“But you asked me if Mike Tomkiss had told me about the move.”

  “I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I thought maybe Mike had changed his position. But Forrest wasn’t unhappy with Mike or Cal. He was looking for the secret sauce, that’s all.”

  “But he didn’t find it.”

  “Actually he got a bronze at the last Worlds, so he was on track to make the team this year.”

  “Okay, so what about Deena?”

  “That was different. I was still swimming back then. Rio was my last Games. Stanford had already offered me a coaching position, and the head coach was thinking of retiring, so a future HC position was on the table.”

  “So?”

  “So I hadn’t coached anyone yet, but I thought it might help my future chances if I brought some talent into the program.”

  “Deena?”

  “It was an option.”

  “What happened?”

  “I swam with her at the previous Worlds, so I’d gotten to know her a little. She was nice, I liked her. And she was talented and hard working. So on the last night of the Rio trials I approached her.”

  “This is in Omaha?”

  “Yes. At the house party. We were having a few beers, and I asked if she would be interested in coming to Stanford to train with me. We’re a much bigger program, better facilities. Nicer weather, that’s for sure.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she wouldn’t leave Coach Collis.”

  “And that was it?”

  “That was it, more or less.”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, she did say one other thing.”

  I waited but nothing came. It was like drawing blood from a baseball bat. “Which was?”

  “She said I should ask Greg.”

  “You should ask Greg to come to Stanford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Having just said she was going to stay in Iowa?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they were boyfriend-girlfriend, weren’t they?”

  “That was my understanding. So I asked her if Greg would actually consider it, and she said he might.”

  “I hope you asked her why.”

  “I did. She just said it might be good for him.”

  “Good for him?”

  “She implied that she had met someone else at college.”

  “She was going to break up with him?”

  “She didn’t say that specifically, not that I recall.”

  “But you thought it.”

  “I did. I got the feeling she was holding on until after the Games. It would have been disruptive before.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing. That was pretty much all of it. It was only a short conversation, a quick back and forth. ‘Are you interested?’ ‘No, but Greg might be.’ That was it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I don’t really remember. I think maybe something was going on in the kitchen, so she went in there. Maybe Greg was drunk? He was hitting it pretty hard when I left shortly after.”

  “And you never saw Deena again?”

  “No.” She picked at her fingernails.

  “And the offer to Greg?”

  “I didn’t see him again until the Games. He didn’t train with the team before, and then after what happened, it didn’t feel right.”

  The Marriott overlooked Clear Lake, not far from the Kravis Center. I drove in and pulled up in front of the lobby but didn’t switch off the engine. Kellie Almonde didn’t get out, perhaps avoiding the sauna outside.

  “Why aren’t you the head coach of the national team?”

  “What?”

  “Head coach.”

  She was still picking her fingernails. It was becoming a thing.

  “I’ve only been head coach at Stanford for four years.”

  “But you have more swimmers on the team than anyone. And lots more than Coach Collis.”

  “I don’t make those calls.”

  “But you have an opinion. I heard it said that Collis failed upward. Does that sound right?”

  “Men do.”

  “Some men. Most of them end up flat on their faces when they fail. What’s his story?”

  “He’s a good coach.”

  “Tell Beccy Williams that. Tell me the truth.”

  “It is the truth. He’s good. Not great but good. He was in a small program at a nonranked school. University of Iowa.”

  “Good football team.”

  “Yeah. Not the swimming capital of the world, though. Nice natatorium.”

  “What’s a natatorium?”

  “An indoor swimming pool.”

  “You learn something every day. So he’s at Iowa . . .”

  “And along comes not one but two great swimmers. Generational talents. Both from Iowa, both decide to stay home for school rather than go into a bigger program.”

  “You didn’t try to recruit them out of high school?”

  “I was still a student then, too.”

  “Right.”

  “So these two shooting stars get him into his first world championships, and then onto the coaching panel for the Olys in Rio. Then Deena dies, and Greg fizzles. He got back on the team for Tokyo as a sympathy vote, I think, but Greg stars at the Games, and Rick Collis rides that coattail right out of Iowa and into a private squad based in Washington, D.C.—National Performance Swimming. In case you were looking for the most pretentious-sounding name in the world.”

  “I would have gone with something based around Poseidon, myself.”

  She screwed up her face at that idea. “Well, he’s gotten a few decent swimmers in the last couple years, but Greg is still the big star. But this will be his last event, most likely, and after him, the cupboard is pretty bare.”

  “So how did he get the head coaching job? Surely not by sympathy vote.”

  “Don’t ask me. Ask Alan Notley.”

  “Who the hell is Alan Notley?”

  “He’s head of the board that appoints the coach.”

  As I took that in, I noticed Coach Almonde was looking toward the entrance of the hotel like it was a funeral parlor. Then I remembered why she was there.

