Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “If I’m wrong,” I said, “I’ll be the first to apologize to you and to everyone else who heard my accusation.”

  “Yes, I was there, but I didn’t murder Junior Bennett,” he said. He looked around at the men in the room, his eyes bright.

  “No?”

  “No. It was self-defense.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “That’s right. That’s right,” he said, panting. “I went to that dive to ask him to lay off Ty, to stop trying to ruin Ramos’s career. You were right about me being broke. That’s why Ty was so important. I haven’t shared this with the judge or Ty, but my sources tell me that there are two major-league teams eager and ready to sign him to a lucrative contract.” He faced Jack. “See? That’s why you have to sign the contract right now. A year in Triple-A ball and he’ll be a starter at shortstop for either team. I’m talking serious money, Jack, enough to set the kid up for life.”

  “That may be,” I said, “but let’s get back to what happened that night.”

  “Okay,” he said, swinging in my direction. “Like I said, I went to that bar to try and talk sense into Junior.” His words came pouring out, in staccato, his breathing audible. “I was, I was even going to offer to cut Junior in on some of my commission if he’d leave Ty alone. I had pulled into the lot right after the fight. I saw all the guys in the parking lot filing back into the Coyote. Carter was dragging Ty away. Junior got to his feet and grabbed the bat someone left by the door, the one Carter Menzies said he left out there, the one the fan club kid gave him.”

  Carter was staring at Sylvester, his hands fisted in his lap.

  “Junior had a bloody nose. I got out my handkerchief to give him, but he was swinging the bat, saying he was going to kill Ty with it—‘smash his skull in’ was how he put it. Junior was nuts, off the wall. I was trying to prevent a murder, don’t you see?”

  “You were trying to protect your investment is what I think,” H.B. said.

  “Right,” Cole said, seeming unconcerned that he was talking to his victim’s father. “Ty was my ticket to financial health. I didn’t want him to get a bashed-in skull. I wrestled Junior for the bat and I got it away from him. All I intended to do was walk away with it. He jumped me. I swung the bat and caught him in the side of the head. I didn’t mean to kill him. It just happened.”

  “If it was accidental,” I said, “you should have called the police yourself. Instead, you wiped off the murder weapon with your handkerchief, threw the bat in the Dumpster, and let Ty get arrested for what you did.”

  I checked with Sheriff Hualga, who had a tight smile on his face. He cocked his head at me, eyebrows raised. “Gentlemen,” he said. All the men swiveled to look at him. “I’d appreciate it if you all left the room right now. Not you, Mr. Cole.”

  H.B. rose from his chair and strode out the door. The Rattlers filed out after him, Buddy Washington waving them through the door until they were all out of the locker room. He closed the door himself as he left.

  The sheriff stepped outside, too.

  Jack stood, his movements slow and stiff. “You’ll have a decent defense in court,” Jack said to Cole. “But it doesn’t change things for me. What’s important is that the authorities know that you were responsible for Junior’s death, and that Ty can now go free.”

  “Judge, I think we need to talk,” Cole said.

  “I don’t want to talk with you anymore,” Jack said, and crossed the room to where Hualga stood.

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cole said, his voice urgent. “How could you do this to Ty? I thought the Duffys were your friends.” He clucked his tongue as if he were chastising a student.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ty’s future. I’m the one with the contacts with those two teams I mentioned. They know I’m acting as Ty’s agent. I can kill those deals just like this.” He snapped his fingers.

  “I doubt whether either of those teams—or any major-league team for that matter—will want to do business with a convicted felon, even if it results in no more than a manslaughter conviction.”

  “Exactly. That’s the whole point, Mrs. Fletcher. So this is what I think you should do. You tell the sheriff that we spoke, and you made a big mistake, and I’ll put the deal together for Ty.”

  “Jack just told you he’s not interested in talking to you.”

  “The judge will come around once I have the deal in my pocket. Otherwise, think about this: You’ll be responsible for ruining Ty’s baseball career.”

  I was tempted to laugh, as regretful as it was. His twisted logic and perverted view of his situation, and how to salvage it, was staggering.

  “That sounds like an extortion threat on top of your other problems, Mr. Cole,” I said.

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, not only are you a smart lady, I have the feeling you’re a pragmatic one, too. This is what a good deal is all about. I’m off the hook for killing Junior—hell, if anybody deserved to die, it was Junior—and Ty Ramos gets to live his dream. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

  “Not only do we not have a deal, Mr. Cole, you don’t have my respect or my sympathy. You try to tell your story to Sheriff Hualga. And you can also tell it to the media. I believe Karen Locke and a camera crew are waiting outside for an exclusive interview.”

