MRS. RUSSELL OPENED the door. There was Michael, a young, tall fellow standing on the bed, with one pillow in one hand and a curtain pole in the other. He had taken down the curtains. The room was a mess.

“What’s the deal?” Mrs. Russell asked him.

“That bloody beast of yours!” he said, pointing below the bed. “I told you to put it in his cage.”

Jack put his gun back in his waistband and let out a chuckle.

“Who this guy is?” he said.

Michael was in boxers. He had an extremely athletic body. Alex immediately recognized him: he was the center field of The Caracas Lyons. Despite being so tall and rather athletic, he was a home run hitter. He was very much a star in town. Alex watched him almost every week when he had time. His father had taught him to love baseball.

“Michael Harris,” Mrs. Russell said. “My fiancé.”

Alex broke in.

“Mr. Harris. What’s the deal?”

“Hey!” Michael said. “Who are you? Anyways. Linda let that freaking beast loose again. I think is under the bed. Las time I saw it, it went under the bed.”

Linda sighed.

Alex moved fast.

“Let me take a look,” he said, getting on his knees and palms. He turned up the lamp of his phone and looked around. A big, fat, and hairy hamster looked back at him with shiny, scared eyes.

“It’s just a hamster,” Alex said, rather puzzled.

Linda shook her head, as if she was ashamed, although it may not be clear what embarrassed her the most if the fact that she didn’t wait too long after her husband’s death to be with another man, or that man being so afraid of such a harmless creature. But when Alex managed to take the animal off under the bed, she smiled with genuine content.

“What did that crazy man do to you, baby?” she talked to the animal the same way people talk to babies.

Michael finally got off the bed. He put on some pants quickly, as if now that the creature was far from him, he had suddenly recovered the sense of pudor.

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“Michael,” Alex gave a step forward. “Big fan. You were amazing last game against The Tigers.”

Michael smiled. He suddenly appeared to be the confident, charismatic stud he seemed to be on TV.

“Yeah, she shouldn’t have repeated that curve, though.”

“Right,” Alex put an end to the baseball conversation, for now, out of nowhere, he had another suspect: Michael Harris himself.

***

The next day, Alex and Jack were waiting for Michael to show up for training. They were waiting for him in the parking lot inside Alex’s Ford Fiesta. When they saw him coming, Alex aborded him, showed him the warrant and escorted to the car.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Relax, Michael. We just want to talk.” This time Alex was driving. He had had to get a warrant to bring Michael to the headquarters for an interrogation. The judge signed the warrant but suggested Director Rogers to act with as much prudency and secrecy as he could. Baseball players were like rockstars in Caracas, and sometimes messing up with them could get you spat on in a stadium. Plus, if the media found out about it, they’d have it posted everywhere, which, for Judge Elliot Cameron, a man who personified prudence and frugality, it was something that should always be avoided.

“Talk about what? I have a game tomorrow night and you know it.”

“Pretty boy doesn’t even know what we want to talk to him for? Really?” said Jack. He didn’t like Michael, but maybe his being a Tigers fan had something to do with it.

“I’ll tell you in the office. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

“You know, my boss will call whoever needs to be called for you to release me.”

“Your boss is Linda, you fucking moron!” Alex exploded again. Maybe because Michael reminded him too much of himself. He played baseball as a kid, and around his teens, he was being watched playing by some Boston Red Sox and L. A. Dodgers scouts. But then that tragic accident happened and he decided he was going to be a detective for the police.

“My boss isn’t Linda. My boss and A. J. Woodly, my manager.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Alex shook his head.

“Linda owns the fucking team, you fucking moron,” Alex began to question whether he felt envious of Michael. He could have been a great player. However, he was the best detective in town. And regarding money, he had his own, enough to live a good life. He decided against it. He wasn’t envious of Michael. Michael was just a stupid big guy with one talent: batting and catching baseballs. He preferred being himself. He considered himself, as he would often say, making everyone around chuckle, ‘smart as fuck.’ His stress and his bad humor were because of the whole mess of a case he had to solve. Linda was a liar. She never told anyone about Michael. The ‘reasonable doubt’ he argued with the Director and Judge Cameron was that Michael Harris had been fired from the Caracas Lyons a year ago, before Mr. Russell's death. Now, that he was in a relationship with Mr. Russell's widow, he had suddenly come back to the team. He had to say many, many well-structured and well-spoken words for Judge Cameron to finally buy it and sign the warrant.

“I know she owns the team, but I’m talking about baseball, not about shares and that stuff. My boss in A. J. Woodley.”

“Shut up, man. Just shut up,” Jack said, shaking his head, and looking to his right through the window.

Michael, sitting in the back seat, leaned back and sighed. He was in for a long day.