We ate a quick lunch at the restaurant across the center and headed out Old Hickory Boulevard. The circumferential highway took us around the eastern edge of the county, then west through Madison and across two interstates. The road wound about an area of farms with fallow fields and leafless woodlands, spiced up by an occasional large home. We turned left at Whites Creek Pike. This intersection housed another of the community’s notable features, Richard’s Louisiana Café, which advertised “live music, dead crawfish.” We had once visited Richard’s with a client who loved Cajun-style food.
Houses were few and far between along here. We cruised slowly until we spotted a mailbox with Zicarelli’s address in front of a large two-story house that sat at least a hundred yards off the road. The afternoon sun glistened off its pristine coat of white paint. With four tall columns in front, it resembled Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, which I suspected was the catalyst for the architect’s design.
We headed up the paved driveway and pulled into a circular parking area beside a Lincoln Town Car. We walked up to the broad front porch with its double-door entrance, and I rang the bell. After a few moments, we found ourselves facing a tall, slender man with bushy white hair and eyebrows and a set to his mouth that made me think stubborn. I figured it was indicative of Nikki’s characterization of her grandfather as “cranky at times.”
“Mr. Zicarelli?” I asked.
“That’s me,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Greg and Jill McKenzie.” I handed him a business card. “We’re private investigators.”
He obviously wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but I figured he was too much of a gentleman to refuse her request. He pulled open the door and stood aside. We entered a large wood-floored foyer with a circular staircase in back. He directed us to a parlor off to the right. Furnished in pale colors with oversize pieces of furniture, it possessed the formal look of one of those rooms people normally ignore in favor of more casual digs.
“I don’t know anything about a murder,” he said when we were seated. “I didn’t read the story.”
“But you knew there was a story about Arnold’s murder?” I asked, rumpling my brow.
He just stared, his jaw set.
“What was Arnold Wechsel doing for you?” I asked.
“Who said I knew Arnold Wechsel?”
“Your granddaughter.”
His nostrils flared. “You stay away from my granddaughter.”
“She was very circumspect in what she told us. She wouldn’t say anything she thought might be harmful to you. But she admitted that Arnold worked for you, and that you let him go.”
“That boy talked too much,” Zicarelli said with a scowl.
I found that accusation astonishing. Our experience, and that of everyone else we had talked to, indicated he was a very close-mouthed young man. Perhaps Zicarelli meant Arnold had talked too much to Nikki. I didn’t want to cause her any trouble, but I was determined to squeeze something out of her grandpa.
“Was Arnold collecting money for you?” I asked.
“What Arnold Wechsel or anybody else did for me is none of your damned business.”
“Was it gambling debts?”
He jumped up and jammed his fists against his hips, surprisingly agile for someone his size and age. “To hell with you! I don’t have to answer any of this nonsense. I have a son who’s been a policeman for years. Only cops are authorized to investigate murders.”
I stood facing him. “For your information, Mr. Zicarelli, Arnold called me Monday afternoon and said he had some information for me. He asked me to meet him that night at an auto repair shop off Dickerson Road. I’m the one who found his body.”
His arms dropped to his sides. His eyes narrowed and the bushy brows merged.
I wanted to put pressure on him by mentioning Homicide Detective Phil Adamson, but I decided I’d pushed my luck far enough with Nikki. “Do you have any idea what Arnold planned to tell me Monday night?”
“Hell, no!”
His reply came as sharp as the crack of a rifle.
“Thank you, Mr. Zicarelli,” I said, motioning to Jill. “Let’s go. I think our business here is finished.”
I knew we’d have as much chance of getting answers from a bronze statue as we would Nick Zicarelli. I didn’t look back as we walked toward the foyer, but I heard no movement behind us. I held the front door open for Jill, then followed her out.
Chapter 26
When I climbed into the car and looked around at Jill, I saw an apprehensive frown. “Knowing what we know about Nick Zicarelli,” she said, “it sounds like he would make a formidable enemy. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“True, from his reactions, I don’t think he considers me a good pal. But danger?” I shrugged. “I was happy to see that Lincoln beside us instead of a Cadillac.”
