Page 130 of Never Flinch

“Nothing from him?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Okay. A girl can hope. I’m off to the Mingo to sign some insurance papers.”

Holly frowns. “Really? I thought all that was done in advance.”

“So did I, but the paperwork never seems to end. It’s seventy per cent of my job. Make that eighty. I might stop at a couple of stores on the way back for a skirt and a pair of jeans. I also need pantyhose.”

“Be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” Corrie says, and cocks a thumb at Kate. “She’s the one you have to look out for.”

5

11:30 AM.

While Corrie is in the hotel lobby waiting for an Uber, Izzy Jaynes is at Dingley Park’s softball field and getting her game face on. She would much rather be doing police work, but since she has to be here, shemeans to do the best job she can. In part because the ceaseless razzing is slowly but surely making its way under her skin.

The firemen have ceded the field to the cops, but they’re hanging out in the bleachers, snarking up hotdogs and fish tacos, amusing themselves with trash talk. Because she’s slow-pitching batting practice for her PD guys, most of it is aimed at her. Some of it’s harmless, but a lot of it is unpleasant sexist bullshit. Nothing she hasn’t heard before—George Pill wants to know if those legs go all the way up—but that doesn’t make it any better.

Izzy was a competitor in college, and a competitor on the cops. She’s smart, but it was mostly that competitive streak that caused her to rise in a mere ten years from a police academy grad with a newbie short haircut to her current position in the detective squad. She may not be up to Holly Gibney’s deductive skills—knows it, actually—but she also knows she’s better than Tom Atta and most of the others on the detective squad. Lew Warwick knows it, too. It’s why he called her in to look at the letter from Bill Wilson, aka Trig, aka who knows.

Let them think this is how I’ll throw once the game starts, Izzy thinks.Let them just think that.

She can’t throw as hard as Dean Miter, who last year held the FD team hitless for three innings, but she has that dropball, her secret weapon, and she has no intention of throwing it in front of Pill and the rest of the Hoses hosers.

Her phone vibrates twice in the pocket of her shorts, but she ignores it until everyone on the PD team—those who are here; more will arrive when their shifts are over—has had a chance to hit. The Surrogate Juror Murders are important, but the State Police have that for the time being. Keeping the peace in Buckeye City is important, but the County Sheriff’s Department is supposed to be handling most of that tonight. She’s worried about Kate McKay, too, but she has faith in Holly to keep the McKay woman safe.

All these things matter. The game tonight does not… except to Izzy it now does. She may not be able to no-hit the firemen as Dean Miter did for three innings last year, but she intends to stand up for the team and for herself. She intends to stuff some of that FD trash talk right down their smoke-eating throats. Her job has, for the time being, taken a backseat.

That would never happen with Gibney, she thinks as she totes a bucket of balls back to the PD dugout.She’d keep her eyes on the prize. And surprise-surprise, both of her missed calls are from Holly, who says she’s in the hotel fitness center.

“Improving our skinny little bods, are we?”

“Watching my boss improve hers,” Holly says. “I think she’s almost done. Have you found out anything about anything?”

“Nope,” Izzy says, hoping the guilt she feels doesn’t show in her voice. The fact is, she hasn’t even checked with Ken Larchmont, back at the station. Ken won’t be playing softball tonight. He has to go two-fifty, and is nearing retirement.

“Nothing on Trig from any of the cops who go to meetings. Nothing on Stewart, either. Detective Larchmont is calling around at hotels, motels, and b-and-b’s, double-checking, but so far,nada.”

Feeling more guilty than ever, Izzy checks her phone to make sure Kenhasn’tcalled her in the interim.

Holly says, “Stewart’s gone to ground somewhere. Take it to the bank.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You’re at the field?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Don’t feel guilty. It’s for a good cause, Izzy, and I have faith in you. You’ll do well.”

“Doing well would be nice,” Izzy says. On the field, some of the firemen are heaving a ball around while the rest take batting practice. George Pill looks at Izzy, puts his hands on his hips, and does a comic bump and grind.

Keep laughing, shithead, Izzy thinks.Wait until I get you in the batter’s box.

Be careful what you wish for.