Double Play, Page 4

Clay about playing ball, Clay told him how he was having trouble getting anyone to let him back on the field. Sam told him about Henry, Maggie's dad. Henry owned the single-A San Jose Braves. Sam offered to introduce Clay to Henry when he came out to California for the wedding.

  And, when they met, Henry couldn't have been nicer, or more gracious to Clay. They had lunch as soon as Clay got to San Jose and got on together right away. Henry never even asked to see Sam play. He told Clay that he had just sent a first baseman up to double-A, and he needed a guy to fill the spot right away. So, Clay started the next day at first base for the Braves on a short term contract.

  After the short-term contract was up, Henry was pleased enough with Clay that he signed him for the remainder of the 1946 season. And he deserved it. He batted over three hundred that season and was only charged two errors on the field during his time at first base. And, though his leg was causing him more and more pain during those playing days, he had similar results during the 1947 season.

  During the off-seasons, Clay had started work as an apprentice for a P.I. out of San Francisco—another job he got through Sam. The P.I., Jack Clayborne, had once worked as an agent for the Prohibition Bureau. But, as it became clear that prohibition's days were numbered, he decided to start his own private firm. Clay started working for Jack in the autumn of 1946, and spent the next two years, when he wasn't playing baseball, learning what he could about the P.I. game from Jack. Then in the spring of 1948, with Jack's blessing, Clay started his own P.I. business in San Jose and took a leave of absence from the game of baseball.

  Clay's startled by a knock on his driver's side window. It's Sam.

  "What are you waiting for in there? An invitation?" Sam asks.

  Clay rolls down the window. "No, just got here a little early, that's all."

  "Well, it's time now," Sam says. He turns his wrist to look at his watch, causing some coffee to spill from one of the two cups he has in his hand. "Damn, that's hot!"

  Clay gets out of the car. "You alright?"

  "Yeah, just made a little mess on my hand," Sam says. "I got you a cup of coffee. You want it?" Sam asks Clay, holding out the coffee, even though Clay is already holding a cup.

  "Sure, this one's gone cold anyway," he says, grabbing the new cup from Sam, and dumping the old coffee on the ground before throwing the empty cup in his car's open window.

  "So, what have you been up to lately?" Sam asks, as they walk into the county sheriff's office.

  "The usual," Clay says as they walk through the station.

  "Have a seat," Sam says, entering his office. He grabs a pile of folders and papers from a chair and throws them on a desk already swamped with other piles of folders and papers.

  "I should be asking you what you've been up to. I don't see you around much anymore."

  "This job keeps me too damn busy to do anything else."

  "Guess so," Clay says, nodding at the stacks of files on Sam's desk.

  "Paperwork, Clay. I swear they'll bury me in it."

  "It doesn't look like it'll take 'em much longer."

  "Yeah, it looks bad, I know," Sam says, surveying the stacks. "So, what'd you want to see me about?"

  "I wanted to see if you might be able to help me get some information about the accident a few weeks back?"

  "Brett?"

  "That's the one."

  "What do you want to know about that for?" Sam asks, leaning back in his chair like someone who's grown too comfortable in his position, but, as he goes to put his feet up, he knocks over a stack of folders. He looks down at the mess of papers that have fallen from the folders, but quickly turns back to Clay.

  "You want to get those?"

  "Don't worry about it," Sam says, looking straight at Clay. "Why do you want to know about the accident?"

  "It might have a connection to a case I'm working."

  "Are you subcontracting in the life insurance game or something?"

  "No, it's a private case."

  "Someone came to you about the accident?"

  "Something like that."

  "Who?" Sam asks.

  "I can't tell you that."

  "I've never known you to be secretive before."

  "We've never talked about a case of mine before."

  "That's true. And you've never asked me about a case I've worked either, a closed case at that."

  "You've closed the case?"

  "A couple days ago."

  "Is there anyway I can look at your report?'

  "I can show the initial accident report, but there's not much there that you probably haven't seen already in the newspaper."

  "And the report on the investigation, what about that?"

  "Can't let you look at that."

  "Never known you to be so secretive, Sam," Clay says, letting his crooked half-smile bend across his face.

