“I’m here to protect the team as much as Greg,” said Barron. “We haven’t exactly been given a lot of information at this point, so we don’t know how this needs to be handled.”

  “Well, Rod, let me update you. We just pulled one of your swimmers out of the warm-up pool. He drowned himself, it would seem. His name was Forrest Simpson. Mr. Jones here informs me that he might have been trying to blackmail Mr. Baxter in some way. Is that right, Greg?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so? Well, why don’t you tell me about the altercation you had with Forrest Simpson last night.”

  Greg nearly popped a disk snapping his head in my direction.

  I put my palms up. “I did not say that.”

  “Is it wrong?” asked Faust.

  Greg turned back to her. “There was no altercation or whatever you’re suggesting. He just spoke to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I should quit the team.”

  “The team you just made?”

  Baxter nodded but Rod Barron spoke: “Greg won the one-hundred-meter freestyle last night to make the team.”

  “Excellent,” said Faust. “So where were you when Mr. Simpson said this?”

  “Walking back to the warm-up pool.”

  “In the plastic tunnel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did he suggest what might happen if you refused to quit the team?”

  “He said he would tell everyone what he knew.”

  “What did he know?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know what he was talking about.”

  “He didn’t tell you what he knew?”

  “No.”

  “And you have no idea?”

  “No.” Greg shifted in his seat. For the first time since I had met him, I got the sense that he wasn’t telling the truth.

  “Greg, a young man has taken his own life. I’m just trying to figure out why.”

  “Because he wasn’t going to make the team,” said Barron.

  “How do you know that? I thought last night was the first night of racing.”

  “It was. But the truth is, he came in sixth last night, and the one hundred free is his strongest event. It was unlikely Forrest was going to make the team again.”

  Faust nodded slowly. “Right, he was in Tokyo.”

  “And Rio.”

  “And does the team have an assistance program to prepare a swimmer for this eventuality?”

  “We have a team of high-performance sports psychologists.”

  “What about low-performance psychologists?”

  “I don’t think that’s very funny, Detective.”

  “Nor do I, Mr. Barron. I’m serious. Having a team designed to eke the best out of athletes is not the same as having mental health care available to those who fail to make the grade after working hard for four years.”

  “That help is available.”

  Faust turned back to the swimmer. “Did you know Forrest well, Greg?”

  “Sort of. Not really.”

  “You were teammates, though.”

  “On the national team, yes. Two Olys, a couple world champs. But we didn’t train together.”

  “The team doesn’t train together?”

  “We have a camp together prior to the Games, but I mean the rest of the year. I’m with National Performance in DC. Forrest’s out at Stanford.”

  “What happened after he spoke to you last night? Where did you go?”

  “I warmed down in the pool.”

  “The warm-up pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s also the warm-down pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. You took a swim to get over your swim?”

  “Yes. The race is high energy. There’s lactic acid and stuff in the body, so we do warm-down laps to ease the muscles back. It’s normal recovery.”

  “Okay. And did anyone else do this warm-down routine?”

  “Everyone does it.”

  “Did Mr. Simpson do it?”

  Greg frowned and stared at Faust’s shoes for a moment. “I don’t think he did.”

  “Where did he go, then?”

  “I don’t know. We finished our, you know, conversation, as we came into the warm-up room. I think he went straight to the showers. I don’t know for sure, but I didn’t see him in the pool.”

  “And after the warm down, what did you do?”

  “I showered.”

  “You didn’t see Mr. Simpson then?”

  “No.”

  “And after the shower?”

  “We left.”

  “How did you leave?”

  “We took a van.”

  Rod Barron edged forward. “The current national team squad is shuttled back to their accommodations in our sponsor’s vehicles.”

  “And those not on the team?”

  “We have other shuttles, or they can make their own arrangements.”

  “Did you leave with anyone else?” Faust asked Greg.

  “I left the building with Coach Collis. The van was full.”

  “And you didn’t see Mr. Simpson anytime after your little chat?”

  “No, I didn’t. I wish I had.”

  “Why?”

  “If I knew he was going to take missing the team so hard, I would have tried to help him. We weren’t close, Detective, but I’ve been in a dark place before, and I know how it feels. But I also know there’s light at the end of the tunnel, if someone can help you find it.”

  Faust nodded and eyed the young man. I knew she was trying to read him. I just didn’t know why.

  “All right, Mr. Baxter. I appreciate your time. That’s all for now.” She stood, and the two men did the same. “Are you swimming today?”

  “I don’t know. Is it going ahead?”

  “We’ll be done in the warm-up pool this afternoon, so I think you’ll have to make other arrangements for a cool down for today, but I don’t see why the meet wouldn’t continue.”

  “In that case, I better get down there and prepare.”

  As Greg Baxter and Rod Barron walked past me, I put my hand on Greg’s shoulder. We shared a nod, and they left. I tapped a quick text message to Amanda Swaggert, and when I glanced up, Faust was looking out the sliding door at the pool below.

