Free Strike Three You're Dead by R. D. Rosen Page B

bat,” Linderman corrected him. “We don’t know who was holding it.”
    “How do you know it was Cleavon’s bat?”
    “That one was easy. The soft spot in Rudy’s skull was perfectly consistent with the sweet part of a Louisville Slugger. It could’ve been someone else’s bat, but Battle used it in the game that night, and it was gone by the morning, and no one can find it.”
    Harvey felt ill.
    “Your fingerprints were all over the place,” Linderman said.
    “Now wait a—”
    “Don’t have a seizure. So were everyone else’s. There must’ve been two dozen sets of pawprints around the whirlpool, none of them much good. And there was enough hair lying around to weave a bath mat. Head and pubic. Looks like the whole damn team sheds. The only blood we found was Rudy Furth’s. Don’t tell anyone I told you, Harvey, but a clubhouse is a nice place to commit murder.”
    “My lips are sealed,” he said sourly.
    “The M.E.’s people say there was a slight bruise under Rudy’s eye, probably fresh, though God knows what ten hours in a whirlpool’ll do. He didn’t have a mouse when you saw him after the game, did he?”
    “No. I would’ve remembered it.”
    “So let’s say there was a struggle before someone beaned him with Battle’s bat. But we’re still nowhere unless we can figure out who wanted to pick a fight with him.”
    “Not Cleavon.”
    “If it was him, he’d have to be pretty stupid to use his own bat and then tell us he can’t find it. You know a sharp dresser named Ronnie Mateo?”
    “Funny you should ask. On the night Rudy was killed, he spoke to me for the first time.”
    “Did he say anything of lasting value?”
    “He tried to sell me some necklaces.”
    “Figures,” Linderman said. “I hope he didn’t make a sale.”
    “So you know something about Ronnie Mateo?”
    “We’ve become pretty well acquainted over the years.”
    “How’s that?”
    “You ever hear of Bunny Mateo?” Linderman asked.
    Harvey made the connection for the first time. “He’s a gangster.”
    “Correct. In Providence, Bunny’s the gangster. Now here’s your bonus question: What’s Ronnie’s relationship to him?”
    “I pass,” Harvey said.
    “Ronnie’s his half brother, and he’s sort of a simpleton. He’s the guy the other guys send out for espresso, get the idea?”
    “How dangerous is he?”
    “As far as we know, he’s not a leg-breaker. Shoplifting is more his speed.” Linderman sipped his beer again. “He’s the kind of guy we pick him up, we let him go, we pick him up, we let him go. He’s small time, and there’s never enough evidence to book him, anyway. He covers his tracks, or someone else covers them for him.”
    “You think Rudy was mixed up in gambling or something?”
    “I don’t think so. We checked around, and there’s been no funny betting action on Jewels games. Nothing in Vegas, either.” Linderman found a Marlboro, lit it, and just held it in his cupped hand. “Anyway, Harvey, you know as well as I do that a relief pitcher can’t throw a game. Think about it. A starting pitcher can do it; he’s scheduled to pitch, and he controls the game. But a reliever doesn’t know when or if he’s going to get in the game, so he can’t control it. If Ronnie Mateo’s in there somewhere, it’s not gambling. Which is why I want to ask you about typewriters.”
    “Typewriters?”
    “We found three IBM Selectrics in Rudy’s house. The kind of machines that certain people have a habit of removing from offices without permission and selling on the street for five or six bills a pop. Any reason you can think of why there were three typewriters in his place and three thousand dollars in his pocket?”
    “You said there was one thousand dollar bill.”
    “There were two more just like it in his pants pocket. We found them when we went through his clothes.”
    “Jesus,” Harvey said. He pulled the celery stalk out of his drink and snapped it between his