Myron shook his head. Every week? And no other positives? Just that one?
That's right.
He looked back at Sophie. Didn't you find that odd?
Why? she countered. He'd been trying to stay clean, and he fell off the wagon. It happens
every day, doesn't it?
It did, Myron guessed, and still something about it didn't sit right with him. But Clu knew you
were testing him?
I assume so, yes. We'd been testing him at least once a week.
And how were the tests conducted?
Sophie again looked over at Jared. Jared asked, What do you mean?
Step by step, Myron said. What did he do?
Sophie took that one. He peed in the cup, Myron. It's pretty simple.
It was never pretty simple. Did someone watch him urinate?
What?
Did someone actually witness Clu peeing or did he step into a stall? Myron said. Was he
naked when he did it or did he have on shorts
What difference does any of that make?
Plenty. Clu had spent his lifetime beating these tests. If he knew they were coming, he'd be prepared.
Prepared how? Sophie asked. Lots of ways, depending on the sophistication of the test, Myron said. If the testing was more primitive, you can put motor oil on your fingers and let the urine hit them while urinating. The phosphates throw the results out of whack. Some testers know this, so they check for phosphates. If the tester lets the guy urinate in a stall, he can strap clean urine onto his inner thigh and use that. Or the testee keeps the clean urine hidden in a condom or small balloon. He stores it in the lining of his boxer shorts maybe. Or between his toes. Under his armpit. In his mouth even.
Are you serious?
It gets worse. If the testee gets tipped off a strict test is coming up one where the
administrators are watching every move he makes he'll drain his bladder and use a catheter to
pump in clean urine.
Sophie Mayor looked horror-stricken. He pumps someone else's urine into his bladder?
Yes, Myron said.
Jesus. Then she pinned him down with her eyes. You seem to know quite a bit about this,
Myron.
So did Clu.
What are you saying?
It raises some questions, that's all.
He probably got caught by surprise.
Maybe, Myron said. But if you were testing him every week, how surprised could he have
been?
He might have just messed up, Sophie went on. Drug addicts have a way of doing that.
Could be. But I'd like to speak with the person who administered the test.
Dr. Stilwell, Jared said. He's the team doctor. He handled it. Sawyer Wells assisted him.
Sawyer Wells, as in the self-help guru?
He's a psychologist specializing in human behavior and an excellent motivational therapist,
Jared corrected.
Motivational therapist. Uh-huh. Are either of them around now?
No, I don't think so. But they'll be here later. We have a home game tonight.
Who on the team was especially friendly with Clu? A coach, a player?
I really wouldn't know, Jared said.
Who did he room with on the road?
Sophie almost smiled. You really were out of touch, weren't you?
Cabral, Jared said. Enos Cabral. He's a Cuban pitcher.
Myron knew him. He nodded, glancing about, and that was when he saw it. His heart lurched,
and it took all his willpower not to scream.
He had just been sweeping the room with his eyes, taking the room in but not really seeing
anything, just the normal thing everyone does, when an object snagged his gaze as though on a
rusted hook. Myron froze. On the credenza. On the right side of the credenza, mixed in with the
other framed photos and the trophies and those latex cubes that encased civic awards and the first
issue of Mayor Software stock and the like. Right there. A framed photograph.
A framed photograph of the girl on the computer diskette.
Myron tried to maintain a calm facade. Deep breath in, deep breath out. But he could feel his
pulse quicken. His mind fought through the haze, searching for a temporary clearing. He scanned his internal memory banks. Okay, slow down. Breathe. Keep breathing.
No wonder the girl had looked familiar to him. But what was her deal? More memory bank scanning. She was Sophie Mayor's daughter, of course. Jared Mayor's sister. What was her name again? His recollections were vague. What had happened to her? A runaway, right? Ten, fifteen years ago. There had been an estrangement or something. Foul play was not suspected. Or was it? He didn't remember.
Myron?
He needed to think. Calmly. He needed space, time. He couldn't just blurt out, Oh, I got this
weird diskette with an image of your daughter melting in blood on it. He had to get out of here.
Do some research. Think it through. He stood, clumsily looking at his watch.
I have to go, he said.
What?
I'd like to speak with Dr. Stilwell as soon as possible, he said.
aSophie's eyes stayed on him. I don't see the relevance.
I just explained
What difference would it make? Clu is dead now. The drug test isn't relevant.
There might be a connection.
Between his death and a drug test?
Yes.
I'm not sure I agree.
I'd still like to check it out. I have that right.
What right?
If the drug test was inconclusive, it changes things.
Changes what Then Sophie stopped, smiled a bit, and nodded to herself. I think I see now.
Myron said nothing.
You mean in terms of his contract, don't you?
I have to go, he repeated.
She leaned back and recrossed her arms. Well, Myron, I have to hand it to you. You are
definitely an agent. Trying to squeeze one more commission out of a corpse, eh?
Myron let the insult roll off. If Clu was clean, his contract would still be valid. You'd owe the
family at least three million dollars.
So this is a shakedown? You're here for money?
He glanced at the picture of the young girl again. He remembered the diskette, the laugh, the
blood. Right now, he said, I'd just like to talk with the team doctor.
Sophie Mayor looked at him like he was a turd on the carpet. Get out of my office, Myron.
Will you let me speak to the doctor?
You don't have any legal standing here.
