Dangerous Play (Kate Green), page 5
Hazel starts protesting. Other teammates join in.
“Do something,” I hiss at Savy, and for the first time ever, she seems at a loss.
I jump up onto the bench next to her. “Everyone, quiet,” I yell. “You need to be quiet if you want to know what’s going on.”
Quinn elbows one of the women to stop talking.
“You are not in danger.” I say the words slowly. “But there has been an incident. The concern now is that we don’t alarm the fans in the stadium and cause a panic. Please hand over your phones.”
There’s more grumbling, but the players comply.
After the phones are collected, the officers tell everyone that we are moving locations and to please line up. Nervous looks pass between the women, but they do as they’re told.
We emerge from the locker room into the tunnel that just an hour ago felt like sacred ground. Now the concrete walls feel oppressive and tainted. We march to the elevator as sirens sound in the distance. Getting louder. And closer. The echo of a bullhorn reaches us: “Yankee Stadium is closing. Please slowly make your way toward the exits.”
“They’re lying,” some of the younger girls whisper.
“I think I heard shots,” another girl squeals.
“Silence,” the female officer yells.
I walk up to the girls whispering and tell them they don’t have to worry.
Their eyes fill with disbelief. Of course I’d say something like that.
We continue as footsteps grow louder. Seconds pass, and then the sounds escalate—breaking into a riotous gallop echoing from the concourse below. Screams from outside reverberate in the hallway. I have the sinking feeling it’s no longer a question of if someone will be injured, or worse, but how many.
CHAPTER 8
The police rush us into the media cafeteria as pounding footsteps get closer. The female police officer shuts the door and plants her back against it. Outside the door, people keep yelling, “Run. Hurry.”
The young officer whispers with her partner and then calls for quiet. “You have nothing to worry about,” she says.
“Bullshit.” Hazel holds up her phone, which she clearly hid from the authorities. “Someone posted on social media that a crazed man is running around Yankee Stadium threatening people with a knife.”
Two players start whimpering.
“Don’t believe everything you read,” the female officer says. “That is not true.”
“It’s right here,” Hazel responds.
The police officer steps over to Hazel and asks if she can look at her phone. Hazel reluctantly hands it over.
“The person who posted this has a fake profile,” the police officer says. “When police ran this account, they found it was set up less than an hour ago from a burner phone.”
“Then why the panic?” Hazel says, as if that proves something.
“People tend to believe whatever they see on social media,” the officer snaps, clearly exasperated. “It happens more than you’d think.”
My mind flashes to the pipe bomb that went off during the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia. I vividly recall the incident and the aftermath. I saw it unfold on television, watching with my parents. We listened as the media reported one person had died and hundreds had been injured at Centennial Olympic Park.
I also recall the rush to judgment and false information disseminated through the media. At first, the security guard, Richard Jewell, was hailed a hero for noticing the backpack with the bomb and trying to clear the area. Then, he became the prime suspect. The media cited unnamed FBI sources. He was labeled a domestic terrorist. His life ruined even though he turned out to be innocent. And that was before social media.
Outside the door I hear footsteps. Fast. Running.
The female officer walks over to me. “You’re Kate Green, right?”
“Yes,” I say over the increased volume of movement in the concourse, just on the other side of the door.
“Your father specifically radioed to assure you there is nothing to worry about. To assure everyone.” She motions at the panic rising among the players.
“It’s like a bad game of telephone,” I say.
“You’re telling me.” She shakes her head.
“Has the post been taken down?” I ask.
“A few minutes ago. It was only up for twenty minutes or so, but it’s hard to stop a runaway train. Add the conspiracy theories circulating around it, and well, it’s a tragic mess.”
“Do the police think someone started a panic on purpose?” I ask, wondering if Alexa’s murderer intentionally wanted to cause a distraction. It’s smart and diabolical. “Can they trace the burner phone?” I ask.
“I hope so.” She shrugs.
Hazel switches on the television, and we stare at the screen. The footage is even worse than what I imagined. The images depict out-and-out chaos among the stadium crowd.
The players start to yell:
“I knew it.”
“We have to leave!”
“We’re going to die.”
“Quiet!” Hazel orders, and the murmurs die down.
The anchor stares into the camera lens. “The NYPD insists that a false statement on social media caused the panic at Yankee Stadium. They urge calm.”
Too little, too late. Or, maybe, just too late. And no one running is watching television at the moment.
As if to punctuate that horrible fact, Hazel switches the station and we all gape at images of fans hurtling across the grass toward gates by the outfield and spilling onto the street. Gates that I’ve never witnessed open to the public. Until now.
Through the television and echoing in the hallway, feet continue to pound against pavement. Louder. Faster. Car alarms ring in the background. The footage switches to the lower concourse, where the bodies are more tightly packed together. The pushing and shoving appears more aggressive. The video shakes, and I imagine the camera operator must have gotten jostled.
“Oh no,” I hear myself gasp as the young girl with the shiny blonde hair and delicate limbs—the one who asked for my autograph—smashes against the ground. On screen, bodies rush over the young girl. Then a flash of an adult’s hand reaches down to help, probably the camera operator’s, and a woman scoops over to collect the girl. But the young girl looks battered and bloody, hanging limp in her mother’s arms. I turn away from the video, feeling sick.
