Twenty-Eight

JACK WOLF KEPT HIS scull at the Bair Island Aquatic Center, in Redwood City. It was a couple of miles from the spot where he’d rented a small apartment for himself and Megan Callahan—under her name—when they were still together.

That was just another form of exercise, he thought, nothing more, just less rigorous and satisfying than single-sculling.

And he’d kept the apartment.

Win, win.

The Wolves had played a one o’clock game, which he’d used to entertain advertisers in his suite. Once the game was over, he’d driven over here and had been in the water ever since. He was still in his wet suit, on his way out of the boathouse, when he saw Seth Dowd standing by his car.

“Shouldn’t you be off writing me a column about how winning one game doesn’t change what a Dumpster fire the Wolves have become?” Jack said.

“Isn’t that what you told me to write?” Dowd said. “Written, sent, probably already up on the website.”

“Who told you I was here?”

“Trained reporter.”

“At least you’re not resting on your laurels after finding that weasel my sister used to date.”

“I told you, boss,” Dowd said. “We’re just getting started.”

Jack took a long look at him.

“You’ve got something. I know that look.”

“Now who’s acting like a trained reporter?” Dowd said.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and came out with a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Jack said.

“This,” Dowd said, “is the toxicology report on DeLavarious Harmon.”

“Isn’t it too soon for that to be released?”

He sometimes felt the urge to smack Dowd, just to wipe the smug look off his face, one that was there a lot. But Dowd was far too useful, especially now, and he was the most widely read writer on the paper.

“It hasn’t been released.”

“Where did you get it?”

There was the look again.

“Does it really matter?”

Jack took the report out of his hand, leaning back against the driver’s-side door of the Porsche. The heading read “Postmortem Toxicology.”

Jack’s eyes scanned it.

“What does this all mean?”

“What it means,” Dowd said, “is that the kid was suffering from cardiomyopathy, a heart thing that can legit kill young athletes. But his heart only gave out because he was juiced to the gills the day he collapsed.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not gonna give you the tutorial that the doc gave me,” Dowd said. “But he had this new designer testosterone that still doesn’t show up on league drug tests in his system, along with a legal pain pill called tramadol.”

“And that combo can kill you?”

“When you mix in fentanyl, it can.”

“Fentanyl?”

Dowd nodded.

“Even I know it’s an opiate,” Jack Wolf said. “We’ve written enough about kids OD’ing.”

“Guys in the league know when their next drug test is coming, even though they’re not supposed to. All they need is a heads-up,” Dowd said. “So if they’re in a lot of pain, they get a little boost from fentanyl the day of, to get them through the game.”

Jack was thinking about calling Megan for old times’ sake. He could use the toxicology report as a way of getting her over to the apartment, since it was looking like a slow night.

“I understand why this is a good story,” Jack said, “but how does it help Danny and me with my sister?”

“It doesn’t.”

“So why did you come all the way over here to show it to me?”

“You’ve got two brothers,” Seth Dowd said. “And I happen to know that the younger one was with the late DeLavarious Harmon in the trainer’s room before the game on the day Harmon died.”

Dowd paused and added, “Alone.”

Then he paused again, just briefly.

“That doesn’t mean he gave him the fentanyl, of course.”

Jack Wolf smiled broadly at Seth Dowd.

“But then who gives a shit?” Jack said.