She opened her purse and palmed the snub-nosed .38. “I kept this handy while you talked to him.”
She handled the gun with total familiarity, though for years she’d been highly critical of firearms and the necessity for my carrying one. How times changed. “I didn’t feel threatened,” I said, “but I didn’t feel it wise to push any harder, either.”
“You know we’re going to have to confide in Phil at some point.”
I nodded in agreement. “And soon.”
I pulled out of the driveway glancing up at a bank of dark-tinged, ribbed clouds that had moved in while we were in Whites Creek. It left the landscape a mottled gray. Though the digital clock on the dash showed it was only mid-afternoon, headlights along Old Hickory Boulevard made it seem that twilight lurked just around the corner.
“Are those snow clouds?” I asked.
Jill, the pilot and family meteorologist, turned on her teacher voice. “Low stratiform clouds can mean either rain or snow. Whether we get any kind of precipitation depends on the temperature and dew point. I don’t think the forecasters are predicting anything but clouds.”
“Maybe the weather folks are saving up for a white Christmas.”
“That’ll be the day.”
I knew what she meant. Since moving to Jill’s hometown, I’d learned there were a lot more reliable reasons for coming to Nashville than wanting to experience a white Christmas. That wasn’t a problem for me, though. I enjoyed Christmas however it came, and right now it was coming in the midst of a difficult case that mixed murder with mischief and the possibility of an NBA basketball scandal. I was more convinced than ever that Arnold Wechsel’s death had a direct tie to our investigation. I suspected Nick Zicarelli could shed a great deal more light on the subject than he was willing to provide.
Before we made it back to Hermitage, Jill’s cell phone serenaded us with a snippet from The Nutcracker Suite. After answering, she looked a bit startled and said, “Well, hello, Mr. Aregis.”
I gave her a curious glance. What the devil could he be calling about?
She listened a few moments, then said, “Hold on a minute, let me check something on my calendar.”
She muted the phone and turned to me. “He wants to discuss something, said we could meet at a lounge at five. What should I do?”
I didn’t like the idea. On the other hand, it undoubtedly involved the NBA deal. It could be an opportunity to learn something that might bolster our case. At this point, we badly needed bolstering.
I made a snap decision, something I normally avoid. “Okay, but make sure it’s at a reputable place where I can lurk in the shadows.”
She squinched her eyes nearly shut and shook her head. “I can make it,” she said into the phone. “Where would you like to meet?”
She flipped the phone shut a moment later, and I asked, “Where?”
“The Black Watch. It’s a lounge on West End, out past Vanderbilt. I thought you’d approve of that.”
The Black Watch, known as the Royal Regiment of Scotland, was one of the most celebrated fighting units in the world. Jill and I had attended a performance of the Black Watch Pipes and Drums at
the Performing Arts Center a couple of years back. I’d never been to the lounge and suspected its name was the only thing Scottish about it, but the location wasn’t bad.
“You realize Nick Zicarelli could have called Aregis and told him about our visit,” I said.
“In the first place, we have no proof that Zicarelli even knows Aregis. And in the second place, there’s no way Aregis could have connected Jill Parsons to McKenzie Investigations.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t we use this opportunity to put some of our spycraft to work?”
“You mean those surveillance gadgets you picked up the other day at the Covert Security store?”
“Right. We’ll fix you up with a concealed microphone and transmitter. I’ll sit at a table across the room with the receiver unit. I’ll record the conversation and listen live with an earpiece. I don’t expect any problems, but should anything happen, I’ll be right there.”
I saw a twinkle in her eye that usually meant trouble. “Are you sure we need all this spy stuff?” she asked. “Or is it a case of not trusting your little wife with another man?”
I made a face. “I trust my little wife but not the other man.”
When we got to the office, the answering machine held a call from a sobbing Nikki Columbo.
“Grandpa hates me,” she said in a barely decipherable moan.
