Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  Ben pulled at his chin. “In some states, you’d have a real problem doing what you suggest. At least in Colorado, no laws require any examination or certification to become a private investigator. Anyone can investigate. Still doesn’t mean the police like it.”

  “Besides, we’re not asking to be paid investigators,” Mark said. “I think we can do something constructive. Why not give it a try, Ben?”

  Ben looked around the table. “If the two of you have lost your senses enough to go along with Mark’s crazy scheme, what the hell.” Ben shrugged.

  “You could say that with a little more conviction,” Mark said, patting him on the back. “Now, here’s how we divide up the four suspects, with Ben and Shelby reporting back on Saturday.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Sophie greeted Mark when he arrived home. “Good game?”

  “Less eventful today. No murders.”

  Her smile disappeared. “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re right. In fact we decided to do something.”

  “Oh?”

  “The boys and I plan to help track down Manny’s killer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Her eyes flared. “You don’t know anything about investigating a murder. What are you trying to prove?”

  “This will give me some focus before I return to consulting.”

  “And you talked Ben, Woody and Shelby into this crazy scheme?”

  “Manny played platform tennis with us. He convinced me to visit the doctor, otherwise the cancer wouldn’t have been diagnosed so early. Then he covered for me during my surgery. I feel an obligation to help find his murderer.”

  Sophie slammed her book down. “No. You have an obligation to not end up like Manny. I don’t want you associating with murderers.” She stalked out of the room.

  Shaking his head, Mark navigated his way through knee-deep stacks of manila folders to the desk in his home office. He opened the blinds, enjoying the view that overlooked the greenbelt and the National Center for Atmospheric Research perched on the hill beyond. Sunlight from a bright afternoon sky above the Flatirons, the iconic local rock formation, flooded the room.

  A few keystrokes brought up the Google search engine on the Internet. His assignment: research Jacob Fish.

  After a few misleading trails, Mark narrowed in on a two-month-old article from the Denver Post. This profiled several Colorado Front Range entrepreneurs who had started software businesses. Jacob Fish, a graduate of MIT and now thirty-five, had once been married but now divorced. No children. Jacob made his first million before the age of twenty-five as a programmer at a successful start-up company in Silicon Valley. He moved to Boulder and started his own company, Creo Tech, three years ago.

  Mark snapped his fingers and dialed Al Lawson, his longtime friend and the editor of the business section of the Denver Post.

  “Al, it’s Mark Yeager. I need a favor.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Al replied, with an audible yawn.

  “I need you to do a little research. You might uncover something interesting concerning a local company.”

  “Exclusive story?”

  “Maybe. Check a guy named Jacob Fish and a company called Creo Tech.”

  “Can’t do it until tomorrow morning. You still at the same number?”

  After hanging up, Mark returned to the Internet. He was ready to give up when one new article on Creo Tech caught his attention.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mark was cleaning out the garage on Friday when Sophie told him he had a call.

  Mark picked up the phone to hear Al Lawson on the line. “I found a little info for you regarding Jacob Fish and Creo Tech.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “But before I divulge anything, I want to know why you’re so interested in Fish and his company.”

  Mark sighed. “Jacob Fish is a suspect in a murder investigation that involves the death of a friend of mine named Manny Grimes.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “One of the tidbits I uncovered indicates that this Manny Grimes invested in Creo Tech.”

  On Saturday morning Mark, Ben and Woody all arrived within five minutes of each other at the North Boulder Rec Center. No Shelby. The net on the south court was missing a strap, so they decided to play on the north court.

  Mark dropped his equipment bag on the deck, one-third the size of a tennis court.

  Ben looked carefully at Mark.

  “Do I detect a new haircut?”

  Mark ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I had it clipped yesterday.”

  “You obviously went to a clip joint,” Woody said.

  Mark groaned.

  “Don’t encourage any of his awful puns,” Ben said. “But, Mark, your hair does appear a little uneven. Did you have it cut with a lawnmower?”

  Woody rejoined the conversation. “No, but he does save money by going to the barber college. Right, Mark?”

  Mark scowled. “I’ve done that for years. Helps the students train.”

  “Right,” Ben replied with a laugh. “Just the ticket for the world’s cheapest ex-entrepreneur.”

  “I’m merely being thrifty,” Mark said. “That’s how my startup company succeeded. We spent frugally and conserved cash.”

  After a lengthy warm-up, they saw Shelby sauntering up the walkway.

  “Don’t hurry,” Woody shouted. “You might strain yourself.”

  “I’m getting there. Hold your water.”

  Mark flinched at the expression. That phrase had often been on his mind after his prostate surgery.

  Shelby threw his equipment bag down inside the court and slammed the door.

  That sound reminded Mark of the night of the murder. They now stood on the very same court where Manny had died! Mark looked at the court surface, expecting to see bloodstains, but the court appeared clear except for a few mud clods, probably tossed inside by neighborhood kids. He recollected the scene he had viewed from the adjoining court: Manny’s body slumped over.

