“Which coach? The place is full of coaches.”

  “True,” I said, “but in all my time in baseball, I never called someone Coach who wasn’t my coach. Not in the third person. They always had a name. Coach This, Coach That. Just Coach was always my own coach.”

  “So Forrest’s coach? Kellie Almonde.”

  “Or maybe the guy from Cal, Mike Tomkiss. But I’d lean toward Almonde.”

  “She egged him? What the hell does that mean?”

  “She threw eggs at him? Isn’t that what egging means?”

  “It was when I went to school, but how is that anything?”

  “Leave that for now,” I said. “She did it to him, DS—Deena, if we agree that’s her—and HM.”

  “You know an HM?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “All right. Move on,” she said.

  “DS ghost GB. Was Greg seeing her ghost? Was it part of his breakdown thing in Rio?”

  “But the next line?”

  “Did GB know?”

  She jabbed her fork at me. “He’d know if he saw his dead girlfriend’s ghost.”

  “You’d think. But ghosting—isn’t that like when kids end a relationship by just stopping communication with the other person?”

  “Yeah, right.” She drummed her fingernails on the table. “So Deena was ghosting Greg.”

  “They were seen at the party together the night she died. That’s hardly ghosting. Did they fight?”

  “Not according to any statement I’ve gotten. I’ve gotta throw that question at the cops in Omaha.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “So GB kill DS. Self-explanatory. Then all this stuff about MP and BT. Microing? I’m not getting anything there.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Not affair w/ EG. Me too! Don’t know EG, but the rest seems contradictory. He’s saying he didn’t have an affair with this EG, but then he says me too?”

  “Or someone didn’t have an affair with EG, and he didn’t, either? Or he did?”

  “The IBM Watson computer isn’t working this stuff out,” I said.

  “But BT, whoever that is, knows about not having an affair.”

  “What’s to know?”

  Faust shrugged.

  “Then GB believes. Believes what?” I asked.

  “That he didn’t kill Deena?”

  “He didn’t. So then there’s this NB. Is that short for nota bene?”

  “Nota what?”

  “Bene. As in to take note that something is important.”

  “It’s not New Brunswick. I think we can assume that.”

  “I assume nothing.”

  “I find that very hard to believe,” she said.

  “Okay, I assume as little as possible. Then there’s GB drank—what is this? Hod stupp? Is that German?”

  “No.”

  “You speak German?”

  “No, why?”

  “Your name’s Faust. It’s German.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of that. But I don’t speak German. I do, however, know how to type words into a translation app.”

  “Okay, so Hod stupp or some such babble. Then Who’s albi? Do you know an Albi?”

  “Nope.”

  “But it’s not capitalized.”

  “Exactly. So maybe it’s not a name.”

  “But maybe it is, and it’s just lazy writing.”

  “Did you go to school?” she asked.

  “Most days.”

  “You studied English?”

  “I mostly did sports.”

  “You know nota bene.”

  “Like I say, most days.”

  “But you did learn about proper nouns?”

  “I did.”

  “It kind of gets drummed into you, right? It becomes habit, to capitalize a proper noun.”

  “Like names.”

  “Exactly. I mean, I get that these kids do texting and whatever, and they might throw caps out the window because it’s one more tap on the screen they don’t want to do, but when he’s writing it? You’d capitalize it if it were a name.”

  “You’re right, I would. Forrest Simpson? I couldn’t say.” I looked back at the screen. “Then there’s Bush. That he capitalizes.”

  “Which Bush? President Bush? W or HW? Maybe Governor Bush?”

  “I don’t know. And then WP pointing at Omaha.”

  “West Palm?” she asked.

  “Maybe. Something went from WP to Omaha, or maybe happened in West Palm and in Omaha.”

  “He’s linking the trials.”

  “Looks that way. But this line, see how it’s indented? Like it’s related to the Bush word. But there’s not a lot of similarities between Omaha and West Palm.”

  “You’ve been to Omaha?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’ve been to Omaha.”

  “Why?”

  “Baseball College World Series. Way back in the day.”

  “Did you win?”

  “We did.”

  “Go team.”

  I coughed more than laughed. Faust was a real card. I scanned the screen again, but it wasn’t coming. It was like talking to a high school student. You knew the language, but the words came out in an order that made no sense.

  “Can I take a picture of this?”

  “It’s evidence.”

  “And you’ll still have the evidence.”

  “Why would you want a picture?”

  “So I can ruminate on it a bit more. I can’t think with you sitting here watching me.”

  She smiled out of one side of her mouth. It wasn’t a Danielle traffic stopper. It was more like she was filing that information away for later use.

  “I promise I will delete the photo when I’m done with it. No, when you’re done with it. In fact, I’ll give you my phone, and you can delete it.”

  “I should get you to sign a whole ream of paperwork.”

  “But you’re not going to.”

  “I hate paperwork.”

  “All good cops do.”

  “You’re saying I’m a good cop.”

