While he waited, Avery made a call to his deputy, Special Agent George Terrell. Since Avery had been promoted over Terrell to lead the division, his deputy had been cooperative and professional, but an undercurrent of resentment existed between the two men.

“What’s up?” Terrell said.

“We’re assisting the MPD with the Vasquez investigation.”

“How’d we get roped into that?”

“I know Ray Jestings, the team owner, so I offered our assistance. With an entire city full of motive, they need all the help they can get.”

“That’s the truth.”

“The club’s GM mentioned a problem Vasquez had with his brother-in-law in the last year or so. Could you look into that for me?”

“Sure. What’s the guy’s name?”

“The GM couldn’t remember the name. Just that there was a restraining order in place to keep the guy away from Vasquez and the stadium.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thanks.”

The line went dead, and Avery stashed the phone in his coat pocket. So he and his deputy would never be the best of friends. They could still work together when need be. It wasn’t his fault that Director Hamilton had chosen to promote him rather than Terrill. Avery hoped that eventually Terrill would realize that.

“Mr. Bixby is in the locker room,” the receptionist said.

“Where can I find the locker room?”

“Let me get someone to cover the desk, and I’ll show you.”

Ten minutes later, the young woman led him through a winding maze of hallways and down several flights of stairs that led to a tunnel. Outside a red door, she punched in a code that gave them access.

Inside the locker room, Metro PD’s Crime Scene Unit was rifling through lockers and equipment as a man in a shirt and tie watched them. He had close-cropped blond hair and his build indicated he might’ve been an athlete in another life. If his red face was any indication, Mr. Bixby was enraged.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bixby—”

“What do you want? I’m busy here.”

The receptionist recoiled from the harshly spoken words. “This is Special Agent Hill from the FBI.”

The FBI acronym did the trick, as it usually did. Bixby’s hands dropped from his hips and his expression slackened a bit. “Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on here.”

To the receptionist, Avery said, “Thank you for showing me the way.”

“No problem.” She scurried away as if someone had set her rear on fire.

Avery found it interesting that she was somewhat intimidated by Bixby. “You haven’t spoken with Mr. Jenkins?”

“He called, but I was busy with cops invading my stadium, so I missed the call.”

“Willie Vasquez has been murdered.”

“Murdered.”

“That’s what I said.”

“How?”

“Stabbed in the chest.”

Bixby took in the scene unfolding in the locker room. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Yes.”