“You think you can find the spot where our witness was hiding?”
“Maybe. It’s over there.” Theo pointed to a patch of thick trees across the fairway. They drove to the edge of the woods, got out, and began stomping around like golfers do when they’ve hit bad shots and can’t find their balls. A dry creek bed ran through the woods, and on one side there was a short retaining wall of eight-by-eight treated timbers. The perfect spot to sit and hide and have a quiet lunch, all alone.
“That might be it,” Theo said, pointing. “He said he was sitting on some logs, with a perfect view of the house.”
Theo and Mr. Boone sat on the timbers. The view of the rear of the Duffy house was unobstructed. “How far away, you think?” asked Theo.
“A hundred yards,” Mr. Boone said without hesitation, the way most golfers readily estimate distances. “It’s a great hiding place. No one would ever see him sitting here. No one would ever think to look in these trees.”
“When you study the aerial, you can see the maintenance shed just over there, through the woods.” Theo was pointing in the other direction, opposite the fairway. “According to the cousin, the workers meet for lunch at eleven thirty at the shed. On most days, he slipped away to eat by himself. I guess he came here.”
“I brought a camera. Let’s take some photos.” Mr. Boone retrieved a small digital camera from his golf bag on the cart. He photographed the wooded area, the creek bed, the retaining wall, then turned and took some of the fairway and the homes on the other side.
“What are the photos for?” Theo asked when they were back in the cart.
“We might need them.”
They took photos for a few minutes, then emerged from the woods and were almost to the golf cart when Theo looked across the fairway. Pete Duffy was standing on his patio, watching them through binoculars. There were no other golfers around. “Dad,” Theo said softly.
“I see him,” Mr. Boone replied. “Let’s hit.”
They tried to ignore him as they hit their second shots, neither of which landed anywhere near the green. They quickly hopped in the cart and drove away. Pete Duffy never lowered the binoculars.
They finished nine holes in two hours, then decided to buzz around in the cart to have a look at the North and South Courses. The layout of Waverly Creek was impressive, with fine homes tucked neatly against some of the fairways, a row of expensive condos wrapped around a small lake, a park for children, biking and jogging trails that crisscrossed the golf cart paths, and, most importantly, beautiful fairways and greens.
A foursome was teeing off at number fourteen when they approached. Golf etiquette demands silence around the tee, and Mr. Boone stopped the cart before he and Theo could be seen. When the golfers took off, Mr. Boone drove to the tee box. There was a watercooler, a trash can, and a ball cleaner at the edge of the cart path near a row of boxwoods.
Theo said, “According to Julio, his cousin saw the man drop the gloves into the trash can on number fourteen. This must be it.”
“The cousin didn’t tell you this?” Mr. Boone asked.
“No. I’ve talked to the cousin only once, Wednesday night at the shelter. Julio came to our office the following night with the gloves.”
“So we have no idea where the cousin was or how or why he saw the man toss his gloves here at fourteen?”
“I guess not.”
“And we’re not sure why the cousin felt the need to get the gloves?”
“According to Julio, the boys who work out here always go through the trash.”
They quickly took some photos, then eased away as another foursome approached.
Chapter 19
After golf, Theo and his father stopped by the Highland Street Shelter to check on Julio and his younger brother and sister. Carola Pena washed dishes in the kitchen of a downtown hotel and worked every Saturday, which meant her three children were left at the shelter. There were games and activities for the children who lived there, but Theo knew that Saturdays were not that pleasant. They watched a lot of television, played kick ball on the small playground, and, if lucky, rode a church bus to a cinema if a supervisor could find the money.
While Theo and his father were playing golf, they had an idea. Stratten College was a small private school that had been founded in the town a hundred years earlier. Its football and basketball teams couldn’t compete with a decent high school, but its baseball team was a Division III powerhouse. There was a doubleheader at 2:00 p.m.
Mr. Boone checked in with the supervisor at the shelter. Not surprisingly, Julio, who was in charge of the twins, Hector and Rita, jumped at the chance to leave the shelter. The three practically ran to the SUV and jumped into the rear seat. Minutes later, Mr. Boone stopped at the hotel, parked illegally at the curb, and said, “I’ll run and tell Mrs. Pena what we’re doing.” He was back in an instant, all smiles, and reported, “Your mother thinks it’s a great idea.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone,” Julio said. The twins were too excited to speak.
