John Feinstein - Change-up - Mystery at the World Series

They took another cab to Potomac, Maryland, where Bobby and Tamara lived. They had two extra bedrooms, so Stevie and Susan Carol would be staying there for the weekend. Games three, four, and five would be played at Nationals Park on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday-all night games, of course, so that TV could get the largest audience possible.

They were talking over lunch about whether there was any need to attend the off-day workouts and press conferences. Bobby and Tamara, who were writing every day with their local team in the World Series, had plenty for their columns, and Susan Carol and Stevie had been given the day off.

But Stevie still wanted to go to the ballpark. The clubhouses would be open while the managers and starting pitchers for the next day were in the interview room, and he thought he might be able to get some time alone with Nieves. Or even Doyle, although he suspected Doyle would be the target of a lot of writers on the off day. With no game until the next night, he was still the big story.

“I’d like to go to the park,” he said. “You never know what you’ll stumble into when there aren’t a million people in the clubhouse.”

“Spoken like a real reporter,” Kelleher said. “Tell you what, I’ll drive down there with you. I’d actually like to talk to some of the Red Sox if I can. I can write from down there if necessary.”

That was perfect as far as Stevie was concerned. The tension between him and Susan Carol was almost unbearable, and the car ride would give him a chance to talk to Kelleher alone.

They left the house with Tamara sitting at her computer and Susan Carol reading a history book.

“So I take it things aren’t any better with Susan Carol?” Kelleher said as they drove down the George Washington Parkway. It was a perfect fall day in Washington, and Stevie was struck by how pretty the area was with the leaves in full color.

“Worse,” he said. “She lied to me at first about meeting with David yesterday, then when I told her we’d seen her, she got mad and told me she couldn’t tell me what they were talking about.”

Kelleher was silent for a moment-rare for him-as if deciding what to say next. “She flat out lied?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Stevie said. “She said she’d gone over to Faneuil Hall and walked around the Freedom Trail but never mentioned spending time with David.”

“A lie of omission,” Kelleher said. “But a lie nonetheless.” He turned and went up the ramp onto the Fourteenth Street Bridge, and Stevie noticed they were back near Washington National Airport again.

“It wasn’t just that,” Stevie said. “She totally clammed up when I tried to ask her what they were talking about. Said it was a secret and then practically ran away from me.”

“Huh,” Kelleher said. “That doesn’t sound like her at all. But I’m sure she’ll open up sooner or later.”

Stevie hoped that was true. “I suppose. Different subject: listen to this.” He took out his notebook and read Kelleher the quotes from Nieves.

“Those weren’t in your story,” Kelleher said.

“They didn’t fit with what I was writing, especially with only eight hundred words,” Stevie said, feeling a bit defensive. “That’s why I want to go down there today. So I can follow up and see if there’s more to it.”

Kelleher nodded. “Okay, good. It seems like there’s something about Doyle that we don’t know-but I haven’t a clue what it is. I mean, right now the guy is a true Cinderella story-all the years bouncing around the minors, single father, two great-looking kids…”

He paused to look over at Stevie. “Sorry,” he said.

“No big deal,” Stevie said. “You’re right. They are great-looking.”

“Anyway,” Kelleher continued. “Something’s missing here. We just need to figure out what it is.”

“Could be nothing to it,” Stevie said. “Or it could be something not even worth a story. Who knows?”

“You might be right,” Kelleher answered. “But you need to ask the questions to find the answers-or the non-answers.”

He eased the car off the highway at the South Capitol Street exit and headed for the new ballpark. The best description of Nationals Park, Stevie had decided, was efficient. Everything was sparkling and new, it had all the new ballpark amenities: huge scoreboard that could do everything but make a plane reservation for you; several fancy clubs; a lot of luxury boxes; all sorts of different foods; interactive video games on the concourses. But it wasn’t nearly as nice (in Stevie’s perhaps biased view) as the ballpark in Philadelphia. For one thing, Stevie’s home park had a spectacular view of the city’s skyline from almost anywhere. Nationals Park had no views at all from the lower deck, and from the press box-which was so high up it was almost scary-you could see the Capitol dome but little else worth seeing.

The ballpark was right on the Anacostia River. Almost no one was around as they made their way inside the media entrance and took the elevator downstairs.

“Should be perfect timing,” Kelleher said. “It’s five minutes before the Nats’ press conference at two.”

“You going to listen to that?” Stevie asked.

“Nah,” Kelleher said. “If someone says something interesting, it will be on the transcript afterward. I don’t need to hear how much respect Manny Acta has for the Red Sox.”

He and Kelleher rode the elevator to field level and walked down the hall to the Nationals clubhouse, which was on the first-base side of the building. A knot of about ten reporters was standing outside the door, waiting for the media to be allowed inside. One of those waiting was Tom Stinson.

“Hey, Bobby, did your protégé tell you how heroic he was last night?” Stinson said, shaking hands with both Stevie and Kelleher as they walked up.

“I heard about the scuffle,” said Kelleher, who hadn’t been in the clubhouse when the Nieves near-fight had broken out. “But heroics? Stevie, you holding out on me?”

Stevie hadn’t been holding out, but he hadn’t mentioned his blocking the cameraman as he reached toward Stinson. “It was no big deal,” he said.

“No big deal?” Stinson said. “The cameraman was ready to crack me in the head with his camera.”

“Come on,” Kelleher said. “I doubt if he’d risk a ten-thousand-dollar camera on your skull.”

“Good point,” Stinson said with a smile. “But still, Steve was great.”

“Clubhouse is open,” Stevie heard a voice say. “You guys have forty-five minutes.”

The security guard here was just a little bit different than Big-Time Bill in Boston. As Stevie walked by, he said, “Nice stuff this morning.” Stevie smiled and thanked him.

Stevie had been inside the Nationals clubhouse during the playoffs, but seeing it again after two nights in Fenway reminded him how huge it was-at least four times bigger than the Red Sox clubhouse. He and Kelleher scanned the room. There were perhaps a dozen players inside, some at their lockers, others sitting on couches in the middle of the room watching TV.

Kelleher pointed at Doyle’s locker. “He’s not here,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“No clothes,” Kelleher said. “If he was still here, his street clothes would be hanging in his locker.”

The lockers-which were gigantic, like everything else in the room-were the open kind, so it was easy to see clothes and uniforms that were hung in each one. Kelleher was right. Doyle’s locker was untouched. Two uniforms hung neatly, and there were several gloves piled up along with some of those socks with numbers they had talked about the day before. But no street clothes.

Aaron Boone, the veteran utility player, was sitting on one of the couches reading a newspaper. Boone was another remarkable story. He’d had open-heart surgery in the spring and had then come back in August to play for the Houston Astros. Just prior to the trading deadline on August 31, he’d been traded back to Washington -where he’d played the year before. He’d provided both maturity and leadership on a young team in the heat of its first pennant race.