5 A Sporting Murder (15 page)

“Was Arnold collecting money for
you?” I asked.

“What Arnold Wechsel or anybody
else did for me is none of your damned business.”

“Was it gambling debts?”

He jumped up and jammed his fists
against his hips, surprisingly agile for someone his size and age. “To hell
with you! I don’t have to answer any of this nonsense. I have a son who’s been
a policeman for years. Only cops are authorized to investigate murders.”

I stood facing him. “For your
information, Mr. Zicarelli, Arnold called me Monday afternoon and said he had
some information for me. He asked me to meet him that night at an auto repair
shop off Dickerson Road. I’m the one who found his body.”

His arms dropped to his sides. His
eyes narrowed and the bushy brows merged.

I wanted to put pressure on him by
mentioning Homicide Detective Phil Adamson, but I decided I’d pushed my luck
far enough with Nikki. “Do you have any idea what Arnold planned to tell me
Monday night?”

“Hell, no!”

His reply came as sharp as the
crack of a rifle.

“Thank you, Mr. Zicarelli,” I said,
motioning to Jill. “Let’s go. I think our business here is finished.”

I knew we’d have as much chance of
getting answers from a bronze statue as we would Nick Zicarelli. I didn’t look
back as we walked toward the foyer, but I heard no movement behind us. I held
the front door open for Jill, then followed her out.

When I climbed into the car and looked around at Jill, I saw
an apprehensive frown. “Knowing what we know about Nick Zicarelli,” she said, “it
sounds like he would make a formidable enemy. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“True, from his reactions, I don’t
think he considers me a good pal. But danger?” I shrugged. “I was happy to see that
Lincoln beside us instead of a Cadillac.”

She opened her purse and palmed the
snub-nosed .38. “I kept this handy while you talked to him.”

She handled the gun with total
familiarity, though for years she’d been highly critical of firearms and the
necessity for my carrying one. How times changed. “I didn’t feel threatened,” I
said, “but I didn’t feel it wise to push any harder, either.”

“You know we’re going to have to
confide in Phil at some point.”

I nodded in agreement. “And soon.”

I pulled out of the driveway glancing
up at a bank of dark-tinged, ribbed clouds that had moved in while we were in Whites
Creek. It left the landscape a mottled gray. Though the digital clock on the
dash showed it was only mid-afternoon, headlights along Old Hickory Boulevard
made it seem that twilight lurked just around the corner.

“Are those snow clouds?” I asked.

Jill, the pilot and family
meteorologist, turned on her teacher voice. “Low stratiform clouds can mean
either rain or snow. Whether we get any kind of precipitation depends on the
temperature and dew point. I don’t think the forecasters are predicting
anything but clouds.”

“Maybe the weather folks are saving
up for a white Christmas.”

“That’ll be the day.”

I knew what she meant. Since moving
to Jill’s hometown, I’d learned there were a lot more reliable reasons for
coming to Nashville than wanting to experience a white Christmas. That wasn’t a
problem for me, though. I enjoyed Christmas however it came, and right now it
was coming in the midst of a difficult case that mixed murder with mischief and
the possibility of an NBA basketball scandal. I was more convinced than ever
that Arnold Wechsel’s death had a direct tie to our investigation. I suspected
Nick Zicarelli could shed a great deal more light on the subject than he was willing
to provide.

Before we made it back to Hermitage,
Jill’s cell phone serenaded us with a snippet from The Nutcracker Suite. After
answering, she looked a bit startled and said, “Well, hello, Mr. Aregis.”

I gave her a curious glance. What
the devil could he be calling about?

She listened a few moments, then
said, “Hold on a minute, let me check something on my calendar.”

She muted the phone and turned to
me. “He wants to discuss something, said we could meet at a lounge at five.
What should I do?”

I didn’t like the idea. On the
other hand, it undoubtedly involved the NBA deal. It could be an opportunity to
learn something that might bolster our case. At this point, we badly needed
bolstering.

