Now she did turn to him. “Rook, did you ever play Little League?” When he answered with a dopey grin, she said, “Ever go to a game?”
“Give me a break. I was raised by a Broadway diva. I can’t help it if I’m more Damn Yankees than real Yankees. Does that make me less of a person?”
“No. What it makes you is a romance writer.”
“Thanks. So glad you’re not going to needle me or anything.”
“Oh, if you think this is going away, you’re living in a dreamworld. A dreamworld set on a turn-of-the-century plantation in Savannah—Miss St. Clair.”
“I thought we had an agreement,” came the voice behind them. They turned to see Jess Ripton storming down the steps toward them. Toby’s manager was still a good ten rows away, but he continued barking as he approached, speaking as if he were right beside them. “Didn’t we have an understanding you’d contact me and not ambush my client?”
He was closing in but still far enough away for Rook to mutter an aside to Nikki. “See, this is why I never go to ball games. The element.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Ripton,” said Heat, putting some lightness on it. “This didn’t seem like anything to bother you with. Just a quick question or two for Toby.”
“Nuh-uh.” Ripton stopped at the rail and they both turned to face him. He was huffing a bit from his effort and had his suit coat draped over one arm. “Nobody messes with him. This is the first day he’s had cleats in the grass since the injury.”
“You know,” said Rook, “for a pitcher, he’s got one helluva swing.”
“I know all about what he’s got.” The Firewall bit off the words. He spread his arms wide, symbolically blocking them from his player, living up to his nickname. “Talk to me, that way we can work out your access.”
Nikki put a hand on her hip, a pointed gesture aimed at drawing back her blazer, letting him see the badge on her waist. “Mr. Ripton, haven’t we already been through this? I’m not ESPN dogging for a crumb. I’m in a murder investigation and I have a question for Toby Mills.”
“Who,” said The Firewall, “is trying to come back from an injury that has shaken his confidence. You see a sweet swing? Tell you what I see. A kid who may have to put his foot on the rubber in game one of the World Series and he’s crapping himself because he’s worried he’s not a hundred percent. Plus he has to bat. He’s so pressured that an hour ago I pushed back an endorsement meet-and-greet with Disney World. I’m not trying to be uncooperative, Detective, but I’m going to ask for some slack here.”
Rook couldn’t resist. “Wow. You told Mickey and Minnie to chill?”
Just then Toby Mills called over from the on-deck circle. “Everything OK, Jess?”
His manager showed teeth and waved as he hollered back, “All good, Tobe. I think they have money on the game.” He laughed. Mills nodded thoughtfully and went back to his swings. Ripton turned back to Heat and dropped his smile. “See what’s happening? Why don’t you just tell me what you need.”
“Have you decided you want to act as his attorney after all?” Nikki put a spin on it, trying to add enough gravity to put the manager in his place. “You did say you were a lawyer. Are you a criminal lawyer?”
“Actually, no. I was house counsel at Levine & Isaacs Public Relations before I started my company. Got tired of bailing out all the Warren Rutlands and Sistah Strifes of the world for a joke of a retainer.”
Nikki reflected on Sistah Strife, the rapper-turned-actress who had a nasty habit of forgetting she had loaded firearms in her carry-on at TSA and who had famously settled a sexual battery suit by a roadie out of court, reportedly for eight figures. “I may have new respect for you, Jess. You handled Sistah Strife?”
“Nobody handled Sistah Strife. You handled the mess she left behind in her wake.” He softened the edge, even if only slightly. “So how can we both walk away from this meeting happy, Detective?”