I nodded slowly and turned away. I didn’t speak. I had nothing left to say. People always say “It was a waste” when a young person dies. It sounds like a pointless comment made in place of knowing what to really say. But it was also true: it was a waste. I couldn’t imagine what would drive a person to end their days at the bottom of a pool, and my lack of understanding made my skin crawl.

  I walked back down the plastic corridor to find my nonclient and deliver him two sets of bad news.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The main arena was buzzing. Athletes who had arrived to prepare for the day’s heats were now sitting in the stands on the long side of the pool. Rumors were flying. Margrave had made some kind of announcement and told everyone to sit and wait until they could figure out what the investigators would and wouldn’t allow them to do, but the athletes didn’t appear to be in a sitting mood.

  Stadium seating isn’t designed for athletes. In fact, I’m not sure who it is designed for. There’s no leg room for anyone above six feet and no butt room for the average backside, so the swimmers squirmed around like sardines trying to work out how they were all going to fit in that can.

  I scanned the seats for Greg Baxter. It took longer than necessary to find him because he wasn’t in my initial frame of reference. Groups of people congregate in a standard distribution. I wasn’t sure of the technical term, but they stuck close together in the center like a herd, then as they reached the edges they spread out in a recognizable pattern.

  Greg Baxter was well outside the pattern. He sat in a completely different section, reached by a completely different set of concrete stairs. Up high, in the nosebleeds, hidden in the shadows of the arena roof.

  I walked down to the pool deck and then up numerous steps. The upper sections were designed to be reached via the public concourse, not the floor, so I was leaning into my thighs by the time I reached him. He saw me coming but said nothing.

  I stood for a moment in the aisle and stretched out my back. Sitting four seats in, he returned to staring across the arena at the empty seats on the opposite side. I sat on the end.

  “They say he’s dead.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Everyone.”

  “They say who’s dead?”

  “Forrest.”

  “Who?”

  “Forrest.”

  “I meant, who is Forrest?”

  “Forrest Simpson.”

  “How does anyone know anyone’s dead?”

  “Mr. Margrave said there had been an accident in the warm-up pool. What kind of accident happens in a pool?”

  I took that as rhetorical. “What makes anyone think it’s this Forrest guy?”

  “Do you see him anywhere?”

  It wasn’t the most scientific methodology. Not in view—ergo, dead. Mob wisdom was rarely wise.

  “That doesn’t mean he’s dead.”

  “Everyone has messaged everyone, you know? If you can’t see a teammate, someone from your squad, you message them. Forrest isn’t replying.”

  Now the methodology was getting some teeth. I knew there had been a death, and I also knew it was a male swimmer.

  “You know this guy?” I asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not a complicated question, Greg. Do you know him?”

  “Of course I know him,” he spat.

  “Oo-kay. What gives?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sitting up here by yourself and you’re stewing in your own juices. Who is this guy to you? Is he a training partner?”

  “No. He’s from Cali.”

  “Cali? Like Colombia?”

  “What? No. California.”

  “Okay. So you don’t swim with him?”

  “Of course I swim with him. He’s on the team, right? The national team.”

  “He is?”

  “Was. Last two Olys.”

  “Olys?”

  “Last two Games, Rio and Tokyo.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t get it at all.”

  “What don’t I get?”

  He spoke through a clenched jaw. “He’s the guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who was blackmailing me.”

  I sat back in my hard plastic seat.

  “You didn’t tell me that the other night.”

  “I didn’t know then.”

  “How do you know now?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “He told you? When?”

  “Last night, after the one hundred free final.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were going back to the warm-up pool. He came up to me and said that I needed to listen. That he knew what I did and he was going to expose me if I didn’t quit the team.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I told him to get lost.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. It’s happening again.”

  “What’s happening again.”

  “Don’t you see? It’s Omaha all over again.”

  “How is it Omaha? Are you talking about Deena?”

  He sat forward and put his face in his hands. “They blamed me for that.”

  “Who did?”

  “Everyone. The cops, the media, Deena’s folks.”

  “My understanding is that she took her own life.”

  He dropped his hands and stared across the arena again. “Yeah, that’s what they say. But the cops didn’t waste any time pointing the finger at me. And once the media gets hold of it . . .”

  “They thought you had something to do with it?”

  “They always look at the boyfriend or the husband, right?”

  I didn’t say that they were usually right. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  His face was flushed from fear or anger or both. “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “I wasn’t even there.”

  “Where were you?”

