“Oh, yes.” Jake kept his eyes on the court, where Ryan and the Chasers had started a new drill, lining up on both sides of the half-court, taking shots and rebounding for each other.
“I’ll come by your office tomorrow morning, and we can have a talk.”
“What about?” Jake asked, his tone casual.
“I think you know. I think you know exactly. Make sure you’re there.” Deaner rose. “Enjoy the game, Jake.”
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 Deanerknew?
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 inLewis 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 inLewis 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 inLewis 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?”