I looked at Jill. “I think you’d better handle this one.”
She gave a deep sigh. “I should make you take it. You set her up with what you said to her grandpa.”
Jill made the call, however, and I picked up my extension to listen in. Nikki was still sniffling when she answered.
“Just calm down, Nikki, and get your wits about you,” Jill said. “Your grandpa doesn’t hate you. Remember, you told us he can be pretty cranky at times.”
“He was really angry because I talked to you.”
“I suspect he was more upset because we talked to him.”
“But he said it was my fault.”
“You need to explain to him that we’re only interested in finding out who killed Arnold and why.”
“Grandpa believes you think he had something to do with it.”
“I don’t remember us saying anything to give him that idea.”
“He thinks I told you that Arnold was collecting money for him.”
She hadn’t, but that pretty well confirmed for me that it was precisely what Arnold had been doing.
“Greg told him that you were very circumspect in what you said to us. When your grandpa cools down, I’m sure he’ll feel bad about what he said to you. Don’t worry about it, dear. You’ll be okay.”
Before Jill finished, the other line rang. It was Brad Smotherman.
“Can you make it to the Pred’s hockey game tonight?” he asked. “We’re playing the Anaheim Ducks. Mack Nelson will be there. It’ll give you a chance to talk to him. You can join us in the Hatrick Suite.”
The young country music star was the last principal in the case for us to interview, and I had an important question for him. After Jill’s date for cocktails, we could have dinner and then join Smotherman at the game.
“Sure,” I said, “we’ll see you at the arena.”
A green-suited delivery woman walked in a few minutes later with a colorfully-wrapped gift, a red bow on top. Her dark hair tied in a ponytail, she swung her head around to check the tag on the package.
“Looking for Lieutenant Colonel Greg McKenzie,” she said.
I grinned. “That’s me.”
“Sounds like you’ll be having a liquid Christmas,” she said, shaking the box gently.
I took the package, thanked her, and signed for it. Jill came over to see what I had. I pulled the card off and read:
“Merry Christmas from your old friends in the OSI. Congratulations on the job you’re doing in your new career.”
“I wonder who thought of that?” Jill asked.
Good question.
I tore off the wrapping and opened a gift box containing a fancy glass decanter of Scotch. It wasn’t my preferred brand, but it was a good one. “Not a bad choice,” I said.
“Could it be from Jeff Price?”
“I think Jeff would’ve signed his name to it.”
“What about Colonel Grigsby?”
I tilted the bottle and took a closer look. “That’s more likely. He’s the only one I’ve had contact with lately.”
“And it’s the sort of thing he would do,” Jill said.
“Since you’re going out for cocktails, I might as well sample it.”
“But I’ll be on official business.” She pointed at the Scotch. “That’s pure pleasure.”
“At least we agree on that.” I smiled. “This isn’t your drink of choice, but you can at least have a sip. We’ll toast the coming solution to this case.”
I tore the tax stamp that sealed the container while she brought over a couple of small glasses. Twisting off the crystal top, I poured a small amount for each of us.
I handed one to Jill, raised my glass, and said, “Here’s to nailing the killer.”
As I lowered the drink, I got a whiff of the aroma. An alarm went off in my head. It carried the jolt of a fire bell.
Jill had her glass almost to her lips.
“Don’t drink that!” I yelled.
Startled, she nearly spilled it.
I shouted out the words. “It’s cyanide. I know that bitter almond smell. I was exposed to it once at a forensic lab.”
Chapter 27
Jill stared at the drink in her hand. “It’s in the whisky?”
“Right.” I checked the torn tax stamp that sealed the bottle. It wouldn’t pull away with a gentle tug. In my experience, those things weren’t stuck on that securely. The loose end wouldn’t budge. Looking at it more closely, I saw what appeared to be glue residue around the edges.
“It looks like this stamp has been pulled off and glued back on,” I said. “Somebody has tampered with this.”
I called Phil Adamson’s cell phone and found him at a service station in Donelson, the next exit down I-40 from our office. He said he would drop by in fifteen or twenty minutes.