  “Doesn’t the college have people who do this kind of thing?”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Talk to grieving families.”

  “Of course. They’re here. Waiting for me. But I was his coach. I have to see them.” She turned to look at me. For the first time, I saw the confidence break. I didn’t blame her. There had been cause in my life for me to have conversations like the one she was about to have. To meet with the grieving widow or parent.

  “Yeah, you do,” I said.

  She nodded but didn’t get out of the car.

  “I’ve been where you are right now,” I said. “You’re thinking that meeting these people to talk about their dead son is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. But it’s not. One day you might be on the other end of this conversation.”

  Coach Almonde took a deep breath and nodded, then she pulled the lever and opened the door, letting the hot air rush in. She stood for a moment with her arm on the door frame, looking back at me. Then she nodded again and slammed the door shut.

  I watched her walk into the hotel and disappear, but I didn’t drive away immediately. I was thinking about what Deena Senza had said to Kellie Almonde at the house party. She had declined the offer, but she had also suggested that Greg might be interested. She had implied there might be someone else. Was this a cry for help? And was it for her or for him? Was she telling Kellie that she wouldn’t be around and Greg would be lost, so maybe a change would be beneficial for him?

  There was something wrong in the conversation, something off about it that I couldn’t pin down. I wondered if Forrest Simpson knew about the coach approaching Deena and had connected the dots in a way that I couldn’t.

  I put the SUV in Drive and looped back around to the exit. As I waited to turn, my phone bleeped a text message. It was from Detective Faust.

  Where are you?

  I grabbed the phone from the cradle and typed in a response.

  Off site. Back soon.

  Three little dots appeared instantly, then a moment later:

  Come to Gun Club Road.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I texted Detective Faust, saying I was going to grab a bite, and asked if she wanted anything. I knew from experience that the options around her neck of the woods were pretty thin. She replied that some lunch would be appreciated, just not in so many words. I scanned my memory for a hot dog stand.

  What do you like?

  She replied, I’m easy.

  I sent back a thumbs-up emoji. Then she sent:

  But vegetarian.

  I didn’t respond to that. I wasn’t sure what her definition of easy was, but it clearly conflicted with mine.

  The main offices for the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office were south of the airport on Gun Club Road in the county criminal justice complex. I knew the place better than I wanted to. Danielle had worked there for a time, and there were cases that had lured me to the detention facility. I pulled into the public lot and then went to the reception desk with my paper lunch bag.

  The place had the feel of a tech business that had fallen on hard times. It was more office-like than most police stations but shared the dated look of scuffed walls and furniture and fixtures that were neglected, as funding for maintenance was low on the priority list.

  I asked for Detective Faust. She came down then took me upstairs, where we walked through a forest of cubicles until we reached a conference room. She ushered me in and closed the door.

  “Take a seat.” She moved to the other side of the table and put her iPad down.

  I pulled out a plastic clamshell containing a chopped salad with a vinaigrette on the side and passed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I took out another salad and sat down, then I fished out two bottles of water and pushed one across the table.

  “I didn’t picture you for a salad guy.”

  “I’m not, usually, despite my wife’s best efforts.”

  We opened our salads and ate for a moment before Faust broke the silence.

  “Danielle is with the FDLE, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why didn’t she try for a detective position with the PBSO?”

  “At the time, there didn’t seem to be an obvious pathway. She came to the attention of someone in the FDLE who made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

  “She prefers the statewide work?”

  “Honestly, I don’t think it’s that different. But she moved back to the West Palm office even though Tallahassee or staying in Miami was better for career advancement.”

  “Why?”

  “This is home.”

  Faust stuffed a forkful of lettuce in her mouth and nodded. When she had finished chewing—and there was an alarming amount of chewing involved—she took a swig of water.

  “Well, we’re always looking for good people,” she said.

  “I’ll let her know.”

  “So what’s the news?”

  “I had a chat with Missy Callahan.”

  “She’s a bright spark.”

  “Yeah, she’ll go far. But she mentioned that Forrest was a bit of an outsider.”

  “I got that vibe a lot.”

  “She also mentioned that Coach Almonde had recruited him from the University of California a little more proactively than I was led to believe.”

  “Is that so?”

  “But I just spoke with Coach, and she told me it was by mutual agreement with the people at Cal. Seems he wanted a change of scenery after not getting to swim in Tokyo.”

  “So he wasn’t happy?”

  “She says he was happy enough, but he just needed a fresh outlook. My impression is that it happens from time to time. Some athletes even prefer it that way, chopping and changing programs.”

  “Is the California coach here?”

  “He is.”

  “I’ll have a word. See what his opinion is.”

  I nodded and ate some salad. I made a note to bring up what we had for lunch in casual conversation later with Danielle.

