'One-point-two billion,' Scott said.
'For a football stadium-our twenty-first century monuments.' Dr. Tim waved a hand at the world outside the window. 'The icons of Houston are no longer oil wildcatters or heart surgeons or even astronauts-they're quarterbacks and point guards and pitchers. We idolize them but we demand perfection from them, at least on the field of play. We treat them special-until they fail us. Then we turn on them. You read the sports pages or listen to talk radio? It's vicious now. A player strikes out or fumbles or misses a shot and his team loses, the media and fans attack him personally, as if he's a bad person for failing. As if he betrayed their city, even their country. I've had athletes get death threats for losing a game. That's a lot of pressure on a young man, too much pressure for some. I've seen the psychological damage it does to them.'
'You're telling me rich athletes are victims of society?'
'We're all victims of society, Scott. You have children?'
'Two daughters. Eleven.'
'Twins?'
'In every way except biological.'
'They might become victims of society, too.'
'Not on my watch.'
Dr. Tim smiled. He reminded Scott of the girls' pediatrician.
'Tell me about Trey,' Scott said.
'Scott, I'd like to help, but what I know about my patients is confidential.'
'There's no doctor-patient privilege in Texas, and your patient is dead. I'm defending the person charged with his murder. I can subpoena your records and you to testify at trial. I'm sure you'd like to avoid that. I just need some information, to help me find his killer.'
Dr. Tim pondered the implications of being subpoenaed, then shrugged.
'He is dead. Okay. What do you want to know?'
'Did he ever tell you he was going to marry Rebecca?'
'He never even mentioned her.'
'Did he tell you he was afraid of anyone?'
'No. Why?'
'He started carrying a gun.'
Dr. Tim nodded. 'All my football and basketball players carry guns. Part of the culture.'
'Why was he seeing you?'
'Same as most of my patients. Addiction.'
'I've never understood addiction.'
Dr. Tim smiled. 'Representing your ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she left you for-that strikes me as a bit addictive. You want to talk about it?'
'Well, she… No. I want to talk about Trey. What addictions did he suffer from?'
'The correct question is, What addictions didn't he suffer from? See, Trey had an addictive personality. He didn't just enjoy golf, he was addicted to it. Same with alcohol, cocaine, sex-'
' Sex? He was addicted to sex?'
'It's not a joke, Scott, or just a Hollywood diagnosis. It's a real addiction. Sex addiction is often connected to a narcissistic personality disorder. I've treated many athletes suffering from both. They obsess about sex, view pornography compulsively, engage in risky sex, public sex, short-term sex with numerous partners whom they view only as objects-some have claimed over a hundred sexual conquests.'
'A hundred women in one man's life?'
'In one season.' Dr. Tim shrugged. 'For them, Scott, sex is fulfilling a need other than the human sex drive. See, teenage boys view pornography to watch the female, but the narcissistic personality wants to watch himself.'
'Trey was a grown man.'
'Not really. He suffered deferred adolescence, a lot of pro athletes do. They have people who take care of their every need every day, from their first day of college to the last day of their pro careers, just like their parents did when they were children. So they don't have to grow up until after their careers are over, and for many, it's too late.' He sighed. 'I'm afraid Trey was the perfect storm: a handsome, rich, talented, narcissistic, sex-addicted pro athlete suffering from deferred adolescence manifested by multiple partners, obsession with pornography, sex tapes-'
Scott snapped forward in his chair.
'Sex tapes? What sex tapes?'
THIRTY
'You find the leak?'
'Nope.'
The next morning, Scott dropped the baggies containing the tape strips with Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints and the whiskey bottle with Pete Puckett's fingerprints on the district attorney's desk. The D.A. studied the whiskey bottle.
'Good stuff. I'll get Hank to run 'em.' He held out a document. 'Trey's phone bills came in, we ran the numbers. One name caught my eye-Gabe Petrocelli.'
'Who's he?'
'Local bookie. Straight line to Vegas.'
'The mob? In Galveston?'
'Mob's been here since Galveston was Sin City. How do you think the Maceo brothers got Sinatra to play the Balinese Room?'
'Trey was gambling?'
'He had Gabe's cell phone number, and Gabe had his. I don't figure them for double-dating.'
'You see Obama's finally gonna pardon Jack Johnson?'
Gabe Petrocelli tapped a thick finger on the sports section of the local newspaper spread across the table.
'Who's Jack Johnson and what did he do?' Scott said.
'Heavyweight champion of the world, nineteen-oh-eight through nineteen-fifteen. Born and raised right here on the Island.'
'That's not a crime.'
'He married a white woman.'
'I was married to a white woman.'
'He was black. First black champion, the Ali of his times, the most famous athlete in the world back then. Wore custom suits, drove fast cars, and married three white women, which didn't sit so well with white men back then. They convicted him under the Mann Act for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. You know that law is still on the books?'
'I do know that.'
'Stupid… the law, not you.'
'Thanks.'
'After he won the title, race riots broke out all across the country. That 'Great White Hope' business started because of Johnson, boxing folks trying to find a white fighter who could beat him. Boy, must've been big betting on those fights.' Gabe sighed. 'Not much betting on boxing these days, everyone's gone to cage fighting and football. Like Trey.'
Gabe Petrocelli had curly black hair, a barrel chest, and the hairiest arms Scott had ever seen on a man. He appeared to be in his late forties. He had grown up in the bookmaking business and had taken over the family franchise. His bar-'Gabe's'-was located in a renovated Victorian-style building on Strand Avenue in the entertainment district near the harbor. The bar was not yet open for business that day, but Scott's business card
