Free Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler Page A

money and hidden it someplace.
    “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Washington,” the detective said. “We’ll do what we can but if we can’t recover the money… well,
     you better prepare yourself for that. You have insurance?”
    The player said miserably, “Only fifty thousand or something like that—you know, enough to replace my stereo and TV and watch
     and stuff if my apartment got broke into. I never thought I’d get robbed this much—five million.”
    “We’ll do everything possible, Danny.”
    “Thanks, Detective.”
    The cop started to leave, then paused and turned back.“Hey, Danny, one thing… I hate to ask at a time like this… but…”
    Washington’s face broke into a wan smile. “You want an autograph?”
    “For my kid, you understand.”
    “Sure. What’s his name?”

    A week later Danny Washington was getting ready for a game against the Detroit Pistons. The two-guard had limbered up with
     a run and plenty of stretches and had just donned his uniform when one of the assistant coaches called him over to the phone.
    He took the receiver.
    “Danny?” the man’s voice asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “It’s Detective Getz. I just wanted you to know. That last lead about the cash didn’t pay off.”
    “Oh, man,” Washington muttered.
    “It’s still an open case but the way it usually works is that if we don’t find stolen cash by now, it’s probably gone for
     good. I’m sorry.”
    “Well, it’s nobody’s fault but my own,” the player said, sighing. “I shouldn’t ever’ve listened to somebody like Andy Cabot.
     That was stupid. And I’m paying for it now.”
    “Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching the game.”
    “I shoot a couple of treys for you, Detective.”
    After they’d hung up, Washington leaned his head against the locker room wall for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again
     and placed a call. This one was to his accountant at the man’s home in Manhasset, Long Island.
    “Jerry? It’s Danny Washington.”
    “Danny, how you doing?”
    “Gotta go play some hoops in a minute but I got a question for you. Had this thing happen to me last week.” He explained about
     the scam and the money.
    “Oh, Danny, that’s terrible. They got five
million?
”
    “Yeah, it hurt,” the player said. “Anyway, you know I’ve been working on my degree in business during the off-season.”
    “I remember.”
    “Now if I read the tax code right it looks to me like, on my Schedule A, I can take a theft-loss deduction in the amount of
     the money stolen. Well, less that exclusion—ten percent of adjusted gross income, of course.”
    “That’s absolutely right.”
    “Okay, my question is—since the loss is five million and I’ll only have three million income this year, can I carry the other
     two million loss forward and offset most of
next
year’s income too?”
    “I’ll have to check. But I’m pretty sure you can.”
    “So basically,” Washington summarized, “I’ll hardly be paying the IRS any tax for two years.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, now, that’s good to hear.”
    The accountant said, “It’s still a bummer you had to lose all that money to get out of paying taxes, though.”
    “A damn shame, Jerry,” said the ballplayer, and hung up, thinking: Well, it
would
be a shame except that the five million, which he’d hidden in a second locker at the gym before he gave the duffel bag to
     Grimsby, was currently earning sweet interest in an offshore banking account he’d opened years ago in his and his mother’s
     names.
    Of course he’d known from the minute that little weasel Andy Cabot approached him in the gym more or less what the scam artist
     had in mind. The two-guard had foreseen the plan unfold as clearly as he could anticipate a 1-3-1 offensive alignment against
     a 2-3 zone defense.
    Somehow I just know things on the court before they happen. Like knowing when somebody’s going to foul me. Or knowing, when
     I throw the ball,