I made a snap decision, something I
normally avoid. “Okay, but make sure it’s at a reputable place where I can lurk
in the shadows.”

She squinched her eyes nearly shut
and shook her head. “I can make it,” she said into the phone. “Where would you
like to meet?”

She flipped the phone shut a moment
later, and I asked, “Where?”

“The Black Watch. It’s a lounge on West End, out past Vanderbilt. I thought you’d approve of that.”

The Black Watch, known as the Royal
Regiment of Scotland, was one of the most celebrated fighting units in the
world. Jill and I had attended a performance of the Black Watch Pipes and Drums
at the Performing Arts Center a couple of years back. I’d never been to the
lounge and suspected its name was the only thing Scottish about it, but the location
wasn’t bad.

“You realize Nick Zicarelli could
have called Aregis and told him about our visit,” I said.

“In the first place, we have no
proof that Zicarelli even knows Aregis. And in the second place, there’s no way
Aregis could have connected Jill Parsons to McKenzie Investigations.”

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t we use
this opportunity to put some of our spycraft to work?”

“You mean those surveillance gadgets
you picked up the other day at the Covert Security store?”

“Right. We’ll fix you up with a
concealed microphone and transmitter. I’ll sit at a table across the room with
the receiver unit. I’ll record the conversation and listen live with an
earpiece. I don’t expect any problems, but should anything happen, I’ll be
right there.”

I saw a twinkle in her eye that
usually meant trouble. “Are you sure we need all this spy stuff?” she asked.
“Or is it a case of not trusting your little wife with another man?”

I made a face. “I trust my little
wife but not the other man.”

When we got to the office, the
answering machine held a call from a sobbing Nikki Columbo.

“Grandpa hates me,” she said in a
barely decipherable moan.

I looked at Jill. “I think you’d
better handle this one.”

She gave a deep sigh. “I should
make you take it. You set her up with what you said to her grandpa.”

Jill made the call, however, and I
picked up my extension to listen in. Nikki was still sniffling when she
answered.

“Just calm down, Nikki, and get
your wits about you,” Jill said. “Your grandpa doesn’t hate you. Remember, you
told us he can be pretty cranky at times.”

“He was really angry because I
talked to you.”

“I suspect he was more upset
because we talked to him.”

“But he said it was my fault.”

“You need to explain to him that
we’re only interested in finding out who killed Arnold and why.”

“Grandpa believes you think he had
something to do with it.”

“I don’t remember us saying
anything to give him that idea.”

“He thinks I told you that Arnold was collecting money for him.”

She hadn’t, but that pretty well
confirmed for me that it was precisely what Arnold had been doing.

“Greg told him that you were very
circumspect in what you said to us. When your grandpa cools down, I’m sure
he’ll feel bad about what he said to you. Don’t worry about it, dear. You’ll be
okay.”

Before Jill finished, the other
line rang. It was Brad Smotherman.

“Can you make it to the Pred’s hockey
game tonight?” he asked. “We’re playing the Anaheim Ducks. Mack Nelson will be
there. It’ll give you a chance to talk to him. You can join us in the Hatrick
Suite.”

The young country music star was
the last principal in the case for us to interview, and I had an important
question for him. After Jill’s date for cocktails, we could have dinner and
then join Smotherman at the game.

“Sure,” I said, “we’ll see you at
the arena.”

A green-suited delivery woman
walked in a few minutes later with a colorfully-wrapped gift, a red bow on top.
Her dark hair tied in a ponytail, she swung her head around to check the tag on
the package.

“Looking for Lieutenant Colonel
Greg McKenzie,” she said.

I grinned. “That’s me.”

“Sounds like you’ll be having a
liquid Christmas,” she said, shaking the box gently.

I took the package, thanked her,
and signed for it. Jill came over to see what I had. I pulled the card off and
read:

“Merry Christmas from your old
friends in the OSI. Congratulations on the job you’re doing in your new career.”

