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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Three Strikes and You're Dead (29 page)

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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“She’ll have an unlisted number and address,” Jack said. “Everybody in the media does.”

Meg ignored his negative comment and pulled out a local phone directory from a cabinet. “Here it is,” she said. “K. L. Locke. Must be her. The only other
K
here is Kenneth.” She read off the address and phone number, which I noted on a slip of paper.

“Do you know where this is?” I asked.

“I think it’s a condominium development on the southern edge of town,” Jack said, “not far from where I play golf. But you’d better call first. K. Locke could be Kerry Locke, or Keith Locke, or—”

“I’d rather assume it’s her,” I said, “and show up unannounced. Will you drive me?”

“Sure,” Jack said, picking up a Rattlers cap and putting it on, “but I still think you’re off on a wild-goose chase.”

“That may be,” I said, “but I learned long ago to never second-guess my gut instincts.”

Jack was right. The address in the phone book for K. L. Locke was a new condominium development on a rise that afforded a limited view of mountains in the far distance. We pulled up in front of a town house with the number listed in the book.

“So, what do we do now?” Jack asked. “Are we on a stakeout?”

“Let’s just give it a couple of minutes to see if anyone comes in or out,” I said. “Then I’ll ring the bell.”

“Okay, but I think you’re wasting your time.” He slid down in his seat, pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes, and pretended to snore.

“There she is,” I said, watching the door on the attached garage go up.

Karen pulled her car in, got out, climbed the stairs, and disappeared inside the house.

“I’ll wait for you,” Jack said.

“Please don’t,” I said, opening the car door. “I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “I’ll go hang out at the clubhouse. It’s only a few minutes from here.” He wrote down his cell number and handed it to me. “Give a call when you’re finished.”

“I will. And thanks, Jack.”

“Hey, you have a lot better instincts than mine at this point. Go for it, whatever it is.”

He drove off, and I approached the front door, which was up a set of three brick steps. I rang the bell. I heard movement inside, but no one answered. I was then aware of someone peeking though a curtain on a narrow window at the side of the door. I rang again. The door opened and I was face-to-face with Karen Locke.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I was hoping to have a chance to speak with you,” I said. “I apologize for just barging in like this, but it’s terribly important.”

“You’re Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“I didn’t appreciate what you said to me at the spa,” she said. “I didn’t deserve it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m afraid I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. It was just that my friend Meg Duffy was in a difficult situation and I couldn’t—”

To my surprise, Karen opened the door wider. “Yeah,” she said, “I guess I was a little too aggressive, considering what she’s going through. Why are you here?”

“To ask you some questions about the investigative report you’ve been working on.”

Her eyebrows went up into question marks.

“About betting on sports,” I added.

“How did you know about that?”

“A friend of a friend,” I answered. “It’s not idle curiosity on my part,” I said. “I believe that the murder of Junior Bennett is linked, in some way, to gambling. I don’t know what that link is yet, but I was hoping you might help me establish it.” I paused. “A young man’s life hangs in the balance.”

“Ty Ramos,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?” a male voice asked. He came to the door and stood behind Karen. He was a good-looking middle-aged man, slightly taller than she. His hair and eyes were brown, his expression pleasant.

“This is Jessica Fletcher,” Karen said. “She’s a mystery writer.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

“She wants to ask me a few questions,” Karen told him.

“Oh? Are you going to be in one of her novels?”

“I don’t think so,” Karen said.

There was an awkward silence.

“Come on in,” he said.

Karen shot him a hard look. “Yes, come in,” she said. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m due at the station in a few hours.”

“I promise not to take too long,” I said, following them inside.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “I’m marinating a steak for the grill. There’s plenty if you want to join us for dinner. My name’s Jerry, by the way. Jerry Lansing.” He extended his hand and smiled.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, “and thank you for the invitation, but I’m expected for dinner elsewhere.”

He left us alone in the somewhat disheveled living room. Clothing fresh from the dryer and in need of folding was piled on chairs. Stacks of cardboard boxes took up much of the floor space.

“Pardon the mess,” she said. “I haven’t been here very long and still have lots of unpacking to do.”

