5 A Sporting Murder (11 page)

Not long after we made it back to the office, my Realtor
friend called.

“I found the owner of Zicarelli
Properties,” she said. “His name is Niccolo Zicarelli. I hear he goes by the
name Nick. Italian, obviously.”

“Know anything else about him?” I
asked.

“Just that he owns several pieces
of commercial property around town. Investment property. Some pretty good sized
investments.”

I thanked her and relayed the
information to my partner.

“It has to be her grandpa,” Jill
said. “She must have been named for him. Nicole is the female version of
Niccolo. I’ll check the databases.”

She punched the name in on one of
our high-powered search sites and soon had a few interesting facts. Nick Zicarelli,
age eighty-one, once owned a private club known as the Sporting Executives Club
in the northwestern suburbs of Nashville. For the past quarter century he had
been involved in real estate investments and was reputed to be a professional
gambler. There was no record of him having served any jail time.

“The newspaper should have plenty
on him,” Jill said. “Why don’t you call Wes Knight?”

I figured Wes might have the answer
without looking in the files. He had as many gray hairs as I did. He’d started
with the newspaper about the time I signed on as a St. Louis County deputy just out of the University of Michigan, my warm-up for the Air Force. I got the
reporter on the phone and told him I was looking for information on Nick Zicarelli.

“It’s a good thing you asked an old
timer like me, Greg. The young ones probably wouldn’t have any idea who he
really is. Forty years ago, he was quite a colorful character around town. Tall
and good looking.”

“I ran across something about a
Sporting Executives Club.”

“That was his baby. He started out
as a waiter there, married the boss’s daughter, and soon took over. It was a
great place to eat and drink and do a little gambling.”

“Wasn’t that slightly illegal? How
did he stay out of trouble?”

“His heyday was back before the advent
of Metropolitan Government. The club was located outside the city limits, so
all he had to worry about was the sheriff.”

“And he didn’t really have to worry
about the sheriff,” I said.

“You’ve got it. Zicarelli helped
them get elected and provided free drinks and meals. It was a hangout for
lawyers and judges and cops, among others.”

“Sounds like a cozy deal.”

“It was. I understand they used to
have some pretty high stakes poker games at the tables.”

“What happened?”

“Metro eventually wrecked his
little red wagon.”

“That’s when the police department
took over the whole county?”

“Right. Things didn’t change
overnight, of course. The heat eventually got to him, though. He tried to go
legit, but the place had lost its charm. He eventually closed it down in the
seventies.”

I glanced at my note from the
Realtor. “He must have done pretty well. I hear he owns a lot of commercial
real estate around town.”

“Yeah, he made a small fortune off
that club. I’ve heard he’s still involved in gambling, but on a more discreet
basis. Nothing like the old days. Now he’s Mr. Nice Guy. He gives money to all
the favorite causes, and he’s still pals with the politicos. That’s the face
the younger reporters see.”

“Did he come over from Italy?”

“No, he’s a local boy. As I recall,
he was a standout basketball player in high school. Instead of getting ready
for college, though, he dropped out of school and joined the Army after Pearl Harbor. He got some commendations in Europe. I remember he was cited for shooting a
bunch of Germans in some battle. Hometown hero, y’know.”

I thanked Wes and repeated the
conversation for Jill.

She tapped a pencil on her desk with
a look that told me the wheels were turning rapidly inside. “The story sounds
sort of familiar now. I don’t believe my dad patronized such places, but he may
have sold him insurance. Maybe Nick Zicarelli had been giving Arnold advice on
gambling, which Nikki didn’t approve of.”

“That could account for her
reluctance to talk about the relationship.”

She brushed the idea aside along with
a lock of black hair. “But it doesn’t give us any hint of who killed Arnold
Wechsel, or why.”

I thought about that for a moment.
Dick Ullery talked about Arnold going places and meeting people while working
at this mystery job. What if his mother’s suspicions were correct, that somehow
gambling had been involved? And what if Arnold had been contacting these people
about bets, collecting money or making payoffs?

“Maybe we could get some insight
into what Arnold was up to if we contacted one of those people Ullery told us about,”
I said.

“Like the TV pitchman, Freddie Ford?”

“Right. He’s full of himself on his
commercials. Let’s go see how he does off-camera.”

“You don’t suppose his name is
really Ford, do you?”

“Why not? He could have made it
Ford for advertising purposes. Maybe I should go to court and change my name to
P.I. McKenzie.”

The look I got said that idea wasn’t
worth the effort it took to express it.

With the first phase of homebound traffic clogging the
outbound lanes of I-40, we had no trouble making our way toward town where the
Ford dealership was located just off an interstate exit. The rain had finally
stopped, but eighteen-wheelers still tossed nasty showers our way as they
passed. We turned in beside a monstrous Ford logo sign and pulled up to the dome-shaped
building. It was clearly a monument to the man we had come to see. In the showroom
we faced a larger-than-life poster of Freddie Ford with his finger pointing in
an “Uncle Sam wants YOU!” gesture.