“Could it have been Izzy Isabell?” Jill asked.
“If so, we’re in a lot more trouble than I thought.”
When Phil arrived, I showed him the carafe and explained my suspicions.
He examined the whisky bottle carefully without touching it. “I see your point about the stamp,” he said. “And you think you smelled cyanide? Not everybody can detect that stuff, you know.”
“I can. I got a whiff of it at a lab once.”
“Do you think it might be the work of your old navigator?”
“That’s what Jill asked. It’s certainly possible.”
“I’ll get it checked out, but you know how long it takes to get toxicology results.”
“Since we have reason to suspect cyanide, can’t they do a quick test to see if it’s present?”
“I should think so.”
I took a pencil and propped up the card with its innocuous greeting. “This looks a little sophisticated for Isabell. Maybe he learned some new tricks in prison.”
“I’ll have everything checked for fingerprints, then send it for a tox report,” Phil said. “You going to question whoever delivered it?”
“Yeah. I’ll give them a call. I’d like to go over there, but Jill and I are running a little operation out West End at five o’clock, then we’re meeting with a client at the Pred’s game.”
Phil looked back at the Scotch. “If this is from Isabell, at least we know where to find him.”
After he left, I called the delivery company and explained the problem. I asked where the package had originated.
“Right here,” the man said after checking his records. “It was brought in this morning by a Victor Lewis.”
“Do you have an address?”
“It’s 1830 Sheridan Drive. Zip is 37206.”
That sett
led it as far as I was concerned. I’d bet there was no Victor Lewis on Sheridan Drive, probably not even an 1830. This was the work of Izzy Isabell. I turned to my computer and did a quick search. I was right on both counts. Sheridan addresses started with 1900.
I turned to Jill. “The person who sent the Scotch gave a fake name and address. The fictitious address was on Sheridan Drive.”
“If it was Isabell, do you think he’ll try something else now?” Her face mirrored her concern.
“Not until he finds this didn’t work. Hopefully the cops will have the evidence to go after him by then.” It was by no means a certainty. First they had to confirm the Scotch contained a poison, then they’d have to identify who sent it. I needed to check the delivery company in the morning and get a description of the man who claimed to be Victor Lewis.
We closed shop around four and went home. After getting Jill wired with the microphone and transmitter, I checked the equipment to make sure everything worked as advertised. We headed for I-40 just in time to keep her from being late for her date.
The Black Watch sat beside a building with shops on the first two floors, parking above. I pulled into the garage so Aregis wouldn’t see Jill getting out of the Camry. We switched on the electronic equipment before starting for the lounge. Workers from nearby offices whose day ended at four-thirty bustled along the sidewalk with collars turned up against the cold. I followed Jill at a safe distance, listening through my earpiece receiver that resembled a Bluetooth telephone gadget. I felt sure any curious onlookers would take it for that.
Before I entered the place, I picked up Jill’s voice talking to someone I assumed to be Louie Aregis. Inside, a busty blonde with a come-hither smile greeted me and steered me across the room from the table occupied by my wife and the Coastal Capital owner. I took a chair against the wall facing them. I didn’t need to worry about being recognized, even if Aregis had seen me before. The lighting in the Black Watch was so dim you’d hardly know your neighbor.
The lounge had a compact bar at one side and a slightly-raised stage in the back, where I saw a drum set and a few guitars leaning on stands. A large replica of the distinctive Black Watch military badge was mounted on the wall. One small spotlight overhead provided more illumination than I could detect anywhere else but over the bar. A mixture of business types, dressed in everything from Brooks Brothers to Men’s Wearhouse, and well-coifed young women I assumed had just come from work occupied most of the tables. When the waitress came around, I ordered a Scotch and soda. Being true to my roots, I asked for Glenfiddich, the only Highland single malt distilled, aged, and bottled at the distillery. Happily, they had it.
A Sporting Murder (Greg McKenzie Mysteries Book 5) Page 15