“I wonder who thought of that?”
Jill asked.

Good question.

I tore off the wrapping and opened
a gift box containing a fancy glass decanter of Scotch. It wasn’t my preferred
brand, but it was a good one. “Not a bad choice,” I said.

“Could it be from Jeff Price?”

“I think Jeff would’ve signed his
name to it.”

“What about Colonel Grigsby?”

I tilted the bottle and took a
closer look. “That’s more likely. He’s the only one I’ve had contact with
lately.”

“And it’s the sort of thing he
would do,” Jill said.

“Since you’re going out for
cocktails, I might as well sample it.”

“But I’ll be on official business.”
She pointed at the Scotch. “That’s pure pleasure.”

“At least we agree on that.” I smiled.
“This isn’t your drink of choice, but you can at least have a sip. We’ll toast
the coming solution to this case.”

I tore the tax stamp that sealed
the container while she brought over a couple of small glasses. Twisting off
the crystal top, I poured a small amount for each of us.

I handed one to Jill, raised my
glass, and said, “Here’s to nailing the killer.”

As I lowered the drink, I got a
whiff of the aroma. An alarm went off in my head. It carried the jolt of a fire
bell.

Jill had her glass almost to her
lips.

“Don’t drink that!” I yelled.

Startled, she nearly spilled it.

I shouted out the words. “It’s
cyanide. I know that bitter almond smell. I was exposed to it once at a
forensic lab.”

Jill stared at the drink in her hand. “It’s in the whisky?”

“Right.” I checked the torn tax
stamp that sealed the bottle. It wouldn’t pull away with a gentle tug. In my
experience, those things weren’t stuck on that securely. The loose end wouldn’t
budge. Looking at it more closely, I saw what appeared to be glue residue
around the edges.

“It looks like this stamp has been
pulled off and glued back on,” I said. “Somebody has tampered with this.”

I called Phil Adamson’s cell phone
and found him at a service station in Donelson, the next exit down I-40 from
our office. He said he would drop by in fifteen or twenty minutes.

“Could it have been Izzy Isabell?”
Jill asked.

“If so, we’re in a lot more trouble
than I thought.”

When Phil arrived, I showed him the
carafe and explained my suspicions.

He examined the whisky bottle
carefully without touching it. “I see your point about the stamp,” he said. “And
you think you smelled cyanide? Not everybody can detect that stuff, you know.”

“I can. I got a whiff of it at a
lab once.”

“Do you think it might be the work
of your old navigator?”

“That’s what Jill asked. It’s
certainly possible.”

“I’ll get it checked out, but you
know how long it takes to get toxicology results.”

“Since we have reason to suspect
cyanide, can’t they do a quick test to see if it’s present?”

“I should think so.”

I took a pencil and propped up the
card with its innocuous greeting. “This looks a little sophisticated for
Isabell. Maybe he learned some new tricks in prison.”

“I’ll have everything checked for
fingerprints, then send it for a tox report,” Phil said. “You going to question
whoever delivered it?”

“Yeah. I’ll give them a call. I’d
like to go over there, but Jill and I are running a little operation out West End at five o’clock, then we’re meeting with a client at the Pred’s game.”

Phil looked back at the Scotch. “If
this is from Isabell, at least we know where to find him.”

After he left, I called the
delivery company and explained the problem. I asked where the package had
originated.

“Right here,” the man said after
checking his records. “It was brought in this morning by a Victor Lewis.”

“Do you have an address?”

“It’s 1830 Sheridan Drive. Zip is
37206.”

That settled it as far as I was
concerned. I’d bet there was no Victor Lewis on Sheridan Drive, probably not
even an 1830. This was the work of Izzy Isabell. I turned to my computer and
did a quick search. I was right on both counts. Sheridan addresses started with
1900.

