Sprawled on the carpet, the hilt of a knife protruding from his back, Mick Logan looked very out of place in his expensively furnished living room.
Lieutenant Molly Mulroy moved in for a closer look. Logan's stiff, outstretched arm seemed to point toward the flickering images on the big screen TV. "What's that in his hand, Fred?"
"TV's remote control," Sergeant Dawson said. "Must've been holding it when he was stabbed."
"Or he picked it up afterwards, before he died."
"Why would he do that?"
"I don't know. But see those marks on the carpeting? Looks like he crawled to this spot before dying." Molly's dark eyes narrowed. "Mick Logan.... Where have I heard that name?"
"He's manager--or was manager--of the Mustangs minor league baseball team."
Molly snapped her fingers. "Of course! And from what I've read, not too well liked by some of his players either."
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