  “So what do you think that all means for this case?” asked Faust.

  “Missy mentioned something else. After Collis had been made head coach of the team, Almonde had a little rant about it at training.”

  “She wanted the job?”

  “It seems that way, and from what I can tell, she probably should have gotten it.”

  “Why?”

  “She had the most swimmers on the team. Way more than Collis.”

  “So why did he get it?”

  “As yet undetermined, but politics was raised as a reason.”

  “Always.”

  “But there’s also what she said during her rant. Missy was there, and she said Coach Almonde mentioned that things would have been different if she had recruited Deena Senza.”

  Faust paused with a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “Did she try?”

  “Yes. The night Deena died.”

  “Okay.” Faust put the fork down. I had her attention.

  “She said it was just a casual conversation, nothing more. She was still swimming herself, but she was looking ahead to a coaching career, and she asked Deena if she was interested in moving to Stanford.”

  “And was she?”

  “No. She wasn’t leaving Iowa.”

  “Okay.”

  “But she said Greg might consider it.”

  “Really. Why would he do that if they were a couple?”

  “Apparently, Deena didn’t say. But there are a lot of possible reasons.”

  “Starting with she was going to end the relationship.”

  “Or she was going to take her own life and knew he’d be devastated.”

  “But if she was going to end it and Greg knew, then there’s motive.”

  “He didn’t kill Deena.”

  “You’re confident of that?”

  “The locals investigated. They determined she took her own life.”

  “Did they.”

  “Have you called them?”

  “I have. I’m waiting for a callback. I might need to push it up on the to-do list.”

  “Let’s assume they knew how to do their jobs. I’m not suggesting that what happened eight years ago was anything other than what the police said it was. I’m saying if Missy heard Coach Almonde saying this about Deena, maybe Forrest did.”

  “Was he there?”

  “Missy didn’t know, but she said it was poolside at team training, so it’s possible, even likely, that he was within earshot.”

  She nodded.

  “And if he did hear, maybe he came to the same conclusion you just did. Maybe he wondered if Greg knew and had done something. Maybe he even convinced himself it was true. Enough to blackmail Greg. But Greg told him to get lost because he knew it wasn’t true. That’s assuming that Forrest’s death has anything to do with the blackmail plan. It might be unrelated.”

  “Maybe.” She said the word, but it wasn’t to me.

  “Because I got back to the idea that Forrest was on the outside looking in. He was described as lurking in the shadows. Maybe Greg wasn’t the only one he was blackmailing.”

  “Maybe,” said again.

  “All right, what gives?”

  Her gaze shifted to me and then down to her salad. She picked up her fork, speared some lettuce, and ate, giving her time to think while she chewed. I could almost see the cogs turning.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  She put down the fork and took up the iPad, found something on it, and then slid it across the table to me.

  “I’m showing you this in a consultative capacity. I can get you to fill out all kinds of forms, but I’m banking on your discretion. This is material evidence in a homicide investigation, so if you breathe a word . . .”

  “I know the drill.” I picked up the tablet. There was a screenshot of some kind of app that looked like a notepad or a diary. It was clearly electronic, but the notes were in handwriting.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “It seems Forrest Simpson kept a diary.”

  “Did he take pictures of it?”

  “No, it’s an app on his tablet. He used one of those stylus things to scribble down notes.”

  It was scribble. Much of the handwriting was illegible. I wondered if Forrest was training to be a doctor.

  “You got into his tablet?”

  “No. We don’t know his passcode, and fingerprint and facial ID on his phone didn’t work. He’d been in the water too long. We had to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Which is?”

  “A warrant to download the data from his cloud backup.”

  “Very old-fashioned.” I looked at the screenshot. There were notes about people and places, but much of it was coded in initials or shorthand, or the writing was just messy. It was like a rundown sheet, a brief snapshot of what was perhaps expanded on in the diary.

  “What do you make of it?” she asked.

  “Looks to me like brainstorming.”

  “For what?”

  “Blackmail.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? We know he did. We have evidence of it.”

  “We’ve got Greg Baxter’s say-so,” she said. “He showed you a screenshot that could have come from anyone, and it’s his word that Forrest wanted him off the team.”

  “Why would he make that up? It only serves to make him look guilty.”

  “It does. Doesn’t make it wrong, though.”

  “He has an alibi.”

  “Again.”

  She had her arms on the table and was leaning toward me.

  “Why are you showing me this?” I asked.

  “To expedite things. I figure some of those initials are names. DS is Deena Senza. GB is Greg Baxter. But there’s a bunch I don’t get. MP, BT, there’s an NB, I think.”

  “New Brunswick?”

  “Really? That’s what you’re giving me?”

  “Some of it’s thin and some thicker. What’s with that?”

  “No idea.”

  I reread the first line. “Okay. Coach egged me.”