5 A Sporting Murder (7 page)

When I returned the file to my
storage box and stuck it back in the closet, I knew Arnold Wechsel’s murder and
Terry Tremont’s sports melee were not the only problems I faced.

We drove both cars to the office the next morning. Jill soon
bailed out for her interview with Louie Aregis. I felt she would be in no
danger at Coastal Capital Ventures, but I made sure she had that nasty little snub-nosed
.38 in her handbag. When I called Rod Jenson at Channel 4 to see when we could
meet with him, surprisingly, he said, “Right now. Come on over.”

I called Jill before she reached
Coastal Capital Ventures. I told her I would talk to Jenson and we could
compare notes when we made it back to the office.

The television station occupied a
hilltop on the opposite side of town. Rush hour had almost ended, but I-40 was
still no picnic. I arrived to find a saucy redhead at a reception desk in the
lobby, an area with two large windows that looked down on the studio and its
news set. Having visited TV stations before, I always marveled at how cramped
the studios looked up close compared with how they appeared on a TV screen. It
was a profusely lighted room stuffed with cameras, an anchor desk, a weather nook,
and sets where news and sports reporters stood to introduce their stories.

“I know Rod’s around here
somewhere,” the receptionist said. “Let me see if I can scare him up for you.”

She punched a few numbers, spoke
into the phone, and looked up with a smile. “He’ll be right out.”

Jenson appeared a few minutes later
and ushered me into a conference room with a long table surrounded by
comfortable chairs. About my height, at least ten years younger, he gave me a
smile that rumpled his broad brow, well-tanned despite the season. He had the
casual, breezy look of a man who enjoyed living on the edge.

“I didn’t realize how long it would
take you to get here,” he said as we took our seats. “I have to do an interview
shortly. I’m not usually here this time of day.”

“I should have warned you I was on
the other side of the county. I promise not to take much of your time.”

“Tell me what you’re looking for.
From what you said on the phone, it sounds like you’re talking about the effort
to bring an NBA team to Nashville.”

I gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s
related to that, but I can’t tell you anything about the client.”

His laugh was a muffled rumble.
“You sound like a coach declining to talk about a quarterback change. I’ll
accept that.”

“What are some of the hurdles a
group would face in bringing a professional sports team to town?”

“I’d say raising lots of cash would
rank number one. In the current situation, they seem to have mastered that with
two well-heeled local businessmen and this venture capital guy from Florida. You’d need to line up sponsors, too, corporations willing to shell out cash to
help get things set up. The most important hurdle, of course, would be attracting
fans and selling tickets. That would require a major publicity campaign.”

“Do you think Nashville can support
three teams, NFL, NHL and NBA?”

“In a word, no.”

“Which one would lose out?”

“My newspaper colleagues are more
inclined to speculate on that. I don’t mind giving you my take on it, though. With
annual sellouts and a long waiting list for season tickets, the Titans have a
lock on their share. The Preds also have an established fan base, though hardly
on the same scale. Basketball would have to build from scratch. Still, it could
go either way.”

“If a basketball team comes in,
would they likely share the same arena with the Predators?”

“They’d have to. Nashville isn’t
about to build another indoor monster downtown. It would require a lot of
coordination in scheduling.”

“Is this a typical ownership
situation for a major league sports franchise, a group of local businessmen?”

Jenson pulled a pen from his pocket
that resembled a giant golf tee and twirled it between his fingers. “Actually,
it’s one of two ownership patterns. The other is a single millionaire like Bud
Adams. He started the Titans as the Houston Oilers back in 1959. And for group
ownership, it isn’t necessarily all local. Could be guys from anywhere. They
just have to have a passion for sports.”

I had been taking notes but put my
small pad back in my pocket. “This question is a bit different and doesn’t
involve basketball or hockey. I understand some gamblers bet on NASCAR races.
Do you know how that works?”

“You have rather eclectic interests,
Mr. McKenzie,” he said, the big grin returning.

“The hazards of the profession,” I
said.

“Personally, I’m not a gambler.
Except for the lottery now and then. That’s not really a gamble. Just a
contribution to education. I’m familiar with betting on auto racing, though. It
involves bets on race winners, sometimes on qualifying, also driver matchups.”

“What are driver matchups?”

“It’s preferred by professional
gamblers. With forty-three drivers in the field, it’s a crap shoot to pick a
winner. With matchups, you pick two drivers and bet on which will finish ahead
of the other.”

“That should improve your chances,
I’d think.”

“You can keep the same matchup
through the season or change from time to time.”

