Sofia (9) | (55.17)

[mragland]

07.13.2055 – Brooklyn, New York

“Right, Sacramento,” says Seymour, settling in and leafing through some notes. “We actually have nothing definite here. I have a couple pairs of eyes on the front office, generally, that place has always been … odd. No surveillance regarding methods and practices in baseball ops, per your earlier instructions. What we do have are some anecdotes regarding the new general manager.”

“Collins,” says Sofia. “I heard he joined mid-season. Dad won't shut up about it.”

“That's right.”

“What happened to the other guy?”

“Typical Brewster GM fade out. Nothing fishy there,” says Seymour.

“I see. And what about Collins?”

“The general theme of the reports I've seen is something like brain fog, but no real erratic behavior or bizarre decision-making. Nothing that seems to be actively hurting the club, but it's been going on for weeks and it isn't getting better.”

“Isn't he the lucky one,” mutters Sofia.

“He is eighty-one, so some degree of cognitive decline wouldn't be out of the ordinary” continues Seymour. “As near as we can tell, he hasn't sought any medical help.”

“Home life okay?”

“Home life is,” here Seymour searches through his notes, “nonexistent as far as I can tell. Looks like a blind spot. Should we put someone on it? We're only watching the office, and that from a discrete remove.”

“Yes. If somebody is dosing him, it could be happening anywhere. Let's continue to keep an eye out and see if this just takes care of itself.”

“Will do,” says Seymour. “Last matter is possibly unrelated.”

Sofia tilts here head. “Go on.”

“Someone tried to reach out to Takeda.”

Sofia sits upright. “Takeda is ...”

“Still comfortably retired,” says Seymour. “Somebody used an old calling card, and as luck would have it, that extension was active and assigned to the Valencia front office.”

“How on earth?”

Seymour sighs. “It was the bright idea of someone no longer in your employment to update telecoms on the cheap. Extension numbers were recycled. We're going to be changing phone providers, and actively monitor the old bullpen phone extensions. Years ago, there were six calling cards programmed to reach out to Takeda's line. We have four locked away, and there were two, now just one, unaccounted for.”

“What was the code?”

“'Be ready'. As near as I can tell, the recipient recorded it, had it translated, and then erased it, figuring it was a prank of some kind.”

“Good. Hopefully that's the end of that,” says Sofia, massaging her temples. “Where did Takeda retire to, by the by?”

“Maui,” replies Seymour.

“Maui, you say? Interesting.”

“No, Sofia.”

“What? I'm just musing.”

“Takeda's a blunt instrument,” says Seymour, closing his file.

“I know.”

“Who's never grasped the concept of proportionality.”

“I know.”

“Who is retired.”

“I know, Sey. Let him stay retired, for now.”