“Becs,” he said in a low southern drawl that sounded less authentic than Detective Faust’s. He smiled with a granite chin that I instantly wished to turn into a kitchen counter.

  “Max,” she said as they did a weird dance: he went in to lay his lips on her cheek, and she leaned away to turn it into an air kiss. He seemed happy enough with the outcome.

  “Max Partensi, this is Miami Jones and Detective Faust.”

  He nodded to me and gave Faust the once-over. Then he actually nodded like he approved. “I confess,” he said to her, and laughed at his own joke. “Sit, sit. Let’s order some drinks.” He already had a martini on the go.

  I wasn’t going to say I had never drunk during the day, but that was what weekends were for. Faust and I declined. Beccy asked for tonic and lime.

  “So what’s this all about?” he asked, leaning back in his seat so his jacket fell open and his pectoral muscles pushed at the fabric of his shirt.

  “I understand you were a swimmer?” I said.

  Beccy hid a smile.

  Max pouted his lips as he considered the idea that someone didn’t know who he was. “Gold in Rio and Tokyo.”

  “Freestyle?” I asked.

  “The blue ribbon event, the fifty free.”

  “I’ve always liked the fifteen hundred meters, myself.”

  “If you prefer Clydesdales to thoroughbreds.”

  “I prefer things to last longer than a few seconds.”

  “So—” said Faust, leaning into the table, “Mr. Partensi. I’m sure you’re aware of the investigation into Forrest Simpson’s death.”

  “Yeah, Forrest, right. Weird, huh?”

  “How is it weird, sir?”

  “I mean, that anyone would want to kill him. I mean, it’s Forrest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, no offense to the guy, but he was kind of like part of the furniture. And I’m not talking about cool furniture, like a bean bag or something. I mean, he was just there, you know? I don’t know why anyone would want to do that to a guy who was barely there at all.”

  “You knew him, then?”

  “Yeah. He was on the team at both my Games. But we didn’t hang out or anything.” He made a face like he’d eaten a bad pickle.

  The waiter appeared with Beccy’s drink and asked if we wanted to order some oysters for the table.

  Max was about to open his mouth when Faust said no. “We won’t be staying long.”

  The waiter made the same face that Max had and retreated.

  “So, Mr. Partensi, do you know a man named Alan Notley?”

  “Yeah, I know Alan. Why?”

  “We’re just trying to get some background. Understand where everyone fits into this investigation.”

  “You think Alan had something to do with it?”

  “I don’t have an opinion, Mr. Partensi. He may just know something, or not. I just need to eliminate him from my investigation.”

  Or not, I thought. “Just like we need to eliminate you, Max.”

  “Me? I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re around. You see things.”

  “I pretty much keep to myself.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Come on, Max. You’re a player. People gravitate to you.”

  He shrugged like he was too humble to say anything.

  “So, what can you tell us about Alan Notley?”

  His face suddenly tightened, and he sat forward with his hands clasped around his glass.

  “What’s your intention?” he asked me.

  “With what?”

  “This information.”

  “It’s an investigation. Our intention is to find out who did it. We’re not looking to date your sister.”

  “But information is power. And it’s not free.”

  “Well, let me put it this way. Detective Faust’s job is to find Forrest’s killer, so her intention might be to put you in an interview room at the detention center tonight during the swimming competition, and someone else will need to take your seat in the commentary box. So your intention should be to do everything necessary to avoid that.”

  He curled his lip like he was considering his options, then he leaned back again and sipped his drink, appearing relaxed in his own skin.

  “Yeah, I can dig that. But you can’t repeat this.”

  “This is a murder investigation, Max. It could end up as evidence in a courtroom,” I said.

  “But it didn’t come from me.”

  I was going to tell him that it might be him on the witness stand testifying in said courtroom, but I decided it was all too hard, so I just shrugged.

  Max put his glass down and looked at me. “Alan had a fling in Tokyo. With an athlete.”

  “That doesn’t seem overly appropriate,” I said. “Does it, Detective?”

  “It does not.”

  “Oh, man, you gotta understand, though. The Games are a meat market.”

  “A meat market?” said Faust.

  “It’s like a smorgasbord. Thousands of young people all living together for two weeks, and every one of them is fit, you know what I mean? Like killer bodies. And everybody’s totally up for it.”

  “Everybody?” I asked.

  “Well, most everybody.”

  “But Alan Notley, is he a young, fit athlete?”

  “Nah, man. He’s an old dude. Gotta be forty or more.”

  Now it was my turn to drop an eyebrow.

  “So he would be in a position of power, then, over these athletes?” said Faust.

  “Some, yeah, I guess.”

  “A fling wouldn’t be great for his career if it became public.”

  “I don’t know. He’s one of those guys.”

  “What guys?” asked Faust.

  “You know, a bigwig. Flying all over the world, looking at bid cities, eating at fancy restaurants, staying at hotels he can’t afford.”

  I glanced around the room and wondered who at our table could afford this hotel. “I thought the Games was all about austerity now, keeping things cheap.”

