Offside Trap Page 12

  “So your summation is that something’s fishy. Is that right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And what would you have me spend the taxpayers’ money on, based on this fishy sensation?”

  “There’s more to it. Millet seems to have grand ideas about becoming the next Caltech, or something. He’s not even close right now, so it begs the question, how? Something that big, must have some state involvement, someone backing the project.”

  “Nothing illegal about Millet backing an education development. Some might even argue it’s necessary.”

  “When was the last time a big state project happened with zero media fanfare?”

  Eric rubbed his stubble. “Could be nothing. Could be early stages.”

  “I’m not saying launch a full-scale investigation, Eric. I know that you know how to ask these questions quietly. That’s all I’m saying. Ask around.”

  “I don’t know, Jones. Could upset a lot of people based on very little.”

  “What could the uncovering of fraud worth tens, maybe hundreds of millions of taxpayer dollars do for your reelection campaign?”

  He sat back and smoothed his tie again. It saved on ironing. He was a crafty operator, I knew that. He’d be weighing the pros and cons, assessing the angles. He smiled at me again. This nice guy Eric was giving me the willies.

  “Okay, Jones. I’ll help you out. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anything in it.” He stood. The meeting was over. Which was fine with me. I wanted something to eat, and an early dinner with Eric Edwards was not on my menu. We walked to the door.

  “You hear anything that could help my inquiries, you call, okay?” he said.

  “Will do.”

  He slapped my back. “I’ll be in touch. You take care.”

  I left Eric’s office feeling like he’d done everything short of pinning a campaign button on me. Asking him for help left me uneasy. Him giving it with a smile left me feeling like I’d completely skipped a chapter. I was trying to figure out what I’d missed when my phone rang. One look at the screen and the tumblers all clicked into place.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said.

  “Sweetheart? Wow, you must be in a good mood,” said Danielle.

  “All the better for hearing your voice, believe me.”

  “I’m coming off shift. Plans for dinner or you have a frat party to get to?”

  “I was just heading to Longboard’s.”

  “See you in thirty?”

  “Sold,” I said. I smiled as I put the phone in my pocket. Eric Edwards was playing all nice with me, while having lunch with my girlfriend, his ex-wife. The fact that I had come to Eric had thrown him. He figured I didn’t know, that Danielle had kept their lunch date to herself. So he was playing nice as a diversion. That was fine with me. I could use the help. But it left one nagging question. What the hell did Eric Edwards think he was up to?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I STOPPED BY the office to kick Lizzy out. The sun was heading for the horizon and the town had a Friday evening buzz going. Lizzy was at her desk, punching keys.

  “Evening, Miss Lizzy.”

  She looked up at me. During my whitebread Connecticut upbringing I would have called her gothic. With a few miles on my clock I’d say just a little overdone. Her thick red lipstick was accentuated by her jet-black hair.

  “Good day?” she said.

  “Eventful and ponderous,” I said. “Quittin’ time, I’s thinks.”

  “Soon.” She handed me some messages. “The guy from Third Fire and Casualty called. He’s got another job.”

  “I’ll mention it to Ron.”

  “And that nasty piece of work from the restaurant, Pepper, is it? He called.”

  “Message?”

  “I told him if he wanted to leave a message with me he should reassess his attitude and call back when he felt he could act in a civil manner.”

  I smiled. “Fine. Now out with you.”

  “Just a few things to clean up.”

  “Nothing that won’t wait until Monday.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and packed her things away. I locked the office and walked Lizzy to her car.

  “Ron’s at Longboard Kelly’s,” she said as she fumbled for her keys.

  “Of course.”

  She opened the door of her Ford Focus. “Don’t drink too much.”

  I shook my head. “I’m having dinner with Danielle.”

  “I’m praying for you two.”

  “Any feedback from the big guy?”