I saw him check his watch. “Thanks
for the information,” I said, getting up. “That should give me a good start. I
won’t keep you any longer.”

We shook hands. “Glad to help,” he
said. “Just give me a call if you need anything else.”

Jill and I made it back to the office at about the same
time. After shedding our coats and getting cappuccino cups in hand, which felt
good to my freezing paws, we gathered at her desk. I started with a recounting
of my Rod Jenson interview. After that, I pressed Jill for some tasty morsels.

“What’s Louie Aregis like?”

“He’s shorter than I expected,” she
said, “but very handsome. Still has his Florida tan. From the way he treated
me, I’d say he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

“Sounds provocative. Should I be
worried?”

She shifted those big brown eyes. “He
doesn’t have that cute grin of yours.”

I almost believed her. “What else
does Mr. Aregis have?”

“Judging by the photos around his
office and plaques on the wall, it appears that he has a love for outdoor
sports, golf and tennis in particular. He also had an award from a shooting
competition with a replica of a pistol mounted on it.”

“That’s interesting. Was he short
enough that he could have fired an upward trajectory into Arnold Wechsel’s
head?”

Her face lit up with a sudden
realization. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. It certainly could
have happened that way.”

“Unfortunately, we’re a long way
from having any proof that Aregis might be guilty of murder.”

She gave a slight shake of her
head, which I took to mean she was reserving judgment.

“Where did he get his interest in
pro basketball?” I asked.

“He claimed he was a big basketball
fan in college but never had much opportunity for exposure at the professional
level. Then the Charlotte Hornets moved to New Orleans, and he got excited,
started thinking how nice it would be to own a basketball team.”

I shifted my eyes away from the
distraction of Jill’s bouncing screensaver. “Did he say how he got involved in
the Nashville deal?”

“He implied that it came about when
some local businessmen approached him because of his experience with venture capital.”

“Not exactly the way Sam’s friends
at the Y put it.”

“No, it isn’t. But that’s his
story.”

“He must think a team can be
successful here.”

“He told me that surveys have shown
a great deal of interest in basketball around Nashville.”

“He doesn’t think the fan base is
saturated by the Titans and the Preds?”

“He says the Preds will probably
struggle, but he thinks three teams can survive here.”

“That’s not Rod Jenson’s take on
it.” I took a sip on the cappuccino, found it cool enough to drink, then asked,
“How did you approach him on the question of why he came to Nashville?”

“I just asked if his move here was
related to the NBA business. He claimed it resulted from several factors.
Number one, this is a growing, progressive city. Number two, he has some good
clients here and there’s lots of wealth in the area. And number three, his wife
is a big country music fan.”

I shook my head at that one. “So he
denied the basketball deal was responsible for his moving here.”

“Not in those exact words. Aregis
should be a politician. Instead of answering a question directly, he shifts the
focus to what he wants to get across. I’d say the NBA was a major influence,
but he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Did you ask who some of his local
clients are?”

That brought a grin. “He wasn’t at
liberty to discuss that. I mentioned all the colleges and universities in Nashville and asked if any of them were limited partners in his venture capital funds.”

“And he said…?”

“He couldn’t say.”

“So what did he want to talk
about?”

“Well, he didn’t mind painting a
glowing picture of what a great job Coastal Capital Ventures is doing. They’ve
been endorsed by all sorts of people, like TV and movie stars. You name it.”

“How did he size up the deal for a
basketball franchise?”

“He says they’ve had discussions
with some teams that might be possible candidates for relocation to Nashville. He wouldn’t give a figure on how much money they’re willing to spend but said
they have enough to buy any team they’re interested in.”

“Will Coastal Capital be an
investor?”

“Now you’re asking specifics. Mr.
Aregis doesn’t like to get specific about anything. Remember how I boned up on
those three teams and their players? He wasn’t interested in talking about any
of them. I got to wondering if he even knew who they were. One point he did
make was that they had contacted the NBA commissioner’s office to show they
were a legitimate owner group.”

When the phone rang, Jill looked at
the caller ID and said, “Germany.”

I answered it.

“Greg, this is Jeff,” said my
one-time OSI colleague. “We’ve come up with a bit of a puzzle.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Arnold’s body arrived today, along
with his personal effects. They included something we can’t figure.”

“What’s that?”

“A Saint Christopher’s medal. It
appears to be solid silver. Old Chris is the patron saint of Baden, which is
part of the state of Baden-Wurttemberg, just to the southeast of here. The
medal was attached to a silver chain. It was packed in a box along with his
billfold and a few other things they apparently found in his pockets.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“For one thing, the Wechsels aren’t
Catholic. For another, it has a name engraved in small letters on the back—‘N.
Columbo.’”

