Free Curveball by Jen Estes

hook. She took one last look at the mirror and shrugged.
    One day down.
    Wet hair didn’t really matter when it was paired with the curve-hugging little black
     sheath dress she had planned to wear. It was a Nicole Miller she’d snagged at Nordie’s
     end-of-season sale, one of the few designer items she owned. She couldn’t wait to
     show it off. Paige was going to be begging to borrow it.
    Or not.
    Cat stopped in her trek to the closet and stared at Paige’s duds of the day.
    Versace, Cavalli, Gucci.
    The snug royal blue dress that wrapped around Paige’s body was definitely one of the
     “ees” and as such, she wore it with ease as she filed her nails at the hotel room
     table. It showed off at least three inches of ample cleavage but fell precisely to
     her knees—save for a six-inch slit. Cat surmised that this was as professional as
     it was going to get. Sunlight streamed in through the giant window behind her, illuminating
     the young woman like she was an angel. That is, until she spoke.
    “Oh Em Gee, Cat McDee, was that a freaky-deaky night or what?”
    Cat stood behind the louvered closet door, using it as a privacy screen. She flipped
     her towel over the top and slipped into the sleeveless rayon that, up until thirty
     seconds ago, had been the most glamorous dress she’d ever seen.
    “You can say that again.”
    “Was that a freaky-deaky—”
    “Ha, ha.” She peeked out from behind the door to spy Paige’s shoes.
    Another “ee.”
    Fendi, this time. As Cat reached for her Payless pumps, a pang of jealousy hit her.
     She dismissed it; coveting Paige’s wardrobe was like a little leaguer envying Albert
     Pujols’ batting average. “What’s your deal anyway? I never figured you for a morning
     person.”
    “Couldn’t sleep. Nightmare city. Probably ’cause of the horizontal beachcomber.”
    Cat sauntered out of the closet and shot her a disgusted glare. As she prepared her
     laptop tote, it occurred to her that not even a gruesome death could pause the party
     girl for more than eight hours.
    “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
    Paige hopped into the driver’s seat and Cat instantly blessed her decision to skip
     breakfast. After one blown red light, two near crashes and three blocks of driving
     in the opposite lane, the girls arrived at work.
    “I hope the fact that we’re late on our second day goes unnoticed.”
    Paige grinned and reached for a box in the backseat. “I got it covered.”
    Joe’s office door was wide open. His rotund belly, framed by navy suspenders, protruded
     out from the morning paper. He pulled it down enough for his curly dark hair and brown
     eyes to peek out over the top.
    Paige waved the white box at him. “Brought donuts, courtesy of the La Concha Gran Hotel . You want?”
    He set the paper down and waved her over. “Any jellies?”
    “No, only glazed, but I think they’re from Krispy Kreme. Can you believe it?” She
     opened the box and put it on his desk. His eyes widened and he eagerly pulled one
     out, pointing with it at the front page. “Did you hear about this? A dead kid washed
     up on the beach near your hotel.”
    Paige closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the thing—”
    He tore into the donut and said, “Jesus. I scouted this kid.”
    Cat snapped her head up from her perch in his doorway. “You did?”
    “Everyone did.” He double-checked the name. “Gaspar Peralta, yeah. At one time, we
     all thought he was going to be the next Manny.”
    “That’s weird.”
    “Nah, every day I hear so-and-so’s gonna be the next whomever.” Joe took another bite
     of the donut and continued with his mouth full of fried dough. “I’ve seen about thirty
     Vladimir Guerreros this year alone.”
    “No, not that. If this kid was such a superstar in the making, then why didn’t Chance
     know …” Cat turned behind her to make sure they were alone. The outer office was empty
     but she closed the door anyway as she stepped