  She slipped into the car. “I keep telling you, He works in mysterious ways, even for you.” She started the car. “But I’m sure He wouldn’t mind you taking care of business yourself.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  I stood and watched her pull around the lot and out onto the street, then I got in my Mustang and put it on autopilot. When I got there Longboard Kelly’s was humming. Ron was on his stool at the outdoor bar, holding court with two ladies of a certain age who looked like they just bounced off the tennis court. They were hanging off his every word. Which in itself wasn’t surprising. Ron could tell a tale in a way that Samuel Clemens would have been jealous of. Ron finished his story to glorious laughter as I reached the bar. He looked at me with ruddy cheeks and a smile.

  “My lord and master.” He turned to the bar, and Muriel passed him a beer, which he grabbed by the neck and handed to me.

  “May I introduce Miss Hannah and Miss Margaret.” Each of the women was closing in on sixty but looked ten years younger. They had thin legs and the healthy glow of those with sufficient leisure time and disposable income. They enjoyed being referred to as Miss.

  “I hope we’re not in your spot,” said one of them—Hannah I thought.

  “You are, but my spot has never looked so good.” I got a girlish smile and wondered if I was spending too much time around Ron.

  “We were thinking about the yacht club for a spot of dinner,” said Ron. “Care to join?”

  “I have a previous engagement, but thanks.”

  “Ron, we’re just going to freshen up,” said the other lady, Margaret.

  The women slipped off their stools and headed into the barroom.

  “How was your day?” said Ron.

  “Eventful and ponderous.”

  “Ponderous?”

  “I met with Eric Edwards. He’s helping me out.”

  “He’s helping you? What’s he want?”

  “Didn’t ask for anything.”

  “He’s up to something. What’s he helping with?”

  “Doing some digging around about our friend Stephen Millet. Which is the eventful part of the day. President Millet kicked me off campus.”

  “Do tell.”

  I gave Ron a rundown on my adventures with Steele and Millet, and Millet’s notion of developing the Caltech of the Southeast.

  “Well that sort of makes sense,” he said, sipping his beer.

  “How so? What did you find?”

  “Our Doctor Millet grew up in Michigan but was obviously not a fan of those Ann Arbor winters. I mean, who could blame him? He left to go to college at Berkeley. Stayed in the Bay Area after he finished at Cal, and he did his master’s and PhD at Stanford.”

  “Nice,” I said, waving to Muriel for another beer.

  “There’s more. While doing his doctorate in electrical engineering, he had a rival.”

  “Ooh, the plot thickens.” I sipped my beer. It was a poor substitute for real food, and my stomach grumbled at it.

  “Indeed. Seems candidate Millet was a constant second fiddle to one of his contemporaries, a fellow by the name of Remus Leavensong.”

  “Remus. Nice.”

  “Yes, old Remus got the grades, the fellowships, the research dollars. And from my calls to California, the girl.”

  “And the plot solidifies. So what happened?”

  “After getting his PhD, Millet left the shadow of Leavensong and headed east, to Pr
inceton, where it seems he did good, but not extraordinary research.”

  “And Leavensong?”

  “Stayed at Stanford. Won the Draper prize, which I’m told is like the Nobel prize for engineering.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yep.” He finished his beer and put it on the bar. “He was then headhunted by MIT, and currently serves as provost.”

  “Which is what exactly?”

  “They tell me provost is head of academic affairs, whereas president is head of the university. Either way, the folks at MIT suggested that Leavensong would be the next president.”

  “So Millet’s nemesis wins the Nobel prize—“

  “Draper prize.”

  “Whatever—then he becomes heir apparent as president of MIT.”

  “Right. And at the same time, Millet apparently applies to come back to Stanford as dean of the school of engineering.”

  “But?”

  “They chose someone else. I spoke to a woman in administration who said it wasn’t so much that he is a bad guy, but he is, and I quote, a bit of an ass.”

  I smiled and concurred. “So what happened?”

  “It seems he got the chance to jump a rung or two, and become a president of a small private university in Florida, rather than be humiliated by the Ivy League.”