  I walked away from him.

  “I’ll beat this,” he called to my back.

  Sheriff Hualga came back into the locker room. He shook my hand, and I left.

  Outside the locker room, the Rattlers were loitering in the stadium hallway. A few players began clapping, which quickly became sustained applause. Karen Locke’s cameraman switched on his light and filmed the ovation.

  Karen approached me, her hand holding the microphone by her side. “Care to make a comment, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Not now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  We smiled at each other.

  My eyes searched the crowd for Jack Duffy. I found him standing beside Harrison Bennett and Buddy Washington.

  I extended my hand to Bennett. “I’m sorry about your son,” I said. “You did the right thing by helping gather everyone here tonight. I’m sure it must have been painful for you.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over,” he said.

  I said to Jack Duffy, “Let’s go, Judge. Meg and Ty will want to know the good news, and I’m suddenly very tired.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I accompanied the Duffys and Ty to court for Judge McQuaid’s formal dismissal of the charges against Ty.

  “I must say,” McQuaid said from the bench, “that I take personal pleasure in releasing you, Ty Ramos. Your foster father, Judge Duffy, and your foster mother, Meg Duffy, are the sort of people who give humanity a good name. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention your friend from back East, Jessica Fletcher, who I understand moved heaven and earth to prove your innocence. Despite what cynics might say, good things do happen to good people, and I am delighted to be in the position to wish you well in your baseball career.”

  We were all standing during Judge McQuaid’s comments.

  “Put your troubled past behind you, young man.” A wide grin crossed McQuaid’s face. “And pound the tar out of that baseball. Case dismissed!”

  I stayed in Mesa a few extra days to get in that sunrise hot-air-balloon ride, although I never did add to my pilot’s logbook. That would have to wait for a more opportune moment.

  Jack, Meg, and Ty drove me to the Phoenix airport for my flight to Boston, where a charter service would deliver me to Cabot Cove. Ty, minus his court-ordered ankle bracelet, was as happy as you might expect a young man who’d faced a lifetime in prison and was now exonerated of all charges to be. We said our good-byes.

  As I disembarked the charter flight, it felt good to be home.

  Seth was wearing his Diamondbacks cap when we went to dinner at Maureen and Mort Metzger’s home.

  “We’re trying out this new
recipe,” Maureen said. “You’re the first ones to taste it, so be honest. If it isn’t good, tell me.”

  Mort carried in a platter of barbecued chicken fresh off the grill and placed it on the table next to the salad and rice. “Here we go, folks. A taste of Mexico in Maine.”

  “I’ve been modifying the recipe,” Maureen said.

  “Yeah, the first time she made it, I had to use the garden hose to cool down my throat,” Mort said.

  Seth and I glanced at each other.

  “Well, I’m game,” I s aid.I took a piece of chicken and cut off a tiny slice. I raised the fork to my mouth and looked up. Three pairs of eyes were trained on me. “Here goes,” I said. I chewed slowly, all the while under the intense gaze of my friends. I put the fork down and took a sip of water.

  “Well, Mrs. F, what do think?”

  “Delicious!” I pronounced.

  “The chipotle gives it a nice smoky flavor with a little bit of heat,” Maureen said, sitting back with a smile.

  “Now that you know how much to use,” her husband added. “Doc, would you like to try it?”

  “My pleasure,” Seth said, spearing a drumstick. “Heard any news from the Duffys?” he asked me.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” I said. “Ty has been signed by the Boston Red Sox and will be playing Triple-A ball for their top farm team.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. F.”

  “Ayuh,” Seth proclaimed. “Nice to heah that young man is getting his life straightened out again. Always thought he was a good one.”

  The Duffys and I had kept in touch recently through phone calls and e-mails. I shared their excitement as Jack read me the news release from the Red Sox office : “In signing this extremely talented shortstop, we feel the future for our ball club is in good hands. Ty Ramos is not only a gifted athlete, he comes to us as a young man of character and commitment. We welcome him to the Red Sox organization.”

  “It’s thanks to you, Jessica,” Meg said during the phone call that delivered this wonderful news.

  “No,” I said. “It’s thanks to Ty for being the fine young person he is, and to you and Jack for being so generous and willing to share your life with a young man who needed a family.”

