Mulholland Dive: Three Stories by Michael Connelly Read Free Book Online

in the morning.
    As the second inning started, Stilwell sat with his arms folded on the front sill of the press box. It allowed a full view of the stadium. All he had to do was lower his eyes and he would see row K, seat one, of section eleven.
    Harwick was leaning back in his seat. To Stilwell, he seemed as interested in watching the three rows of sportswriters and broadcasters as he was the baseball game. While the Dodgers were taking the field again, he spoke to Stilwell.
    “Your son,” he said. “It was drugs, wasn’t it?”
    Stilwell took a deep breath and let it out. He spoke without turning to Harwick.
    “What do you want to know, Harwick?”
    “We’re going to be partners. I just want to…understand. Some guys, something like that happens, they dive into the bottle. Some guys dive into the work. It’s pretty clear which kind you are. I heard you go after these guys, the Saints, with a vengeance, man. Was it meth? Was your kid on crank?”
    Stilwell didn’t answer. He watched a man wearing a Dodgers baseball cap take the first seat in row K below. The hat was on backward, a white ponytail hanging from beneath the brim. It was Milky Vachon. He put a full beer down on the concrete step next to him and kept another in his hand. Seat number two was empty.
    “Harwick,” Stilwell said. “We’re partners, but we’re not talking about my kid. You understand?”
    “I’m just trying to—”
    “Baseball is a metaphor for life, Harwick. Life is hardball. People hit home runs, people get thrown out. There’s the double play, the suicide squeeze, and everybody wants to get home safe. Some people go all the way to the ninth inning. Some people leave early to beat the traffic.”
    Stilwell stood up and turned to his new partner.
    “I checked you out, Harwick. You’re a beat-the-traffic guy. You weren’t here. In ’eighty-eight. I know. If you were here, you gave up on them and left before the ninth. I know.”
    Harwick said nothing. He turned his eyes from Stilwell.
    “Vachon’s down there,” Stilwell said. “I’m going down to keep watch. If he makes a move, I’ll tail. Keep your rover close.”
    Stilwell walked up the steps and out of the press box.
      
    McGwire struck out at the top of the second inning, and Brown easily retired the side. The Dodgers picked up three runs in the third off an error, a walk, and a home run with two outs.
    All was quiet after that until the fifth, when McGwire opened the inning with a drive to the right-field wall. It drew fifty thousand people out of their seats. But the right fielder gloved it on the track, his body hitting hard into the wall pads.
    Watching the trajectory of the ball reminded Stilwell of the night in ’88 when Kirk Gibson put a three-two pitch into the seats in the last of the ninth and won the first game of the series. It caused a monumental shift in momentum, and the Dodgers cruised the rest of the way. It was a moment that was cherished by so many for so long. A time in L.A. before the riots, before the earthquake, before O.J.
    Before Stilwell’s son was lost.
      
    Brown carried a perfect game into the seventh inning. The crowd became more attentive and noisier. There was a sense that something was going to happen.
    Throughout the innings Stilwell moved his position several times, always staying close to Vachon and using the field glasses to watch him. The ex-convict did not move other than to stand up with everybody else for McGwire’s drive to the wall. He simply drank his two beers and watched the game. No one took the seat next to him, and he spoke to no one except a vendor who sold him peanuts in the fourth.
    Vachon also made no move to look around himself. He kept his eyes on the game. And Stilwell began to wonder if Vachon was doing anything other than watching a baseball game. He thought about what Harwick had said about falling out of love with baseball. Maybe Vachon, five years in stir, was simply rekindling that love. Maybe he had