5 A Sporting Murder (17 page)

“If that’s true, you know who stood
to gain the most by killing Arnold Wechsel,” Jill said. She picked up a pencil
and twirled it nervously.

The same thought had occurred to me.
Nick Zicarelli appeared capable of committing murder, but how would he know Arnold was to meet me at that auto repair shop? The young man was no dummy. I didn’t think
he would risk leaking his intentions to the guy most likely to take whatever
steps necessary to stop him. I had little doubt Arnold planned to tell me that
Zicarelli was buying into the NBA franchise by proxy. I suspected the old man
had even offered to pay the cost of moving Coastal Capital Ventures to Nashville so he could get in on the deal. Without Arnold to testify, though, we had no
proof of anything. As I thought about it, I realized there was another man with
just as much to lose if Arnold talked.

“Are you going to call Phil?” Jill
asked.

“I would if we had something
substantial to give him. Think about it, Jill. Louie Aregis would have as much
of a motive to kill Arnold as Zicarelli. And he’s short enough to have fired with
an upward trajectory like the autopsy showed. By contrast, Zicarelli would appear
too tall.”

She looked crestfallen. I also
reminded her where we stood without Arnold to corroborate.

“At least you should call Terry,”
she said.

I agreed. After I explained the
situation, our client remained silent for a few moments, no doubt mulling over
the possibilities.

“I don’t handle criminal cases
these days,” he said, “but I spent a few years in the DA’s office after law
school. Metro Homicide could pull Zicarelli in, but they wouldn’t get far. He’s
a wily old fox. As soon as they asked more than his name, rank, and serial
number, he’d have his lawyer in there. I suspect he doesn’t do business over a
regular phone, so they’d find nothing going that route.”

“And I’m sure he only deals in cash
with his gambling patrons.”

“True. The money is probably
laundered through his real estate activities and then goes into his investment
account with Coastal Capital. You’d have to subpoena their records to prove his
money was going into the kitty for the basketball project.”

“I just learned from a good contact
that Coastal Capital is the subject of an FBI money laundering investigation.”

“That’s good to know,” Terry said,
“but it probably won’t help us. Those investigations can go on for months, even
years. We don’t have that kind of time.”

“What if the newspaper got onto the
story, started looking into the connection between Zicarelli and Aregis? It
might stir up enough questions that the NBA commissioner’s office would start
their own investigation. They could decide the possibility of a professional
gambler being involved was enough to kill the deal.”

“Could you get the newspaper
interested?” Terry asked.

“I know a reporter who would
probably jump at it.”

“Get him jumping.”

When I told Jill what our client had agreed to, she checked
her watch, sighed, and held out the list Sam had given me.

“When are we going to get
everything on this list?”

“As soon as we have lunch with our
favorite reporter.”

I picked up the phone and punched
in Wes Knight’s number.

“Have you had lunch?” I asked when
he came on the line.

“No, I’m taking off early. Slow
news day. Nothing much to write about but Christmas stories. All that good news
is depressing. The wire services can handle things from here on.”

“How would you like a bombshell of
a story, my friend?”

“Is this for real or some kind of joke?
Seems like I’ve been dealing with jokers all day.”

“How about the possibility of a
professional gambler being involved in this NBA franchise deal?”

“Hmm. You asked about Nick
Zicarelli the other day. Is he involved?”

“Name somewhere we can buy you a
sandwich, and I’ll give you the whole story.”

“My editor frowns on reporter
bribery, but I’ll be glad to meet you.”

We agreed on an Arby’s not far out West End Avenue from the newspaper office. I turned to Jill. “As soon as we finish with Wes,
we’ll go on a shopping spree.”

When we got to the restaurant, Jill
suggested splitting a turkey and Swiss sandwich. A half was a decent size,
though I would have preferred to tackle the whole thing by myself. I placed the
order and we took our coffee to a booth by the window. I saw Wes and waved as
he headed for the entrance. When he joined us with a milk shake and a sandwich
piled high with roast beef, I decided I hated Wes Knight. I had to admit, though,
that thanks to Jill’s efforts, he made me look almost slim. He was a big man
with a full face and a small beard that reminded me of Burl Ives.

“How’d you get your order so
quickly and we have to wait?” I asked.

“Privilege of the press,” he said.
“Plus I’m a regular here, and I know what to ask for that they keep ready.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” I
said.

