5 A Sporting Murder (8 page)

"That bastard Isabell scratched hell out of my Jeep,” I
announced in a loud voice as I stormed into the office.

Jill looked at me with a frown that
could have been a cross between indignation at my outburst and despair at my
message. I showed her the note and told her what happened, then carried the large
box of paper over to the counter. After taking out a ream and refilling the
drawer of our combination printer-copier- scanner- fax machine, I noticed the
sheet in the output tray.

“When did this come in?” I asked. I
took the sheet and tossed it onto Jill’s desk.

“Just now. I hadn’t had time to
check it out.” She stared at the photo. “It’s Isabell, isn’t it?”

He looked about as I remembered him.
Angular face, short hair, intense eyes, but a bit rougher and more weathered.

“That’s the…” I let it drop as her
frown intensified.

“Fortunately, he directed his
mischief at your Jeep instead of yourself,” she said.

I sat at my desk and thought of
wicked things I might do if we were to meet. Before I got too far, the phone rang.
Ken Vickers.

I told him about Terry Tremont’s
suggestion.

“I haven’t been involved with Ricketts
since he left to form his own business,” Vickers said, “but I still see him
once in a while. He’s one of those driven guys. You know, not happy unless he’s
involved in some sort of action. He took off like a rocket when he started that
company. Now he’s about to make a fortune off of it.”

“Which he’s prepared to spend on a
basketball franchise,” I said. “Has he always been a big sports fan?”

“He’s part owner of an Indy race
car and always went up to The 500 to see his car run. I’d say this is just
another way to get in on the action.”

I thought of all we’d learned about
Arnold Wechsel. “Is Ricketts a gambling man?”

“He likes to beat the odds. He’s
not afraid to take a chance if he thinks it’ll pay off.”

“Are you referring to business
decisions or making bets?”

“As for bets, he might make a
friendly wager, but probably only if he thought it was a sure thing.”

“I read where he’s in his thirties,
a fairly young guy. How did he get such a good job with the hospital outfit at
such an early age?”

Vickers spoke with the formidable
voice of a big man. I could picture a hulking body hovering over his desk. He
had a ready answer for every question.

“Fred was a computer whiz kid out
of college,” he said. “One of the top people in the company latched onto him
and pushed him up in the ranks.”

“Did he leave the hospital business
to start his software company?”

Vickers gave a little chuckle. “In
a manner of speaking. What happened was he had the idea for this new venture and
began trying to put it together while still working under his mentor at the
company. His boss got wind of it and was not the least bit pleased. He
suggested it was time for Fred to devote full-time to the new business.”

“In other words, he was invited to
leave.”

“That’s as good a way of putting it
as any. I worked in the office across from his, and I can tell you he was
furious as a scalded hornet. Turned out it was the best thing for him, but he
had a lot of deleted expletives for his boss.”

Fred Ricketts sounded like a man I
needed to know more about. “I’d like to meet him, preferably in a relaxed,
informal atmosphere. Do you know of any place he frequents?”

He paused for a moment. “Are you
familiar with Contacts Nashville?”

“Nope.”

“It’s a group that sponsors a
couple of get-togethers each month to bring business and professional people
together for networking. I don’t go to all of them, but Fred has been there
every time I’ve attended.”

“Is it like a cocktail party, or
what?”

“They mix and mingle and have
lunch. They’re meeting now at the Bull and Boar Steakhouse in Brentwood. It’s
normally only open for dinner, so they have the whole place to themselves.”

Ricketts’ company was located in Brentwood, an upscale town on the edge of Williamson County just south of Nashville.
Williamson had one of the highest per capita incomes of any county in the U.S.

“When do they meet?” I asked.

“The second and fourth Wednesdays.
That would make it tomorrow. I don’t know about Christmas week, though. I can
check to make sure. The sessions are open to anyone, so all you have to do is
show up.”

He called back a few minutes later
to confirm that Contacts Nashville would meet tomorrow at 11:30 a.m. I told Jill we had a lunch date for in the morning.

We arrived early at the Villa d’Este Restaurant, hoping to
catch Nicole Columbo before things got too busy. I came through the foyer,
blowing warmth into my freezing hands, and passed a gaily-decorated tree filled
with winking colored lights. We were met by a young woman slightly taller than
me, with long black hair and a pretty face. She had high cheekbones accented by
a wide smile.

“Two for dinner?” she asked.

I answered with a confirming nod. She
looked about the right age for the girl we’d come to see. She pulled two menus
from a stack and led us into the dining area, where Dean Martin’s voice trilled
That’s Amore
for the benefit of three tables of diners. It was a typical
mid-range restaurant with lush greenery and subdued lighting that made it
difficult to read the prices.

As she laid the menus on the table,
I smiled and asked, “Are you by chance Nicole Columbo?”

Her large, dark eyes popped open
wide. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met, but I’m the one
who found Arnold Wechsel at the auto repair shop three nights ago.”

Her face paled. She looked ready to
cry. I felt sorry for her and wished I had phrased my introduction with a bit
more subtlety.