The anchorwoman, clearly shaken, mumbles something about how awful the scene is as she tells viewers the mayor will speak any minute now.
Hazel mutes the television; noiseless images of the stampede continue to flash across the screen. I look away and scan the familiar cafeteria, with its coffee vending machine, and stacked plates and empty chafing dishes behind a serving counter.
“Turn on the volume,” Savy says as the mayor appears on screen.
Marsha Compton approaches a podium and lowers the microphone. She stares into the television camera, her deep-set brown eyes behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. She’s New York strong, as she will often remind her constituents. She might be even stronger than that; this is the lady who testified against her own father—also mayor back in the day—in a corruption case that spanned departments from city hall to the NYPD to Gracie Mansion.
“We believe most of the fans are now out of Yankee Stadium,” Mayor Compton begins in a silky mixed with serious tone. “For those few remaining, there is no reason to panic. Stop running. Calm down. You are not in danger. Let me repeat that—you are NOT in danger!” She stares directly into the camera.
I see a few bodies relax, but other players mumble, “Bullshit.”
“I will share everything with you. Because knowledge is power. And you, my fellow New Yorkers, and the rest of the world, deserve the truth. Reports of a man threatening people with a knife are false.”
She pauses, running a hand through her short gray hair. “Police did appear on the scene at Yankee Stadium because of an unrelated incident. We are presently trying to determine whether foul play was involved.”
I hear the girls start to whisper again.
“Is someone hurt? Dead?”
“Is that why we were moved?”
“We will move forward as if this were foul play”—the mayor pushes the bridge of her glasses up on her nose—“because the safety of our city and of our Olympic guests is the number one priority. We will not cower to intimidation. We will ensure the Olympics proceeds on schedule and safely.”
I exchange a look with the female police officer, who gives me a weary shrug.
“I have already established a task force to get to the bottom of the situation,” the mayor says as the camera zooms out to show the people she’s speaking about. Bill and I exchange a look, because standing next to the mayor is my father.
“Did you know?” Bill steps toward me.
I shake my head. “Liam was on his way here, last time we spoke.”
“Hope he handles things differently this time.” Bill grunts. My protective camera operator, rightly or wrongly, blames my father for the danger I got into last autumn. Bill believes if Liam had listened to my theories, I wouldn’t have set out to investigate on my own. Bill’s reasoning is a bit circuitous, considering I made the decision to pursue a killer and put myself in danger. But I love Bill for having my back.
“I don’t believe them for a second.” Hazel moves to the door. “We need to leave.” Others join her, and the two officers have no choice but to move away.
Hazel tries to open the door. “It’s locked?” She tries again. Then starts banging.
“For God’s sake, girls. Calm down!” Quinn yells.
“Why aren’t we being evacuated?” Hazel shrieks at the officer.
Quinn climbs onto a chair so everyone can see her. “Bitches—I said calm down!” Quinn puts her hands on her hips. Everyone quiets down. Even Hazel.
Quinn continues. “It’s nothing to worry about. They just found a dead woman in the ice bath in our training room.”
“Did Quinn say, they ‘just’ found a body . . . ,” I mutter under my breath.
“But it’s working . . . ,” Savy says, having moved next to me. She motions to the girls, who appear more curious than anxious.
“I can’t believe this happened. It’s the worst thing you could ever imagine,” Quinn says, forgetting that we just witnessed a stampede in the halls of Yankee Stadium, where people were definitely injured and possibly killed. “I went into the training room for a minute. Grab an ice pack. That kind of thing. And there floating in the ice bath was a woman . . . I didn’t recognize her. It was awful. I’ll never unsee that. She fucking drowned. I think she was old . . . like coach’s age.”
Sav shakes her head and laughs. A short burst, which seems to release the tension she was holding. She laughs again. So do I. We’re in our early forties, and that’s old to these women? I would be amused if the situation weren’t colored by murder.
The players crowd around Quinn, asking questions as a throng of police unlocks the door and pushes inside. “We will need to question everyone here,” a large burly officer says. “Starting with Kate Green.” Everyone turns to me, and I feel the color drain from my face.
CHAPTER 9
“Watch your step.” The officer escorting me points to the sea of broken bottles shattered into amber and green shards. The stench of beer and fire hang heavy in the air. Fire. From where?
Police are everywhere. Blocking aisles. In and out of doors. Bathrooms. Concession kitchens.
“Follow my footsteps,” the officer tells me, crisscrossing through the field of glass. We pass overturned popcorn wagons and hot dog carts; buns and kernels sink into puddles of soda.
“How many people were hurt?” I ask, breathing through my mouth to try and avoid the vile stench.
The officer looks over his shoulder. “Don’t know yet.” He turns front. “But it’s bad.”
My mind flashes back to the young girl with the blonde ponytail. Please let her be okay.
We pass the elevator, and I see a large craterlike dent in the door. “They tried to get out any way possible,” the officer says. “Crying shame.”
