Doug Rand, a slugging young baseball star, seems perched on the threshold of a long and successful major league career. Appearing on the scene suddenly for the New York Met’s top minor league team, the unassuming All-American boy begins to lead the Summerville Bombers to a first-time championship.
Why then all the mysterious disappearances and effort to avoid the media and publicity at any cost? As one reviewer said, "The story builds suspense and keeps the reader asking, ‘What’s going on with Doug Rand?’ As I read, I wanted to find out who he was, what his secret was, what happened to Marjorie Brockington, and what Cynthia Lofton knew."
Bob Sanders and his witty, outspoken newspaper associate and girlfriend, Shawn Taylor, two new, fresh-out-of-college sports reporters assigned to cover the Bombers, take it on themselves to sort out Rand’s mystery, while hoping not to find anything that will prevent him from continuing on his mission to lead the team to its first championship in twenty years.
But it’s not long before the two find themselves involved in a murder, a murder in which Doug Rand may be the chief suspect and they themselves, the targets of the murderer.
As 7:30 approached, Hanrihan told me to turn on the lights, as he had said. Shawn pulled her arms tightly around herself and sat down on the sofa. At that moment, I officially considered us the ‘lure’ in a police sting. It gave me one of the most uncomfortable feelings I’d ever had. I sat down next to Shawn.
We listened in hushed silence for any sounds.
The pattering sounds started randomly at first. "Oh, no! It’s starting to rain!" Shawn said in a hushed voice.
"We don’t need that. It’s going to cut down on the visibility. And our ability to give chase," Hanrihan whispered from another chair, where he sat hidden away from the windows, in a corner of the living room.
And rain it did. It poured. In no time at all, pelting had replaced pattering. And the wind, which had suddenly increased, as well, drove the rain around with even more force. We could hear it hitting against the house.
The noise of the rain made it hard, at first, to realize that an automobile had crawled up to the driveway, with only its parking lights on. Then they were extinguished.
"A car pulled up!" Hanrihan said, after getting the message through his radio earpiece, from one of his officers.
I went to a side window to peer out. Hanrihan and Shawn stayed back, out of sight.
"Do you recognize the car?" Hanrihan asked.
"No," I said. "Not in this weather."
The driver turned off the motor. Someone got out of the car, started to turn on a flashlight, then quickly extinguished it.
The visitor walked towards my car, then seeing it unoccupied, he stopped and seemed to wipe the rain off his face. Then he turned and headed around to the back door of the house. He stopped at the door, which could only be opened from the inside, and looked around. Seeing no one, he knocked.
Hanrihan motioned for me to open the door and let him in, while he remained hidden behind another door, which separated the living room from the dining room. Watching through the crack in the door, he had drawn his gun and gripped it in one hand. Shawn had been instructed to keep low, behind the couch, out of sight, which, to my surprise, she had agreed to without objection.
I opened the door to see a drenched figure, his face concealed by a black ski mask, except for the cutouts around his eyes and nostrils.
We stood there looking at each other for a few moments, while the rain whipped around and blew in from the open doorway.
"Come in. I think we have something to talk about," I said, trying to remain calm.
He started to advance, at the same time, reaching into his pocket. Just as he got inside, he pulled out his hand.
