None of the deaths were considered possible homicides by the various police entities that investigated, which we already knew. However, Laurie has checked into four of them so far, and when viewed through the prism that we now hold, they could look quite suspicious. As examples, she cites the hit-and-run and Matt Lane’s hunting accident. The five heart attacks are bewildering, and I ask Laurie to check with a doctor, one we sometimes use as an expert witness, about whether there is a drug that can cause a heart attack and not show up in an autopsy.
Vince calls back within a few minutes and sounds annoyed. “I told you I’d call you back when I set up the meeting,” he says.
“That’s not why I’m calling,” I say.
“Jesus, what the hell do you need now?”
“Vince, I’m going to ask you a question. I just want you to answer it and not assume it’s important to the Schilling case. I don’t want you to start tracking it down as a possible hot story.”
“Then you must be trying to reach a different Vince,” he says.
“You’ll get whatever I have first. But this can’t go public in any way now.”
He thinks for a moment. “Okay.”
“Did you ever hear of a magazine called
“Sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“It’s a magazine that’s folded. I need a list of the people that wrote for it in the last ten years and copies of any stories that included Kenny Schilling or Troy Preston.” I have a hunch and decide to throw it in. “I also want to know if any of the writers are currently at the
“That’s all?” he asks.
“That’s all.”
“Give me two hours,” he says.
“You’re a genius.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Vince then proceeds to use up five minutes of the two hours making me swear repeatedly that he will get whatever story comes out of his labor, as well as any story that doesn’t. I’m happy to do so. Vince’s contacts are amazing, and if I’m going to need to learn anything in the media world, he is a person who can absolutely make it happen.
Two hours gives me just enough time to take Tara for a short tennis ball session in the park, as long as I drive there. I haven’t thrown a ball with Tara in a while, but one of her twelve million great qualities is that she doesn’t hold a grudge. Willie and Cash join us, which is fine with me: Though Tara doesn’t have many dog friends, she has always liked Cash.
Cash is the more competitive of the two dogs; it’s very important to him that he retrieve each thrown ball. Tara is more out for the fun of the game, though I toss the ball in her direction often enough that she gets her share.
Willie lets me do the throwing, and I note that his eyes are constantly sweeping the park, probably looking for one of Quintana’s people. I’m just about to suggest that we leave when I hear Willie say, “Andy, get the dogs and get in the car.”
We are near the Little League fields, and I see Willie looking off in the direction of what we called Dead Man’s Curve when we rode bikes down it as kids. It’s about three hundred yards away, and I can see a dark sedan navigating the curve, which will eventually lead to where we are. It is a classically ominous-looking car.
I don’t pause to ask questions, yelling for Tara and Cash to follow me. All three of us are in the backseat within seconds, and Willie follows along right behind us and gets in the driver’s seat. He pulls out, quickly but without screeching the tires, and in moments we’re driving in the security and anonymity of Route 4.
“Was that who I think it was?” I ask.
Willie looks at me in the rearview mirror and shrugs. “Don’t know. But I didn’t think we should wait around to find out.”
“I can’t run away every time I see a car,” I say.
“What are you gonna do, stay and fight?” he asks. “They’ve got Uzis, you’ve got a tennis ball.”
This is no way to live.
* * * * *
THE PHONE IS RINGING as I walk into the house.
“You want me to fax you the articles?” is Vince’s replacement for a normal person’s “Hello.”
“Fax them.”
“I’ll include the list of writers, but only one of them works for the
“What’s his name?”
“George Karas.”
George Karas has, over the last few years, become one of the more well-known sportswriters in the business. He’s done this, as have others, by branching out past writing into television, becoming one of the pundits that are called on to give opinions about the games men play.
Karas would therefore certainly qualify as a “famous” sportswriter, someone Adam might well have bragged to his parents that he had spoken to. It gives me more hope that we’re on the right track.
“How do I get to him?” I ask.
“He’s waiting for your call,” Vince says, and gives me Karas’s direct phone number.
“Vince, this is great. I owe you big-time,” I say.
“You got that right. That reminds me, I set up the meeting with Petrone.”
“For when?”
“Eight o’clock tomorrow night. They’ll pick you up in front of your office.”
“Thanks, Vince. I really appreciate all of this.”
Since Vince is no longer on the phone, I hang up my end and call Karas at the number Vince gave me, which turns out to be his cell phone. We’re only ten seconds into our conversation when I catch another break: He’s on his way home to Fort Lee and offers to meet me for a cup of coffee.
We meet at a diner on Route 4 in Paramus, and Karas is waiting at a table when I arrive. I recognize him because I watch all those idiotic sports panel shows that he’s on. I introduce myself, then say, “I really appreciate your meeting me like this.”
“Vince told me he’d cut my balls off if I didn’t talk to you,” he says.
“He’s a fun guy, isn’t he?”
He nods. “A barrel of laughs. Does this meeting have something to do with the Schilling case? Vince wouldn’t tell me.”
His question is a little jarring on a personal note. I keep forgetting that the Schilling case, more than ever before, has at least made me nationally recognizable, if not a celebrity. The truth is that more people in this diner would know who I am than the “famous” sportswriter I’m having coffee with.
“It may. It depends on what you have to say. But I have to tell you that this is on background… off the record.”
He’s surprised by that. “Am I here as a journalist?”
“Partly,” I say. “But I need assurance that you won’t use it as a journalist, at least for the time being.”
He thinks for a few moments, then reluctantly nods. “Okay. Shoot.”
“A man that was working for me as an investigator was murdered last week. His name was Adam Strickland. Did he contact you around that time?”
Karas’s face clouds slightly as he searches for a connection to the name. It’s disappointing, but that disappointment fades when I see the light go on in his eyes. “Yes… I think that was the name. My God, that was the young man that was murdered in your office?”
“Yes. You spoke to him?”
Karas is quiet for a few moments, either trying to remember the conversation or trying to deal with this close brush with someone’s sudden death. “He didn’t tell me he was working for you… he just said he was a private