He siphoned the foam off his shake.
“Okay, give me the lowdown on this deal.”

“First, you have to agree to leave
us out of it,” I said. “I’ll give you some sources, but we don’t want to be connected
with the story. Agreed?”

He put his elbows on the table and
tapped his fingertips. “Why don’t you want any credit?”

“It’s a confidentiality thing.”

“How so?”

“We’re working a case where the
client requires that he remain anonymous. If you used our name, it would put us
in the spotlight and might compromise him.”

“Now you’re sounding like James
Bond.”

Sometimes you have to humor people.
“Matter of fact, Jill had to go undercover last night.”

He looked at Jill and grinned. “The
lady’s got talent. Okay, if I can nail things down without dragging you in,
it’s a deal.”

“You can. Here’s the story in
capsule. Nick Zicarelli is an investor with Louie Aregis’s Coastal Capital
Ventures. One of his former employees in Florida says Aregis moved his business
to Nashville because of the NBA deal. We think Zicarelli brought him here. Knowing
Nick’s passion for NBA basketball, we believe he’s financing Coastal Capital’s
involvement.”

“Who’s going to confirm all this?”

“I’ll put you in touch with a
private investigator in Pensacola, where Aregis came from. He’s been in contact
with the former employee.”

“You say you believe Zicarelli is
financing the deal. Anyway to know for sure?”

I grinned. “With your bird-dogging
reputation, I figure you can sniff that out from Aregis or Zicarelli or some
other contact. We know Aregis has lied about the way he got into the deal. He
claimed the local guys approached him about getting involved, that he moved to Nashville because he had good clients here and it was a growing city with lots of wealth.”

“Don’t forget his wife,” Jill said.

“Oh, yeah. Reason number three was
that she’s a big country music fan.”

“Yee, haw,” Wes said as the loud
speaker called out the number for our order.

When I brought our food back to the
booth, Jill looked up at me. “Wes wants to know why Zicarelli should be
financing the NBA team instead of Aregis himself?”

I turned the tray so Jill could get
her half of the sandwich. “The ex-employee down in Florida says Coastal Capital
Ventures has lost some important clients lately and hasn’t been doing too well.
He doesn’t think Aregis has the personal funds to shell out a lot of money, and
a major sports franchise isn’t the type of cash cow investors in a venture
capital firm would appreciate.”

“Makes sense,” Wes said, and took a
big bite of roast beef.

“Also, a man connected to one of
the other local partners told a friend of mine that Aegis heard about the deal
somehow and contacted them about getting involved. I suspect he heard about it
from Zicarelli.”

“I’ll see if I can confirm that,”
Wes said. He chewed a moment, then looked across at me with a raised eyebrow.
“What’s the scoop on your car bomb episode?”

It wasn’t a question I’d expected,
but I fielded it with aplomb. “The fire investigator hasn’t found anything that
points toward who’s responsible. I got a new Jeep Grand Cherokee out of it,
though. The black one over there.” I pointed out the window.

“Looks nice,” he said. “Any new developments
on that murder case where you found the victim?”

I should have known I’d get the
third degree on the whole litany of matters I was involved in. That was the
risk you took when dealing with reporters. I thought about telling him our
belief that Arnold had worked for Zicarelli but decided I’d best leave that one
alone.

“You’ll need to talk to Detective
Adamson about that,” I said. “He doesn’t confide in me all that often.”

“That so? After that assassination
case a few months back, I thought the three of you were thick as thieves, as my
sainted mother would put it.”

“I doubt that Phil Adamson would
use that simile,” Jill said with a broad smile.

“Okay. Thanks for the tip about Zicarelli,”
Wes said. “I’ll get right on it. Probably won’t make my wife too happy,
Christmas being tomorrow. I’m scheduled to work a few hours on the holiday anyway,
though we got most of the Sunday paper done today.”

We swapped Christmas wishes shortly
afterward. Wes headed back to the office and we started the drive to Hermitage.
On the way we stopped first at a clothing store for white boots, a scarf, and a
wool cap for a ten-year-old girl named Brenda. In the boys’ section, we chose
blue jeans and a red shirt for Larry, a boy of eight. It wasn’t on the list,
but Jill picked out a handbag for June, the mother.

