Page 64 of Never Flinch

The big dogs step back. Izzy doesn’t know what to do at first, but Pill does. He flashes a movie star grin, grabs her by the arm, and pulls her forward. She stumbles a little. Cameras flash. Some of the reporters chuckle.

“Looking forward to the game, and looking forward to lighting this little lady up,” Pill says, still grinning and holding her arm, as if she were a child who might run away.

Genuinely nettled, Izzy looks up at him—Pill has at least six inches on her—and says, “The little lady might have something to say about that.”

Pill’s grin widens. “Ooh, this one’sfeisty.”

Laughter from the reporters.

Izzy says, “What’s that on your head? Will you be wearing it in the game, when I strike you out?”

Pill’s grin freezes in place.Maybe too much, Izzy thinks. Or maybe fuck it. She doesn’t like being dragged.

Before Pill can reply, a woman in the front row stands up. Izzy recognizes her as Carrie Winton, who covers the crime beat for the local paper. She’s out of place covering fluff like this. Izzy already knows what’s coming.

“Detective Jaynes, can you update us concerning the so-called Surrogate Juror Murders? Is the murder of Fred Sinclair related?”

Chief Patmore steps between Izzy and George Pill. “That investigation is ongoing,” she says smoothly, “and you’ll be updated at the proper time. Just for one afternoon, let’s concentrate on something positive, shall we? Police and firemen, taking the field for charity! And let me tell you, these guys are ready to rumble.”

Winton is still on her feet, ignoring Patmore. “Do you have any leads, Detective Jaynes?”

She’s about to say she can’t comment, but then Buckeye Brandon sticks his oar in. “Should you be concentrating on a charity softball game while a killer is on the loose?”

Pill inserts himself. “I believe it’s time I led Officer Jaynes away. It’s her naptime.”

Lots of chuckles, and that ends it. The press corps head for the back table, where rookie cops and firemen are waiting to dispense rubbery supermarket shrimp and wine coolers (a two-drink limit). Izzy shakes off Pill’s grip and leaves by the door at the back of the podium, wanting to get back to 19 Court and change before her blue uniform shirt gets sweaty. Pill follows her, his movie-star grin gone.

“Hey. You. Girlfriend. I didn’t appreciate that crack about my hat. I was told to wear it.”

As I was told to wear my uniform, Izzy thinks.We all serve the big dogs. “I didn’t appreciate your last crack, either. About naptime.”

“Put it on your T.S. list and give it to the chaplain.” He takes the hat off and stares at it as if something important is written inside. “This hat was my father’s.”

“Good for him. As for you, put it on your T.S. list.”

“I heard your starting pitcher broke his hand in a stupid bar fight. You’re the sub.”

“So what? It’s agame. Don’t be a bonehead.”

He bends down to her, once again making her feel like a child. “We’re going to beat you like a drum.Little lady.”

She can’t believe this. “We were supposed to put on a show, and the show is over. It’s a charity game, not the World Fucking Series.”

“We’ll see.” With that, Pill walks away. Except it’s more like a strut.

Unbelievable, Izzy thinks, but by the time she’s changing in the locker room, she’s forgotten all about it.

Pill, it turns out, has not.

4

Holly and Corrie take a Lyft to Macbride Hall. Corrie chats with the book people from Prairie Lights and with the stage manager, specifying a handheld mic for Kate instead of a lav. She’s testing the sound—“Check one, check two”—while Holly examines the stage door, where they will enter and leave, and notes the other entry points.

She identifies herself to the Macbride’s Program Director, Liz Horgan, and asks if the audience will have to pass through security detectors. Horgan says no, but if people carrying bags refuse inspection, they will be denied entry. Holly isn’t delighted with that, but recognizes the limits of what she—and the venue—can do. She reminds herself again that if someone really wants to attack a visiting celebrity, nothing but luck, a hair-trigger response, or a combination of the two will keep it from happening.

Corrie remains at the venue. Holly takes another Lyft back to the hotel. Kate’s new suite is on the third floor. “It’s a comp,” she tells Holly. “What they call a holding room. At least it’s not a holdingcell. Where are we going after the show? Corrie must have that arranged. She’s terrific.”

“A Holiday Inn,” Holly says.

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