I glance up and see Junior’s fists clenched. I continue.
“That made Mr. Hutchinson even madder. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the hallway. ‘You think you’re better than me?’ He growled as he put his sweaty hand over my mouth and nose. He reached for my pants and pulled them down. ‘I’ll show you what a bitch you really are.’ He kept his hand over my face, and I could barely get in a breath as he pushed his body against me. When he was done, he told me he’d kill me if I said a word. ‘Besides,’—he laughed, zipping up his pants—‘who would believe a silly girl like you?’”
“That’s a lie,” Junior says, his voice so low, I need to lean toward him. “She lied.” His face flushes red as his breath quickens. “Where’s the diary?”
“Why do you want to know?” I say.
“Because obviously she’s lying.”
Gone is the scared child, replaced by a caged bull. I flinch. It makes him smile.
“Kate, I don’t want vicious rumors to spread about my father,” he says as if it’s the most logical explanation in the world. “Do you know how that could hurt our company?”
Our company?
“Why would Alexa lie about a rape?” I give him my best you can trust me look.
“My father would never hurt anyone. I mean, he can be gruff,” Junior says with a forced chuckle. “But rape? Never. I told Alexa—” He stops, realizing his mistake.
“When did you tell Alexa? When you saw her at halftime?” I ask, knowing how close I am to getting a confession.
The color drains from his face. The sound of a microphone check blasts from the stadium speakers. “Check one two, check one two, check—”
“Kate.” He leans toward me, his head inches from mine. Across the way, on the Jumbotron, photos of the USA players flash across the screen. Hazel, smiling out at us, a soccer ball in hand. I turn back toward Junior, whose face is flushed.
“Kate,” he repeats, the artery in his neck pulsating. “Please, tell me where the diary is.”
I see my opportunity. “I will tell you where the diary is if you tell me what happened between you and Alexa.”
“Why do you want to know?” he asks, weighing my offer.
“She was my friend,” I respond.
He scans the stadium and then looks over the edge. If he killed Alexa, he won’t have any qualms about killing me. I imagine he’s calculating how to get the diary, destroy it, and then dispose of me. We are playing a game of chicken on the edge of a deadly drop with only concrete, metal, and rigid seats to cushion the fall.
Junior relaxes his body and leans back in his chair. “Fine. I’ll tell you what happened—then you tell me where she kept that silly diary.”
I nod in agreement.
“But this is just between us, Kate,” he says, as if I believe he won’t go after me next.
“Of course,” I reply. “I just need to know, and then you can have the diary. I don’t want it.”
He searches my face. I can tell he wants to believe me, like I might hold the power to absolve him.
“You better not be lying to me.” He knits his brows together.
“I only want to understand what happened. Really.” I put my hand on his arm, trying to assure him.
He nods his head, looking surprisingly relieved. “Alexa did call me the morning she died. I was excited to hear from her. She was my favorite babysitter.”
A smile crosses his lips, and I can almost see the little boy Alexa wrote about.
“I thought I could give her a backstage tour of the stadium. Even had my secretary courier her an all-access pass, and we agreed to meet at halftime.”
“What happened?” I ask in a whisper.
His eyes radiate betrayal. “Alexa told me the same lie she wrote in that diary.”
“That must have truly upset you.”
He draws his brows together. “She accused my dad of rape,” he says, his voice distant. When he looks up, I no longer see an enraged man, but a young boy who’s scared and confused.
“And you didn’t believe her,” I say, leading him along.
“Of course not,” Junior snaps. “My father may have been rough, but he’d never do something like that.” He holds my gaze. “All I tried to do was make her realize how misguided it was for her to go public with this lie.” He swallows hard. “I was holding on to her shoulders, and she pulled away, I didn’t mean to—” Junior seems lost in the memory.
“I hear you,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic.
“It was her fault. Alexa pulled away and banged herself against the cinder blocks. She was lifeless.”
“That must have been awful.” I force the words out, still trying to maintain his trust for a minute longer. “Did you try to get help?”
“I wanted to,” he says, nodding, like he believes I understand his reasoning. “But she was dead. It wasn’t my fault. You see that?”
“What a terrible situation,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “What did you do next?”
His lips press together in a scowl, and the little boy is gone. “What could I do? I would be blamed, the company ruined, all for her lies. I had to move the body.”
I have what I need and can no longer suppress my disgust. “The autopsy showed she died from drowning. She was alive when you put her in the ice bath. You could have saved her.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, mouth twisted as his nostrils flare. He grabs my arm and jerks me closer. “You’re a lying bitch, just like Alexa.”
I try to pull away, but he’s stronger than I expect. He smashes me against the rail—pain shoots through my lower back. “Where’s the diary?” He leans, his lips inches from my face. “Tell me now—”
“And if I don’t—”
“I’ll find it either way. And destroy it. If you don’t tell me now—” He looks down at the field and then at me. “Poor Kate, pressure got too much, and she jumped—” He pushes my shoulders back, bending me over the bar as thunderous footsteps explode behind us. I can’t help smiling, knowing what’s about to happen.
“Hands up,” multiple voices yell. Junior releases his grip, shock crossing his face. I rush behind the police officers with guns pointed at him.
“You set me up?” His eyes go wide with betrayal. He was going to kill me, and he’s surprised I made a move against him.
“I did.” I remove the wire from my shirt and hold it up for him to see. “For Alexa, who did nothing more than try to protect you.”
CHAPTER 37
A police technician takes the wire from me as Liam wraps his arm around my shoulder as if to shield me from danger. I’m now inside the suite, but can see Junior as the cops place handcuffs around his wrists.
“Let’s sit down.” Liam leads me to a corner couch.
“Did you hear everything?” I ask him, dropping onto the cushion.
“We heard everything.” He gives me his half smile, but his eyes reflect worry.
“You’re bleeding.” He reaches for my right arm and turns it, pointing to my elbow.
“It’s nothing.” I look at the scrape, which must have happened while Junior pushed me against the railing. Liam brings me a wet napkin, and I dab the cut and then apply pressure. We sit on the tufted ottomans as more officers rush about. The policeman with the bomb-sniffing dog approaches us.
“You did a great job,” he says to me.
“Thanks for having my back,” I reply.
The officer walks off, and I refocus on Liam.