  “Lower cost don’t mean cheap, my man. And it ain’t those guys who bear the cost cuts. Did you know in Tokyo the beds were made of cardboard?”

  “I did not.”

  “Yeah. It might not be like the old days, but it’s still a nice gravy train for those guys.”

  “But you’re saying that this wasn’t a career killer?”

  “I reckon they all get up to something every now and then, so they keep it in-house.”

  “And out of the papers.”

  “The what?”

  “The media.”

  “Yeah. His wife might be a different story, though.”

  “How do you know this happened?” asked Faust.

  “I saw it.”

  “You saw them at it?” I said.

  “Yeah, man. I walked into the wrong room, didn’t I.”

  “So, Mr. Partensi,” said Faust, “did anyone else know about this fling, so-called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did Forrest Simpson know?”

  Max shifted his eyes from Faust to me to Beccy, then he picked up his drink and swallowed the remains.

  “Yeah, Forrest knew.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Faust.

  “Yeah.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I told him.”

  “You told him? Why?”

  “Because it was funny. Old guy getting his rocks off like everyone else. It’s awesome but also a little gross, you know?”

  “Did you swim at Stanford?” I asked.

  “Nah. I was a Texas Longhorn. But for Tokyo, I was with National Performance.”

  “In DC?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how did you know Forrest?” I asked.

  “We were roomies in Tokyo.”

  “You had to share rooms?”

  “Of course. It’s the village. Everyone has a roommate, except maybe the basketball players. They had their own digs.”

  “How close were you with him?”

  “Not close. I didn’t spend a lot of time in my room, you know.”

  “Because it was a meat market.”

  “Yeah. It was like college but X-ten.”

  “Ex ten?” asked Faust.

  “Ten times better,” said Beccy.

  Faust nodded. “What can you tell us about Forrest at that time?”

  “What do you want to know?” said Max.

  “What was he like? His mood. Who did he hang out with?”

  “Forrest didn’t hang. He lurked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he was always hanging around, watching everyone. He was like a busybody.”

  “Did he watch you?”

  “It wasn’t some kind of freak show. I told you, once I figured the guy was never gonna leave the room, I made plans elsewhere. Dude didn’t even honor the sock on the doorknob.”

  Faust glanced at me.

  “The sock means⁠—”

  “I know what the sock means, Jones.” She returned her attention to Max. “So you didn’t spend a lot of time together.”

  “Not much. He was okay, you know. Not a bad person or anything, just, I don’t know. Dull.”

  “But a lurker?” I said.

  “Yeah, defo. A total lurker.”

  “Will Alan Notley be at the trials?”

  “He’ll be there, but I haven’t seen him.”

  I looked at Beccy. “Do you know him well enough to point him out?”

  “I could, sure,” she said. “But he’s hard to miss. Just look for the loud blazer and the matching pocket square.”

  Max nodded. “Dude’s got flair, that’s for sure.”

  Faust thanked Max, and I said I might see him around the pool. He said he’d be there.

  “See you later, Becs?” he said.

  “Of course. I’ll be there, too.”

  We walked out, leaving him alone at his table. I glanced back and saw him wave to the waiter and point at his martini glass, empty and alone.

  I was leading the way through the lobby when Beccy stopped. “I’m gonna walk back along the beach,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “We can give you a ride.”

  “Let the girl enjoy the beach, Jones,” said Faust.

  “I need a shower anyway, after being with that guy,” Beccy said, plumping her hair like she was already under the stream.

  “You don’t care for him?” asked Faust.

  “He has quite the reputation. I have it from sources that he did the decathlon in Tokyo.”

  “Decathlon?” I said. “I thought he was a swimmer.”

  “Is this dumber-than-dirt thing an act with you?” asked Faust.

  “What?”

  “He slept with ten women during the Games,” said Beccy.

  My eyes popped. “What? It goes for how long? Two weeks? That’s like . . .”

  “Are you doing the math?” said Faust. “Don’t hurt yourself. Just know it’s not an honor.”

  “I wasn’t thinking it was.”

  Faust shook her head.

  Beccy stepped in and kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you at the pool.” She turned and strode away, a little less bounce in her step. I watched her go and wondered if she had firsthand experience of Max Partensi.

  “No,” said Faust, slapping my shoulder as she turned for the door.

  I slinked in beside her. “No, what?”

  “No, she hasn’t slept with him.”

  “How would you know whether I was thinking that?”

  “You’re less a novel and more of a billboard.”

  I had no idea what that meant. “How do you know she hasn’t?”

  “I saw her face. That ick was real.”

  We walked back out into the steam and got into Faust’s car. She turned on the AC.

  “You wanna find this Alan Notley guy?” she asked.

  “If he’s there.”

  “One way to find out.”

  “Two, actually.”

  I sent a text to Rod Barron, the lawyer, and asked if Alan Notley was at the trials. Barron replied in the affirmative, but he would not be at that night’s finals because of a prior engagement in Atlanta.

  “No point going if he’s not there.”

  “No. I’ll drive you back to your car.”

  “Thanks.”

  She pulled out and headed for the mainland.