Stratten College played its games at Rotary Park, a wonderful old stadium on the edge of the town’s center, near the small campus. Rotary Park was almost as old as the college and in years past had
been the home to several minor league teams, none of which stayed very long. Its claim to fame was that a Hall of Famer, Ducky Medwick, had played one season there in 1920 with a Double A team before moving on to the Cardinals. There was a plaque near the front gate reminding fans of Ducky’s brief stint in Strattenburg, but Theo had never seen anyone reading it.
Mr. Boone bought the tickets at a booth with only one window. The same old man had been working there since Ducky passed through. Three dollars for an adult, a dollar each for the kids. “How about some popcorn?” Mr. Boone asked as he looked down at the glowing faces of Hector and Rita. Five bags of popcorn, five sodas, twenty bucks. They walked up a ramp and into the bleachers, just down from the home dugout near first base. There were a lot of seats and few fans, and the ushers didn’t care where they sat. The ballpark could hold two thousand, and the old-timers liked to brag about how big the crowds used to be. Theo watched five or six Stratten College games each season and had never seen the stadium even remotely close to half full. He loved the place, though, with its old-fashioned grandstand, overhanging roof, wooden bleachers close to the field, bull pens next to the foul lines, and an outfield wall covered with brightly painted ads for everything in Strattenburg from pest control to a local beer to lawyers in need of injured clients. A real ballpark.
There were those who wanted to tear it down. It was practically empty in the summertime, after the college season ended, and there were gripes about how much it cost for upkeep. This puzzled Theo because, looking around, it was hard to pinpoint exactly where any “upkeep” money was spent.
They stood for the national anthem, then Stratten College took the field. The four kids sat close together while Mr. Boone sat on the row behind them, listening. “All right,” said Theo, the boss. “Nothing but English, okay? We’re working on our English.”
The Pena children naturally slid back into Spanish when chatting among themselves, but they instantly obeyed Theo and switched to English. Hector and Rita were eight years old and knew little about baseball. Theo began explaining.
Mrs. Boone and Ike arrived in the third inning and sat with Mr. Boone, who had eased away from the children. Theo tried to listen as they whispered among themselves. Ike had found an apartment, with rent of five hundred dollars a month. Mrs. Boone had not yet discussed the matter with Carola Pena because she was working at the hotel. They talked about other matters, but Theo couldn’t catch it all.
Baseball can be boring for eight-year-olds who don’t understand it, and by the fifth inning Hector and Rita were tossing popcorn and crawling around the bleachers. Mrs. Boone asked them if they wanted ice cream, and they jumped at the offer. When they left, Theo made his move. He asked Julio if he wanted to see the game from the center field bleachers. He said yes, and they drifted along the grandstand, past the bull pen, and eventually settled into an old section of seating just over the right center field wall. They were alone.
“I like the view from out here,” Theo said. “Plus, it’s always empty.”
“I like it, too,” Julio said.
They talked about the center fielder for a moment, then Theo changed subjects. “Look, Julio, we need to talk about your cousin. I can’t remember his name. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever known his name.”
“Bobby.”
“Bobby?”
“It’s really Roberto, but he likes to go by Bobby.”
“Okay. Is his last name Pena?”
“No. His mother and my mother are sisters. His last name is Escobar.”
“Bobby Escobar.”
“Sí. Yes.”
“Does he still work at the golf course?”
“Yes.”
“And he still lives by the Quarry?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“He’s a very important person right now, Julio. He needs to come forward and tell the police everything he saw the day the woman was murdered.”
Julio turned and looked at Theo as if he’d lost his mind. “He can’t do that.”
“Maybe he can. What if he could be promised protection? No arrest. No jail. Do you know what the word immunity means?”
“No.”
“Well, in legal terms, it means he might be able to cut a deal with the police. If he comes forward and testifies, then the police won’t bother him. He’ll be immune. There may even be a way for him to get legal papers.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“No way, Julio.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“I have protected his identity. He is safe, Julio. But I need to talk to him.”
A player for the other team hit a ball that bounced off the right field wall. They watched him slide into third for a triple. Theo had to explain the difference between the ball going over the wall and one bouncing against it. Julio said there wasn’t much baseball in El Salvador. Mainly soccer.
“When will you see Bobby again?” Theo asked.