Jill gently took her hand. “We’re
very sorry about what happened, dear. I hope you’ll forgive us for upsetting
you.”

Nicole Columbo looked from Jill to
me. “How did you…know…about me?”

“We found out quite by accident,” I
said. “Arnold’s aunt is married to a friend of mine. He told me there was a
Saint Christopher’s medal among the things they sent back to Germany. It had your name engraved on the back.”

Nicole pulled a tissue from the
pocket of her slacks and dabbed at her eyes. “But it only said ‘N. Columbo.’”

“Yes, dear,” Jill said, “but we’re
private investigators. It’s our business to find out such things.”

She bit at her lower lip, obviously
struggling to maintain her composure, and glanced at me. “I remember now. The
private investigator thing. It was in the newspaper story.”

“Arnold called and asked me to meet
him there,” I said. “We’d like to talk to you about it.”

She swung her head toward the front
of the restaurant, where a few customers had come in. “I’m sorry…I have to go.”

She hurried away.

Jill looked across at me as we took
our seats. “Did you notice the change in her expression when you said we’d like
to talk to her about what happened?”

“It was fear. Why would she be
afraid to talk to us?”

“We need to find out,” Jill said.

When the waitress came, we ordered
the three-cheese manicotti and a bottle of Zinfandel. I had no trouble devouring
my portion while discussing what we knew about Nicole Columbo, which was not
enough to explain her reaction. Jill had a generous helping on her plate when
the waitress stopped by to see if we had finished.

“Would you like a take-out box?” she
asked.

“No thanks,” Jill said. “I have
enough leftovers at home already. It was delicious, though.”

Few additional customers had come
in while we were eating. I figured Tuesday must be a slow night. I’m sure the
deep freeze outside didn’t help. It was fortunate for us, though, since it
meant less likelihood of distraction when we stopped to corner Nicole on our
way out.

We took our time, hoping the longer
she had to think about it, the more likely she would be to answer our
questions. We lingered over the Zinfandel, then ordered coffee and tiramisu for
dessert. To keep Jill from objecting, I suggested we share a serving of the
tasty concoction. It brought me high marks. According to Jill, it appeared to
be made from the original Italian recipe, which called for a round shape containing
savoiardi biscuits, or lady fingers, soaked in espresso and layered with a
mixture of mascarpone cheese, eggs, sugar and honey. Cocoa powder was sprinkled
on top.

After deciding we had dallied long
enough, I signed the credit card receipt. We donned our winter gear and headed
for the entrance. As we approached, I noticed a sticky note on the edge of the
stand where the hostess stood. It bore the name “Nikki.”

“I’m so sorry we upset you,” Jill
said in a motherly tone. “Believe me it was not our intention.”

Nikki Columbo gave her a meek
smile. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have been so sensitive. I’m starting to get
over it, but the past few days have been unbelievable.”

“The police don’t know about you,
and we’d like to keep it that way,” I said. “Keep you from becoming involved in
the investigation.”

Her eyes turned wary. “I’d
appreciate that.”

“At the same time,” Jill said, “it’s
our duty to help them find who did this terrible thing to Arnold. You can help
by letting us sit down and talk to you. There may be some things you don’t
realize you know that could help us track down the person responsible.”

Nikki listened in silence.

“When would be a good time to call
you tomorrow?” Jill asked.

Nikki breathed heavily and looked
down with unseeing eyes at the seating chart on the slanted stand in front of
her.

Jill waited.

Nikki finally looked up and said,
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

I handed her a business card as a
draft of cold air hit our backs and two couples walked in.

“I’ll call you,” Nikki said,
glancing at the card, then turned toward the new customers.

Although we had dined leisurely, we arrived home at a decent
hour. Jill returned a call from Wilma Gannon and curled up in her recliner. I
had learned early on that any chat with Wilma would be an extended one. I headed
upstairs to the bedroom and returned my Sig to its accustomed place in the
bedside table drawer. After retreating to the kitchen, I pulled down a container
labeled “Spiced Tea” that had the appearance of a jar filled with orange sand. It
looked like a good nightcap for a cold winter evening since I wasn’t in a mood
for more wine, and I didn’t like to mix Scotch and Zinfandel.

I heated water, shoveled orange
sand into a cup, stirred it a bit, and moved to the table. As I sipped it
slowly, I thought about our confrontation with Nikki Columbo. I had chosen to
let Jill do the talking since her motherly manner went over well with the
younger set. You’d never know she had no children of her own. Nevertheless, it wasn’t
an easy sell. Would Nikki call us back? That earlier look of fear still bugged
me. Who or what was she afraid of? Jill had said we would try to shield her
from the police, and that would mean holding back from Phil Adamson. Hardly
something new. What we needed was to bore in on her relationship with Arnold
Wechsel. I decided to pursue her background a lot deeper and see if we could
turn up something that would provide a hint about the problem she was bent on
hiding.

