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“Did that cause problems on the team?”
“No. I wasn’t very good. I lost most of my matches. No one paid much attention to me.”
“If you lost your matches, then you were the reason the team came in third.”
“I guess you could look at it like that.”
“Did anyone on the team look at it that way?”
He shrugged.
“What can you tell me about Pete Michaels?”
“He was coach’s favorite.”
Without knowing exactly what that meant, I played a hunch. “And you wanted to be coach’s favorite?”
“My therapist says it’s because of my dad. I was his favorite until I was eleven. She says I keep trying to recreate that relationship. I never make it happen though.”
I stood there awkwardly in the center of his living room. This was exactly what I’d feared it was. Except it wasn’t. Haseltine wanted to be with the coach, but Pete Michaels stood in the way. Or at least that’s what Haseltine thought.
“Did you kill Pete Michaels?”
“What? No! I mean, why would I? School was over. The team was over. My chance to be Coach Carrier’s favorite was gone.”
“I want to be clear about something. Do you know for a fact that the coach and Pete Michaels were having… a relationship?”
“I think everyone knew. They pretended they didn’t, but they did. We went places, you know. We were that good. We competed all over the state. When we stayed in hotels. Pete didn’t sleep in the room with his brother. He slept with Coach. No one talked about that. Ever.”
20
April 16, 1996
Tuesday morning
On the way to the office, I stopped at a coffee shop in what was called the East Village. It was a strange name, I thought, since it was west of most of Long Beach. Of course, Ronnie had let me in on the fact that it was real estate agents who named most neighborhoods these days, and the East Village sounded like the kind of place most city dwellers might want to live. The fact that it only had a nice block or two and the rest of it was crap didn’t deter anyone, least of all real estate agents.
I don’t remember the name of the shop, but I picked up three fancy coffee drinks: a whole milk latte for me, a vanilla soy milk latte for Karen and a double mocha for Lydia—her regular was a nonfat cappuccino, but I knew that she preferred a double mocha. I always made a ‘mistake’ with her order. I would have gone to Hot Times, my neighborhood gay coffee shop, but it was across from the Park Pantry and the video store. I couldn’t shake the idea that Hamlet Gilbody was camped out on that corner waiting for me to return.
I walked into The Freedom Agenda office with a cardboard tray of coffee drinks. Karen was on the phone, frowning at whoever was at the other end. I handed her a coffee and she took it without a thank-you.
“No, that’s not how we’re doing this—” her tone was one I’d heard before and never wanted to be on the receiving end of, so I hurried down to Lydia’s office. She, too, was on the phone.
“We’re attempting to arrange for all three men to be released Friday morning and then we’ll have a press conference in front of the prison. Are you able to be there—yes, Peter Linder is being transferred down from Solano on Wednesday. Do you have anything Friday? It would be good for you to be there.”
I was sure she was talking to Edwin Karpinski. I handed Lydia a coffee. She took it, mouthing a thank-you. When she took a sip, she made a blissful face and then rolled her eyes.
“I’ll be in the back,” I said softly.
She held up a finger to keep me there.
“I’ll call you back as soon as things solidify. Thank you, Edwin.” Then she hung up.
“Looks like everything will be happening on Friday, in Corcoran. Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“You deserve to be there though.”