  He let out a mirthless laugh. “At the house. Passed out drunk, okay? Yeah, I was the guy who let his girlfriend go and kill herself while I was sleeping off a bender. I wasn’t there for her, and they all blamed me. They were right.”

  “Greg, this is not that.”

  “You don’t think so? You don’t think the media’s gonna have a field day with this? Another dead teammate. They’ll have a field day.”

  “Look at me,” I said.

  He glanced my way.

  “No, sit up straight and look at me.” He pushed himself up and turned in his tight seat to look me in the eyes.

  “I’m not your priest and I’m not your lawyer, so you don’t have to tell me anything. But I can help if you answer me this one question: did you have anything at all to do with the death of the young man they pulled out of the warm-up pool?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off mine. “No.”

  “In that case, you need to come with me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Greg and I made our way down the steps to the halfway point, where we cut in under the stands to the public concourse. All the action was happening down below on the maintenance level, so we walked around the arena in peace.

  I explained to Greg that the way to get on top of the story was to drive the narrative. It would be better to tell the investigators what he knew and then move on rather than hide and hope they didn’t bother talking to him.

  At the main entrance, a security guard stood just inside, keeping out of the heat. She wore the same uniform as Devon and offered a pursed smile as we approached.

  I flashed my pass at her. “Who’s in charge here now?”

  “The CEO is Mr. Preston.”

  “No, who runs things. I mean, really runs things. Day to day.”

  “I suppose that would be the operations manager, Ms. Swaggert.”

  “Amanda Swaggert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is she in?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Can you call her? Let her know Miami Jones needs to speak with her.”

  “That would be you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I expected the guard to get on a walkie-talkie, but she just picked up her cell phone and made the call. I could probably have done that myself.

  “There’s a Miami Jones here at front of house, says he needs to speak with Ms. Swaggert.”

  She listened for a moment and then ended the call without so much as a goodbye. “This way,” she said, and led us to the elevator that I knew went up to the suites. She waved a key card in front of a box inside the elevator car, hit the top button, and exited.

  “Someone will meet you,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping in, and Greg followed.

  The doors closed, and we stood in silence for a few seconds.

  The elevator opened again at the suite level and we stepped out. No exposed concrete here. The floor was polished engineered wood that shone like the deck on a billionaire’s yacht, and every wall was either painted in eggshell alabaster or wallpapered in modern geometric shapes. The lighting came from little chandeliers that sprayed stars across the ceiling. A series of doors led into suites overlooking the arena, each bearing the logo of the company that had paid for the privilege of viewing events from the rafters.

  I didn’t wait; I knew where I was going. We backtracked through a door beside the elevator that gave the impression it was going to dump us out thirty feet above the parking lot. But the stairs there led up and twisted back, depositing us on what I remembered as the executive floor.

  Amanda Swaggert stepped out of a door in the corridor. She smiled when she saw us and walked over.

  “I was just about to come down for you,” she said.

  “I knew the way.”

  “Of course you did. You look different.”

  “Older.”

  “Long pants, I think.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  It was a lie. When I had met her several years before, she had been the PR manager for the new arena, and in her early thirties at a guess. The years since had been kind. She was still only a smidge over five feet tall, so I spoke with my chin at my chest, but something about the look in her eyes said she understood her value to the world a little more now.

  “Trouble does seem to follow you around,” she said, tossing aside the blond hair that she had grown out to shoulder length. “Or do you bring it with you?”

  “You know what’s happening?”

  “My floor manager says the police are at the warm-up pool. Someone drowned?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Awful.”

  “Bad PR.”

  “I don’t do that anymore,” she said.

  “Operations now?”

  “Operations and events.”

  “But you’re not down there?”

  “I have people who know their jobs. But now you’re up here?”

  “I need to borrow a suite if there’s one not in use.”

  “There are a few, unfortunately.”

  “Just for a little while.”

  She glanced at the swimmer next to me, and I remembered we weren’t alone. “Sorry. Amanda Swaggert, this is Greg Baxter.”

  “I know,” she said. “Congrats on last night.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All right, come with me, boys.”

  We followed her back down the stairs. She wore a white shirt with the arena logo on the chest and a skirt that fit her so well it must have been bespoke. At the suite level, she used her key card to open an unmarked door, then she fiddled with the lock and turned the lights on.

  It was a smaller suite meant for a party of maybe ten. Lounge chairs and flatscreen televisions and a plain table that probably got covered with a tablecloth and set out with food and drinks during events. The sliding glass doors led out to some private seats overlooking the arena floor.

  “This do?” she asked.

  “Perfect, thank you.” I told Greg to sit and stay put, then I left with Amanda. Once outside, I asked her how I could get back into the suite.

