Free Three Strikes and You're Dead by Jessica Fletcher

in front of a sink, perhaps preening for her next on-air moment. But the bathroom was eerily quiet, and for a moment I wondered whether she had magically slipped past me, or disappeared through the exhaust vent like an apparition. But my escape-artist suspicions were lifted when I heard the sound of someone being sick.
     
     
    I remembered what Ty had told us about the Crazy Coyote, that Locke had been sick last night, too. That’s quite a hangover, I thought. Or perhaps she had the flu. In good conscience, I couldn’t leave her alone. I scanned the openings beneath the stall doors. There she was—her red slingback shoes gave her away.
     
     
    “Are you all right?” I called. “Do you need any help?”
     
     
    “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’ll be okay.”
     
     
    She flushed the toilet and emerged, pale and perspiring.
     
     
    “Too much partying?” I said, hoping to raise the topic of the Coyote.
     
     
    “I don’t drink,” she said as she washed her hands and checked her face in the mirror. “Had some bad clams last night. That’s the last time I eat in that restaurant.” She took a piece of chewing gum from her pocket and gave me a wan smile.
     
     
    “Ms. Locke, I’d like to talk to you if I may.”
     
     
    “No time. Sorry. I’m on a hot story.” She brushed past me and left the ladies’ room.
     
     
    And you’re part of that story, I thought. But what part?
     

 
    Chapter Seven
     
     
    “Mr. Ramos, do you understand the charges against you?”
     
     
    “Yes, sir,” Ty replied. He spoke softly and tentatively, like a little boy caught by the school principal.
     
     
    “How do you plead, Mr. Ramos?”
     
     
    “Not guilty, sir.”
     
     
    “It’s my understanding that you reside with an officer of the court, Judge Jack Duffy.”
     
     
    “Yes, sir, I do.”
     
     
    “I’ve taken that into consideration regarding whether to grant you bail. The district attorney, as you’ve heard, has asked that no bail be granted. Under ordinary circumstances, I would support the prosecution in the matter of bail. But considering your young age, and the fact that you’ve not been in trouble with the law since moving here to continue your baseball career, I’m going to have you post bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll surrender your passport to the court clerk and must understand that you are not to leave Mesa until this matter has been fully adjudicated. I’m also ordering that you be under house arrest and wear an ankle bracelet to monitor your location for the duration.” The judge, an elderly gentleman with wispy rust-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, smiled at Ty. “Congratulations on winning your game with that home run. I was rooting for you to do it.” Realizing he might have gone too far, he cast an embarrassed glance at the prosecutor and announced in his best stentorian voice, “Court adjourned.” The gavel came down hard on the bench and he strode from the courtroom, black robe trailing behind him.
     
     
    Naturally, I was extremely pleased with the judge’s decision, as I knew Jack and Meg were. But I also realized that, as restricted as it might be, Ty’s getting his freedom because of connections Jack might have had would become added fodder for the media. A great sidebar story.
     
     
    Meg and I waited in the hall while Jack arranged for Ty’s bail, putting up his house back in New Jersey as collateral. A policewoman, who looked to be over six feet tall, waited with us for security purposes. I smiled and thanked her for holding the door for us. She did not return the smile nor acknowledge me in any way. An imposing lady, not one you’d want to come up against.
     
     
    Given the original media interest in the story, I feared reporters would hound everyone involved, day and night. We’d be beset by TV stations and other media competing for viewership and readership, which translated into ratings, which further translated into