5 A Sporting Murder

by Chester D. Campbell

  “Sure.” He grinned. “He was a MARS operator in Vietnam. Did you run into him over there?”

  Before I could answer, Jill tugged at my sleeve. “Let’s go, Greg, so they can lock up the church.”

  I turned to Jernigan. “Thanks, John. See you Sunday.”

  When we got outside, Jill asked, “What were you and John palavering about?”

  “Remember the paperweight on Gordon Franklin’s desk that had M-A-R-S on it? It stands for Military Amateur Radio Service. One of the Protect Our Preds is a ham radio operator. You know what Buddy Ebsen said about the bomb maker. Franklin’s a short guy. It could have been Franklin instead of Frank that Arnold Wechsel’s neighbor heard him saying in an angry voice on his cell phone.”

  “Why in the world would Gordon Franklin want us out of the way, not to mention Arnold?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “Aren’t you sort of jumping to conclusions?”

  “I’ll have to admit it’s a long shot, nothing more than a hunch at this stage. But put all of it together and who knows? Sometimes hunches pay off.”

  “Okay. Then I suppose you want to find what kind of car Franklin drives?”

  “Exactly.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Phil Adamson’s number. I got a drowsy sounding “Hello.”

  “Phil, it’s Greg McKenzie.”

  “Damn.” After a pause, he said, “Do you know what time it is? Who’s dead now?”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s Christmas morning, Phil. Merry Christmas. I need a favor.”

  “Christ a’mighty, Greg. Can’t it wait till daylight?”

  “We may have found the car bomber, and he could be the man we’re looking for.”

  “Slow down. Do you have any evidence, or is this more speculation?”

  “You’re always getting technical.”

  “I have laws to follow.”

  “Consider this one the law of preservation.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “We don’t have a case ready for the grand jury, but we have enough to warrant some serious probing.”

  I told him briefly the reasons behind my suspicions, then asked if he could find out what kind of car Franklin drove. “If he has a Cadillac Escalade, I need to have a talk with that gentleman.”

  “Go to bed, Greg. I’ll check it out in the morning.”

  Chapter 32

  We slept late on Christmas morning. Both of our parents had died years ago, and neither of us had siblings or aunts and uncles to visit. Jill had discovered a couple of younger generation cousins as the result of an investigation we had worked back in the spring. She kept in touch with Molly Harrison, who had taken back her maiden name after the tragic end of the case. Interested in maintaining family ties, Jill invited her over for Christmas dinner, but she had already made other plans.

  When we rolled out of bed, I suggested we check under the Christmas tree and see what Santa had brought.

  She gave me a knowing grin. “What have you done, Greg? I thought we made a pact not to buy each other gifts.”

  “I got a new Grand Cherokee.”

  “All right. Let’s check it out.”

  We went downstairs in our PJ’s. With the drapes closed and a thick overcast outside, the living room resembled nighttime. I switched on the tree lights and lit the logs in the fireplace. When I turned around, Jill sat on the floor in front of the tree, holding the small package.

  I grinned. “Open it.”

  She peeled off the wrapping and lifted the lid off the box. She caught her breath. “Greg, you shouldn’t have.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it, but it was so—“

  “So what? It’ll look great on you. That’s all that counts.”

  I sat beside her and she reached around, pulled me toward her, gave me a monstrous kiss. “I love you,” she said.

  “And I love you, babe.”

  With a gentle movement, I laid her back on the carpet. I felt the warmth from the fire on my back and saw the reflection of the flames dancing in her eyes.

  “When was the last time you made love in front of a Christmas tree?” I asked.

  “I don’t think we ever did that.” She grinned. “But there’s no time like the present.”

  It was after ten o’clock when we sat at the kitchen table with cups of cappuccino and strawberry muffins.

  “I wish Phil would call,” I said, checking my watch.

  “Give him a break. He’s probably got family over to open presents.”

