The staff wore warm-up suits and high-top rollers so, when needed, they could flip out wheels and zip over the floor.
Eve snagged one on the zip.
“Where do I find Wylee Stamford?”
“He’s on level three south. If you’re here for the demonstration, that’s at four, and you’ll need tickets. They’re free, but you have to sign up at the main desk, and they’re going fast.”
“Right, thanks.”
She let him continue to glide, turned away from the main desk, and headed for the wide, open stairs.
The second floor, more retail, held sports clothes—jerseys, sideline jackets, yoga gear, running gear, racks and shelves of shorts and pants, shoes, cleats, skates.
She kept going, up another long flight.
People practiced their putts or swings on an indoor green. Others worked heavy or speed bags in a boxing section. What looked like a friendly pickup game played out on a half court.
Through a glass wall she saw a martial arts class performing a pretty decent kata.
And on the south side, Stamford
signed baseball cards, balls, posters, caps, mitts for a throng of fans.
He wore his wildly curling black hair in a high, short tail, had an easy, cheerful smile on his carved-out-of-polished-granite face. His rangy body showed off well in black baggies and a thin, snow-white sweater.
Eve could admit to feeling a little tug—she considered him a true artist on the field and a magician at the plate. But tug or not, he was, at the moment, a suspect.
With a quick, practiced glance around, she picked out security, and headed toward the man with a burly build and suspicious eyes.
She angled herself, palmed her badge, tipped it up. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Mr. Stamford.”
“What about?”
“We’ll speak to him about that.”
He frowned, head signaled a woman positioned on the other side of the crowd. She made her way over, and the two security guards had a quick, murmured conversation.
After a hard look at Eve, the woman headed off to yet another man. Not security, Eve thought. Too slight, too well dressed.
She got another look, another frown from him. Then he cleared his face to pleasant, strolled over.
“How can I help you, officers?”
“Lieutenant, Detective,” Eve corrected. “We need a conversation with Mr. Stamford.”
“I’m Brian O’Keefe.” He offered a hand along with the pleasant smile. “Wylee’s manager. As you can see he’s pretty busy just now.”
“We’ll wait.”
“If you could give me some idea what this is about, I might be able to help. Wylee’s schedule’s really tight today.”
“He can make time to speak to us here, or he can adjust his tight schedule to include a conversation at Cop Central. Maybe you should ask him which he’d prefer.”
The smile bobbled, fell away. “If there’s some problem—”
“Don’t you figure this indicates a problem?” Eve tapped her badge. “Here or Central. Simple or complicated. Choose.”
“He’s got a ten-minute break coming up shortly.”