Read Mulholland Dive: Three Stories for Free Online Page B

“So, what happened?”
    Stilwell opened the door and was about to get out. Instead, he turned back to his partner.
    “I lost my reason to love the game, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”
    He was about to get out again, when Harwick stopped him once more.
    “What happened? Tell me. We’re partners.”
    Stilwell put both hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead.
    “I used to take my kid, all right? I used to take him all the time. Five years old and I took him to a World Series game. He saw Gibson’s homer, man. We were out there, right-field bleachers, back row. Only tickets I could get. That would be a story to tell when he grew up. A lot of people in this town lie about it, say they were here, say they saw it…”
    He stopped there, but Harwick made no move to get out. He waited.
    “But I lost him. My son. And without him…there wasn’t a reason to come back here.”
    Without another word Stilwell got out and slammed the door behind him.
    At the field-level gate they were met by Houghton, the skeptical security man.
    “We’ve got Mark McGwire in town and everybody and their brother is coming out of the woodwork. I have to tell you guys, if this isn’t legit, I can’t let you in. Any other game, come on back and we’ll see what we can do. I’m LAPD retired and would love to—”
    “That’s nice, Mr. Houghton, but let me tell you something,” Stilwell said. “We’re here to see a hitter, but his name isn’t McGwire. We’re trying to track a man who’s in town to kill somebody, not hit home runs. We don’t know where he is at the moment but we do know one thing. He’s got a ticket to this game. He might be here to make a connection and he might be here to kill somebody. We don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to find that out if we’re on the outside looking in. You understand our position now?”
    Houghton nodded once under Stilwell’s intimidating stare.
    “We’re going to have over fifty thousand people in here tonight,” he said. “How are you two going to—”
    “Reserve level, section eleven, row K, seat one.”
    “That’s his ticket?”
    Stilwell nodded.
    “And if you don’t mind,” Harwick said, “we’d like to get a trace on that ticket. See who bought it, if possible.”
    Stilwell looked at Harwick and nodded. He hadn’t thought of that. It was a good idea.
    “That will be no problem,” said Houghton, his voice taking on a tone of full cooperation. “Now, this seat location. How close do you need and want to get?”
    “Just close enough to watch what he does, who he talks to,” Stilwell said. “Make a move if we have to.”
    “This seat is just below the press box. I can put you in there and you can look right down on him.”
    Stilwell shook his head.
    “That won’t work. If he gets up and moves, we’re a level above him. We’ll lose him.”
    “How about one in the press box and one below—mobile, moving about?”
    Stilwell thought about this and looked at Harwick. Harwick nodded.
    “Might work,” he said. “We got the radios.”
    Stilwell looked at Houghton.
    “Set it up.”
    They were both in the front row of the press box looking down on Vachon’s seat and waiting for him to arrive before splitting up. But the seat was empty and the national anthem had already been sung. The Dodgers were taking the field. Kevin Brown was on the mound, promising a classic matchup between himself, a fastball pitcher, and McGwire, a purebred slugger.
    “This is going to be good,” Harwick said.
    “Just don’t forget why we’re here,” Stilwell replied.
    The Cardinals went down one, two, three, and left McGwire waiting on deck. In the bottom half of the first the Dodgers did no better. No hits, no runs.
    And no sign of Milky Vachon.
    Houghton came down the stairs and told them the ticket Vachon was carrying had been sold as part of a block of seats to a ticket broker in Hollywood. They took the name of the broker and decided they would check it out