She had a troubled look on her face. “Problems?” I asked.
“I’m hardly making any progress with Nikki.”
“What did she say about grandpa?”
“She admitted we were right about Nick Zicarelli, but she wouldn’t confirm any connection between Arnold and her grandpa. Anything I asked along that line, she would reply with something like, ‘I don’t think that’s germane.’”
“Did she give you anything at all to go on?”
“She said Arnold had just about saved enough to attend the school in North Carolina. Which was good because he had just lost his second job.”
I had an “aha” moment. “That must have been what prompted the draft letter in his computer.”
One hand went to her face as if brushing away the shadows. “And if he had been working for grandpa, that could have caused the complications he mentioned in the letter to his mom.”
I nodded. “Sometimes two and two do add up to four. I think it’s time to put on a full-court press. Let me call somebody to patch our driveway, then we’ll see if we can pry some answers out of Miss Nikki.”
We drove out to Green Hills, parked beside the Miata, and rang the doorbell. A startled Nikki Columbo, dressed in jeans and a red sweater emblazoned with prancing reindeer, opened the door and greeted us with wide eyes.
“Has something happened?”
“That’s what we came to find out,” I said. “May we come in?”
She hesitated a moment but stepped aside and invited us in. The small apartment looked as orderly as a rank of soldiers on parade. The living room was flanked by a bar-like counter that separated it from the kitchen. Gleaming white cabinets matched the appliances. A mauve-colored sectional sofa arranged in a U-shape faced a large-screen TV, an audio deck placed to the side.
Nikki pushed the long black hair over her shoulder and motioned toward the sofa. “Please sit down and tell me what this is all about.”
After we were seated, I gave her a solemn look. “I know this past week has been very difficult for you. We don’t want to make it any worse, but there are some important points we need to clear up. You know we’re involved in the investigation of Arnold’s murder.”
“But you aren’t with the police.”
“Correct. We’re private detectives working in cooperation with the police. When she called earlier, Jill didn’t tell you what happened last night. It pushed this case into a serious new dimension for us.”
Her eyes shifted to Jill and back to me.
“Somebody tried to blow up our car…with us in it.”
“Oh, my God!” Her hand darted to her mouth.
I pulled up my pants leg to show the bandage. “That’s all the damage it did to us, but the car caught on fire. It’s totaled.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Afraid not. The fire and explosives experts are still looking into it. We have to assume that it has some relation to our investigation of Arnold’s murder.”
It wasn’t all that certain, of course, but she didn’t need to know that.
She sat in stunned silence.
“It appears fairly obvious from what you’ve told us, and what we’ve learned from other sources, that Arnold was doing some kind of work for your grandfather Zicarelli. What was it?”
I gave her the most penetrating stare I could muster, one that had loosened the resolve of many a suspect during my OSI career.
Her chin quivered. “I…I can’t talk about that.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with Arnold’s death?”
“No…no!” She sounded panicky.
“You want to expose the murderer, don’t you?”
Tears began to flow. “I don’t know.” She lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.
Jill quickly moved to her side, put an arm around her shoulder, and began to comfort her. “A young girl like you shouldn’t have to go through this, but some people have no regard for human life. We have to stop them. We’re trying to do what’s best for you, Nikki. We have to know all the facts so we can help.”
Thinking back over what we did know, I quickly put the pieces together as best I could. Arnold was definitely interested in the betting game, and his mother believed the new job somehow involved gambling. After the interview with Freddie Ford, we were almost certain her suspicions had been right on. According to Wes Knight, Nick Zicarelli was still involved in the wagering business in some manner. Nikki had given Jill the impression that Arnold worked for Zicarelli until he left following some sort of disagreement. The letter in his laptop, if it had been intended for Nikki’s grandpa, indicated it involved money. Money for gambling debts he was to collect?
When Nikki stopped crying, I leaned forward and kept my voice soft but firm. “We owe it to Arnold to find out who did this to him. And to you. I think you’re trying to protect your grandpa from something that involves Arnold, but not his murder. That’s fine. But the police aren’t far behind us. If they think Nick Zicarelli might have information relevant to this, they’ll pounce on him with both feet. And they won’t be gentle about it.”
“If you talk to us, we might be able to make things easier,” Jill said.
She looked at Jill, then at me, breathing heavily. “I won’t do anything to hurt my Grandpa.”
“We don’t want you to,” I said. “All we want to know is why Arnold asked me to meet him at that repair shop last Monday night. What could he have told me that would make a big difference in the effort to bring a pro basketball team to Nashville?”
She stared at me, a puzzled look on her face. “I have no idea.”
“What did he tell you after your grandpa let him go?”
“How did—?”
“How did we know about the firing? The police found a letter on Arnold’s computer.” I was treading on dangerous ground, discussing confidential police information. I saw it as the only way to shock her into giving us what we were after. “He said he thought he’d been treated unfairly. He thought he’d done as instructed. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t get the money.”
