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Laura pulled out her notebook to jot down the registration, as well as the make and model of the car – a newer black coupe. “Thanks,” she said. “We’ll keep you updated.”
Blackford ended the call on his end with a grunt, as if that stood in for a sufficient goodbye.
“You got it?” Nate asked, his eyes flicking overhead to take in the lights as they sped across the city once again.
“Yep, and his guys will keep an eye out,” Laura said. She was feeling a surge of adrenaline, a kind of excited hope that they might be on the right path already. If this was him, it was going to be thrilling. Done with a troubling case in less than a day. She wouldn’t just have the weekend with Lacey, she’d have the whole week before it to catch up on paperwork and get ready, too.
“We aren’t far,” Nate said, checking his mirrors. “Sounds like Bradley wasn’t entirely honest with us. You think he genuinely works at the hospice?”
“Maybe he’s part time. Or a volunteer,” Laura said. “These minor league guys, they make… what? Peanuts, really, compared to the majors.”
Nate nodded. “I don’t think it’s a high-A team,” he said. “But it’s still shady that he didn’t mention it. You’d think he’d want to bring it up, if he wasn’t hiding something.”
Something like his number. Laura couldn’t help but agree. Nate was already turning through a set of gates that opened up onto a baseball field, the parking lot to the left scattered with just a small number of cars.
Among them, as Nate found a spot, Laura craned her head and found a black newer-model coupe. The registration matched up.
He was here.
“That’s the car,” she said, nodding towards it as she opened the door and jumped out. Nate had to hold back to switch off the engine and put the car in park, joining her just as she was done looking through the windows to see if there was anything incriminating left out on the seats. She shook her head – the car was clean. Almost too clean. Like he’d made sure of it before coming out. And who exactly went to practice the day after their girlfriend was murdered, as though nothing was happening?
Maybe someone who didn’t quite feel the emotional impact they claimed to. Maybe, Laura thought, someone who had done the killing themselves and didn’t need to stay at home and deal with the shock.
“Inside, then,” Nate said. Laura followed his lead as they marched across the lot and towards the ticket kiosks guarding the entrance to the field, which were currently manned by a bored-looking teenager in a reflective vest.
“We’re closed for practice today,” he called out as they approached, his voice coming out strangled with that scratchy quality of late adolescence, not yet fully deepened. “No members of the public.”
“Then it’s a good job we’re not members of the public,” Nate said, flipping his badge open. The kid’s eyes got wide. “We’re looking for one of the players. Are they all on the field?”
“Yes, sir,” the teenager said, making an awkward movement with his arms. It was like he’d had the urge to salute, realized it wasn’t appropriate, and tried to suppress it. “Um. Should I call my supervisor?”
“That won’t be necessary, son,” Nate said. Despite the gravity of the moment, Laura had to try hard not to smile. Nate was probably less than twenty years older than the kid, but he was obviously leaning into the fearful respect he was being given. “Just close the gates behind us. We don’t want anyone leaving without our having spoken to them.”
“Um.” The kid looked to the left and then to the right, like he was afraid something was about to happen right now. “What about the other entrance?”
“Where is it?”
“Straight shot down that side,” the kid said, pointing. “We have one at either end of the lot, so it’s not too crowded on game nights.”
“Thanks,” Nate said, glancing at Laura to make sure she’d heard. “Maybe you ought to radio that supervisor after all, get him to shut up shop over there too. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the kid said smartly, nodding and yanking a handheld radio from his belt.
Laura and Nate walked past him, hearing him excitedly pass the message onto his supervisor over the radio as they did. Then there was a creak and a clang of the pedestrian gate closing. He was doing what he’d been told.
The field wasn’t a big one. It was set up a lot more casually than some of the stadiums Laura had seen: the seating areas for fans were smaller, closer to the ground, not built up in a full circle around the field like they were for the majors. The ground was dry, the grass a little on the brown side, as they walked unimpeded right onto the field itself. A cohort of players in white uniforms were set up in various practice areas, running through the motions of different types of training.
Laura shaded her eyes as Nate did the same, both of them scanning the men as much as possible. Although the field was wide, Laura started to feel an increased prickling of alarm. She didn’t think she could see the man they’d met at the house.
“Hey,” she said, calling out to a man jogging by. He looked like a junior coach or some kind of assistant, judging by how he was dressed. “Excuse me ?
?? can you tell me where Bradley Milford is?”
“Are you scouts, or something?” the guy asked, coming to a stop not far from them. Laura walked a few paces closer anyway, not wanting to shout the information loud enough for it to be overheard by others.
“Something,” she said. “We’re with the FBI. Just want to talk to Mr. Milford about something we think he may be able to help us with.”
“Oh,” the coach said, paling. “Yeah. I heard about his girlfriend. It’s super sad. I don’t think he’s having a good time of it, today.”
