Accused (35 page)

"Not yet."

"Let me know when she does."

"Then give me your prints."

"Come on, Pete," Nick said. "Cooperate so we can get on to the new endorsement deals. With that Open trophy, I can set you up for life—heck, you can buy more guns. We gotta move fast before the window of opportunity closes."

Pete chewed on that and his cigar a moment, then said, "No."

Scott decided to push Pete. "You were at Trey's house the day he was murdered. You went there to get Billie Jean. You found them having sex, didn't you? We have witnesses who saw her black Mustang there, and both of you."

"A buncha goddamn …"

Pete caught himself. He wasn't going to make the same mistake Billie Jean had made. He turned and faced Scott straight on, as if he were about to hit him—and for a moment, Scott thought he might have pushed Pete Puckett too far. His jaws were clenched so tight Scott thought he might bite the cigar in half.

"I was in Florida … and you can go to hell."

Pete Puckett pivoted and walked off.

"That went well." Nick shook his head and sighed. "He's never gonna get a network announcing job when he retires, not with that attitude. He makes Johnny Miller seem lovable."

"I'm not leaving without his prints."

Scott followed Pete to the clubhouse. Pete ducked into the players' lounge and went straight to the bar. Scott stood just outside the door. The bartender filled a shot glass with hard liquor and pushed it in front of Pete. He reached out for the glass but froze. He turned—Scott ducked out of sight—and gave the room a suspicious glance. Pete then turned back to the bar, picked up a napkin, wrapped it around the shot glass, and downed the liquor. He stood and went over to the far side of the lounge where a security guard manned a door with a sign that read "Men's Locker Room." The guard opened the door and Pete walked through, then the guard shut the door behind him.

"Pete's got a bad back." Nick had come up behind Scott. "After every round, he needs a massage."

"I need his prints."

"Come on." Nick led the way over to the security guard. He flashed his credentials and pointed a thumb at Scott. "He's with me."

The guard opened the door, and they walked down a flight of stairs and into a locker room. Pudgy, pale-bellied golfers in various stages of undress ambled past. Nick grimaced at the sight and whispered, "I'm getting nauseous."

Nick climbed onto a chair and peeked over a row of lockers. He stepped down and again whispered, "Pete's over there."

They backed out of sight. A few minutes later, Pete walked away heading in the opposite direction with only a towel around his waist. Nick motioned to Scott to follow. They hurried around the corner and to an open locker.

"This is Pete's," Nick said.

A locker door stood open with Pete Puckett's personal possessions in plain sight.

"Don't the players lock up their stuff?"

"Only in the NBA." Nick grabbed a set of keys. "Let's go."

Scott followed Nick back upstairs and out the front door of the clubhouse to a massive black RV stationed at the back of the parking lot.

"Pete's home away from home, like the country music stars travel around in," Nick said. "A lot of the players are traveling in these now, at least the ones who can't afford their own jet."

Nick knocked on the door, then used a key to gain entrance. They climbed up and stepped inside.

"Five-star hotel on wheels," Nick said. "Cost a million bucks."

The RV had leather upholstery and wood-paneled walls, a flat-screen TV, and a full kitchen with granite countertops. Nick was glancing around.

"What would have his prints on it?" He snapped his fingers. "Guns."

"He carries guns with him on tour?"

"Pete? Shit, he doesn't get the mail without a gun."

They walked down a narrow hall past a bathroom and into a bedroom at the rear of the RV. Nick opened several closets then said, "Told you."

Fixed in a gun rack in the closet were four rifles and two pistols. Scott pulled out the tape and tore off a piece.

"What's his favorite?"

"The biggest."

Scott reached for a rifle but stopped at the sound of a noise up front. Nick stepped to the bedroom door and peeked out. He came back fast.

"Shit! It's Billie Jean."

They searched for a hiding place.

"Under the bed."

They dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. They were lying close enough that Scott could smell Nick's last beer on his breath. The bedspread hung down low enough to conceal them, but they still had a line of sight down the hall and into the kitchen at the front of the RV. Billie Jean went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of chocolate milk then turned the TV on and watched a soap opera.

"Shit," Nick whispered, "if she doesn't leave soon, Pete's gonna come back."

"That'll be embarrassing."

"And dangerous."

Billie Jean drank the milk then turned off the TV and walked toward them—they froze—but she entered the bathroom and closed the door. They soon heard the shower running.

"Let's get outta here!" Nick whispered.

They crawled out from under the bed and tiptoed past the bathroom. Once in the kitchen, Scott whispered, "I need his prints."

Nick pointed. "Whiskey."

"No time to drink."

"No—take the whiskey bottle. It's half empty, means Pete touched it."

"Could be Billie Jean's prints."

"She only drinks chocolate milk."

Scott grabbed a paper towel and then the bottle, and they left quietly. They jogged across the parking lot to the rental car. It was a Jetta. Nick laughed.

"Don't you hate these cheap rentals they give you?"

"I own a Jetta."

"You had a Ferrari and now you're driving a Jetta? Nice career move."

"Yeah, it's worked out well."

"Least you still got your sense of humor."

"And my daughters."

Nick nodded. "Kids are nice … but I'd rather have a Ferrari."

"Where can I find Dr. Tim?"

"Scott, if every professional athlete were a well-adjusted, mature, happy individual, what would psychologists do for a living?"

Timothy O'Brien, sports psychologist, practiced out of an office in downtown Houston. Scott had flown back to Houston and driven downtown. Dr. Tim had agreed to wait for him. Scott felt stupid addressing him as "Dr. Tim."

