Three Strikes and You're Dead (27 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
“Don’t you dare threaten me, you little creep,” Bennett said.
“You owe me the money. You place a bet and lose, you owe the money,” said the second person. “My people are—”
“You tell your people who they’re dealing with. I’ve got connections all over town. I can put you out of business in a second, and don’t you forget it.”
“I want my money now,” the other man shouted, “or I will tell people that you bet against your own team. You know what people will say if I tell them that? Maybe I’ll tell the reporters at the newspapers and the television stations. Yeah, pay me the money right now or I’ll—”
“You open your mouth, and that’s the last time you’ll talk.”
The thump of someone being struck was loud enough to reach me. So was the thud of someone hitting something hard. I heard loud footsteps coming in my direction, and quickly used the vending machine to duck out of sight. Bennett rushed past me and up a stairwell, never seeing my hiding place. I listened as the sound of his shoes on the concrete echoed off the hard walls.
Moans came from where the altercation had taken place. I circumvented the concrete pillar to find their source and saw a man sprawled on the floor, blood gushing from a gaping cut on his head.
“Oh, my,” I said, going to him and dropping to my knees, ignoring the sting of the coarse concrete digging into my skin. “Sir, you’re hurt.”
His response was another pained exclamation.
I pulled a handkerchief from my shoulder bag and handed it to him. He tentatively sat up and pressed the cloth to his head wound. “Thank you,” he said.
I looked into his face and was startled to realize I recognized it. He was the small man I’d seen, and heard, talking on a cell phone outside the hotel the night of the team celebratory dinner.
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” I said as he struggled to his feet with my help.
“No, no,” he said. “I don’t need a doctor.”
The screeching of tires on the floor above alerted us that the danger to him wasn’t completely gone. He hobbled to the soda machine and I followed, both of us seeking to use it as a shield from the careening car—a silver Jaguar with H.B. on the license plate—that raced by a moment later.
The man sank back against the wall.
“That was Harrison Bennett who hit you,” I said.
My blunt statement had its intended effect. He looked at me with wide, frightened brown eyes, his lips quivering.
“I heard you say that he bets against his own team. Would that be the Rattlers?”
“Look, lady, here’s your handkerchief back. I can’t—”
“Please, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t wish you any harm, nor do I care what your role might be in any betting that goes on. But you’ve bloodied my handkerchief, which, I should tell you, has always been one of my favorites, and in addition, I scraped my knee badly in trying to help you. The least you can do is hear me out. Come along, I’ll buy you a soda. There’s something I must know.”
Chapter Sixteen
My conversation with one of Mesa’s resident bookies started out well. But as the pain in his head subsided, he seemed to realize suddenly that he was telling tales out of school to a perfect stranger, hardly prudent for someone engaged in illegal activities. I thanked him for his time and watched him walk away, my handkerchief pressed to his gash. He kept looking back as though to confirm he’d actually been revealing secrets about his clients to a woman who asked a lot of questions she had no business asking.
I walked through town again until I reached a pocket park I hadn’t noticed before. I entered it and sat on a bench beneath a leafy tree that afforded protection from the blazing sun. I looked up and saw a cerulean sky dotted with enormous puffy white clouds that would eventually give way to a still Arizona night, with winking stars and a slice of a moon. Meg had expressed disappointment that my visit to Arizona hadn’t coincided with a full moon. “The desert is especially beautiful when the moon is full,” she’d said. She’d also hoped that I would get to experience a sunrise hot-air-balloon ride over the desert, something I’d wanted to do along with getting in an hour or two of flying time in a rented private plane. It didn’t look like I’d get to enjoy either diversion. All our plans had been set aside because of Ty’s arrest.
I stayed in the park for a half hour, not so much to rest as to try to clear my head and focus on what my timely conversation with the bookie—Harrison Bennett’s bookie—meant to Ty’s defense. I felt the pressure of time. I couldn’t stay in Arizona forever. His trial, if there was one, would be months in the future. His teammates would begin scattering across the country. Recollections of what had happened that fateful night at the Crazy Coyote would fade. I needed to process what I’d learned, put it in some semblance of order, and force a resolution.
The sun’s rays played off water bubbling up from a fountain a few feet away. The gentle sound added to the tranquility of the park, and threatened to lull me into a sleepy, hypnotic state. But I was snapped out of my trance by the ringing of my cell phone. It was Mort Metzger.
“Everything okay with you, Mrs. F?” he asked.
“Yes, Mort, everything is fine. At this moment, I’m sitting on a bench in a pretty little park with a fountain in the center of Mesa. You know how much I enjoy taking walks by the sea. In Arizona, you settle for water of any kind, wherever you can find it. How are things back home?”
“Not as exciting as they must be for you,” he said. “I’ve been following what’s happening with the Ramos case on ESPN and Court TV. Are you still in the middle of it?”
