Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead (24 page)
It was a rainy evening in Mesa, a rare event in this part of the country. It wasn’t a downpour but a gentle, steady drizzle, a refreshing cooling off of what had been another Arizona scorcher.
After returning from lunch with the team, I took the walk around the lake that I’d missed that morning. It felt good to get in some exercise, as mild as it might have been, and to burn off the calorie count from lunch and clear my head. The rain started on my way back to the Duffys’ house; it felt good and I didn’t try to rush to avoid getting wet.
Meg was out when I arrived. Jack was still huddling with Ty’s lawyer, David Pierce, but expected to be home for dinner, according to a note Meg left on the kitchen table. Cole would be joining us as well. Ty had become increasingly quiet and introspective since being arrested and charged with Junior Bennett’s murder, which I knew concerned Meg. I’m sure she thought a nice dinner with Cole would liven things up and hopefully help Ty snap out of his funk, at least temporarily.
I’d noticed that Ty hadn’t shaved in the past couple of days and that he’d worn the same shorts and T-SHIRT two days in a row. He was obviously depressed, and for good reason. I’d suggested to Jack and Meg that Ty speak to a psychiatrist, but Jack nixed that idea, insisting that it could conceivably be used against him in the press and if the case went to trial. One reporter had actually speculated that Ty was mentally unbalanced and that his defense would probably be insanity. Seeing a psychiatrist would only fuel that sort of irresponsible journalism and taint his already shaky image. “Besides,” Jack said, “I’m not of a mind these days to trust anyone, even a shrink who’s supposed to honor doctor-patient confidentiality. Some tabloid reporter, or even someone from the DA’s office, might buy off a psychiatrist with money or God knows what else, and get him to leak damaging information about Ty. No, there’ll be no shrinks if I have anything to say about it. End of story.”
He was probably right, although I silently wondered whether he might be demonstrating a little too much paranoia. I just hated to see Ty suffer in silence.
I was sitting on the window bench in the kitchen enjoying a tall glass of Meg’s iced tea when Ty came in. The bench, my favorite perch in the house, was usually drenched in sunshine, although at this moment I was enjoying watching the quiet raindrops hit the windowpane and make interesting patterns as they slid down the glass.
“Hello, Ty,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said weakly, a trace of a smile on his handsome face.
“Can I get you some iced tea?” I asked.
“No, thanks. I can get it.”
He poured himself a glass and sat at the kitchen table.
“Cole’s coming for dinner tonight, right?” he asked.
“I believe so. Are you hungry? I can fix you a snack.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he said. He looked down at the table and shuffled through some papers that had been lying there.
The lull in conversation was uncomfortable. “Ty, I want you to know that I’m here to talk if you want.”
He continued to fix his eyes on the table, saying nothing. “Thanks,” he managed, obviously beginning to choke up. “Excuse me.” He left the kitchen and went upstairs.
I had just started to take another sip of tea when the doorbell rang. I went to put my glass on the windowsill, but some of the tea spilled onto the yellow-and-white gingham seat cushion. I jumped up, grabbed a couple of sheets of paper towel, and tried to soak it up.
“Cleaning up the evidence, are you?” Sylvester Cole said, laughing and standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I let myself in. The door was ajar. Hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I said, chuckling. “You caught me in the act. I spilled my iced tea on Meg’s lovely cushions. Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute.”
“No bother,” said Cole. “Ty home? Meg and Jack here?”
“Yes, Ty is home. Meg had a quick errand to run and Jack should be here soon.”
“In town with his lawyer, David Pierce, I heard,” he said.
“You know him?
“Sort of.”
Cole’s appearance struck me as being uncharacteristically disheveled this evening. He had a five-o’clock shadow—more like a four-o’clock shadow, I suppose—and he wore a pair of gym shorts, a nondescript orange T-shirt, and sneakers.
He must have read my mind. “Sorry for the way I look tonight, Ms. Fletcher. I was going to work out, then hit the showers and shave at the gym, but I ran out of time—not to mention steam. Never made it to the gym. Busy day.”
“You look just fine,” I said. “In fact, you’re one of the few people I know who seem to be able to look good no matter what they’re wearing.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “Let me return it. You look lovely this afternoon.”
“Thank you, but I certainly don’t feel very lovely at the moment. The stress of the week is beginning to catch up with me.”
When I’d put on my makeup that morning, I’d noticed that my skin was paler than usual, and that the circles beneath my eyes were absolutely huge. I looked like I usually do at midwinter in Maine, I thought, not at the end of summer in Arizona.
“How about going out to the patio?” I said. “It’s covered, so we won’t get wet. I’m feeling sleepy. I think the air will perk me up a bit.”
“Sure thing.”
He picked up my glass of iced tea, opened the sliding door with his elbow, and led us out to the patio. I considered asking Ty if he’d like to join us but decided to let him set his own schedule.
“Ty sleeping?” Cole asked, sitting in one of the wooden chairs. I sat in a matching chair; a wooden table separated us.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “He was downstairs a short while ago.”
“My heart aches every time I think of that kid,” said Cole. “He’s the kind of person you gravitate to. I wasn’t drawn to Ty only because of his baseball talent. The kid’s got so much charisma and a lot of smarts. Those are the kinds of things that make a superstar, and even more important, a great person.” He shook his head. “It’s such a shame he’s got to go through all of this. Who knows how it’ll end up?”
“You don’t think he’ll be exonerated?” I asked. “I assume you feel as I do, that he had nothing to do with Junior Bennett’s death.”