  "Look, I'm not trying to withhold anything. It's a pretty standard report. I don't mind answering some questions for you, if I can. But I can't let you look at the file yet."

  "But I thought the case was closed."

  "It is, but there's a process a report like that has to go through before it becomes public record."

  "Okay, what happened? How'd the accident happen?"

  "Going too fast for his own good. Didn't help matters that he was three sheets to the wind."

  "How do you know he was drunk?"

  "Because he was at Eddie's after the game that night with some of the boys."

  "He was at Eddie's?"

  "That's right, and according to everyone that saw him there that night, he threw back more than his fair share."

  "Where was he headed after he left the bar?"

  "Nobody knew for sure, but most say he was probably going up to Fremont to play some cards."

  "Cards? What kind of cards?"

  "Poker game, I think."

  "You know who he played with."

  "Does it matter?"

  "Was it Ramsey?"

  "I suppose it could've been."

  "That's interesting."

  "It might sound like it, but it's got no connection to the accident."

  "Maybe, maybe not."

  "Now, wait a second—"

  "You say he was going too fast. How do you know?"

  "From the rubber he left on the road."

  "How much?"

  "Nearly a hundred feet. It's in the file, but… You could go outside Milpitas and have a look. I reckon you know where it happened?"

  "I know whereabouts."

  "Just look for the never ending skid marks that lead to the enormous patch of burned up countryside."

  "How badly were the bodies burned?"

  "To a crisp. Never seen anything like it. We were on the scene in a timely manner, but, with it being so dry, and with the wind blowing the way it was that night, that fire was one of the meanest I'd seen. It was over an hour before the firemen were able to give us the all-clear to even examine the car."

  "No kidding?"

  "Kid you not."

  "So, how'd you end up identifying the bodies?"

  "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to surmise who it was. Best not to complicate these things. Once we had the license number from the car, we knew who it was."

  "So, you couldn't tell from the bodies?"

  "Oh, no. They were burned up real bad. In fact, the state had to send up a dental forensics guy to try and identify them by their teeth."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, it's amazing what they can do these days."

  "And you were able to identify them by old dental records?"

  "We were able to positively identify Brett from his dental records."

  "So, how'd you ID her?"

  "Body type, height—standard stuff."

  "That's it."

  "What else could we do, Clay? We couldn't find any trace of her dental records anywhere. They just didn't exist. Besides, just think about it for a minute. Who else would've been with Brett in his car? It's just the logical c
onclusion to make. Best not to complicate these things."

  "You said that already."

  "It's worth repeating."

  "So, no positive ID then?"

  "No. No positive dental ID, but we had an eyewitness that saw them leave Eddie's Bar together before the accident."

  "Who was that?"

  "Emma's brother."

  "Kevin?"

  "That's him," Sam says. "Then we had him come in to identify the body."

  "The burned up body?"

  "That's what we had."

  "That must've been tough for him to see."

  "We were out of options."

  "And he gave you your positive ID?"

  "That's right."

  Clay sits for a minute, stares off into space.

  "What's going on, Clay?"

  Clay looks at Sam. "I don't know. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Who knows?"

  "You wanna fill me in?"

  "On what?"

  "Clay?"

  "There's nothing to fill in. If I find anything, I'll fill you in."

  "Do I need to re-open this case?"

  "I'm not sure you should've closed it in the first place."

  Driving to the scene of the accident, Clay was still running over his conversation with Sam in his head. There were a couple things that Sam said that were still needling at him.

  The Ramsey poker game that Brett was headed to in Fremont was Clay's first real clue that there may actually be something to Wayne's concerns, and he didn't like how defensive Sam was about the whole thing.

  Clay knew about Ramsey from his San Francisco days. Ramsey often hired Jack, Clay's old boss, to have people followed. As an apprentice for Jack, Clay was often given the job of following guys for Ramsey. And, though Clay never met him personally, he'd heard plenty of stories about Ramsey from Jack. Clay wasn't ever sure if Jack ever actually met Ramsey in person. Apparently, this level of secrecy was so Jack could maintain some plausible deniability about Ramsey and his activities. And Jack never seemed to ask too many questions about why Ramsey wanted so many of his associates followed. No one even needed to ask questions. Everyone knew why. It was always