Nikki sat with her mouth open for a moment. “But you said the police didn’t know—”
“The police don’t know the letter was intended for your grandpa. What did Arnold tell you about it?”
She finally let go. “He was really mad. He said he knew a way to get even, but I told him to calm down and get his temper under control. My Grandpa is an old man, and he can act pretty cranky at times. I intended to talk to him about Arnold.”
“What was Arnold’s reaction to that?”
“I wasn’t too gentle. He apologized, said he hoped he hadn’t offended me.”
“Was Arnold collecting money for your grandpa?”
That brought a shift in her eyes and a guarded look. “I don’t know. I don’t think he wanted me to know what he was doing.”
She didn’t want to hurt her grandfather, so she wasn’t willing to say anything that might implicate him in something illegal, like gambling. Arnold was a big enough guy to present a fearsome presence if he chose to. He would have made a dandy debt collector for Nick Zicarelli. Could that figure into the reason behind his murder?
Chapter 25
On the way back to the office, Jill complimented me on the manner in which I handled Nikki’s interrogation.
I gave her a dismissive wave. “I can be gentle when the occasion demands.”
“A cuddly bear instead of a grizzly?” I could hear the smirk in her voice.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Did Nikki tell you what you wanted to hear?”
“Not all of it. I’d still like to know exactly what Arnold did for Zicarelli. It sounds like he was a bagman. Did he put pressure on people to pay up, or was he just a carrier?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might, if it had something to do with his murder.”
“Do you think Nikki’s grandpa bears any responsibility for Arnold’s death?”
“But you’re not sure.”
“Right.”
“I wonder what Arnold meant by saying he knew how to get even with Zicarelli?”
I reached over and patted her on the knee. “You’re a good listener, babe. I’ve been pondering that same point. Could it be what he was planning to tell me the night he was killed?”
If it was, we’d probably never know, because Arnold was the only one who could tell us. Unless he had told someone else. But who?
When we got back to the office, I had two calls awaiting me. One from Phil Adamson, the other from Terry Tremont. I reached Phil at his office downtown in the Criminal Justice Center.
“How come you aren’t out pounding the pavement looking for bad guys?” I asked.
“The bad guys are all busy doing their Christmas shoplifting. I had a bunch of loose ends and decided this was a good time to look for ways to tie them together. Frankly, I’d rather be home watching some good holiday basketball tournaments.”
We’d never talked about playing basketball, but Phil certainly had the height for it. “Now you’re getting into my territory,” I said. “What do you hear about the NBA recruitment project?”
“I’m not into the pros. College hoops are my passion. The reason I called is I just got the results from those papers Detective Bledsoe salvaged at the library.”
“Were they able to decipher anything?”
“Most of it didn’t make sense, but there were a couple of interesting things.”
“Like ‘get Colonel McKenzie’?”
“No, your name wasn’t mentioned.”
“How about ammonium nitrate and fuel oil?”
“Negative.”
“Then what was so interesting?”
“There were indications that Isabell is staying with a Nat Edge in East Nashville. Narcotics says Edge is a known addict and probably does some small-time dealing.”
“Where does he live?”
“Sheridan Drive.”
That had a familiar ring to it, but I was concentrating too intently on Isabell to catch the connection.
“What’s going on with your case?” he asked.
I looked around at Jill, who busily scrolled down the page in her computer, looking as frustrated as I felt. “Using a basketball analogy, it’s half-time and we’re down fifty to thirty. Got any good pep talks we could use?”
Phil laughed. “Sounds like the score in most of my cases. I could use a few free throws for sure.”
“Remember the girl named Columbo I told you about? Turns out she wasn’t much help, but I learned she’s a granddaughter of Nick Zicarelli. What can you tell me about him?”
“Nick’s an old-time gambler. Ran a roadhouse operation on the north side years ago.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Anything in recent times?”
“I never had any dealings with him. I’ve heard vice guys talk about him, though. They say he only indulges in big-money betting, so they figure no little guys are getting fleeced. They decided he wasn’t worth spending a lot of resources on. If you caught him, it would probably involve some big shot around town who would put pressure on the mayor or the chief. That could lead to a lot of bad press. You know how cops shy away from all that notoriety.”
“Cops are shy?” I chuckled. “All the smiling badges I’ve seen on the tube lately, you could’ve fooled me.”
“Don’t get me started on that. I’ve told you what I think of those self-aggrandizing types who think they have to take a bow every time they stop a DUI.”
“Yeah, reminds me of Detective Tremaine, when he was riding high in the saddle.” I couldn’t forget my old nemesis and his handling of the Tessa Peterson disappearance two years ago that got me in trouble with the DA. “He relished every minute he stood in front of a camera. Funny, I don’t see much of him anymore.”
“He got his wings clipped.”
“How’d that happen?”
“It was sort of a replay of the Peterson case. Tremaine spent days chasing after a guy when the guilty party was practically parked under his nose.”