I turned to Jill. “The person who
sent the Scotch gave a fake name and address. The fictitious address was on Sheridan Drive.”

“If it was Isabell, do you think
he’ll try something else now?” Her face mirrored her concern.

“Not until he finds this didn’t
work. Hopefully the cops will have the evidence to go after him by then.” It
was by no means a certainty. First they had to confirm the Scotch contained a
poison, then they’d have to identify who sent it. I needed to check the
delivery company in the morning and get a description of the man who claimed to
be Victor Lewis.

We closed shop around four and went home. After getting Jill
wired with the microphone and transmitter, I checked the equipment to make sure
everything worked as advertised. We headed for I-40 just in time to keep her
from being late for her date.

The Black Watch sat beside a building
with shops on the first two floors, parking above. I pulled into the garage so
Aregis wouldn’t see Jill getting out of the Camry. We switched on the electronic
equipment before starting for the lounge. Workers from nearby offices whose day
ended at four-thirty bustled along the sidewalk with collars turned up against
the cold. I followed Jill at a safe distance, listening through my earpiece
receiver that resembled a Bluetooth telephone gadget. I felt sure any curious
onlookers would take it for that.

Before I entered the place, I picked
up Jill’s voice talking to someone I assumed to be Louie Aregis. Inside, a
busty blonde with a come-hither smile greeted me and steered me across the room
from the table occupied by my wife and the Coastal Capital owner. I took a
chair against the wall facing them. I didn’t need to worry about being
recognized, even if Aregis had seen me before. The lighting in the Black Watch
was so dim you’d hardly know your neighbor.

The lounge had a compact bar at one
side and a slightly-raised stage in the back, where I saw a drum set and a few
guitars leaning on stands. A large replica of the distinctive Black Watch military
badge was mounted on the wall. One small spotlight overhead provided more illumination
than I could detect anywhere else but over the bar. A mixture of business types,
dressed in everything from Brooks Brothers to Men’s Wearhouse, and well-coifed young
women I assumed had just come from work occupied most of the tables. When the
waitress came around, I ordered a Scotch and soda. Being true to my roots, I
asked for Glenfiddich, the only Highland single malt distilled, aged, and
bottled at the distillery. Happily, they had it.

As my little earpiece blared with the
conversation across the room, Aregis did most of the talking. At first it was
“nice to see you again” and “how have you been?” When they ordered, I suspected
he was trying to impress Jill that he was now a true Tennessean. He asked for
Jack Daniel’s and water. Jill chose her favorite wine, Zinfandel.

“My secretary looked around at a few
newsstands but couldn’t find your magazine,” he said after a few minutes. “When
will the article be published?”

Uh oh, I thought. I hoped the lady
hadn’t asked the store if they could order a copy. She would have been told that
Sporting World
was not among magazines listed in their computer.

Jill didn’t hesitate. “The editors
work several weeks ahead. It’ll be a while before that issue comes out. I’ll be
happy to let you know when it does.”

That seemed to satisfy him, but he
promptly hit on another touchy subject. “I see by your rings that you’re
married. What does your husband do?”

My wife is about as moral a person
as I’ve ever met. I had a real problem convincing her that in detective work it
was necessary to masquerade your motives occasionally. I told her it wasn’t the
same as ordinary lying. It was more like a solder’s camouflage, changing
appearances to protect yourself or your operation. She finally bought into it
but now used her wiles to stick with the truth. “He’s retired military,” she
said. “Air Force.”

“Was he a pilot?”

“No, he was an investigator.”

“Interesting.”

Before he could push the question
further, she outflanked him. “The name Aregis is rather unusual. I found a
reference to it as being Greek. Is that where your parents came from?”

“Actually, my father came from Greece. An area near the Turkish border. My mother was from a small town in Sicily. So I guess I’m Greco-Italian.”

That mention of Sicily rang a bell.
I recalled Vernon Quillen mentioning talk that Aregis’ mother’s family had
Mafia connections.