At the stairs I learn the cause of the burning odor. The garbage cans simmer with smoke, recently doused. “People threw lit cigarettes in,” the officer says. “It’s like a zombie apocalypse hit this place.”
It does look like the postapocalyptic scene from The Walking Dead when Rick Grimes wakes up alone in his hospital room.
“Where are we going?” I ask, acutely aware I’m being separated from the group. Do they think I’m involved? Do they know my connection with Alexa? Do they know Savy’s? Where is Savy? I crane my neck to look behind me but only see glass and slosh and garbage. No Savy. No players. No Bill.
We take the stairs to field level, where the locker rooms reside. The officer tells me to stay close and not to touch anything. What does he think I’m going to do—reach for soggy hot dogs?
“This way.” He turns left in the tunnel and walks me past the US women’s locker room, the spot where it all began. I slow down to study the activity. At least a dozen forensic officers are working the scene. I survey the area, my eyes stopping on cinder blocks directly across from the locker room door. It looks like a tomato exploded on the surface, but I know it’s blood. Why else would the forensic team be taking so many swabs? Is that where Alexa got the gash on her head?
“Let’s go,” barks the officer. He leads me around a bend and down a tunnel toward the field. I glimpse the grass, torn up and muddy. I can’t figure out why he’d want to bring me on the field, but then he stops at a plaque that reads STORAGE UNIT.
I’m going into a storage unit? He registers the surprise on my face and tells me that agents set up a little conference room inside. I square my shoulders, wondering how much to share about my history with Alexa. I really want Liam to be the first person I tell that bit of information. After what happened last autumn, my trust in cops is—as my teenage twins would say—mid.
He opens the door. I step onto a lime-green turf floor; netting runs along the concrete walls. I see immediately why it’s a storage space; batting machines are stacked along one wall, next to bins bulging with balls, batting helmets, and bats in front.
“Mae, we’re here.”
“It’s Special Agent Flynn,” the woman corrects the cop, who doesn’t seem to give a crap. She waves me over. “Special Agent Mae Flynn.” She reaches out her hand. “Please sit.” She indicates the chair across from her.
She clasps her fingers together and leans across the table. “I hope you don’t expect any special treatment because of your father.”
“It’s been a long day. Let’s get to it,” I respond.
“Good girl, Kate,” she says, unbuttoning her suit jacket.
“You can call me Ms. Green,” I say and notice a flash of amusement cross her eyes.
“Please start at the beginning,” she says. I share everything I can remember. When I finish, she suggests a short break and gets up to make a call. The other officer brings me a water bottle. I can’t believe how thirsty I am and gulp the contents down in a few sips. I feel hot and itchy in the room, which smells of sweat and rubber.
Special Agent Flynn returns to the table. “Are you ready to resume?” She picks her pen back up and taps it on the notepad.
“I guess so,” I respond, exhaustion starting to take hold of my body.
“Did you notice when Quinn went into the trainer’s room?”
“The game ended at five p.m.” I play back the timeline in my head.
“Four fifty-eight,” Flynn corrects.
I ignore her interruption and continue. “My camera operator rushed to capture the celebration, and I went to track down Quinn for an interview.”
She reviews her notes and tells me my live interview with Quinn aired from 5:03 p.m. to 5:05 p.m. “Where did Quinn go next?”
She seems very intent on Quinn, although I guess she needs to account for the whereabouts of everyone who saw the body. I let out a breath and try to remember. The game feels like it took place a decade ago. “I remember some of Quinn’s teammates came over, and they all started hugging and congratulating one another. The next time I saw Quinn was when she was on the sidelines.”
“Anything strike you about that?”
“Actually, yes.” I tell her how Quinn taunted the goalie from Argentina. “What happened to Argentina’s team during the stampede?”
“They remained in the visitors’ locker room.”
Because their locker room didn’t have a dead body in the ice bath.
“Did you go straight to the tunnel?” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging her red lipstick. The bun at the back of her head looks loose, with escaped strands of black hair brushing against her cheek.
“No.” I explain how I signed a few autographs. And then got harassed by an obnoxious spectator. “Do you have an update on the girl with the ponytail who got knocked down in the stampede?”
She blinks at me in surprise.
“We saw it on television,” I explain. “She’s the girl I signed an autograph for.”
A flash of pity crosses her face, but she tells me she has no updates on those injured and killed.
I suck in a breath. Killed. The girl can’t be more than three or four years younger than my twins, Nikki and Jackson.
“We need to get back to the timeline.” She sounds almost apologetic. “After you signed autographs, you went directly to the locker room?”
“Yes, but the security guard stationed outside the locker room door took his time letting us in.”
She glances at her notes and tells me that according to the video they’ve already reviewed, Bill and I entered the tunnel at 5:20 p.m.
“If you have all this information, why do you need me?” I can’t help feeling like she’s wasting my time. And hers.
“We don’t have anything else until you called Detective Murphy at five thirty-eight p.m.” She taps her pen against the notepad. “Tell me, Ms. Green—why did you call your father instead of dialing 911?”
“I didn’t . . . it didn’t even occur.” I stop myself. Think, Kate. Think before you answer. “I guess I thought the quickest way to get the police’s attention was to call my father.”