“Yes, I’m involved, Mort, but—”
“Last time we talked, you were asking about sports gambling.”
“Yes, I remember that,” I said. “As a matter of fact—”
I told him of my encounter with the bookie without mentioning names.
“Stay away from the gambling crowd, Mrs. F,” he said, his voice firm and stern. “It’s all mob related. You get yourself involved with somebody who owes a bookie money, you’re liable to end up with a broken kneecap, or worse. You know, I was a cop in New York—” He went on to remind me of how naïve—and stubborn—I can sometimes be. And I was not thrilled to learn that he and Seth Hazlitt had been discussing my flaws and that Seth had wholeheartedly agreed with him.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I hear you loud and clear.”
“Hearing’s one thing, Mrs. F. Acting on what you hear is another. When are you coming home?”
“I have no idea,” I responded. “But tell Maureen I found your chipotle sauce and bought you a jar.”
“We’re not concerned about that, Mrs. F. We’re concerned about you.”
“You tell Seth Hazlitt to mind his own patients or I won’t give him the Diamondbacks cap I bought him today. Seriously, Mort, I can’t leave just yet. I’m needed here, not so much for Jack and Meg—they have one another. And Jack has so much experience with the legal end that he doesn’t need any help there—not that I would tread in that territory anyway. It’s Ty who I feel needs me more than anyone. He’s such a nice, deserving kid, and his dream is about to go down the drain. All that hard work, on and off the field. It’s heartbreaking to see him trying to cope.”
“That boy is lucky to have you on his team, Mrs. F.”
The conversation with Mort had roused me from my lethargy. I now knew things I hadn’t known earlier that day. The question was to what use to put my newfound knowledge. I had walked out of the park with the intention of heading back to the Duffys’ house when I happened to notice three medium-rise office buildings lined up against the horizon. One had large red letters at its top, but I was too far away to read them clearly. It looked like it might say BENNETT BUILDING. I walked toward the buildings to see if I was right. My eyesight was still working. Sure enough, BENNETT BUILDING was emblazoned across the structure’s upper span.
I crossed the street, leaving the leafy protection of the park and wishing I’d bought that pretty sombrero. The sun was brutal, bringing to mind the proverbial egg frying on the sidewalk. In this case, my head was the egg. I reached the building’s entrance and gratefully stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. The directory indicated that Bennett Enterprises was on the top floor.
The elevator opened into an expensively decorated and furnished reception area where an older woman with perfectly coiffed blond hair wearing a colorful cowboy shirt sat behind a very large desk.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I hope so,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was wondering whether—”
She popped up and came around from behind the desk, her ankle-length blue denim skirt with patches of horses and cows sewn on it swirling around her. She extended her hand. “My, my,” she said, “it really
is
Jessica Fletcher. I recognize you from your book covers. This is such a pleasure. I’ve read every one of your books, and so have my nieces and nephews. I tell them there isn’t a lot of senseless gore and sex and bad language in them, and that they’ll enjoy figuring out who dunnit.”
is
Jessica Fletcher. I recognize you from your book covers. This is such a pleasure. I’ve read every one of your books, and so have my nieces and nephews. I tell them there isn’t a lot of senseless gore and sex and bad language in them, and that they’ll enjoy figuring out who dunnit.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “Come, sit down. Would you like a cold drink, some coffee perhaps?”
“Thank you, no,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping to catch Mr. Bennett for a few minutes. I know I’m barging in but—”
She became conspiratorial. “Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “He’s probably in his office trying to put his silly little golf ball into the cup he has on his carpet.” She shook her head. “Boys and their toys. Do you find that men become more childlike as they get older?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the direction the conversation had taken. “I really hadn’t thought much about that, but—”
A large set of wooden double doors behind her desk opened and Harrison Bennett stepped into the reception area. He spotted me and frowned as if trying to force recognition.
“H.B.,” his receptionist said, “do you know who this is?”
His frown deepened. He wore lime green slacks, a bright yellow polo shirt, and white loafers, and carried a gold putter.
I took the initiative, walked up to him, and offered my hand. “Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Bennett. We met at the team dinner following the Rattlers’ win.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, ignoring my hand.
He started back toward his office and I stayed at his side. He stopped and glared at me.
“I came to express my condolences, and—”
He cut me off.“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“I think we should have a talk,” I said.
“About what?”
“Why don’t we go into your office? This is really a private matter.”
“I have no private business with you. Now, tell me what you want.”
I lowered my voice so the receptionist couldn’t hear. “Oh, I was wondering who’ll place your bets against the Rattlers now that Junior is gone.”
I’d certainly surprised him. He stood in the hallway, his mouth open.
“I understand you lost a lot of money on that game,” I said, meeting his angry eyes.
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