“Did your parents settle in Florida when they came to the United States?” Jill asked.

“Yes, but they didn’t come over
together. They met in Miami and were married there, before moving to Orlando, where I was born. My mother had relatives in Miami, but Dad was the only Aregis
to immigrate.”

“Do you have any brothers or
sisters?”

“No, I was an only child.”

“So was I. My father sold insurance
for one of the major companies, and my mother played classical violin. She was
in the Nashville Symphony during my younger days.”

“I haven’t had a chance to attend a
symphony concert here. We were symphony patrons in Pensacola, but I’ve been too
busy with the move and getting the business re-established in Nashville.”

I could make out Jill resting her
elbows on the table and folding her hands, although it was difficult to tell
much of what was going on in that cave-like atmosphere. “Does your wife like
classical music?” she asked. “You said she was a country music fan.”

“Uh…oh, yes. She likes all kinds of
music. It’s just that country is her favorite.”

What a jerk. That lame excuse was
made up on the spur of the moment to help justify the move.

“Have there been any new
developments in the NBA franchise affair since we talked?” she asked.

“That’s really why I wanted you to
meet me here. As you probably know, the local news outlets aren’t too kind to
so-called ‘outsiders.’ I’m supposed to be the chief spokesman for this deal,
but they defer to Howard Hays, who’s a local legend. Writing for a national
publication, you have a wider perspective. I’m sure you have media contacts
here.”

“Yes,” Jill said. “At the newspaper
and one of the TV stations in particular.”

I sipped sparingly on my drink and
grinned. She referred to my reporter buddy, Wes Knight, and our new Channel 4
contact, Rod Jenson.

“Howard is a conservative who wants
to keep everything under wraps until we have a firm deal. We need to stir up
the public and get them behind this thing. I want to get the word out that
Coastal Capital Ventures is committed one hundred percent to bringing this city
a National Basketball Association team. I want the people to push the City
Council for unanimous support of our efforts.”

Good luck, I thought. With five at
large seats and thirty-five representing districts, you’d have a real problem
getting the Metro Council to unanimously agree on the time of day.

“I’ll let you in on a little
secret,” he said. “But you have to agree to keep it confidential until it’s
been cleared. Agreed?”

“My lips are sealed.”

I had to grin at that, too. “My”
was the operative word. She made no promises as to what her husband might do.

“We’ve begun some serious
discussions with an owner,” he said. “I can’t tell you who, but it’s a start.
I’m hopeful it won’t take long to get a workable deal.”

“That’s great news,” Jill said.
“I’m sure Mr. Hays and Mr. Ricketts are elated about that.”

“They’re pretty naïve at this sort
of thing. Frankly, they’d be lost without me.”

That got him started on a long,
pompous oration about all the high-powered dealing he had done. After listening
a bit, I checked my watch and decided we’d heard enough of Nashville’s new
savior from the Promised Land to the south. I took out my cell phone and
speed-dialed Jill. I heard her phone ring.

“Hello.”

“It’s time to wrap this up, babe,”
I said. “We need to get something to eat before we head to the hockey game. Tell
Mr. Wonderful good night.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be along in
a few minutes.”

I heard her tell him she had to wrap
it up. I signaled the waitress to pay my check. When Aregis offered to escort
Jill to her car, she said that wouldn’t be necessary as she needed to stop at a
store in the building next door. I walked out ahead of her, then moseyed along
until I heard her say good-bye. I glanced around and saw her come out of the
Black Watch Lounge alone.

We rendezvoused in the building’s
elevator lobby.

“What did you think of Prince
Charming?” she asked with a mischievous grin.

I shook my head. “There’s not much
doubt about what he thinks of himself.”

“He has a lot of charisma, if you
can take the narcissism.”

“Unfortunately, they often go hand
in hand. But I’m afraid our client isn’t going to feel charmed when he hears
the news about their discussions with an NBA owner.”