At a toy store, we found the
requested games, a remote-controlled car, and a doll-size version of a tea set.
We tossed in a couple of books for good measure. Then it was off to the grocery
for a turkey breast, a sliced ham, and a variety of vegetables and fruits.

“I wish I’d known earlier,” Jill
said. “I’d have cooked up a nice dessert for them.”

Instead, we chose a cake and
cookies and added in packets of hot chocolate and apple cider. We stopped by
the office to pick up Jill’s car and headed home, where she quickly wrapped the
gifts.

With winter in its infancy, daylight
disappeared early. The outside floodlights substituted for the missing sun,
however, as I moved the Jeep near the front porch and carried everything out to
stow it in the cargo area. I checked around the lawn and driveway. Everything
looked normal. I put the address in my new GPS, feeling like Santa in his
sleigh, and off we went in search of the young mother’s house. Following the
satellite-directed turns, we found it in a less plush section of Hermitage, on
a street filled with duplexes, some bearing For Rent signs, one with the last
tenant’s battered sofa and assorted belongings dumped at the front of the lot.
It was a tough time for an eviction.

Jill glanced at the note with all
the info. “Her name’s June Everly. I can’t imagine what it would be like having
to face Christmas with so little for the kids, depending on the goodness of
strangers.”

The Everly’s side of the duplex
looked neat, with no papers or trash scattered about the lawn. A vintage blue Ford
with a weather-mottled paint job sat in the driveway. A simple green wreath
with a red bow hung on the door. It appeared to be one of the better-kept
examples of low-rent America. I parked behind the Ford, and we gathered up the
bags and carried them to the house.

A woman of around thirty, sandy
hair pulled back and tied with a scrunchie, opened the door. She wore jeans and
a brown sweater, flip-flops on her feet. A friendly smile brightened her round
face. In an earlier era, she would have made a great model for a Norman
Rockwell cover.

“We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie from Gethsemane United Methodist Church,” I said. “We have a few things for you.”

“Oh, my goodness.” She stared in
awe. “Please come in.”

As we walked into the small living
room, I saw a short but gaily-decorated Christmas tree. There was also a floor
lamp, a sofa and chair, a nineteen-inch TV, and a few toys scattered about.
Jill set the shopping bag filled with gifts by the sofa as a wide-eyed boy and
girl stuck their heads out of the kitchen.

“You must be Brenda and Larry,” Jill
said. “Merry Christmas.”

“These are the McKenzies, kids,”
June Everly said. “They brought us lots of nice things.”

They both waved and I turned to
Mrs. Everly. “These are groceries. Should I put them in the kitchen.”

“Forgive my manners,” she said, a
bit flustered. “Let me help you.”

She took the smaller bag and led me
into the kitchen, which appeared adequate though only a fraction of the size of
Jill’s.

“You can leave the turkey out for
awhile,” Jill said, “then put it in the refrigerator. It should thaw enough to
cook tomorrow.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” the young mother
said, shaking her head.

I looked around at the kids, who
were watching every move. “Do you want to save the presents until in the
morning, or open them now?”

They glanced at each other and said
“Now” in unison.

We sat on the sofa while they
pulled out packages and ripped off the wrapping.

“I hate to tear up such pretty
paper,” Mrs. Everly said as she gently slit open her box. “Oh, what a pretty
bag. I needed a new one. This is just perfect.”

The kids squealed in excitement as
they pulled out their toys and new clothes. “Thank you, thank you,” little
Brenda said repeatedly.

“Can I get you something to drink?”
Mrs. Everly asked. “We have tea and Coke.”

“We appreciate the offer, but no thanks,”
Jill said. “We’ll be eating supper when we get home.”

The young mother followed us to the
door as we left, thanking us profusely. “You’ve made this a wonderful Christmas
for us,” she said. “I feel like you were sent by God.”

I felt humbled and ashamed for
having almost forgotten.

“Seeing the joy in these
youngsters’ eyes makes it all worthwhile,” Jill said. “You and Brenda and Larry
have a great Christmas and a wonderful New Year.”

In the car, Jill leaned over and
kissed me on the cheek. I pulled her closer and made it a real smooch.

“I feel like we’ve had our
Christmas,” she said. “Anything that happens tomorrow will seem anticlimactic.”

I knew what she meant, but I also
knew that predictions about the future were fraught with the potential for
miscalculation.