“I presume the family has no
knowledge of an N. Columbo?”

“Not a clue. I shot a picture of
it. I’ll email you a copy.”

Could it have any significance to
the mystery surrounding Arnold Wechsel’s death? We were in the process of
assembling a large jigsaw puzzle designed to answer the question of what had
happened to him. I didn’t intend to leave any pieces on the table.

I repeated Jeff Price’s story for
Jill, then called Detective Adamson and left a message on his voice mail.

“I presume you plan to write off
your gift to Fingers O’Malley,” Jill said.

I did my bull snort impression.
“Let’s head out to Dickerson Pike and see if we can find Fingers. It’s time we
had a few choice words with Mr. O’Malley.”

We took Briley Parkway past Opry
Mills Mall and the massive Opryland Resort and Convention Center complex. The
Mall appeared loaded with Christmas shoppers, but this season was a lull time
for conventions at the big hotel. Just as well, the way the weather had been
lately. Yesterday’s rain and sleet mixture had passed on but left in its wake folds
of heavy, dark clouds chased by a cold, gusty wind. We made a short jog on I-65
to the Trinity Lane exit and found the A&R Café a short way down Dickerson
Pike. It occupied a small building sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a
hardware store. Tommy Carroll turned out to be the owner, the chef, and the
headwaiter.

“Have you seen Fingers O’Malley
this morning?” I asked.

A short, squat man with eyes as big
as silver dollars, he wiped chunky hands on his white apron. “You must be Mr.
McKenzie.”

“That’s right. I need to talk to Mr.
Fingers.”

“He was in here a little while ago.
He’s got money. Even paid for his coffee.”

I gave him a pained smile. “Some of
my money.”

“I figured you must have beefed up
his bank account. Did you not get your money’s worth?”

“The information he gave me was
hardly accurate.”

“Sorry. He means well, but he’s not
the sharpest blade on your pocketknife. I’m pretty sure he headed up the
street. You’ll probably find him at the grocery store on the next corner.”

I thanked him, and we drove to the
market. Looking around inside, we spotted him leaning against the deli counter,
munching on a handful of crackers. He grinned at us as we walked up. His nose
looked redder than his eyes today.

“Bring my other fifty?”

“Hardly,” I said. “I’d like to get
back the fifty I gave you, but it’s probably been spent already.”

“How come you want it back?”

“That license number you gave us
was for a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, not a black SUV.”

His frown carried a puzzled look.
“Cain’t be. I writ what I seen.”

I looked at those cloudy eyes and
diagnosed the problem. Pointing at a poster across the store, I asked, “What
does that sign say?”

He squinted at it. “Somethin’ ’bout
grapes. I ain’t too good at readin’.”

“What are the numbers in the
price?”

“Uh…looks like two…uh, three…five.”

The grapes were priced at $2.86.
“Have you ever had your eyes checked for glasses?” I asked.

“How you ’spect me to afford them
fancy things?”

“Some civic organizations sponsor free
eye clinics now and then. I’d advise you to check it out next time you hear of
one. Keep the fifty bucks. That’s our charitable contribution for the week.”

It was after lunch when Phil Adamson returned my call.

“I just heard from the Louisville
PD,” he said. “Izzy Isabell showed up in his old neighborhood last weekend. His
parents still live there. They reported he was high on drugs and abusive. They
told him they didn’t have room for him to live there, that he’d have to find
some place else. He said he might go to Nashville, he had a friend here.”

“Did they mention what he was
driving?” I asked.

“Said he had a blue Ford truck.”

“That’s what I saw him in. Didn’t get
a look at the license plate. I wonder if he’s tapped into the drug money he
stashed away before I caught him?”

“You think the money might be
here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Louisville is sending me a recent
photo,” Phil said. “Want me to pass it around, see if anybody might spot him?”

“It would be good to know where he
is in case anything happens. And by the way, I had another call from Germany today. What can you tell me about Arnold Wechsel’s Saint Christopher medal?”

“He was wearing it on a chain
around his neck when he was shot.”

“I figured it was either that or in
his pocket. Did you notice the engraved name on the back?”.

“Columbo. Did his folks identify it
as somebody in Germany? I haven’t found anybody with that name around Nashville.”

I studied the photo of the medal on
my desk, printed out from Jeff Price’s email. “They never heard of N. Columbo either.”

“It may not mean anything, but I’ll
keep looking.”

I intended to, also.

“Have you turned up anything new on
the homicide?” I asked.