  “You got him a lawyer?” she said.

  “Procedure.”

  “Really? In a suicide investigation?”

  “The guy has history.”

  “He wasn’t getting blackmailed for nothing.”

  She turned and waited for me to explain.

  “There was a suicide after the trials eight years ago. Greg Baxter’s girlfriend, who was also his teammate, took her own life.”

  “Was he looked at?”

  “Of course. No charges. He wasn’t there when she did it. He was asleep at home. But he’s concerned that the same thing is happening again, and he felt like he shouldered the blame for last time.”

  “Was he to blame?”

  “I really don’t know, but I doubt it.”

  “Why? Because he’s a good guy?”

  “Because when people take their own lives, people always say they wished they could have done more, but the truth is more doesn’t always help.”

  “You talking from experience?”

  “I was a college athlete. I knew people who couldn’t cope. I didn’t always know it at the time. And I knew plenty of nonathletes like that, too. Over twenty-five thousand college students attempt suicide every year. That’s twenty-five thousand kids with their whole lives in front of them, and they can’t see a better path than the end. Over a thousand of them succeed. I don’t want Greg Baxter to be another one.”

  “You have all those numbers to hand?”

  “Like I say, I’ve known people who didn’t cope.”

  “What makes you think Baxter might be one of them? We’re talking about Forrest Simpson.”

  “My office did some research. After he lost his girlfriend, he didn’t do well. His Games was a train wreck. He was the hot favorite in all his events, but he didn’t win a single individual gold. Some, he missed the final altogether. No prizes for guessing why.”

  “You think history might repeat itself?”

  “History does that.”

  “Not by accident.” She moved away from the sliders. “I’m not planning on putting his name out there. At this point, I’ve got a young man who just missed the team he had worked four years to make and, like you say, didn’t know how to cope. That’s it. This other thing—the blackmail—sounds like a cry for help, a last-ditch attempt to make it. But I will check. Procedure.”

  “I’m just asking for discretion, that’s all.”

  She stepped forward so we were facing opposite directions but our shoulders were touching. “I am discretion itself.”

  I waited for the wry grin and for her to walk away. But she didn’t move. She looked across our shoulders right at me with sad brown eyes. The wrinkle under her left eye gave her face some character. She was a few inches shorter than me, but she held her head high.

  There was a knock at the door, and Amanda Swaggert peeked in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “Just finished,” I said, turning around. “Amanda, this is Detective Faust. Detective, this is Amanda Swaggert, operations manager for the arena.”

  “Detective, if there’s anything you need, I’m at your disposal.”

  “I appreciate it, but I got a call from the mayor. He’s very eager for us to be done, so we’ll be out of your hair this afternoon.”

  Faust walked to the door, and Amanda held it open. The detective turned to me. “This other time, was that here?”

  “No, this place wasn’t built. It was in Omaha, Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska, huh? Well, thanks for your help. I have to wrap up downstairs.”

  Faust left, and Amanda let the door close. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Thinking about the kid.”

  “It’s sad. I can’t imagine being that low.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t talking about that kid. I held up the key card she had given me.

  “Can I keep this for a while?”

  “Like I said, give it back when you’re done.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Try to channel a dead man.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amanda didn’t get my meaning and I didn’t explain it. I took the elevator down and went to find Greg, thinking about what I might say that wouldn’t be trite. The dead man I was trying to channel wasn’t Forrest Simpson but my mentor and friend, Lenny Cox. This was where Lenny shined. He had a knack for knowing what to say exactly when it needed saying. I accepted that I was a pale imitation, but sometimes, a pale imitation is all we have.

  The warm-up pool was out of action, so the powers that be had decided that for the day’s heats, the swimmers would be granted fifteen minutes in the main pool prior to the first gun. They brought in massage tables, and I saw a line of aluminum tubs being filled with ice and water in a greenroom behind the stands.

  No one seemed too concerned; Most of the swimmers were or had been student-athletes, and college sports meets rarely ran exactly to plan. College football might look like the NFL, but nothing else in college does. All the other sports operate on shoestring budgets with makeshift facilities and cobbled-together events. Buses break down, floors get flooded, cheap hotel rooms don’t have enough beds, starter’s guns don’t fire, baseballs are forgotten back on campus. Things happen. College athletes learn to go with the flow.

  Greg Baxter was such an athlete. Dressed in his swimming gear and a team robe, he was doing push-ups to warm his shoulders in lieu of a few easy laps. A man with a bald head covered in a sheen of perspiration was crouched beside him, talking in a measured voice. I squatted on Greg’s other side and nodded at the guy.

  “Miami Jones,” I said.

  “This is not the time,” he said.

  “And you are?”

  “Rick Collis. Greg’s coach.”

  “Right, good. I’m just⁠—”

  “I know who you are, and I know what you’re doing. You’re not needed here, so just send us the bill and move on.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’ve spoken to the investigator, and they’re done with you. You’re free to concentrate on your meet.”