  “The door’s not locked, and you can use this in the elevator.” She handed me a key card with two red stripes across it. “Just give it back to me when you’re done.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “How bad is this going to be?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “We’re not liable for accidents in the pools. That’s in the contract. The swimming association is supposed to have its own safety personnel.”

  “It doesn’t look like an accident.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Looks like a guy took his own life.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s not good, but I don’t think the heat will be on you.”

  “You’re right. I should get down there. Maybe talk to the police.”

  “It’s the sheriff’s territory, and I’m about to bring them up here.”

  “Can you call me when you do?”

  I found her contact info on my phone and updated the number. “I’ve gotta get moving here.”

  “Keep me updated. And anything you need . . .”

  “Appreciate it.”

  I went back down to the maintenance level. I needed to find someone not in a tracksuit. I didn’t. The first likely candidate was a woman in a tracksuit jacket and shorts who was a good thirty years past swimming for the US national team.

  “I need to find a team official,” I said. “Is there anyone here?”

  “Who do you need?”

  “Does the association have an in-house counsel?”

  “A lawyer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want Rod Barron.”

  “Do you see him here?”

  As she scanned the stands, she asked if I knew what was going on.

  “Only what you know,” I said.

  “There, the man with the gray hair, in the blue polo and chinos.”

  “Got it. Thank you.”

  I stepped down onto the pool deck and made my way to the guy in the chinos. He, I, and the guy in the suit were the only people wearing long pants.

  “Rod Barron?”

  The silver-haired man turned to me. He was at least in his sixties and in great shape. Maybe it was something about hanging around with young swimmers that made the support staff take care of themselves.

  “And you are?”

  “Miami Jones. I’m working for Greg Baxter.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s about to be questioned by investigators, so he’ll need you to sit in with him.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “As far as I know, nothing, but he shouldn’t be questioned without counsel, regardless.”

  “I’m a corporate attorney,” he said. “I do sponsorship and media deals.”

  “I don’t care, and neither will the investigators. Just sit there and listen. He just needs someone in the room.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a corporate suite. Go to the front entrance and someone will take you up.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  He shrugged like he couldn’t care either way and walked off. I called Amanda and asked for someone to escort him. Then I headed for the warm-up pool.

  Sergeant Castañada was still guarding the corridor.

  “I need to speak to Faust.”

  He jinked his head as permission to pass. I walked down the tube to the warm-up pool. Most of the people in hazmat gear were gone, as was the body. Detective Faust saw me standing by the door and came over.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I think I know who your John Doe is.”

  “Go on.”

  “Swimmer by the name of Forrest Simpson.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It seems the answer was crowdsourced. Everyone outside started texting or whatever they do now, and they came up with one person who wasn’t texting back.”

  “Smart.”

  “Only if they’re right.”

  “They’re right.”

  “How do you know?”

  She took the elastic band out of her hair, pulled the ponytail tight, and looped the band back on. “We ID’d him. It’s Forrest Simpson.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “My client thinks it was Simpson who was blackmailing him.”

  “He does, huh? How did he come to this conclusion?”

  “Apparently, Simpson told him as much last night.”

  “Told him? You didn’t mention this before.”

  “I didn’t know before.”

  “I need to speak to this Greg—what’s his name?”

  “Baxter.”

  “Right. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs, in a corporate suite.”

  She frowned.

  “I figured you’d want to talk to him, and I didn’t think doing it out in front of everyone was the best place.”

  “And you organized a suite?”

  “I’ve worked here before. I know people.”

  “You’re more useful than you look.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Let’s go chat with your boy, then.”

  I led Detective Faust back into the maintenance concourse and around the perimeter to avoid the crowd gathered in the stands. I found the elevator and used my key card to summon the car.

  “You really are connected,” said Faust. “How much time do you spend here?”

  “Did a case here when it first opened several years back.”

  When we got off on the suite floor, I went to the unmarked door, opened it, and held it for Faust. Greg Baxter was sitting in one of the lounge chairs next to Rod Barron. It seemed like they had stopped mid-conversation as we entered.

  “I’m Detective Faust,” she said, taking charge as I closed the door. “Who are you?”

  “Detective, I’m Rod Barron, in-house counsel for the US swim team. This is, I’m sure you know, Greg Baxter, one of our premier athletes. He’s already on the team for Paris.”

  “In-house counsel, huh?” said Faust, sitting in the lounge chair opposite Greg.

  “Yes, is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. Curious, though. Do you feel you need a lawyer, Greg?”