“I measure progress with this investigation
in millimeters. We checked his phone records for the past few days. Nothing but
calls to work and this Ullery guy. He didn’t have a cell phone on him. Neither
his check register nor his credit card receipts showed any payments to cell
phone companies. Matter of fact, he apparently used his credit card
infrequently. What about you? Making any progress with the hoopsters?”

“If talk is progress. We’re doing
plenty of that. But nobody’s said anything that puts a sign on the roadmap
showing any destinations.”

“Tell me about it.”

When I got off the phone, I found
Jill sitting at her desk with that Cheshire cat grin.

“Okay,” I said. “Get that mouse
from between your teeth.”

“I’ve been on the computer,” she
said with a smug look. “There’s no Columbo in the phone book, but I found one through
Peopledatascan dot com. They give more details than anybody. I think they must have
a back door to the credit bureau. She’s Nicole Columbo, a twenty-three-year-old
from Memphis who works at an Italian restaurant in Green Hills.”

“N. Columbo. It has to be her.
Looks like our boy had a girlfriend after all.”

“She’s probably a hostess or a
waitress. I’ll see if she’s working tonight. We can go eat Italian and I won’t
have to fix anything for supper.”

I ran my tongue around my lips. “I
could use a little manicotti, maybe some cannelloni.”

She lifted a sculpted brow. “And
I’ll need to keep an eye on your portion control.”

“That’s not all we need to keep an
eye on,” I said. “Phil said the Louisville cops confirmed my sighting. Izzy
Isabell returned home last weekend and left for Nashville in a blue pickup.”

Her eyes flashed in alarm. “Coming
after you?”

“I wish I knew. He told his parents
he had a friend in Nashville.”

With a few new developments in hand,
I called Terry Tremont to update him on what we’d learned about Arnold Wechsel
and Louie Aregis.

“So Aregis is apparently lying
about how he got into this deal,” Terry said, a note of disgust in his voice.
“Sounds like he may be the faulty link in this chain.”

“Could be, but we haven’t found a
way to exploit it yet. We’ve come up with a new angle that we plan to check out,
though.”

I summarized the story of Nicole
Columbo and the Saint Christopher’s medal. Having watched Terry at work in his
office, I knew he would be taking notes on everything I had to say. That was
one reason for his success in court. He missed nothing.

“My wife’s Italian,” he said. “I’m
familiar with the Italian community around Nashville. I’ve never heard of any
Columbos.”

“She’s from Memphis. I’d like to
know how she met Wechsel and what their relationship was. He could have been a
customer at the restaurant. We plan to go by there tonight and check her out.”

“I’ll be interested in what you
find. Getting back to the NBA folks, what have you learned about Fred Ricketts?
Everybody knows the Howard Hays story, but Ricketts seems a bit of a question
mark.”

“I read an interesting magazine
article about how he put P and S Software on the map. I haven’t learned much
about him personally, though.”

“I may have the answer,” Terry said.
“I have a client I just learned worked with Ricketts when he was a big shot at
the hospital chain a few years ago. Name’s Ken Vickers. He runs a company that
deals with hospital supplies. Why don’t you give Ken a call. Tell him I’d like
him to help you with some background on Ricketts. See what he has to say.”

Vickers was in a meeting and
wouldn’t be out for another hour. I left word that I needed to talk to him,
then explained what was going on to Jill.

“Since you have an hour to kill,”
she said, “you can make a run to the office supply store and get a carton of
copy paper. All these data searches are about to deplete our supply.”

I drove to a nearby shopping center
and parked in front of the store. As I was about to get out, I glanced at the
rearview mirror and saw a large black SUV moving slowly behind me. I popped the
door open and jumped out, but I wasn’t fast enough. I caught a glimpse of the
car as it turned between two rows of vehicles and headed out of the lot.

Damn! I slammed the Jeep’s door and
fumed. If it was the one we had seen Sunday night, I had just missed a chance
for a positive ID.

Then I leaned back and took a deep,
cold, sobering breath. It could have been anybody. Some people actually drove
slowly through parking lots to keep from hitting someone. Was I getting uptight
over an incident that, for all we knew, had nothing to do with us? I didn’t
believe that. Something was going on and I wanted to know what.

When I came out of the store and
reached to open the car door, my eyes nearly bugged out at what I saw. A long,
jagged scratch ran from just under the side mirror, across both doors, back to
the quarter panel. I hadn’t been keyed. It looked more like I’d been awled. I
shoved the box into the back seat, then stood there and fumed. That was when I
spotted the note under the wiper. It read:

“The guy who did it got into a blue
pickup. I couldn’t get his license number.”