I stopped at the Customer Service
counter, where a young woman wearing a heavy wool sweater tidied up her desk.
“We’d like to see Freddie Ford, please,” I said.

“Could one of the salesmen help
you?” she asked in an eager voice no doubt reserved for prospective customers.

“It isn’t about a car. It’s a
personal matter.”

“Oh. Let me see if he’s available.
Could I have your name, please?”

“Greg and Jill McKenzie,” I said.

She picked up her phone, punched in
a number, and spoke too softly for me to hear. She put down the phone and nodded
toward a hallway. “You can go on back to his office. It’s the last room on the
left.”

We passed an empty office and
another that appeared to be the torture chamber, the place where the sales
manager browbeat customers who had the temerity to think they could negotiate a
rock-bottom deal on one of Freddie’s new Fords.

A large, flat-screen TV dominated
the owner’s office. I presumed he enjoyed watching himself perform. A short,
stocky man with lively eyes and a quick smile, he spoke in the strong tones of
a carnival barker.

“Come in, folks.” He bounded around
the desk. “Welcome to Freddie Ford.”

He pumped our hands with a strong
grip, and I half-expected him to launch into one of his familiar sales pitches.

“We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie,” I
said, handing him our card. “We’re private investigators. Do you recall reading
or seeing about a young man named Arnold Wechsel who was shot over in Northeast Nashville last Saturday night?”

He backtracked to brace his hands
against his desk, frowning. “Arnold Wechsel? Did he used to work for us? The
name doesn’t sound familiar.”

I tried a disarming smile. “A
friend of his told us he was quite excited about meeting you recently. He was a
young German, a big guy, six feet tall.” I held up a hand to mark his height.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

“His mother in Germany asked us to find out anything we can about his life over here. According to his
friend, Arnold met you in some kind of business relationship.”

His face brightened. “I probably
sold him a car. Frankly, I sell so many I can’t remember all the buyers. You’d
be surprised at how many I sold just this past week.”

“No, he didn’t buy a car.”

“You sure?”

“He drove an old model Corvette. I believe
he talked to you about a betting matter.”

He cut his eyes toward me, then
Jill. “I don’t know nothing about that.”

Jill spoke in a quiet voice. “Was
Arnold Wechsel collecting a gambling debt from you, Mr. Ford?”

He looked shocked. I’m sure he
hadn’t expected that coming from her.

“No!” he shouted after a telling
pause. He turned toward the doorway in an obvious effort to be rid of us. “I’m
sorry, I have to go check with my staff before closing.”

We bypassed the office and drove straight home to freshen up
before heading for the Gannons. Our brief interview with Freddie Ford left us
more than ever convinced that Arnold had been a party to some sort of gambling
activity. Whether it involved Nick Zicarelli was less certain. We needed to do
more digging on that score.

When we arrived at our friends’
house, the unmistakable aroma of seafood greeted us. Wilma brought out plates heaped
with shrimp, scallops, and strips of flounder along with steaming, buttery baked
potatoes. A green salad tossed with balsamic vinaigrette and parmesan croutons rounded
out the meal. And she had made fudge brownies, my favorite. I watched carefully
to time my plate refills with moments when Jill turned her head to talk with
our hostess. Sam grinned like a chimp as he watched my little game.

After dinner, we adjourned to the
den, Sam and I with our coffee mugs. The room had a bit more of a homey look
than two nights ago. Fewer candles danced about and comfortable, casual
furniture replaced the long table and folding chairs. Sam had gone by the
church this morning to return the chairs and encountered the preacher, who
apologized for missing our class party.

“He also wanted to know if our
favorite snoopers had gone AWOL,” Sam said, looking across at me.

Jill and I had missed the last two
Sundays. She’d flown us down to Ft. Lauderdale in her Cessna a couple of weeks
ago for a consultation with a PI friend and a few days of R&R. This past
Sunday we were mired deep in the Wechsel murder and Terry Tremont’s case.

“What did you tell him?” I asked, fearing
the worst.

Sam gave a twinkle-eyed shrug. “I
told him if he read the papers he should’ve known you’d be out tracking down a
murderer.”

“I can imagine his comeback.” The
good reverend loved to needle me.

“He said he’d noticed you spent a
lot of time looking for bodies these days.”

“Dr. Trent sounds more like our
favorite homicide detective, Phil Adamson,” Jill said.

I didn’t know she’d been listening,
but I agreed. “Those homicide guys have a good reason for making jokes about
their cases. It keeps them from going bonkers over all the blood and gore.”

“After that comment, I leveled with
the preacher,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “I told him you’d been to Florida. He said that was an acceptable excuse. Just don’t miss this Sunday.”

Following that bit of repartee,
Wilma and Jill began to take apart the state of education in the public
schools, and Sam brought me up to date on his basketball-playing Dollar Deal
friend.

