Page 32 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

I looked hard at the coaches on the field, but I didn’t see Captain Davis among them.

“Switch,” I heard someone say. I saw Davis coming out of the field house not far from where we stood. He wore a headset and mic. He was big, around six foot four, and had a good two hundred and twenty pounds on his formidable frame. Even if I hadn’t known his background, I would have figured out he was a serious athlete of some kind, the way he rolled loose through the hips out onto the field.

“Ah, jeez, Cap,” Coach Davis whined into the mic, “why do we have to do it?” He walked around to the front of the team, pointed at one of his players, and said in his regular voice, “Walker, why do we do this?”

Walker jumped to his feet and said, “Iliacus and psoas muscles can screw you up inside and out.”

“Correct — tight hip equals twisted core,” Davis said. “We don’t want twisted cores. Twisted cores and tight hips get you injuries, and you are no good to your teammates if you are injured. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Captain!” the entire team shouted.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Captain!”they all thundered.

“Good,” the coach said. “Now break up for drills. Why?”

“Because repetition is the mother of skill, Captain!” they shouted.

“That’s right! Now break!”

The players grabbed their helmets and equipment and hustled to various parts of the field. Soon quarterbacks were throwing to receivers and linemen were hitting sleds.

We climbed into the stands. A handful of fathers were watching from the highest row; lower in the bleachers, a pretty woman with cinnamon hair wearing a Charles School Fighting Badgers hoodie was grading papers. She looked up when we sat down ten feet from her.

“Are you gentlemen scouts?” she asked. “If you are, you need to register at the front office or you can’t be here.”

“We’re not scouts,” I said, sliding closer. “We’re with the FBI. Or I am.”

There was no masking her surprise. “FBI?”

I nodded and showed her my credentials. “We’re part of the team looking into the shooting down of the American Airlines jet.”

“That involves someone here?” she said. “At the Charles School? Oh my God, Hampstead Three is going to have a fit and a half.”

CHAPTER 31

THE CINNAMON-HAIRED WOMANshook her head in total disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“And yet we are,” Sampson said. “Dead serious. What’s your name?”

“Plum,” she said. “Fiona Plum.”

“You work with the football team, Ms. Plum?” I asked.

“I teach AP English and American history. I … I just like football. My father was a fanatic. Nice days like today, I sit out here and get my grading done while I watch practice.”

Sampson said, “Tell us about the coach.”

Plum stared at us. “You mean Captain?”

“That’s right. It’s probably just an odd coincidence, but someone named Marion Davis came up in the course of the investigation.”

“Well, no one calls him Marion,” she said, a little indignantly.“And he’s one of the finest men I have ever known. He’s devoted to coaching those boys out there, even though he really doesn’t need the job.”

“You mean he’s rich?”

“As I understand it. Not a crime.”

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