  “This is no time to be monkeying around with toys.”

  She munched on a muffin, then said, “Have you come up with any reason Gordon Franklin would want to kill Arnold? The young man was apparently intent on exposing something that would thwart the NBA plans. That’s exactly what the Protect Our Preds people want.”

  “I know. And I haven’t figured it out. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “I can’t really see Nick Zicarelli murdering Arnold, either. He could have hired someone to do it, though.”

  “It might make more sense for Louie Aregis to have done it,” I said. “But how would he know what Arnold planned to do, or where and when he would meet me?”

  “I think we may have to sit down with Phil and lay out everything we know. He has the resources to look into all these questions.”

  I hated to admit she was right, but it didn’t appear that we had the clout to go after these people.

  When the phone finally rang, I hesitated. Jill got up and answered it. “He’s right here, Phil.”

  I took the phone. “What did you find?”

  “Sorry, pal, but there’s no Cadillac Escalade registered to Gordon Franklin.”

  “Bummer,” I said.

  “As a matter of fact, there are no vehicles at all registered in Franklin’s name.”

  “But he’s bound to drive something.”

  “I checked Franklin, Gretchen and Silverman. It’s not theirs. Of course, he could drive a leased car and that wouldn’t show.”

  I felt a bit deflated, and I guess my voice showed it. “Thanks, Phil. I apologize for waking you up last night.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. I’ve followed more than my share of false leads. Anyway, I saved the best for last.”

  “You saved what?”

  “My TBI crime lab buddy just called. He’s a real conscientious guy. After I told him last night about finding Isabell’s fingerprints on the package, he went in this morning and ran the test. That bottle of Scotch contained enough potassium cyanide that you’d be a Christmas cadaver if you’d celebrated with it.”

  “Damn, Phil.” This was one Christmas I wouldn’t forget.

  Looking across at my expression, Jill had no response to my expletive.

  “I’m getting ready to go out and pick him up,” Phil said. “We haven’t been watching him, but who runs on Christmas Eve, especially since he thinks he’s safe?”

  “Give him my regards,” I said.

  Jill looked across at me as I switched off the phone. “What happened?”

  “The Scotch tested positive for cyanide. If I hadn’t been curious about that tax stamp, we’d be the late McKenzies.”

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shaking her head. “Thank God for curiosity,” she murmured.

  “Phil has gone after Izzy.”

  “What did he say about the Cadillac Escalade?”

  “He didn’t find anything,” I said. “Franklin doesn’t have any kind of car registered in his name, but it could be a lease.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “You’ve been wanting to show me how to do a stakeout in a situation like this. Here’s your chance.”

  “Y’know, you’re a doll,” I said with a smile and blew her a kiss. “We can park on the street and look like Aunt Susie and Uncle Nabob visiting for Christmas. Perfect setup.”

  We took Jill's Camry, figuring it w
ould be less obvious. Franklin’s house sat on a tree-lined street not far off Hillsboro Road. A two-story brick, it didn’t appear all that ostentatious. I suspected it was his old family home. It had a large lawn and a paved driveway that led back to a free-standing white wooden garage. I parked on the opposite side of the street, a couple of houses down, with a clear view of the garage.

  Jill had packed bottles of water and snacks. We settled in around eleven-thirty, taking turns at keeping an eye on the Franklin house. The one not “on duty” passed the time by reading a mystery novel from our formidable to-be-read book pile. After a while, the windows began to fog up.

  Working lookout at the time, I turned to Jill. “Could you go a little easier on the breathing? I’m having difficulty seeing the driveway.”

  She gave me the evil eye, took out a tissue, and wiped the inside of the windshield.

  “Thanks,” I said as she returned to her reading.

  With everybody but us enjoying their Christmas dinner, the street looked about as lively as the home stretch at a turtle race. I counted one car going in each direction during my hour of gazing. I was about to prompt Jill to put down her book when she looked around.