  “Stanford and MIT aren’t Ivy League.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Stanford are Pac 12. MIT are Division III I think.”

  “So whatever sports conference, they’re good schools.”

  “That they are.”

  Ron’s eyes bounced over my shoulder, and I turned to see his lady friends coming out of the bar.

  “My ride,” he said, eyebrows raised. He patted my shoulder and walked away. I took a stool and sipped my beer. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder again. Danielle stood behind me in a white T-shirt and Levi’s.

  “Hi, mister.” She didn’t wait for an answer, she just kissed me. She was cool and moist, like the first day of spring training. She pulled away with a killer smile.

  “Right back at ya,” I said. I was ready to forget food and cut straight to the chase. But I figured I should offer her a beverage after her long shift.

  “Drink?” I said, turning to the bar.

  “Actually, I’m starving. What are your thoughts on dinner?”

  “Thoughts? Couple pounds of peel and eats, and a bucket of beers.”

  She smiled. ”Can we get a salad with that?”

  I finished my beer and waved bye to Muriel. As we wandered out the back courtyard to the parking lot Danielle took my hand, weaving her fingers between mine. She was warm and comfortable.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard today,” she said.

  “Go on.”

  “I heard on the vine that Eric’s bit of fluff has gone home.”

  “The paralegal? The one he slept with?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought they were a bit of an item.”

  “No more. Word is she’s gone back to the Northeast.”

  We got to the car, and I faced her and took her other hand.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I think she dodged a bullet, so to speak.”

  “And he took you to lunch.”

  She looked me right in the eyes. Hers were full and brown and like laser beams.

  “That makes me realize how lucky I am.” She leaned in and kissed me again. It was long and soft and deep. When she came back up she wore a puzzled grin.

  “It also makes me wonder what the heck he’s up to.”

  I nodded to myself. There seemed to be a bit of that train of thought going around.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  WE SLEPT LATE and woke easy. I made omelets with mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes, topped with a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. Danielle squeezed juice from a bag of Florida oranges. We ate on the patio as the pelicans and cranes played on the Intracoastal. My house was a relic of Florida past, a low ranch that I picked up at a tax lien auction at the bottom of the market. Palm Beach Isles had plenty of similar homes along the channels of the estate, but all the properties on the Intracoastal had been razed and replaced with mini mansions. My next-door neighbor lived in a giant Greek wedding cake. I suspected he didn’t think much of my place. But it suited me just fine. We read the papers—nothing about goings-on at the university, but then few folks on the Palm Beaches cared much for news from Lauderdale. Danielle took a shower and got dressed in her uniform.

  I smiled. “You do all kinds of things for khaki.”

  “This is green, sweetheart.”

  “Khaki’s a kind of green.”

  “No, khaki is khaki. This is darker. Green.” She kissed me and picked up her bag. “So tomorrow night. Jazz, you say?”

  “Yeah, gotta see a guy about a dog. Thought we might catch the show after.”

  “Count me in.” She dashed out the door to save the world. I, on the other hand, wandered down to a sports bar near City Beach Park, settled in with a Dos Equis and corn chips, and watched the Hurricanes take on Duke in Durham. By the time the game was over the sun was dropping behind Riviera Beach, and I was bloated from beers and chips. I had just walked back over the bridge onto my part of Singer Island when my phone rang.

  “Miami? It’s Kim Rose.”

  “Kim. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Okay. I have a couple of minutes.” I walked toward the orb of flame on the horizon.

  “I mean in person.”

  “Sure, I guess. Not sure I’m mister popular on campus right now, though. Let me call you tomorrow.”

  “What about now?”

  I put my hand on my stomach and felt the hops and corn sloshing about. “Sorry Kim, I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  “I could come to you. You’re in West Palm, right?”

  “I live in Riviera Beach.”

  “Oh. Well, I could come there.”

  I didn’t want the company and I didn’t care for the chat, but I just didn’t have the bother to argue.