“He says his boss is concerned
about Aregis’s grandstanding,” Sam said. “He thinks they’d be better off
keeping things a little more low-key until they have something positive to
announce.”

I sipped at my coffee, debating a
refill, as I digested that observation. “Sounds like there might be a bit of
disharmony in the ranks.”

“He didn’t get specific, but I got
the feeling Howard Hays wasn’t real happy with the way Aregis has been acting.”

“Hays is the most prominent party in
the group,” I said. “He doesn’t want anything to go wrong that would reflect on
his reputation or that of his company. Did it sound like a serious
disagreement, like they night be souring on the deal?”

“Oh, no. My friend is still all pumped
up over the prospects. He’s really looking forward to it.”

“Has he mentioned any teams they’re
courting?”

Sam leaned back and laced his
fingers behind his head. “Not that I recall. He said earlier that they were
looking at several prospects.”

“I guess it all boils down to
finding a team owner who’s willing to consider selling.”

“Would your client be happy if they
can’t find one?” Sam asked.

I set my coffee mug on the small
table between us and smiled. “True. Personally, I’m not too concerned about whether
or not we get an NBA team here, but I damned sure want to know who killed a man
who called me and wanted to talk about it.”

“Greg!”

Jill caught me off guard, though I
realized I had raised my voice a bit. And I knew I shouldn’t have said what I
said. I was getting a bit touchy over the lack of progress in finding who had
killed Arnold.

“Sorry, babe,” I said. “I’ll watch
my tongue.”

“You’d better, if you don’t want me
to wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Yes, mom,” I said, and grinned.

Wilma caught my attention with a
wave. “You know you two are invited over Saturday for Christmas dinner. Tara will be here with the grandsons.”

Tara was the widow of the Gannons’
son, Tim, whose murder we had solved down at Perdido Key a year ago. It was the
event that prompted us to go into the PI business.

“The way this case is going,” I
said, “I’m hesitant to make any commitments. There’s no telling when something
might break and we could find ourselves ankle deep in alligators.”

We left the Gannons’ at nine o’clock. The clouds had broken
up, freeing the ground heat to fritter away and the temperature to dip below
freezing. The formerly wet streets now showed icy spots beneath a bright
gibbous moon, which bathed nearby lawns in its pale glow. The gusty wind had
died down. I turned on the heater to clear a few frosty patches from the
windshield.

I swung onto Chandler Road and
headed for the McKenzie spread. Traffic was light, almost non-existent. We oohed
and aahed at the houses with strings of glittering lights and yards decorated
with Christmas scenes. That was one chore I didn’t have to worry about, since
our house was invisible from the street. Some lawns featured mangers and shepherds,
while others spotlighted a jolly old gent in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. Closer
to home, my mind wandered to the Cadillac Escalade from Sunday night and the
question of whether it could be related to Arnold Wechsel’s murder.

I dismissed the thought as I pulled
into our driveway. The landscape appeared quiet and peaceful, but about halfway
into the wooded area, the headlights picked out a box large enough to hold a basketball.
It sat just off the driveway. I slowed and stared.

“Where did that thing come from?” I
pointed it out to Jill.

She leaned forward in her seat. “Maybe
it fell off a delivery truck.”

“Possibly, but delivery trucks
don’t usually go around with their doors open in back. I’ll check it out.”

“Don’t bother it if it looks
suspicious.”

“I won’t.”

I eased the car forward. As I was
about to stop, a blast rocked us. The front end of the Jeep reared up like a
bucking bronco. I felt my body slammed back against the seat. The thunderous roar
was deafening. My head seemed about to split. A second jolt shook me as the
vehicle fell back to the driveway.

I thought I’d been blinded. Then I stared
and realized the lights had gone out.

“Jill…babe!”

I reached for her frantically. She
hadn’t made a sound.

My thoughts were a jumble? What had
happened? Was she badly hurt? I remembered the void it left in my life when she
was abducted two years ago.

I felt her arm move and grabbed her
hand.

“Greg?” Her voice sounded weak to
my ringing ears.

“Are you hurt?” I could see only a
dim outline in the dark.

“I think…I must have…must have
bumped my head.”

I realized my left leg hurt and
vaguely recalled something hitting it during the chaos.

“Something banged my leg,” I said.
“Does anything hurt besides your head?”

“I don’t think so.” She sounded a
bit clearer. “What happened?”

I looked out the broken windshield
and saw the hood up and twisted to the side. It looked like we’d been hit by a
mortar. The windshield had disintegrated into small particles of glass
scattered about, nothing large enough to cause an injury. Turning to the
window, I spotted pieces of debris scattered about in the moonlight. As I
clawed the cobwebs away from my head, I realized what had happened.

“It was an explosion,” I said.
“Some kind of bomb is all I can think of.”

“A bomb?”

A pungent odor jerked me upright.

Gasoline.

I hit the seat belt release and leaned
across to press Jill’s. “Get out of here before this thing goes up in flames!”
I yelled.