Chapter Seventeen
Jake watched, stunned, as Deaner made his way down the stairs, reached the floor, and vanished into the crowd. His thoughts raced. It had been such a bizarre conversation.
I bet you drive a nice car, like an Audi.
Jake felt a bolt of panic. It was too much of a coincidence. The Audi, the mention of the hit-and-run, even the newspaper headline. What if it was all intentional? What if Deaner knew?
Jake told himself not to jump to conclusions. He had to stay calm. He spotted Pam and her friends, climbing the steps and heading toward him. There had been no one else around that night on Pike Road. The corporate center had been empty, there were no houses. But if Deaner didn’t know anything, why was he coming to Jake’s office? Was Deaner still at the game?
Jake scanned the crowd, but didn’t see Deaner. Was he coming back? Why did he leave? What had just happened? Who the hell was this guy? Jake slid his smartphone from his pocket, got online, and typed in Lewis Deaner freelance technical writer. Instantly a group of links came onto the tiny screen, and he clicked the first, but it was from a man in Huntsville, Alabama.
Jake reformulated his search request and typed in Lewis Deaner freelance technical writer PA, but he got no responses. So either Lewis Deaner wasn’t Deaner’s real name or the man wasn’t a technical writer. He plugged in Lewis Deaner Concord Chase PA, but it came back no responses. He tried to compose himself.
“Don’t work so hard, honey.” Pam was sitting down, handing him a bottle of water and a soft pretzel wrapped in transparent paper. “Want a snack?”
“No, thanks.” Jake slipped his smartphone back into his pocket.
“How’s he doing?” Pam craned her neck at the court and watched Ryan, who was in line to shoot.
“Fine,” Jake answered, though he didn’t know. His attention went to the kid with the glasses on the Cardinals, Number 16. The kid took a jumper, and Jake wondered if Number 16 was really Deaner’s son. The Cardinals didn’t have their last names on the back of their jerseys, neither did the Chasers. Jake could have IDed Number 16 from the Cardinals website, but not in front of Pam, who was introducing two moms in Chasers Nation hoodies, filing in behind her and sitting down.
“Honey, meet Melissa and her sister Gwen. Melissa is Baird’s mom. You know him, he’s a forward, a senior. He’s going to Princeton next year and he’ll be playing for them.”
“Oh, great, right. Hi.” Jake couldn’t focus, replaying his conversation with Deaner.
“Nice to meet you,” answered Melissa and her sister Gwen, in unfortunate unison, then they laughed. They both had short strawberry blond hair and their smiles were similar, though Gwen looked older, with reading glasses on a multicolored lanyard.
Chasers Nation parents started to find seats in this section, mixing in with the red-shirted North Mayfield parents. He masked his thoughts, which were in overdrive. Maybe Deaner really wasn’t a team father? What if he was a cop, digging for information? Working undercover?
“Jake, look, here come Katie and Sean, and Chris and Vanessa with the kids.” Pam motioned to a Chasers-clad group, and they waved back, grinning. The moms had maroon basketballs painted on their cheeks, like forty-year-old Raggedy Anns, but Jake found himself eyeing the Cardinal moms with the tiaras, at the end of the row.
“Hello, ladies. Pam, excuse me a minute.” Jake rose, setting his water bottle and soft pretzel on the bleacher. “I’m going to the men’s room before the game starts.”
“Okay, hurry back.” Pam patted his leg, but Jake was already walking down the row, returning the smiles that everyone flashed at him and waving back to the other Concord Chase parents.
“Excuse me, sorry,” he said, moving down the row, stepping over sneakers and handbags, and finally reaching the aisle, where the tiara moms sat in a rowdy row. “Ladies, can I ask you a question about the Cardinals?”
“Sure,” answered the first tiara mom.
“Do you know Number 16, that player with the glasses?” Jake gestured to their half-court, where the team had finished its warm-up and were stripping off their jerseys and sweatpants and handing them to their manager, who stowed them in a red laundry bag.
“Sure, that’s Mikey.”
“Mikey.” Jake’s heart began to thump in his chest. Deaner had said his son’s name was Steve. “What’s Mikey’s last name?”
“Murcio, why?” shouted a stocky man from the row behind them, in a Cardinals T-shirt and glasses so thick that Jake took a calculated guess.
“Are you Mikey’s father?”
“Yeah. Mike Sr.” The man rose, extending a beefy hand. “Why?”
Jake shook his hand, introduced himself. “I think your son came to the job fair last year and talked to me. I wanted to know if he followed up with the financial planning firm I told him about.”
“I don’t think so.” Mike Sr. looked at the woman sitting next to him, a short redhead. “Babe, did Mike go to some job fair last year and see a financial planner?”
The wife shrugged, with a smile. “Who remembers? I don’t even remember yesterday. Don’t ask me where I put my car keys.”
Mike Sr. chuckled, facing Jake. “Sorry.”
“No worries, he’s a nice kid.” Jake had gotten the answer he needed, which only worried him more. He didn’t know who Deaner really was. He kicked himself for giving him a business card.
“Good luck, bro.” Mike Sr. lowered himself onto the bleachers, and the tiara moms started to cheer.
“Go, Cardinals, go! Go, Cardinals, go!”
Jake hurried down the bleacher steps, reached the gym floor, and threaded his way through the crowds hurrying to get to their seats before the game. He looked for Deaner on the floor and in the stands, but didn’t see him. He followed the signs to the men’s room and hurried inside.
The room was empty, and he hustled to the sink, stuck his hands under the automatic faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. His heart raced, his head pounded. He felt like he was having a panic attack.
I bet you drive a nice car, like an Audi.
Jake leaned over, bracing himself on the sink. He had to get it together. Pam would begin to wonder if he was gone too long. He could hear the crowd outside surging again, and the announcer’s over-amplified voice welcoming everyone to the game.
He reached for a paper towel and dried his face, barely recognizing the expression on his face, one he’d never seen on himself. It was a mixture of bewilderment and dread, as if he were permanently aghast.
The crowd started cheering wildly, and it brought Jake back. He hurried to the door and pushed it open, only to find Dr. Dave in the hallway. “Oh, hi, excuse me.”
“Jake, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dave Tolliver, Ryan’s shooting coach? We met last year at the championship dinner?” Dr. Dave smiled quickly, showing even teeth. He was of average height, much thinner than Jake, and his jet-black hair was cut close to his head, with sideburns too long for anyone not in a rock band.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I knew that. Dr. Dave.” Jake extended a hand, which Dr. Dave shook.
“Right.” Dr. Dave grinned, looking ready for GQ in a charcoal suit jacket of some sleek Italian cut, which somehow coordinated with his hip, graphite glasses.
“Thanks for your help with Ryan.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Dr. Dave’s eyes were dark brown, and for some reason, oddly serious. “I was looking for you, and Pam said I might find you here.”
“Oh?” Jake said, taken aback.
“Got a minute? It’s about Ryan.”