  “Okay, Kim.” I gave her the address and directions, and she said she’d be there in an hour or so. I got home, kicked off my deck shoes and headed for the shower. I let cold water run to sober up a little. Then I wrapped myself in a towel and poured some leftover orange juice. By the time there was a knock on the fly screen door I was dressed in a Tommy Bahamas shirt and khaki shorts, sans shoes.

  “Come in,” I yelled.

  Kim strode in. She was dressed in a tight yellow T-shirt made of that material that wicks away sweat, and tight black yoga pants. She looked healthy and vibrant and alive. She always had. Kim came bearing wine. I needed another bottle in front of me like a frontal lobotomy, but I didn’t want to get the conversation off the wrong way. I wanted to hear what she had to say. My mouth was drying out, so I figured I could do with the drink. It was a screw top, a genius of an idea. Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, New Zealand. Pretty much the only white wine I drank. I poured two glasses.

  “Nice place,” she said.

  “Thanks. I like it.”

  “Is that a shag rug?”

  “Seventies original. Hurricane orange.” We sat on the sofa.

  “So, you had something to say?”

  She smiled and raised her eyebrows. “You cut to the chase.”

  “So did you, as I recall.”

  “I guess. All that social stuff was never my strong suit.”

  “Must be a big part of your job now, though.”

  “It is.” She sipped her wine. “I gotta psych myself for it. Boosters, donors, the board. Not the side of my job I love.”

  “What is the part you love?”

  She looked out toward the night lights dotting the shoreline across the water.

  “I guess the sports. Being out there. Part of it. Listening to the whistles and boots on ball and the effort.”

  “So why not coach?”

  “You kno
w how much a coach earns?”

  I shook my head.

  “Every job has its pros and cons. Even playing soccer did.”

  “But you loved to play.”

  “Mostly. I loved winning.”

  “And you’re not winning now?”

  She finished her wine and shook her head. I filled her glass.

  “You wouldn’t believe the pressure,” she said, sipping. “You know how many female athletic directors there are in NCAA schools?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not many. It’s an old boys’ club. And the pressure to succeed, to win, for the guys is intense. For the women it’s unbearable.”

  “You won a World Cup, Olympic gold. I don’t think you’re any stranger to pressure.”

  “That was different. I was harder on myself then than anyone else could be. And any external pressure was shared across the team. Now I don’t have a team.”

  “What about the coaches?”

  She smiled. It wasn’t a happy one. “Half the coaches want my job, the other half just don’t think I can do it because I’m a woman. I don’t get any support from the other administrators because they see what President Millet is up to, and they’re choosing sides.”

  “What about students? They seem to think highly of you.”

  “There are some good kids there, Miami. Some real winners. But they don’t factor into this. They can’t help me.” She sipped more wine. “Besides, I don’t get to spend as much time on the fields as I’d like to.”

  “Well, I know a lot of them look to you as inspiration.”

  “I should do. I’m an example of what they can achieve with a lot of hard work and determination. But I’m also a warning. Especially for the girls. That there really isn’t much career path in women’s sports. The pay is poor, but the work is hard. One or two of the prettier girls get endorsement deals, but most barely make a living. It’s the same for the boys in a lot of our sports—field hockey, lacrosse. Even our basketball team. If they were pro material they’d be playing in Division I. There’s not much future there.”

  “So why do it? Why fight for it? Maybe Millet is right to shut it down.”

  “He’s not right. He’s a moron. We do it because there’s more to it. Because for these kids, going pro isn’t an option, or at least not a profitable one. So for most, this is the pinnacle of their sports career. This is it. The time they’ll look back on. Glory days. And they will look back as winners, or as losers. That’s the harsh reality of our world, Miami. There are winners and losers. Not my decision, but that’s how it is. And now schools teaching this garbage where nobody wins and nobody loses? Just setting kids up for a fall. This is their last chance before the big world swallows them. To choose to be winners, or losers.”