  I shook my head. “‘Dumber than dirt,’ she says.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I spent the evening at Longboard Kelly’s with Danielle. We ate chicken Caesar salads and watched swimming. The sun fell but the humidity didn’t, and my shirt clung to my back.

  “Not there again?” said Muriel from across the bar.

  “I am but a phone call away. Trying to do the coach a favor by not reminding Greg about what’s going on.”

  Max Partensi’s commentary had a different ring in my ears after meeting him. He was exuberant and loud. He screamed a lot. In college, I would have hated him, but I had an unnerving suspicion that he would have been a good teammate. For all their faults—and there were many—those big-man-on-campus types had a way of galvanizing a team. He spoke positively of every swimmer, even those who were hitting the wall dead last.

  “Orna Tetweiler called,” said Danielle. “She’d like to come and do her final inspection the day after tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “You finish reading the stuff?”

  “I’ve been through Lizzy’s file more times than I can count. If there’s something more I need to know about being a foster parent, it isn’t in the literature.”

  “It’s not the SATs, MJ. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  I was petrified.

  “You going to the arena tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Not first thing. I’m going down to Miami.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lizzy came up with someone I should speak with.”

  After leaving Detective Faust at Gun Club Road, I had stopped by my office. Lizzy handed me a piece of paper with a name on it.

  “Hayden Malkovich? Who is he when he’s at home?”

  Lizzy said, “I ran through all the teammates and others connected to Forrest Simpson. Hayden Malkovich was part of the Stanford collegiate squad when Forrest first moved over from the University of California.”

  “Was he at the Games?”

  “No. He never made it. He was NCAA-ranked, but that was as far as he went. I thought because he wasn’t at the trials, he might be willing to talk with you, tell you something useful.”

  “If he’s not at the trials, where is he?”

  “University of Miami. He’s now a coach there.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say.”

  “It’s a long way to go for a chat with someone who barely crossed paths with him.”

  “If you don’t want my help, just say so. I could be playing solitaire on my computer.”

  I had disappointed her, and that was a problem. Whenever I messed up, I never knew how to make it better with her. Doing as she suggested and driving down to Miami would help, but I sincerely hoped an iced coffee with whipped cream in the morning would have the same effect.

  It was later that night when I showed Danielle the screenshot of Forrest’s diary page, hoping that the name clicked and Lizzy’s find would become a mission for us both. Although I had more or less promised Detective Faust to not show it to anyone, I figured Danielle was a safe bet since she was also law enforcement, and Muriel was safe because she was a bartender and leaned over the bar whether I liked it or not.

  Danielle spotted the line. “There’s your guy,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Coach egged me, DS, HM—Hayden Malkovich.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know.”

  “Good job.”

  “Gee, thanks, skipper.” She smiled the half smile. It got me the way it always did.

  “I have no idea what ‘Coach egged me’ means.”

  “You think it’s Forrest’s coach?”

  “Kellie Almonde, yeah.”

  “And DS is the dead girl?”

  “Deena Senza.”

  “And what was the connection between the coach and Senza?”

  “Teammates on the national team, and Almonde tried to recruit her away from Iowa.”

  “That’s your answer right there,” said Muriel.

  “What is?”

  “Your coach. Egged. How do you cook an egg?”

  “You fry it?”

  “Or?”

  “You boil it?”

  “Keep going.”

  Danielle put her elbow on the bar and leaned her chin into her palm, watching me with a grin as I floundered.

  “Omelet?” I said.

  “Have you ever cooked a meal for yourself?” said Muriel.

  “I’m quite handy in the kitchen, actually.”

  Danielle nodded. “He is.”

  Muriel wasn’t buying it. “Keep the egg in one piece.”

  I ran through the options in my mind. Then my jaw dropped open like a flytrap.

  “Poach,” I said. “She poached Deena or tried to. And she also poached Forrest from Cal. So maybe she poached this Hayden guy from somewhere.”

  “I knew he’d get there in the end,” said Muriel.

  “Am I the only one who didn’t see it?” I asked.

  Danielle nodded.

  “How did you. . .” I asked Muriel.

  “New York Times crossword,” she said. “Every day.”

  I was about to say I needed to start doing that, but I decided I wasn’t kidding anyone. But I was going to have fun explaining it to Detective Faust when I next saw her.

  “Wait, you get the New York Times every day?”

  “There’s an app.”

  “Of course there is.”

  This Hayden revelation had me on the road early the next morning in the dark, the taillights a river of red on I-95. The commute to Miami was long and slow, but I needed to get to Coral Gables early.

  From my few inquiries, it seemed that swimmers tended to hit the pool during the wee hours. I didn’t really understand the logic. Sure, if they were college students—and many of them were—they had classes during the day, so workouts early and late made sense. Thinking back on my time at UM, I knew class schedules were a suggestion more than a rule. I could only assume things were more flexible now that classes could be attended online. We had tried to avoid workouts in the blazing Florida sun, but that really didn’t seem to be an issue for people flopping around in a pool. Plus, it was summer break, so there were fewer students on campus.