'Let me know when she does.'
'Then give me your prints.'
'Come on, Pete,' Nick said. 'Cooperate so we can get on to the new endorsement deals. With that Open trophy, I can set you up for life-heck, you can buy more guns. We gotta move fast before the window of opportunity closes.'
Pete chewed on that and his cigar a moment, then said, 'No.'
Scott decided to push Pete. 'You were at Trey's house the day he was murdered. You went there to get Billie Jean. You found them having sex, didn't you? We have witnesses who saw her black Mustang there, and both of you.'
'A buncha goddamn…'
Pete caught himself. He wasn't going to make the same mistake Billie Jean had made. He turned and faced Scott straight on, as if he were about to hit him-and for a moment, Scott thought he might have pushed Pete Puckett too far. His jaws were clenched so tight Scott thought he might bite the cigar in half.
'I was in Florida… and you can go to hell.'
Pete Puckett pivoted and walked off.
'That went well.' Nick shook his head and sighed. 'He's never gonna get a network announcing job when he retires, not with that attitude. He makes Johnny Miller seem lovable.'
'I'm not leaving without his prints.'
Scott followed Pete to the clubhouse. Pete ducked into the players' lounge and went straight to the bar. Scott stood just outside the door. The bartender filled a shot glass with hard liquor and pushed it in front of Pete. He reached out for the glass but froze. He turned-Scott ducked out of sight-and gave the room a suspicious glance. Pete then turned back to the bar, picked up a napkin, wrapped it around the shot glass, and downed the liquor. He stood and went over to the far side of the lounge where a security guard manned a door with a sign that read 'Men's Locker Room.' The guard opened the door and Pete walked through, then the guard shut the door behind him.
'Pete's got a bad back.' Nick had come up behind Scott. 'After every round, he needs a massage.'
'I need his prints.'
'Come on.' Nick led the way over to the security guard. He flashed his credentials and pointed a thumb at Scott. 'He's with me.'
The guard opened the door, and they walked down a flight of stairs and into a locker room. Pudgy, pale- bellied golfers in various stages of undress ambled past. Nick grimaced at the sight and whispered, 'I'm getting nauseous.'
Nick climbed onto a chair and peeked over a row of lockers. He stepped down and again whispered, 'Pete's over there.'
They backed out of sight. A few minutes later, Pete walked away heading in the opposite direction with only a towel around his waist. Nick motioned to Scott to follow. They hurried around the corner and to an open locker.
'This is Pete's,' Nick said.
A locker door stood open with Pete Puckett's personal possessions in plain sight.
'Don't the players lock up their stuff?'
'Only in the NBA.' Nick grabbed a set of keys. 'Let's go.'
Scott followed Nick back upstairs and out the front door of the clubhouse to a massive black RV stationed at the back of the parking lot.
'Pete's home away from home, like the country music stars travel around in,' Nick said. 'A lot of the players are traveling in these now, at least the ones who can't afford their own jet.'
Nick knocked on the door, then used a key to gain entrance. They climbed up and stepped inside.
'Five-star hotel on wheels,' Nick said. 'Cost a million bucks.'
The RV had leather upholstery and wood-paneled walls, a flat-screen TV, and a full kitchen with granite countertops. Nick was glancing around.
'What would have his prints on it?' He snapped his fingers. 'Guns.'
'He carries guns with him on tour?'
'Pete? Shit, he doesn't get the mail without a gun.'
They walked down a narrow hall past a bathroom and into a bedroom at the rear of the RV. Nick opened several closets then said, 'Told you.'
Fixed in a gun rack in the closet were four rifles and two pistols. Scott pulled out the tape and tore off a piece.
'What's his favorite?'
'The biggest.'
Scott reached for a rifle but stopped at the sound of a noise up front. Nick stepped to the bedroom door and peeked out. He came back fast.
'Shit! It's Billie Jean.'
They searched for a hiding place.
'Under the bed.'
They dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. They were lying close enough that Scott could smell Nick's last beer on his breath. The bedspread hung down low enough to conceal them, but they still had a line of sight down the hall and into the kitchen at the front of the RV. Billie Jean went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of chocolate milk then turned the TV on and watched a soap opera.
'Shit,' Nick whispered, 'if she doesn't leave soon, Pete's gonna come back.'
'That'll be embarrassing.'
'And dangerous.'
Billie Jean drank the milk then turned off the TV and walked toward them-they froze-but she entered the bathroom and closed the door. They soon heard the shower running.
'Let's get outta here!' Nick whispered.
They crawled out from under the bed and tiptoed past the bathroom. Once in the kitchen, Scott whispered, 'I need his prints.'
Nick pointed. 'Whiskey.'
'No time to drink.'
'No-take the whiskey bottle. It's half empty, means Pete touched it.'
'Could be Billie Jean's prints.'
'She only drinks chocolate milk.'
Scott grabbed a paper towel and then the bottle, and they left quietly. They jogged across the parking lot to the rental car. It was a Jetta. Nick laughed.
'Don't you hate these cheap rentals they give you?'
'I own a Jetta.'
'You had a Ferrari and now you're driving a Jetta? Nice career move.'
'Yeah, it's worked out well.'
'Least you still got your sense of humor.'
'And my daughters.'
Nick nodded. 'Kids are nice… but I'd rather have a Ferrari.'
'Where can I find Dr. Tim?'
'Scott, if every professional athlete were a well-adjusted, mature, happy individual, what would psychologists do for a living?'
Timothy O'Brien, sports psychologist, practiced out of an office in downtown Houston. Scott had flown back to Houston and driven downtown. Dr. Tim had agreed to wait for him. Scott felt stupid addressing him as 'Dr. Tim.'
'We've invested so much in sports today, and not just money. Our national psyche. Who we are. We need to be good at something, but it seems we're good for nothing these days… the economy, education, health care. So we invest our self-esteem in sports, emotionally and financially. How much did the new Dallas Cowboys stadium up there cost?'