  “I’m giving you a pass because you’re not getting all feisty about jurisdiction. That tells me you’re more interested in actually solving the crime, and I respect that.”

  “We solve this, I will make the arrest. You get that, right?”

  “I don’t have arrest powers.”

  “You could have become a cop. You’d make a good deputy.”

  “I couldn’t be trusted with power like that.”

  “But I can trust you with this?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will remove the parts of your body you consider most important if you make me regret this.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

  She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to get some water.” She walked out, leaving her half-full water bottle on the table. I took a photo of the screen. I would look it over in my thinking place, with a frosty glass in front of me. I slid the iPad back over to her side of the table and waited.

  When she came back in, she sat down without water. “I must be having a moment. I’ve already got some water.”

  “Happens to me all the time.”

  “So where were we?”

  “I was going to ask why you don’t have a partner.”

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “Wouldn’t they be sitting in here instead of me?”

  “Oh, work. We don’t really do that.”

  “You don’t have a partner?”

  “That’s television. Our budget doesn’t extend to having two people driving around doing the exact same thing.”

  “But isn’t your boss supposed to assign you someone you hate but with whom you have this whole sexual tension thing going on?”

  “I’m a single parent. I don’t have time for sexual tension.”

  “You have a kid?”

  “I do. Now, do we want to get back to it?” She tapped her iPad. “Something came through from the lab. They found material under Forrest Simpson’s fingernails.”

  “DNA?”

  “Plastic.”

  “Plastic? Like what, a swim cap, trunks?”

  “Blue.”

  “Blue? Like the recycling bins?”

  “I’ve got them checking on that.”

  “That could confirm where he died.” I shuddered as I thought about being inside a trash can as someone flopped over the lid and held it down while I drowned inside.

  We sat in silence for a while, and I wondered if Faust was thinking what I was thinking or if she had moved on to what she was preparing for dinner. Then she stood again.

  “The answer isn’t in this room.”

  I nodded and stood up, too. We tossed our lunch debris in the trash and walked out with our water bottles.

  “What’s your next move?” she asked as we stepped outside into the humidity.

  “More than one person has implied that Coach Collis got the head coaching job because of, well, let’s call it politics. There’s an official who I was told might know why.”

  “Might know why or might be the reason why?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Is this official at the trials?”

  “I don’t know. But I know someone who will.”

  “Let’s go, then. I’ll drive,” she said.

  “If it’s all the same, I’ll drive myself. I don’t need to come back all this way.”

  “All right. I’ll see you at the arena in twenty.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure they’ll be at the arena. Finals don’t start until seven.” I took out my phone and sent a text. The reply came almost immediately. I looked at Detective Faust.

  “On second thought, you better drive.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Faust drove out along Southern Boulevard and across the Intracoastal over Bingham Island. We left her jurisdiction behind as we landed on the island of Palm Beach. She wove around Mar-a-Lago and went north along the beach on South Ocean Boulevard until we reached Hammon Avenue.

  The Colony Hotel was tucked in off the beach, behind the parking garages that served the high-end stores along Worth Avenue. It was a classic Palm Beach kind of place, known as the Pink Paradise, for its pastel-colored façade. It wasn’t The Breakers, and neither were its prices, but it had found a trade serving the slightly less well-heeled Palm Beach visitor.

  I had let Faust drive because finding a spot in the area was a nightmare if you didn’t head for one of the parking structures. I usually parked at Ron and Cassandra’s apartment a few blocks away, but I figured a cop car would fix the problem.

  Faust flashed her badge at the valet and asked where she could park. The driveway by the lobby was only one-car wide so I thought it was pretty gracious of her to not just stop and block it, but maybe she too knew how things were done on the island. The valet said he would park it right out front. She handed him the keys, and we walked into the cool of the building.

  The lobby was an explosion of soft pink and garish furniture, with a mural featuring palm trees and the hotel’s mascot, a monkey named JB. Back in the 1920s, JB had been the pet of iconic Palm Beach architect Addison Mizner and had once run for Palm Beach mayor, losing by only four votes.

  As Faust observed the room, she looked like her compass was spinning out of control. All the women had long hair done in expensively understated styles and wore dresses straight off the cover of Harper’s Bazaar. That was the difference between The Colony and The Breakers. At the latter, everyone was rich to an obscene degree. At The Colony, the guests tried hard to look that way.

  I gestured for Faust to follow me through the lobby to the pool. The paved pool deck was hidden from the street by a hedge and crammed full of lounge chairs, but the plush towels laid out on each lounger and the sharply dressed waitstaff gave it an understated mood of luxury that was missing in the trying-too-hard lobby.

  I found Beccy Williams lying on a lounger under an umbrella, a sheen of perspiration on her body. Bikinis on store racks wished they looked this good. She pushed her sunglasses down her nose, watching me approach.

  “Tough gig,” I said.

  “I’m usually in a Homewood Suites beside some sports stadium, so I take it where I can get it.”

