Free Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler

law enforcement officers who pushed inside were very real.
    And far more numerous than before.
    In sixty seconds the gang was cuffed and sitting on the floor. A detective from the real Midtown South Vice Unit read them
     their rights while the crime scene team started collecting evidence: Randall’s “informant” tape, the fake badges, the guns,
     the phony contract and letter from the coach, the briefcase containing the signing bonus—which wasn’t $500,000 at all but
     stacks of play money, each one topped with a single hundred-dollar bill. One cop started counting Washington’s cash.
    A moment later a furious and frightened Andy Cabot heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and two men entered the room. One was
     Danny Washington. The other was a middle-aged man in a suit. His ID card identified him as Detective Tim Getz. “Are these
     them, Danny?” the cop asked.
    “Yeah. All of them. Those two played they was detectives. And he was an undercover cop, the one with the tape recorder. That
     guy there, Pettiway—he was playing at being some agent or something for the Lakers, and”—Washington angrily pointed at Cabot—”he
     was playing at being a asshole.”
    Cabot muttered to Grimsby, “What the hell did you do to tip yourself off?”
    “Nothing!” the faux cop protested. “I did just what you told me to!”
    Getz ignored the bickering. He said to Washington, “Thewhole thing was a setup, Danny. From the start. They tricked you into agreeing to throw the game, they tricked you into thinking
     you were arrested, they tricked you into giving up your savings as a bribe. It almost worked too. Except you had the guts
     to come to us. A lot of people wouldn’t have.”
    The cop inventorying the money finished and looked up. “The serial numbers on the first million match.” He looked around.
     “Where’s the rest?”
    “Rest?” Cabot’s head turned slowly to the duffel bag.
    “The other five million.”
    “
What
six million?” Grimsby asked. “Washington only gave me a million.”
    “No, man,” Washington said, frowning. He nodded at Grimsby angrily. “He said to fix it so I wouldn’t go to jail, I had to
     pay him
six
million. My whole savings account.”
    One of the cops nodded. “That was the withdrawal receipt from the bank. Six million.”
    Cabot coldly asked Grimsby, “You got six from him? You told us you asked for one million.”
    “I
did
ask for one!” the man protested. “And that’s what he gave me.”
    Washington blurted, “He said he wanted six million or I’d go to jail and never play basketball again.”
    “No, no!” Grimsby said. “He gave me one million. He must’ve skimmed the rest himself.”
    Getz laughed. “Why the hell would he skim money from
himself?
That doesn’t make a lot of sense, now, does it, Grimsby?”
    “I don’t know. But he
had
to. I didn’t do it.”
    Cabot snapped at Grimsby, “You gave it to somebody on the way over here, didn’t you? Who was it? Was it that scumbagLorn Smales you’re always hanging around with? Or maybe your slut girlfriend? Who? You son of a bitch, you’re going down—”
    Getz waved his hand at Cabot to silence him.
    “Where’s my money?” Now it was Danny Washington who was raging. “That was for my mama and grandma! That was my whole savings
     account—all everything I saved up playing ball!”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Grimsby said.
    “We’ll track it down,” Getz said to Washington to calm him. “But for now let’s book these losers.”
    The gang of extortionists was led outside into paddy wagons for the ride down to central booking.
    The police searched Grimsby’s car, his office at BQE Auto Parts, his and his girlfriend’s apartments and the home of his bewildered
     friend, Lorn Smales, a skinny druggie living in a walk-up in the East Village. They found no sign of the missing five million.
     Getz came to the conclusion that Cabot and Grimsby together had probably skimmed the