“Fine.”
“Jed, why don’t you show these officers back to the locker area. It’s closed off for this event,” O’Keefe told Eve, “and should be private. If Wylee stays out here, they’ll keep coming.”
“Sure, Bri.” The big man led the way.
“Have you worked for Wylee long?” Eve asked him.
“Awhile.” He skirted behind a trio of batting cages, swiped a card on a door. “Don’t see why you have to bother him.”
“It’s my job. What was yours before this? Linebacker?”
His mouth curved, just a little. “Semipro. Bunged up my knee pretty bad, and that was that. Wylee hired me on.”
“Same neighborhood, right?”
If you couldn’t hear Brooklyn in his voice, you needed to have your ears checked.
“Yeah. Me and Bri and Wylee, we go back. You can wait in here.”
He went out, closed the door.
The room held two walls of stainless-steel lockers, a trio of sinks, a couple of toilet stalls, and a pair of low benches.
“See about that medical data,” Eve told Peabody, pulling out her own handheld to do a run on Brian O’Keefe.
No marriage, no cohabs, no offspring on record. Studied at Carnegie Mellon, double majors in comp science and accounting.
Nerd, Eve decided.
And the nerd had taken a job in IT right out of college, then ditched it to manage the sports star.
Eve poked around in O’Keefe’s life until Peabody swore under her breath.
“I’m not going to be able to pull this out on a handheld, Dallas. The data’s too old. I probably couldn’t pull it anyway. It’s going to take an e-man. I can send it to McNab.”
Eve started to tell her to go ahead, remembered McNab was already overworked. “Send it to Roarke.”
“Really? That’s okay?”
“Nothing he likes better than prying around in somebody’s personal business.”
Then she looked up, stood up, as Wylee Stamford came in.
He smiled as he did, extended a hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Maybe she felt another tug as she shook the hand that could wing a ball from third to first like the stream of a laser rifle.
“We appreciate your time, Mr. Stamford.”
“Wylee, okay? Lieutenant—sorry.”
“Dallas, and Detective Peabody.”
“Well.” He sat on the bench. “How can I help a couple of New York’s finest?”
“We need to talk to you about Larinda Mars.”
“I … Who?”