long before now, and he’s got to know that we’re looking everywhere for Thompson. I can’t imagine that he’d risk being seen in public with her at this point.”
“So what else do we have?” Greg asked.
“Not much,” I sighed. “The Thompsons’ phone records just came in. I assume you’ve got Fletcher’s?”
Elaine nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got ’em, but we checked all the calls both in and out for the three months before she was shot. There was nothing out of the ordinary there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s compare Fletcher’s records to the Thompsons’ and see if there are any numbers in common. Then we can work our way through the Thompsons’ calls and see if there’s anything that jumps out at us there.”
Chapter Eleven
The first baseman was a tall, rangy blonde with long straight hair, good eyes and hands, and even better foot speed.
Wearing a black cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, Carl McClain sat hunched over in the twelfth row directly above first base in the Alberta B. Farrington Softball Stadium, watching the girl intently as he had for each of the last three Arizona State home games.
He was impressed by the girl’s natural athletic ability. It was also clear that she’d put in her time in the gym, and on the practice field as well, and the combination of her natural ability and her work ethic had enabled her to make the team as a freshman.
The girl was also extremely attractive, especially compared with the other young women on the field. Most of the other players had the heavy thighs, thick bodies, and butch haircuts typical of all too many female athletes. But the first baseman was a knockout, and McClain speculated that she was probably a real heartbreaker.
There were two outs in the bottom of the third inning, and ASU was leading Stanford 3-1. With the count at two and two, the Stanford batter hit a short pop-up in the direction of ASU’s second baseman. The girl moved under the ball, made the catch without difficulty, and retired the side.
McClain watched the first baseman as she loped into the dugout and disappeared. Then he pulled thecowboy hat even lower over his eyes and turned to look at the girl’s mother, who was sitting six rows down and about forty feet to his right.
The mother, whose name was Amanda, was a blonde herself. She wore her hair considerably shorter than her daughter’s, in a style that was designed to appear casual and carefree. McClain would’ve bet, though, that she’d probably spent at least a couple hundred bucks to get her hair cut just exactly right and that she probably dedicated at least thirty minutes a day to keeping it that way.
Amanda was thin and lightly tanned, and the diamond set on her left hand sparkled even at this distance. She’d worn a different outfit to each of the three games that McClain had attended, and this afternoon her small, pert breasts were peeking out over the top of a light blue camisole. Below the cami, a pair of brief white shorts left no doubt about the fact that Amanda’s legs were still her best feature, hands down.
Being rich agreed with her, McClain decided, and she had aged very well. In fact, closing in on forty, Amanda was even sexier than she’d been at nineteen, which was when Carl McClain had first sweet-talked her into going to bed with him. He promised her that he’d pull out, but then of course he didn’t. It was the first in a long line of promises that he’d made to Amanda and then broken, and the result had been Tiffani, the first baseman.
As Stanford took the field, Amanda turned and scanned the crowd behind her—perhaps sensing his eyes on her?
Not very likely, he decided. Besides which, Amanda was, and always had been, a woman who was used to having eyes on her—one of those women who naturally expected it. No, more than likely she was simply anticipating the arrival of Richard, the man who was now her husband and their daughter’s stepfather.McClain looked away, just
“So what else do we have?” Greg asked.
“Not much,” I sighed. “The Thompsons’ phone records just came in. I assume you’ve got Fletcher’s?”
Elaine nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got ’em, but we checked all the calls both in and out for the three months before she was shot. There was nothing out of the ordinary there.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s compare Fletcher’s records to the Thompsons’ and see if there are any numbers in common. Then we can work our way through the Thompsons’ calls and see if there’s anything that jumps out at us there.”
Chapter Eleven
The first baseman was a tall, rangy blonde with long straight hair, good eyes and hands, and even better foot speed.
Wearing a black cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, Carl McClain sat hunched over in the twelfth row directly above first base in the Alberta B. Farrington Softball Stadium, watching the girl intently as he had for each of the last three Arizona State home games.
He was impressed by the girl’s natural athletic ability. It was also clear that she’d put in her time in the gym, and on the practice field as well, and the combination of her natural ability and her work ethic had enabled her to make the team as a freshman.
The girl was also extremely attractive, especially compared with the other young women on the field. Most of the other players had the heavy thighs, thick bodies, and butch haircuts typical of all too many female athletes. But the first baseman was a knockout, and McClain speculated that she was probably a real heartbreaker.
There were two outs in the bottom of the third inning, and ASU was leading Stanford 3-1. With the count at two and two, the Stanford batter hit a short pop-up in the direction of ASU’s second baseman. The girl moved under the ball, made the catch without difficulty, and retired the side.
McClain watched the first baseman as she loped into the dugout and disappeared. Then he pulled thecowboy hat even lower over his eyes and turned to look at the girl’s mother, who was sitting six rows down and about forty feet to his right.
The mother, whose name was Amanda, was a blonde herself. She wore her hair considerably shorter than her daughter’s, in a style that was designed to appear casual and carefree. McClain would’ve bet, though, that she’d probably spent at least a couple hundred bucks to get her hair cut just exactly right and that she probably dedicated at least thirty minutes a day to keeping it that way.
Amanda was thin and lightly tanned, and the diamond set on her left hand sparkled even at this distance. She’d worn a different outfit to each of the three games that McClain had attended, and this afternoon her small, pert breasts were peeking out over the top of a light blue camisole. Below the cami, a pair of brief white shorts left no doubt about the fact that Amanda’s legs were still her best feature, hands down.
Being rich agreed with her, McClain decided, and she had aged very well. In fact, closing in on forty, Amanda was even sexier than she’d been at nineteen, which was when Carl McClain had first sweet-talked her into going to bed with him. He promised her that he’d pull out, but then of course he didn’t. It was the first in a long line of promises that he’d made to Amanda and then broken, and the result had been Tiffani, the first baseman.
As Stanford took the field, Amanda turned and scanned the crowd behind her—perhaps sensing his eyes on her?
Not very likely, he decided. Besides which, Amanda was, and always had been, a woman who was used to having eyes on her—one of those women who naturally expected it. No, more than likely she was simply anticipating the arrival of Richard, the man who was now her husband and their daughter’s stepfather.McClain looked away, just
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