“Sure, I feel that way, but I’m enough of a realist about the legal system to know that being innocent doesn’t always translate into being acquitted. You read about all these cases where someone spends years behind bars, only to have new DNA evidence prove he or she couldn’t possibly have done the crime. Of course, it depends a lot on this Pierce guy. If he’s as good a lawyer as Jack thinks he is, then the kid has a chance. But the DA has an agenda, and this is one DA who’s out for blood and to make a name for himself.”
“What
is
his name?” I asked.
is
his name?” I asked.
“Larry Martone. Young guy, mid-thirties, a real hotshot.”
“Martone. I noticed a Martone Plaza somewhere in Mesa. Is that—?”
“Yep, same family. Lots of Martones in Mesa. They own a ton of real estate. Good reputation. Martone Plaza is going to be a new strip mall with a Starbucks, gourmet food store, places like that. I’m sure you’ve seen those big billboards announcing the new mall.”
“I can’t say that I have,” I replied. “So you’re convinced that Ty didn’t do this but that the legal system might fail him?”
He looked at me, paused, and said, “Ty is a class act. The Ty Ramos I know would never have done this. He’s learned the lesson of life at the School of Hard Knocks. He came up the tough way, which is what makes this all so sad. This is a kid who has worked so hard to become what he is, and he ends up accused of murder. The irony in this isn’t lost on me, nor on you either, I’m sure. That’s what makes it so crazy and so hard to swallow. I want to work with this kid, be his agent. We have all the details of a contract hammered out—Jack and I did that the other night—and I’ve already started promoting him. Then this had to happen. He’s got the potential to be a star, and I know I can help him achieve it. At least that’s my prayer, my plan. At least it was my plan until this happened. Ty’s going to be acquitted—he didn’t do it, right? Then, we can forge ahead.”
“Sylvester, what do you know of Junior’s relationship with his father?”
“Whoa. That was one dysfunctional relationship. That was textbook. Overbearing father—always-looking-to-please son—son never good enough in father’s eyes—son constantly trying to impress dad. Lots of anger issues because of it. Very unhealthy.”
I appreciated Sylvester’s use of psychobabble, but I was looking for more specifics. “Have you ever witnessed an incident between the two of them? A physical confrontation?”
He took a long look at me before replying, “Of course. We all have.”
“An example?”
“Like the time he hit Junior for no reason. Why? Because he found out I was at the stadium to scout Ty. I was in the men’s room and heard H.B. tell Junior that if he didn’t make it to the big leagues, he’d be a disgrace to the family, ‘family’ meaning, of course, H.B. I hear this whacking sound, and when I come out of the stall, Junior is washing his face and there’s a big red mark on his cheek.”
“Oh, how awful,” I said. “That poor boy. What he must have gone through growing up.”
“You want to know the saddest part, Mrs. Fletcher? Junior was a good kid with God-given talent. But his dad ruined him. H.B. is ambitious and greedy. He’s all about showing off. Fancy restaurants, state-of-the-art electronics in his home, private planes, cigarette boats. That guy’s got at least half a dozen cars, including a brand-new Mercedes. If I were going to buy a new car, I sure as heck wouldn’t get a green one. Kind of have a superstition about the color green—unless it’s money.”
“I remember reading that Duke Ellington felt the same way,” I said. “He refused to ride in a green car.”
“See? I’m not the only one. Nice to know I’m not crazy,” Cole said. “Of course, to H.B. the money he spends on such stuff is just chump change. He must have been furious with Junior for taking the car to the Crazy Coyote that night. What could Junior have been thinking? That’s what happens when you have an overbearing, super-strict parent. Kids rebel, one way or the other.”
“Sylvester, when was the last time you spoke to H.B.?”
“Not for a couple of days at least. Not since the murder, actually. Let’s see, it must’ve been at the victory dinner, when he came to our table. H.B.’s in mourning, you know. I don’t want to disturb him. Besides, I’m the last guy he wants to hear from. I’m public enemy number one in his book because I wasn’t interested in signing his son.”
We were interrupted when Meg opened the sliding door and joined us. “Hi, Sylvester, Jess,” she said. “Sorry it took me so long.” We followed her into the kitchen, where two overflowing grocery bags sat on the table.
“I think I got everything,” Meg said. “I thought it would be nice if we made tacos. I got all the trimmings. Ty loves making tacos; it’s kind of festive and casual. Hope everyone’s up for it. I got some fish for those who want fish tacos, and ground beef for the carnivores among us.” She laughed. Her mood seemed lighter, probably because she had people to entertain at dinner.
“You sure you want me in my ruffian clothes?” Cole said.
“You’re welcome anytime, Sylvester. You know that. Besides, I love to entertain. There’s nothing as satisfying as sharing time with people you enjoy being around. If I had my way, I’d throw a dinner party every night of the week. Of course, Jack doesn’t necessarily share that view. He likes his quiet nights with just the two of us, or three of us if Ty is home. But we compromise pretty well.” She started emptying the bags. “Did you notice that the press has abandoned us?” she asked, glee in her voice.
Other books
Miedo y asco en Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
Luck of the Irish: Complete Edition by Liz Gavin
True Crime by Collins, Max Allan
A Simple Faith: A Lancaster Crossroads Novel by Lauer, Rosalind
The Oasis of Filth by Keith Soares
Coma Girl: part 2 by Stephanie Bond
Supernatural: The Unholy Cause by Schreiber, Joe
Pulled Over by Tory Richards
Hard Case by Elizabeth Lapthorne
Immortally Ever After by Angie Fox