  Ty got on the phone. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so grateful. When I’m playing at Fenway Park, you’ll always have a special box seat at every game.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Ty, and I just might take advantage of it. By the way, something has been nagging at me and I hope you can settle my mind.”

  “Anything for you.”

  “The first time I saw the bookie outside the hotel at your team victory dinner, he said he was going to get money from you to give to a woman. That wasn’t a bet on a game, was it?”

  “No, Mrs. Fletcher,” he replied. “I guess I can tell you now. I already told the Duffys. Jake used to help me send money to my mother in the Dominican Republic.”

  “So she hasn’t ‘disappeared.’ ”

  “She did for a while, but we’re in touch now. She was afraid if the authorities knew where she was, I would be sent back to the D.R. But, thanks to the judge, that didn’t happen.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  “Yeah, um, I mean, yes,” he said. “She’s real proud of me. Once I’m playing for the Sox, I’m going to bring her up so she can watch me play a game. She’s never been away from home, but she said she’ll make the trip to see me. The Duffys said she can stay with them.”

  “More chicken, Mrs. F?”

  “I don’t think I can manage another bite,” I said. “Everything was wonderful.”

  “Meant to tell you. I got a call from Sheriff Hualga.”

  “I was going to ask you about him.”

  Sheriff Hualga had been keeping Mort up to date on what was happening in the Cole case. A jury had bought his plea of self-defense but didn’t let him off the hook entirely. Rather than acquit him on that basis, they’d found him guilty of a lesser charge, aggravated manslaughter. He was sentenced to six years in prison, with the possibility of parole after serving two of those years.

  “He said to tell you that Junior’s father sold most of his businesses in Mesa, including the Rattlers baseball team, and retired to Costa Rica.”

  “I figured that’s what would happen,” I said. “He couldn’t stay in baseball once news of his betting practices leaked out.”

  I had recently received a note from the formidable Harrison Bennett, Sr., familiarly known as H.B. Oddly, he had extended an invitation for me to visit him and his wife at their Costa Rican hacienda. I replied, of course, giving my regrets and wishing them well. Somehow, a week with the Bennetts was not high on my list of things to do.

  But I did think a visit to Fenway Park should rank close to the top of that list. I was eager to see another baseball game.

  Read on for an exciting sneak peek at the next Murder, She Wrote original mystery,

  PANNING FOR MURDER

  Coming from New American Library in October 2007

  Chapter One

  “I feel uncomfortable flying first class, Kathy, and you being in coach.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jessica,” she replied. “You’ve had your reservations for a long time. Mine are last-minute. Don’t even think about it.”

  When I made my reservation to fly from Boston to Seattle, I’d used some of my accumulated frequent-flier miles to upgrade to a first-class seat. Kathy, who seldom travels, didn’t have that luxury and was booked in the coach section of the aircraft. I’d suggested changing my reservation to coach so that we could sit together, but she’d adamantly insisted that I not. “I’d feel terrible,” she said. “Besides, I’ve brought two good books with me. I wouldn’t be a talkative seat companion, anyway.”

  I did, however, bring her as my guest into the airline’s first-class lounge, and we spent the two hours before our flight enjoying the club’s amenities.

  “I can’t believe I’m going back to Alaska so soon,” she said as we sat by a window overlooking one of the airport’s active runways, from which a succession of aircraft landed and took off. “I was just there,” she added, “and me being such a coward when it comes to flying.”

  “A lot safer than riding in a car to the airport,” I said. “Have you heard anything further from the Alaska police about your sister?”

  “No. Well, they did call to report that they haven’t made any headway in their search for her. I just hope . . .”

  “Hope what?”

  “That she isn’t off on some jaunt and putting everyone to so much trouble, especially the police.”

  “Frankly,” I said, “if that is what happened, you’ll be greatly relieved. It would mean that she’s alive and well.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding earnestly, “and I pray Willie is all right. But it would be so embarrassing if she’s off having fun and the police have been knocking themselves out trying to find her.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” I suggested. “More coffee or tea?”

  I refilled our cups and returned to her.

  “I did get a call,” she said, “from one of Willie’s husbands.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “The next to last.” She laughed. “I used to joke with Willie that she should number her husbands, like baseball players. You know, like the old saying, you can’t tell the players without a scorecard.”

  “Sounds like a sensible suggestion,” I said, laughing along with her.