Read The Setup Man for Free Online

are real, although her coffee-colored hair may have been straightened. She has neat, sculpted brows, black eyes, and dark tones on her lips and lashes. This morning she wears a black silk blouse, black jeans, and a pair of dark slingback sandals. Open-toed shoes seem like a strange choice for a woman in mourning, until I notice that her nails are painted black as well.
    “I’m Maria Herrera,” she says. “Frankie’s wife.”
    “Johnny Adcock.”
    “Your wife let me in.”
    “My wife?” I finish the last few buttons on my shirt. I don’t correct her. “Listen, I’m sorry about Frankie. He was a terrific guy and a hell of a ballplayer. I hope you’ll accept my condolences.”
    Mrs. Herrera wipes the corner of each eye with the back of her wrist, taking care not to smear her makeup. “Would you believe I’m already sick of hearing that? Everybody has been trying to tell me who my husband was, how wonderful he was. He was no angel, that’s for sure. But neither was I, as I assume you know. Frankie told you about our problem?”
    “He did.”
    “He assured me you would take care of it.”
    “I’m going to do my best.”
    “You have his phone. Have you watched the video?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Frankie would have wanted to know who was behind it,” she says; then she pauses, as though weighing her next statement. “I should tell you that I don’t care who sees that video. Not now. My husband is dead. What could be worse than that?”
    Plenty of things, I want to say. He could have been a gardener and left you with squat instead of a major-league pension.
    “The reason I came to see you,” she continues, “is that I suspect my husband was murdered, and I want you to find out who did it.”
    “You realize it was an auto accident.”
    The widow takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Something was wrong with Frankie. He was preoccupied.”
    “And from that you conclude he was murdered?”
    “I know my husband, Mr. Adcock.”
    “Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” This is where I might have mentioned the girl in Frankie’s car, but something holds me back. Loyalty to the brotherhood of ballplayers? Maybe I just can’t stomach the bullshit about Frankie being “preoccupied.” Whatever it is, I resolve to keep that bit buttoned up, at least until I sort out this mess. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead? Did he have gambling debts?”
    “Frankie never gambled.”
    “Drugs?”
    “None that I know of.”
    “I would say it might be the person who was trying to blackmailhim, but you have to wonder how they expected to get money from a dead man.”
    The widow’s gaze is insistent, bordering on desperate.
    “I assume since you’re standing here that you don’t want to go to the police.”
    “I’m not ruling it out,” she says. I know she doesn’t mean it. I’ve had clients wield police investigations like a goad, as though the threat would spur me to reach a speedy and amenable conclusion to the case. I just ignore them. If they were in a position to call the police, they would have done so before they called me.
    “Let me ask you something, Mrs. Herrera. Do you have any idea who might have sent that link to Frankie’s cell phone?”
    “Would I be standing here if I knew that?”
    “Probably not. But if you had to guess?”
    “The guy who made the film was named Steve Doubilet. I guess you’d call him the director, although he didn’t do much directing. But, you know, Steve’s not a very good suspect.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “For one thing, he found Jesus five years ago. I’d lost touch with him by then, but I heard from a friend that he’d been saved. A couple months later he killed himself.”
    “Just couldn’t wait, huh?”
    No reaction from the widow. I make a note that she is not amused by wit.
    “Who else knew about the film?” I ask.
    “Just us. Steve promised Frankie he’d never upload the file.”
    “Yeah, Frankie said the