  I introduced Beccy to Detective Faust. They shook hands and gave each other a smile suggesting they would come to blows before they ever became friends.

  “Take a seat,” said Beccy.

  Faust and I sat on loungers on either side of Beccy, which made her turn away from the detective.

  “What brings you out to the island?”

  “You,” I said.

  She pushed her shades back up. “So glad to hear it. Would you like a drink?”

  “I thought you had to be on tonight?”

  “A little vodka and orange juice adds to the performance, don’t you know?”

  “I’m good. I wanted to ask you about an official called Alan Notley.”

  “Alan. What do you want to know about him?”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s the chairman of Swim USA.”

  “So, like the boss?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. An executive team runs the show—a CEO, CFO, all those C-types. Then there’s a board of directors, like a company. Alan’s the current chairman.”

  “And they do what?” asked Faust.

  “Like any board, I guess. Oversee the executives, ensure compliance. Beyond that I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Does he have any say in team selection?” I asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought so. I mean, he’s influential, but the team is selected according to published criteria. They try to avoid accusations of favoritism.”

  “What about with the coach?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “This is a criminal investigation,” said Faust. “We’re asking anyone about anything.”

  “Is there a story here?” Beccy asked me.

  “Not that I can see. This guy’s name just got mentioned. We’re trying to get the lay of the land.”

  Beccy threw me the winning smile.

  “I know the guy but not well. You need to speak to Max.”

  “Who?”

  “Max.”

  She didn’t expand on it. Instead she picked up her phone off the table beside her drink and tapped out a text message, which disappeared into the ether with a whoosh. Barely a minute went by before a reply came. She tapped another message and got another back. Then she put out her hand for me to help her sit up. She had abs with the muscle power of an alligator’s jaw, so she didn’t need the help, but I extended my hand anyway.

  Beccy spun on her seat until her legs were tangled up with mine and stayed that way for longer than was necessary. I was wearing shorts, so there was a lot of skin on skin. She then stood so I was facing the bottom half of her bikini, which shone like silk.

  She bent over and took a last sip of her drink. “Give me five minutes. I’ll take you to Max.”

  Beccy slipped on a pair of flip-flops that looked too expensive to warrant that name and sauntered inside.

  “You wanna pick your tongue up off the ground?” asked Faust.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’re sweating.”

  “It’s humid.”

  “She’s a friend of yours?”

  “We dated. A long time ago.”

  “She doesn’t seem to have left that behind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That wasn’t flirting, Jones. That was like watching a mime have sex.”

  “She’s like that with everyone.”

  Faust dropped the eyebrow.

  We strolled back into the lobby to wait. It was closer to twenty minutes before Beccy reappeared, and she seemed to have done nothing but throw on a rather transparent cotton coverall.

  “You have a car, or should we use the hotel’s beach buggy?” she asked me.

  “I have a car,” said Faust, turning and walking away.

  When he saw Faust, the valet grabbed the keys and turned to run to the car, but she saw the SUV on the street and told him we could make it on foot. I handed him a tip as we strode by.

  Faust drove and Beccy sat shotgun. I got in the back like I was under arrest.

  “Where to?” the detective asked Beccy.

  “Do you know The Breakers?”

  Faust shot me a look between the seats, then started the car. We crawled up the A1A and got to The Breakers in about the same time Danielle could have run there from our place. The valet just told Faust to park to the side, as the forecourt of this hotel was expansive.

  Once in the lobby, Beccy looked at me as if unsure where to go.

  “Where we meeting this Max?” I asked.

  She sent another text and then got a reply. “He’s in the Seafood Bar. You know it, right?”

  I did. It was one of Ron and Cassandra’s favorite haunts. It could have been one of my favorite haunts if I liked paying ten bucks an oyster.

  I led Beccy and Faust through the lobby and noticed Beccy soaking it in.

  “Who is this guy?” I asked.

  “Max Partensi.”

  “And who is he when he’s at home?”

  “You don’t know Max Partensi?”

  “Should I?”

  “He won the fifty free at the last Games. He was a pretty big deal.”

  “What is he now?”

  “He’s the color commentator for the NBC coverage.”

  Then I remembered. “The guy screaming his lungs out on television.”

  “That’s him.”

  “The commentators get better digs than the poolside talent?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “This is not really my speed.”

  “Old money?”

  “Ancient.”

  “But it’s Max’s speed?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The network covers this place? It ain’t cheap.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “He’s getting paid way too much.”

  “There’s a sugar mama covering the bill.”

  “Is there?”

  “Usually.”

  When we got to the Seafood Bar, I let Beccy take the lead. She asked the maître d' for Max Partensi, and he led us to a table overlooking the water.

  A man stood tall in a linen jacket with a blue Oxford shirt as we approached. He was my height with my shoulders, and his hair was like mine twenty years ago, if I had let it grow wild. He looked Beccy up and down without shame, like a collector appraising an art piece, except his face resembled that of a child being offered a melting ice cream.