When I got down to the dregs, I
rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher, then headed for the living room. Jill
still had the phone anchored to her ear. I took up my position beside her, listening
to an occasionally muttered “I know what you mean” or “did she really say
that?” Punching on the TV remote, I muted the sound and watched some fictional
CSI guys and gals pull off their miraculous feats. Like most professional law
enforcement types, I marveled at the fantastic advancements of forensic science
but watched in dismay at the way they were portrayed on TV.

Jill finally turned to me and held
out the phone. “Sam wants to talk to you.”

I gave him a cheery greeting. “How
are things in the wild blue yonder?”

“Ha, the only wild blue I’ve seen
lately was the jeans hanging halfway down some young hooligan’s butt at the
drugstore. What’s up with you?”

“From the sounds in my stomach, I’d
guess I’m digesting all that Italian food I ate at the Villa d’Este Restaurant.”

“Been stepping out with your lady,
huh? Good for you. What I wanted to ask about, I got the idea last night that you’re
more than a little interested in this NBA proposal. True?”

Sam knew me too well. I was afraid
something like that might happen. “True, but it isn’t something I can talk
about. If you hear anything else, though, I’d appreciate your passing it
along.”

“I was playing ‘horse’ with my friend
from the Dollar Deal Stores today—he lets me beat him now and then—and he
started talking about that situation again.”

“What’s going on now?”

“Seems the commissioner’s office
wants more background on everybody who’ll have any ownership interest in the
team.”

“They want to be sure there’s
nothing unsavory about any of them.”

“That’s what he said. When he
mentioned something about Aregis, I asked how the new guy from Florida got into the picture. According to him, Aregis got wind of their efforts somehow
and contacted them about getting in on the action.”

“Interesting. I’m sure they looked
into his background before inviting him in.”

“He said Mr. Ricketts had known
Aregis before.”

I thought about that a moment. “I
wonder if Ricketts was an investor in Coastal Capital Ventures?”

“He didn’t say. Like me to see what
else I can get from him?”

I didn’t want to risk getting too
inquisitive. “Better to just listen to what he has to say. Don’t get too
obvious about it.”

When I told Jill what the dollar store
fellow had said, she gave a “hmph” of disgust. “So much for Louie Aregis’
believability.”

“I wonder what else he lied about?”

“Couldn’t have been much, since he
didn’t tell me a lot.”

“It sounds like he muscled his way
into this group, doesn’t it?”

“He’s a manipulator and a world
class bamboozler.”

I had run into his kind before.
They were the guys who sold refrigerators in the Arctic Circle and heaters to
the natives in Equatorial Africa. I was a little surprised that sophisticated
businessmen would hook up with such a character, but Fred Ricketts had
apparently had some sort of relationship with him in the past. No doubt they
considered his status as a venture capitalist a plus in negotiating a deal.

A beep-beep sounded from the alarm
system. It was similar to the signal for an outside door opening, except for
the tone. This one meant the exterior floodlights had been tripped. I went to
the front door and looked out. It normally indicated a car was approaching on
the driveway. I saw nothing.

“Who is it?” Jill asked.

“Nobody. That’s odd.”

“Could it have been a dog?”

“A dog won’t do it. It takes at
least a man-sized object.”

“Maybe it was a deer.”

“When have we seen a deer around
here, Jill? I’m going out and take a look around the place.”

She jumped up and grasped my arm. “Be
careful, Greg. Take your weapon.”

I grabbed my Beretta from the
downstairs office, stuck it in my belt in back, pulled on my jacket, and hurried
outside. Muffled traffic noises from adjacent streets and the solitary bark of
a neighbor’s dog broke the stillness. A freezing breeze out of the north bore
the smell of wood smoke as it nipped at my nose. I made a quick circle of the
house, letting my gaze sweep the perimeter of the property. We were surrounded
by trees, except for the driveway opening and a gap that allowed us a glimpse
of the Rogers’ house next door. Everything appeared in order, with neither man
nor beast in sight. The second time around, I walked slowly, checking every
spot where somebody or something might choose to hide. In an area near the
garage, I saw what looked like a footprint. When I stooped beside it, though, I
realized it was a slight depression where water had frozen.

Back inside, I shed my jacket and
tossed it onto a chair.

“What did you find?” Jill asked.

“A lot of fog from breathing out in
that cold air. But nothing that would have triggered the floods. Whatever or
whoever it was must have been scared off when the lights flashed on.”

“Do you think it was some
body
?
Like that ex-lieutenant who defaced your car?”

“I wish I knew, but I don’t. To
quote one of my old OSI instructors, ‘If you have no clue, admit it.’”

“When you add in that phone call
last night and the SUV the night before, I’m not too happy about it.”

I eased the magazine from the
Beretta, recalling the black SUV I’d seen this afternoon. “I forgot to tell you
after that episode with the scratch, but I saw an SUV cruise by slowly just as
I parked at the office supply store. It looked like the one from Sunday night,
but it sped away before I could get a good look. I’m not happy at all about it.
I don’t intend to lose sleep over it, though.”

I hoped I didn’t lose anything
else.