“Nice to hear,” I said, feeling more vindicated. “What else can you tell me about Zicarelli?”
Phil muttered for a moment, then said, “Okay, just remember you didn’t hear this from me. You need a little background on the Nashville criminal element that you won’t find in any police report. I don’t mean the petty thieves and drug runners. I’m talking about the big boys.
“Some years back, four guys involved in local organized crime split up the city into geographical zones. Nick was one of them. He had closed his club, but he owned another restaurant closer in. He stocked it with illegal gambling machines. He also arranged to put them in other places around his zone.”
“Didn’t he get raided?”
“Sure. But he had a son who was a cop. Nick always got tipped off before a raid. He had a crew that would go around and pick up the machines and haul them off to his warehouse. They would leave a few around to be found and keep everybody happy. Nick supported all the politicians’ favorite causes, sponsored an annual picnic for officeholders. He was the all-around good guy with a hand in everybody’s pocket. He made tons of money. When he got into his late sixties, he turned the day-to-day business over to another son and retired to handling only big bettors. He’s almost untouchable.”
Jill was on the other line when I finished with Phil, so I called our client.
“I suppose you saw that little note in the morning paper about us,” I said when Terry came on the line.
“Yeah. Your car blew up in the driveway. What the devil is going on? What does ‘unknown origin’ mean?”
“It means we don’t know who the hell did it.” I caught Jill’s frown but only shrugged. I believe my wife could pick up a cuss word from a block away in a thunderstorm. But the thought of my Jeep’s fate and my inability to pinpoint the culprit was getting to me.
“The story said no one was seriously injured.” Terry’s voice held a note of sympathy.
“Right. I got a cut on my leg that required a few stitches. I’ll live.”
“Was there any indication it involved our case?” Terry asked.
“Not directly, but I have to assume that’s quite likely what it was. Of course, there’s one other possibility.”
I told him about the former navigator I had helped send to prison, who was out now and apparently looking for revenge. As I thought about it, I realized where I had run into Sheridan Drive before.
“The cops found Izzy Isabell at a house on Sheridan Drive in East Nasville,” I said. “That’s the street where Jill was held two years ago after that Palestinian group abducted her. Isabell’s staying at the home of a guy named Nat Edge, a drug addict.”
“Sounds like Izzy might be your bomber,” Terry said.
“I’m reserving judgment. I hope he learned his lesson. He got a tougher sentence because he tried to recruit somebody to murder prosecution witnesses. Scratching up my car sounds like he’s more of a threat to make himself a nuisance now. The cops are keeping an eye on him.”
“If the bombing was related to our case, it must mean you’re getting too close for somebody’s comfort.”
“I’d like to think so.”
I also told him about Nikki Columbo’s grandfather, Nick Zicarelli, and what Sam Gannon had heard regarding a little discord in the ranks of the basketball crowd.
“Brad Smotherman will be happy to hear things aren’t going smoothly,” Terry said. “As for old Nick Z, I’m familiar with him. The high school where he played has a trophy named for him. They say he was quite a player in his day. I’m sure he’d be happy if Nashville got a pro team. I understand he’s a familiar figure at the NBA playoffs. Knowing his reputation, I suspect he has a big finger in the betting pie, too.”
“We don’t know that he has any role in this NBA deal, or in Arnold Wechsel’s murder, but we’re digging hard to find out.”
“After what happened last night, it sounds like you two had better be careful and watch your flanks,” Terry said.
I intended to. I planned to move carefully as I sought answers to the puzzle Arnold Wechsel had left behind, but I was determined to find what he knew that would blow my mind. I still felt a twinge of guilt that he was murdered on my watch.
When I got off the phone, I turned to tell Jill what I’d learned from Phil and Terry. She beat me to the draw.
“I hope you were careful in what you said to Phil. We led Nikki to believe we’d go easier on her grandpa than the police would. If you give Phil a reason to go after Zicarelli, Nikki will find out about it and we can write her off as a source.”
“I was circumspect,” I said.
“What did Phil say about him?”
I related the story of Zicarelli’s gambling background and his current posture. “He may not admit anything to us,” I said, “but I think it would be worth a trip out to push him a bit.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “From what Phil told you, it doesn’t sound like he’d be an easy one to push.”
I grinned. “You know my motto, babe. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” It was mostly bravado to keep her from worrying too much. I knew the chances were slim, but that had never stopped me from trying.
I checked his address and found he lived in Whites Creek, a small community on the north side of town with its own post office but not much else. It wasn’t too far from where his long-defunct Sporting Executives Club had been located. Whites Creek’s most notable feature was Fontanel, the 27,000-square-foot mansion built by country music superstar Barbara Mandrell in 1988. Despite what Phil had told me, I suspected Zicarelli’s abode would be a bit more modest.
A Sporting Murder (Greg McKenzie Mysteries Book 5) Page 14
