Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(57)

Peabody continued to scroll through as Eve crossed the bridge into Brooklyn. “A lot of baseball stats, which you probably already know. Like him being rookie of the year in ’55, various MVP deals and Golden Gloves. Blah-blah. But on the personal side, no marriages or cohabs. He’s still based in Brooklyn, and lives on the same street as his parents. His best pal since childhood is his personal manager. Four years ago he started the Stamford Family Foundation. The main mission is to expose underprivileged youths to sports—which includes a sports camp, scholarships, donated equipment, mentoring, transportation.

“Aw, he arranges, every year, for groups of kids to not only attend a home game, but to meet the other players. That’s nice. He sounds nice.”

“People who sound nice and can field like a god can still kill. Solid family ties,” Eve continued. “Loyalty—keeps old friends—gives back. But something in there sent up a flag for Mars, and she exploited it.”

“There’s a lot of information on him, a lot of articles, features, bios. He comes off as a sports phenom from a hardworking middle-class family who values his roots. No scandals, no pissy behavior. Went to NYU on a scholarship, played for the Violets … isn’t that kind of a sissy name for a ball team?”

“It’s team colors.”

“Okay.” But Peabody mentally rolled her eyes. “Kept up his grades—not dean’s list, but a more than respectable three-point-three. Not shabby academically in high school, either,” she said, scrolling back. “Kept up that low-to mid-three average all the way … Whoops, pretty big dip in—let’s see—seventh grade and into eighth. Barely scraped by there. Puberty can be a bitch, I guess.”

A flag shot up, high and bright, in Eve’s mind. “Check his juvie and medical records for that period.”

“Really? He’d’ve been like twelve.”

“If you’re Mars looking for dirt and you see that inconsistency, what do you do?”

“I dig deeper.”

As Peabody dug, Eve hunted for parking, settled on a lot.

Still digging as they got out, Peabody shook her head. “I’m not finding any juvie tags or … Wait, something. Urgent-care visit, records sealed.”

“Just one?”

“It’s all I can see. I mean he’s got other injuries and treatments—clearly sports related—but this one’s sealed.”

“Look for follow-ups, check the parents’ financials for medical bills. Later,” Eve said as she studied the block-long spread of Sports World.

They stepped in through the sliding glass doors.

If you played sports—or pretended to—she thought, you’d find everything you needed here. The retail section, bright and open, was divided into generous sections by sport: football, arena ball, baseball, basketball, soccer, hockey, lacrosse, and more. Screens played games going on somewhere in the world or highlights of games already done.

And all under a big, wide dome, like an arena.

The staff wore warm-up suits and high-top rollers so, when needed, they could flip out wheels and zip over the floor.

Eve snagged one on the zip.

“Where do I find Wylee Stamford?”

“He’s on level three south. If you’re here for the demonstration, that’s at four, and you’ll need tickets. They’re free, but you have to sign up at the main desk, and they’re going fast.”

“Right, thanks.”

She let him continue to glide, turned away from the main desk, and headed for the wide, open stairs.

The second floor, more retail, held sports clothes—jerseys, sideline jackets, yoga gear, running gear, racks and shelves of shorts and pants, shoes, cleats, skates.

She kept going, up another long flight.

People practiced their putts or swings on an indoor green. Others worked heavy or speed bags in a boxing section. What looked like a friendly pickup game played out on a half court.

Through a glass wall she saw a martial arts class performing a pretty decent kata.

And on the south side, Stamford signed baseball cards, balls, posters, caps, mitts for a throng of fans.

He wore his wildly curling black hair in a high, short tail, had an easy, cheerful smile on his carved-out-of-polished-granite face. His rangy body showed off well in black baggies and a thin, snow-white sweater.

Eve could admit to feeling a little tug—she considered him a true artist on the field and a magician at the plate. But tug or not, he was, at the moment, a suspect.

With a quick, practiced glance around, she picked out security, and headed toward the man with a burly build and suspicious eyes.

She angled herself, palmed her badge, tipped it up. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Mr. Stamford.”

“What about?”

“We’ll speak to him about that.”

He frowned, head signaled a woman positioned on the other side of the crowd. She made her way over, and the two security guards had a quick, murmured conversation.

After a hard look at Eve, the woman headed off to yet another man. Not security, Eve thought. Too slight, too well dressed.

She got another look, another frown from him. Then he cleared his face to pleasant, strolled over.

“How can I help you, officers?”

“Lieutenant, Detective,” Eve corrected. “We need a conversation with Mr. Stamford.”