  “I think you’d better run the engine a bit and warm us up,” she said. “My nose is starting to look like Rudolph’s.”

  A little sunshine would have helped, but the sky remained as gray as grandma’s shawl. I turned the switch and cranked the starter. “Okay,” I said, “it’s your turn to be watchman.”

  I adjusted the heater to its highest level and she dropped her book on the console.

  “How long do we need to keep this up?” she asked.

  “Until we get some results. Either he goes out or he comes in, and we get a look at what he’s driving. He may have gone to spend the day with his brother in Murfreesboro. I warned you this was the most monotonous part of an investigator’s life.”

  She pulled out her goodie bag. “I made some small sandwiches. You have your choice of chicken salad or pimiento cheese.”

  I chose to eat more chicken. After a couple of hours, I spotted a Metro patrol car approaching us slowly from the rear. “Here comes trouble,” I said. “That’s one of the hazards of surveillance in an upscale neighborhood.”

  The car pulled in behind us. The officer got out and walked toward us. I lowered my window and held out my PI card.

  “We’re on a surveillance job,” I said. I added a smile to keep it light. “Your presence isn’t helping our cause.”

  “A neighbor behind you called about a suspicious car parked on the street with two people in it,” he said.

  “Tell them our car broke down and the tow truck is coming from California.”

  “Brilliant.” He shook his head. He looked fairly young, not too jaded yet, his thick mop of brown hair picked at by the chilling breeze. “Who’s the subject?”

  “Guy who lives over there.” I pointed toward Franklin’s house. “He hasn’t poked his head out so far. Maybe he thinks he’s a groundhog and it isn’t February yet.”

  “As cold as it is, he’ll stay inside if he’s smart. I’ll tell the people who called that you’re okay. If we get any more complaints, though, you’ll have to move along.”

  The Camry’s heater kept the chill at bay, though we used a lot of gas to keep it fired up. No more cops snooped around. A little after four, as colors began to fade with the gathering darkness, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of a car coming up from behind. It slowed just past us and turned into Franklin’s driveway.

  “It’s a dark blue Lincoln Navigator,” Jill said, almost a whisper.

  We had been wrong about the make and model of the vehicle, or about the role of Gordon Franklin. I wasn’t sure which.

  I cranked the starter and drove off.

  Chapter 33

  "I know that look,” Jill said as I turned toward Hillsboro Road. “You wanted to go after him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it looks like we need to re-evaluate.”

  “We know for certain that Fred Ricketts drives a Cadillac Escalade.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I’m not so sure what we saw originally was an Escalade. It could easily have been a Navigator.”

  “What do you suggest we do now?”

  “If we were on a football field, we’d punt and hope the other team would fumble or make some equally stupid mistake.”

  “And since we aren’t?”

  “We go home and try to come up with a better idea.”

  Neither of us spoke much on the way. I ran over all the possibilities in my mind, and I suspect Jill did the same. I was no closer to an answer when we arrived home.

  Jill suggested we eat supper and follow it with a brainstorming session. Since my brain appeared to have taken a holiday, I had nothing better to propose. We weren’t in the mood for turkey and dressing and all the usual Yuletide trappings. She baked chicken breasts in a mixture of wine and spices and served it with peas, carrots, and a green salad. It was simple fare but delicious. I volunteered to clean off the table and waited while she loaded the dishwasher.

  “How about a little cappuccino to get our gray matter stirring?” Jill asked.

  “My old brain needs something to get it working,” I said.

  Jill got a ruled pad and brought our travel cups filled with the steaming French Vanilla-flavored brew. “Where do we start?”

  “Turn your pad sideways and write five names across the top: Arnold Wechsel, Gordon Franklin, Louie Aregis, Fred Ricketts, and Nick Zicarelli. Then we’ll list what we know that might tie them together.”

  While we were in the midst of that exercise, the phone rang. I strode to the counter and answered it.