“I know how difficult moving is,” I said. “One of life’s primary stresses. I promised I wouldn’t take too much of your time, Ms. Locke, so let me be direct. I’ve learned that Harrison Bennett bets on Rattler games, often against his own team. Does that match up with what you’ve uncovered during your investigation?”

A delayed nod was her answer.

“What about Junior Bennett?”

“What about him?”

“Did he bet against his own team, too?”

“Since you seem to know a lot, Mrs. Fletcher, why not tell
me
the answer.”

“I understand he did,” I said.

“Your source?”

“A man named Giacondi.”

“Jake Giacondi,” she said.

“You obviously know him,” I said.

“Sure. Everybody in Mesa knows Jake. He’s kind of a sad case, a wise-guy wannabe who doesn’t have what it takes to move up. He’s been around as long as I’ve been here, running numbers, booking bets, handling errands for some of the real wise guys in Arizona. He told you about Junior?” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you know it?”

“Yes. He said Junior was the one who placed bets with him on behalf of his father. Is he correct?”

Another nod of her head.

“Were other members of the team betting?” I asked. I knew my time with her would be limited and wanted to make optimum use of every minute.

“Some of the players,” she replied.

“Ty Ramos?”

“Not that I heard,” she said. Her answer pleased me.

“Which players?”

She laughed. “You were critical of me, Mrs. Fletcher, for being aggressive in my questioning. I think
you
might be crossing the line.”

“If I am, I apologize,” I said, “but Ty Ramos’s life has already been thrown into turmoil and his future compromised. I assure you, Ms. Locke, that I’m not out to hurt anyone over the gambling issue. But I am out to clear Ty.”

She pondered my comment, chewing her cheek and allowing one foot to bounce up and down. “Some of the players are into gambling on the games more than others. Carter Menzies was heavy into Jake Giacondi.”

“Carter?” I said, incredulous.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, “it goes against type. Nice guy, good ballplayer, clean-cut, handsome, every mother’s dream of a potential son-in-law. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not being critical of Carter and other players like him. He came out of a tough childhood. Players at this level don’t get paid much and are always looking for some extra money. They get a few so-called insider tips, latch on to someone like Giacondi, and put down a few bucks. Innocent enough. The problem is that it becomes a habit. You lose a few bets and double up to recoup your losses, only the losses keep getting bigger. Don’t get me wrong. I have no information that Carter ever bet against the Rattlers, and I’m not about to point to him by name in my report. But you wanted an example of a player who bets, and I gave you one.”

“I understand,” I said.

She pulled a stick of gum from a pocket in her blouse, unwrapped it, and began to chew.

“Does that help with the morning sickness?” I asked pleasantly.

She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a very astute lady, Mrs. Fletcher. You picked up on my pregnancy before anyone else did.”

“It just made sense to me, that’s all.”

“You know what?” she said.

“What?”

“I’m going to level with you, completely level with you. I’m really not sure why, but I sure don’t want to see Ty take the rap for something if he didn’t do it. Somehow, I trust you to do the right thing.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I know it’s difficult for you because of your relationship with Junior Bennett and—”

“You were right about my being pregnant, Mrs. Fletcher, but wrong about the father. Junior wasn’t the father.”

“Oh?”

“My fiancé is,” she said, indicating the kitchen with a nod of her head. “Jerry and I are getting married. That’s why we just moved in together.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said, smiling. “You want to know about Junior? I went out with him to learn what I could about H.B.’s gambling. It was basically an undercover job, but nothing happened under the covers, so to speak. I couldn’t stand Junior, although I’m not glad he’s dead. He was a spoiled, selfish, nasty young guy. How I put up with him for as long as I did is beyond me.”

“It must have been difficult, engaging in a relationship in order to get a story.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Not very nice of me to use someone like that. Well, the FBI does it all the time. So do the cops. My editor knew what I intended and had okayed the project ahead of time. And Jerry knew about it, too. So, it’s not like I’m exactly a Jezebel.”

“It’s not my place to be judgmental, Ms. Locke. As I’ve said, my only interest is to clear Ty Ramos.”

“I appreciate that,” she said.

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead

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