  Greg stopped at the top of his push-up and smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”

  “Don’t sweat it. And there’s no bill.”

  “Good,” said the coach.

  Greg dropped to his knees and then sat on his haunches. “You’re leaving?”

  “It’s a sad thing that’s happened, Greg, but it’s got nothing to do with you, so it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “The reporters won’t agree. You know they’ll try to link what happened last time. They love that stuff.”

  “The team has media people who know how to handle that. They’ll shield you.”

  “They didn’t last time. And the cops, I’m the one they zoned in on. How do I know they won’t do it again?”

  “I told you this isn’t the time,” said Coach Collis.

  “Like I said, the investigators are packing up and moving out. The journalists are going to cover the incident—they have to—but they won’t care about you. There’s no connection.”

  Greg Baxter didn’t look convinced. The lines across his face told a whole other story. I wasn’t sure how bad it had been last time, but I suspected most of the problem had been between Greg’s ears, and those proved to be the biggest problems of all. They didn’t manifest in the real world, but they festered and they distracted. Dark voices could whisper a good person down a rabbit hole where the light no longer shone.

  I was trying to think of some kind of Lenny Cox one-liner when Rod Barron, the lawyer, stopped beside me.

  I looked up at him from my crouch. “Rod?”

  “I heard what you said about the media. There’s a problem with that.”

  I stood. “Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere else.”

  “My point exactly,” said Collis.

  “I need your help, Mr. Jones,” said Greg. “This is my last big shot. I can’t blow it.”

  “You’re not gonna blow it. You’ve got this, and you’ve got good people on your team.”

  “But do I have you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere right now. You focus on this morning, then we’ll talk.”

  The frown didn’t leave him, but he dropped back into his push-ups.

  Rod Barron and I walked through the concourse, then we cut down a breezeway toward the pool. Standing beside a large curtain, I realized we were at the starting end of the pool, where the athletes would come out onto the deck.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “You’re kidding yourself if you think the media aren’t going to be all over this story. They love this stuff.”

  “I get that, but you have a team here. Your administrators, officials, coaches, some other teammates. They can all present a face, give the media the old We’re sad, but we’ll win this one for the Gipper story.”

  “But Greg’s a story. He melted down in Rio. That’s a fact. It’s in the books. Any reporter worth their seat in the stands is going to link these events and drum him about it.”

  “You have to shield him. Keep him out of the spotlight.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Beating Joey Chestnut in a hot dog–eating competition is impossible. This you can do.”

  “You don’t get it. He’s our number one swimmer. If he suddenly goes missing, reporters will notice.”

  “You’re not on the public relations side of things, are you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You don’t make him go missing. You manage the situation. Keep him out of the daily pressers. If he does one, make it look impromptu, but stack it with friendly faces. And you’ve got an exclusive network for the Games, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So use them. They’ve got skin in the game. They don’t want to make this guy look bad. They want America loving him like he’s their own flesh and blood, winning gold over there in Europe on behalf of every one of us. I’m sure they’ve already prerecorded a bunch of stuff—puff pieces and the like, right? Use it. Put one on every night this week. Make sure Greg’s face is front and center, but ensure he’s not actually answering any hard questions.”

  “Okay, that’s good. That might work. I’ll talk to media relations.”

  “Excellent.”

  He glanced at the curtain, then pointed his finger at it. “What about after the swims?”

  “After the swims?”

  “After every swim there are interviews on the pool deck. If he wins, it’s going to look suspicious if he doesn’t talk.”

  “But that’s not open to the general media, is it? Surely the network has a reporter for that?”

  “They do.”

  “So talk to them. It’s the network again. They won’t want to tarnish their product. They’ve paid tens of millions, hundreds of millions? They want this to work. Have the poolside interviewer hit the question first thing as soon as Greg is out of the pool. Still huffing and puffing so he can’t say too much. Get them to ask how the team is feeling about Forrest. Tell him what to say: ‘shocked, sad, we miss him, great teammate,’ all that. ‘We’re going to win the relay for him.’”

  “Win the relay—yeah, that’s good.”

  It didn’t feel good. It felt like we were using a dead man as a cheer.

  “Hopefully, she’ll go for it,” said Barron.

  “Who?”

  “The woman who does the poolside interviews.”

  “She’ll do what the network wants if she hopes to keep her job. Who is it?”

  “Beccy Williams.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Okay. Talk to your people. Have them chat with the network. Run the puff pieces. I’ll talk to Ms. Williams.”

  “Okay. Listen, is it true what you said before? The police are done?”

  “They’re sheriffs, but yeah, it looks that way.”

  “So there’s no legal trouble here?”

  “I don’t think so. The family might have a different opinion of the duty of care offered to Forrest, but I can’t speak to that. In any case, that would be civil, wouldn’t it?”