  “This is Gordon Franklin, Mr. McKenzie,” he said in his usual unexpressive voice.

  Startled, I looked across at Jill, frowning. “Well, hello, Mr. Franklin. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. I’ve come across something you need to know about. Could you folks meet me at my office in half an hour?”

  “Certainly.” Recalling the problem I’d had with a similar request from Arnold Wechsel, I added, “What does it concern.”

  “It’s sort of complicated,” he said. “I really need to explain it in person.”

  I didn’t like being left in the dark, and I had serious reservations about how far to trust the man. There was no way to find out except to go along with him.

  “We’ll be there,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll leave the front door unlocked. Just come on in to my office.”

  “Be where?” Jill asked when I put the phone down.

  I repeated what Franklin had said.

  “What do you suppose he has?” she asked.

  “I can’t imagine. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  She picked up our cups and carried them to the sink. She turned, a wary look on her face. “Do you think there’s still a chance he’s the one who tried to blow us up?”

  “It’s a definite possibility. I don’t want to put you in any jeopardy. Why don’t you stay here?”

  “Forget it, Greg. If you’re going, I’m going.”

  I knew there was no use arguing. “We need to be prepared for anything,” I said. “Be sure your .38 is loaded. I’ll carry my Sig and put the micro voice recorder in my pocket.”

  We bundled up against the cold and headed out to the garage. It had been cloudy all day, and the night was moonless. Virtually deserted, the streets looked dark and ominous. It took barely twenty minutes to reach the offices of Franklin, Gretchen and Silverman. I parked beside the Navigator. In the dark, I decided it could easily have been the vehicle we saw Sunday night. As we entered the building, I switched on the recorder.

  Franklin met us when we walked into the office suite. His subtle smile seemed about as natural as a platinum blonde.

  “You can put your jackets here,” he said, indicating a coat rack in the reception area.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’re okay.” I did
n’t want to show my holster.

  He shrugged. “As you wish.”

  He led us back to his office, where two chairs sat in front of the desk. He moved around to his leather chair and we took our seats.

  “You have us quite intrigued, Mr. Franklin,” I said. “What have you found?”

  He sat back in the chair, elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers. Although his body was on the stocky side, his fingers looked more like those of a pianist. He wore an open-collar white dress shirt and a yellow cardigan, giving him something of a professorial air. An expensive gold pen lay on the desk in front of him.

  “This young fellow whose body you found last week,” he said, his eyes fixed on me, “I think I encountered him recently.”

  “Arnold Wechsel?”

  “Yes.” He picked up the pen and began twisting it slowly between his fingers. “I was looking for something in a stack of newspapers and came across a picture of him. I recognized it as the man who came by here recently.”

  “Wechsel was here?”

  “Our building is owned by Zicarelli Properties. He came by to pick up the rent. They must have been having problems with the mail.”

  I glanced at Jill, whose puzzled look was no different than my own. “Did you talk to him?”

  “No. I just happened to be out in the reception area when he came in.”

  “I’m a little curious as to why you thought we would be interested in knowing this?”

  He leaned forward, opened the desk drawer and dropped the pen inside. That disinterested look he had displayed at our first interview was replaced by the expression of a man on a mission. “You had asked if I knew the man. I wanted to set the record straight. Brad Smotherman told me you thought Wechsel might be collecting gambling debts for Mr. Zicarelli. I thought you’d like to know it was rent he collected.”

  “Uh, Greg,” Jill said, “we didn’t tell Brad Smotherman we suspected Arnold was collecting gambling debts.”

  I met Franklin’s gaze. His eyes had turned as cold as the night outside. “She’s right, Mr. Franklin. The only person who had any inkling that we suspected Arnold Wechsel of collecting gambling money was Nick Zicarelli. What we told Brad about was our suspicions regarding Zicarelli’s funding Louie Aregis’s part of the NBA franchise deal.”