"We've invested so much in sports today, and not just money. Our national psyche. Who we are. We need to be good at something, but it seems we're good for nothing these days … the economy, education, health care. So we invest our self-esteem in sports, emotionally and financially. How much did the new Dallas Cowboys stadium up there cost?"

"One-point-two billion," Scott said.

"For a football stadium—our twenty-first century monuments." Dr. Tim waved a hand at the world outside the window. "The icons of Houston are no longer oil wildcatters or heart surgeons or even astronauts—they're quarterbacks and point guards and pitchers. We idolize them but we demand perfection from them, at least on the field of play. We treat them special—until they fail us. Then we turn on them. You read the sports pages or listen to talk radio? It's vicious now. A player strikes out or fumbles or misses a shot and his team loses, the media and fans attack him personally, as if he's a bad person for failing. As if he betrayed their city, even their country. I've had athletes get death threats for losing a game. That's a lot of pressure on a young man, too much pressure for some. I've seen the psychological damage it does to them."

"You're telling me rich athletes are victims of society?"

"We're all victims of society, Scott. You have children?"

"Two daughters. Eleven."

"Twins?"

"In every way except biological."

"They might become victims of society, too."

"Not on my watch."

Dr. Tim smiled. He reminded Scott of the girls' pediatrician.

"Tell me about Trey," Scott said.

"Scott, I'd like to help, but what I know about my patients is confidential."

"There's no doctor-patient privilege in Texas, and your patient is dead. I'm defending the person charged with his murder. I can subpoena your records and you to testify at trial. I'm sure you'd like to avoid that. I just need some information, to help me find his killer."

Dr. Tim pondered the implications of being subpoenaed, then shrugged.

"He is dead. Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Did he ever tell you he was going to marry Rebecca?"

"He never even mentioned her."

"Did he tell you he was afraid of anyone?"

"No. Why?"

"He started carrying a gun."

Dr. Tim nodded. "All my football and basketball players carry guns. Part of the culture."

"Why was he seeing you?"

"Same as most of my patients. Addiction."

"I've never understood addiction."

Dr. Tim smiled. "Representing your ex-wife who's accused of murdering the man she left you for—that strikes me as a bit addictive. You want to talk about it?"

"Well, she … No. I want to talk about Trey. What addictions did he suffer from?"

"The correct question is, What addictions
didn't
he suffer from? See, Trey had an addictive personality. He didn't just enjoy golf, he was addicted to it. Same with alcohol, cocaine, sex—"

"
Sex?
He was addicted to sex?"

"It's not a joke, Scott, or just a Hollywood diagnosis. It's a real addiction. Sex addiction is often connected to a narcissistic personality disorder. I've treated many athletes suffering from both. They obsess about sex, view pornography compulsively, engage in risky sex, public sex, short-term sex with numerous partners whom they view only as objects—some have claimed over a hundred sexual conquests."

"A hundred women in one man's life?"

"In one season." Dr. Tim shrugged. "For them, Scott, sex is fulfilling a need other than the human sex drive. See, teenage boys view pornography to watch the female, but the narcissistic personality wants to watch himself."

"Trey was a grown man."

"Not really. He suffered deferred adolescence, a lot of pro athletes do. They have people who take care of their every need every day, from their first day of college to the last day of their pro careers, just like their parents did when they were children. So they don't have to grow up until after their careers are over, and for many, it's too late." He sighed. "I'm afraid Trey was the perfect storm: a handsome, rich, talented, narcissistic, sex-addicted pro athlete suffering from deferred adolescence manifested by multiple partners, obsession with pornography, sex tapes—"

Scott snapped forward in his chair.

"Sex tapes? What sex tapes?"

THIRTY

"You find the leak?"

"Nope."

The next morning, Scott dropped the baggies containing the tape strips with Billie Jean Puckett's fingerprints and the whiskey bottle with Pete Puckett's fingerprints on the district attorney's desk. The D.A. studied the whiskey bottle.

"Good stuff. I'll get Hank to run 'em." He held out a document. "Trey's phone bills came in, we ran the numbers. One name caught my eye—Gabe Petrocelli."

"Who's he?"

"Local bookie. Straight line to Vegas."

"The mob? In Galveston?"

"Mob's been here since Galveston was Sin City. How do you think the Maceo brothers got Sinatra to play the Balinese Room?"

"Trey was gambling?"

"He had Gabe's cell phone number, and Gabe had his. I don't figure them for double-dating."

"You see Obama's finally gonna pardon Jack Johnson?"

Gabe Petrocelli tapped a thick finger on the sports section of the local newspaper spread across the table.

"Who's Jack Johnson and what did he do?" Scott said.

"Heavyweight champion of the world, nineteen-oh-eight through nineteen-fifteen. Born and raised right here on the Island."

"That's not a crime."

"He married a white woman."

"I was married to a white woman."

"He was black. First black champion, the Ali of his times, the most famous athlete in the world back then. Wore custom suits, drove fast cars, and married three white women, which didn't sit so well with white men back then. They convicted him under the Mann Act for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. You know that law is still on the books?"

"I do know that."

"Stupid … the law, not you."

"Thanks."

"After he won the title, race riots broke out all across the country. That 'Great White Hope' business started because of Johnson, boxing folks trying to find a white fighter who could beat him. Boy, must've been big betting on those fights." Gabe sighed. "Not much betting on boxing these days, everyone's gone to cage fighting and football. Like Trey."