Sudden Death by David Rosenfelt Read Free Book Online Page A

the prospect wouldn’t thrill me either, since my office doesn’t inspire much in the way of respect and awe. It’s a three-room dump in a second-floor walk-up over a fruit stand. Everybody tells me I need to upgrade our office space, which is probably why I don’t.
    Simmons and I wrangle over the meeting location for a brief while until I come up with the perfect solution.
    We can meet at Giants Stadium. On the fifty-yard line.
    My drive to the stadium takes about twenty-five minutes, and a security guard is in the empty parking lot to greet me. He takes me in through the players’ entrance, which allows me another three or four minutes of solid fantasizing. Before I know it, I’m on the field, walking toward the fifty-yard line. A man who must be Walter Simmons, dressed in a suit and tie, walks from the other sideline to meet me at midfield. It’s as if we’re coming out for the coin toss.
    A group of players is on the field, in sweat suits without pads. They’re throwing some balls around, jogging, doing minor calisthenics. A placekicker booms field goals from the forty-yard line. These are no doubt voluntary off-season workouts; the serious stuff is a good month away.
    Of all the people on the field, Walter Simmons is the only one I could outrun. He looks to be in his early sixties, with a healthy paunch that indicates he’s probably first on line for the pregame meal. He’s got a smile on his face as he watches me react to these surroundings.
    “Not bad, huh?” he asks. “I come down here fairly often. It brings me back to my youth.”
    “Were you a football player?”
    He grins again. “I can’t remember. At my age, after lying about my athletic exploits for so many years, I’m not sure what’s true and what isn’t. But I certainly never played in a place like this.”
    One player on the field overthrows another, and the next thing I know there is a football at my feet. I pick it up to throw it, glancing toward the sidelines just in case a coach is watching. This could be my chance.
    I rear back and throw the ball as far as I can. It is the kind of effort for which the term “wounded duck” was coined. Perhaps even more accurately, it flops around in the air like an exhausted fish on the end of a hook, then falls unceremoniously to the ground fifteen yards in front of the intended receiver. Neither Simmons nor the receiver laughs at me, but I still want to dig a hole in the end zone and lie down next to Jimmy Hoffa.
    “That’s what happens when I don’t warm up,” I say.
    “How long would it take you to get warm?”
    I shrug. “I should be ready about the time of the next eclipse. What’s on your mind?”
    What’s on his mind of course is Kenny Schilling. The Giants are in the uncomfortable position of having given him a huge contract, one befitting a star, two weeks before he is arrested for murder. Not exactly a PR man’s dream.
    But Simmons says that the Giants are standing behind him, financially and otherwise, and are in fact paying his salary while he deals with the accusations. “He’s a terrific person and has never given us a day of trouble since we drafted him.”
    “And he can run the forty in 4.35,” I point out.
    He nods at the truthfulness of that statement. “Of course. We’re a football team. If he was built like me or threw the ball like you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    “I’m still not sure why we are having it,” I say.
    “Because we can be helpful to you,” he says. “The league and the Giants have substantial security operations. We might possibly have better access to certain people than you would. We are prepared to do whatever we can, within reason, of course.”
    “And in return?” I ask.
    “We would like a heads-up if things are going to break in such a way that the organization will be embarrassed.”
    “While respecting lawyer-client confidentiality.” He’s a lawyer; he knows I’m not going to reveal more than is