  “Do you want to stand around all day or consider playing a game or two?” Shelby nudged Mark.

  Mark sighed and looked at his companions. “I’m ready. Let’s start the match.”

  He walked to the baseline, touching the perforations in the paddle with gloved fingers, then swung back and forth, letting the air swish through the eighty-six holes. Of course slicing the paddle straight down onto someone’s head would also cut down air resistance. How could someone so brutally misuse such a carefully crafted piece of sports equipment? He swatted his palm with the flat of the paddle.

  Mark tried to free his mind for the game, taking the ad court while his partner, Woody, took the deuce court. Ben served to Woody and the ball hit the net.

  “Love-fifteen,” Ben said. “Damn fault. I wish I had two serves like in tennis instead of only one.”

  “You need to serve softer,” Shelby coached his partner. “Woody doesn’t hit it back that hard anyway.”

  Mark positioned himself to receive the next serve. As his left hand touched the sixteen-gauge wire side screen, he readied himself to hit a strong forehand drive off almost any serve. Only a serve hit perfectly on the outside line would force him to return a weaker backhand shot.

  Ben launched a solid serve down the middle.

  Mark scooted over and drove back a hard forehand.

  Ben volleyed a defensive shot, deep and toward the middle of the court.

  Mark played it off the fence and launched a high, deep lob that forced Ben back.

  Ben reached up and retrieved the ball, but hit it short. Woody stepped in and drove the ball between Ben and Shelby.

  Seeing their opponents retreat to chase down the careening shot off the back screen, Mark and Woody charged the net to gain the offense.

  Shelby, scrambling in the back court, finally reached the ball and hit a weak lob to Mark.

  Mark, his paddle poised in mid-air, hit a soft overhead to Ben’s backhand.
r />   Ben back-pedaled and could only poke at the ball, sending it short to Woody.

  Woody gleefully smashed the ball causing it to ricochet off the side screen behind Shelby, who couldn’t reach it.

  Mark and Woody gave each other a high five. “Way to make the old professor move,” Mark said.

  “Love-thirty,” Ben announced, preparing to serve to Woody. Mark positioned himself behind the baseline. In tennis, a player would stand near the service line when his partner received serve, but in platform tennis he needed to stay back.

  Mark watched Woody set his feet in preparation to receive the serve. He thought of Woody as Mr. Methodical, the consummate engineer playing conservatively and waiting for his opening.

  Woody hit a lob off a good serve, and Shelby sent the ball spinning deep to Mark’s backhand. Mark launched another lob but miss-hit it, sending the ball too short, barely clearing the net on Shelby’s side.

  Shelby tapped the ball cross-court toward Mark’s alley.

  Mark had just enough warning of the drop shot to charge toward the net as the ball skimmed over, bounced on the line and ricocheted off the side screen. Mark felt a rush of adrenaline as he lunged. Within inches of the court surface, the final thrust of his paddle made contact, sending the ball shooting alongside the net post into the opposing alley and outside Ben’s reach.

  “What a shot!” Woody shouted.

  Mark felt his heart racing with the exultation of a perfect winner.

  “Wait a Goddamn minute,” Ben protested. “The ball didn’t go over the net.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Woody gloated. “Mark can hit around the net post as long as the ball lands inside the lines on your side of the court. In fact, he could cross or reach over the net. As long as he doesn’t touch the net or put his foot within the lines on your side. You lose the argument, counselor.”

  Ben shook his head in disgust, looking toward Shelby for an appeal.

  “He’s right,” Shelby said with a nod. “Mark won the point fair and square.”

  As Mark and Woody returned to the baseline, Mark whispered in Woody’s ear. “Play the ball to Ben. He’s mad and apt to make a mistake.”

  Mark looked up and saw a woman in a blue ski jacket and matching hat standing right outside the fence. A panting golden retriever sat next to her.

  “What’s this sport called?” she asked.

  “Platform tennis,” Mark answered.

  “How’s it played?”

  “A lot like tennis except you only have one serve and can play the ball off the screen.”

  “Can you play singles?”

  “Some people do, but we only play doubles. One team on offense and one team on defense. The serving team’s at the net and the receiving team stays back and lobs a lot.”

  “Looks like a hard game to learn.”

  “Not really,” Mark said. “My son picked up the game much quicker than tennis. Once you get used to hitting the ball off the screen, it’s pretty easy. It’s more forgiving than tennis. If you miss the ball the first time, you might still be able to play it when it bounces off the screen.”

  “And you play all winter?”

  “That’s the best part. No matter how cold it is, we bundle up and have fun while exercising. If it snows, we raise the snow boards on the side, shovel the court and can play within an hour.”

  Ben, waiting to serve, yelled impatiently over to Mark, “Move your butt back for the next point and quit flirting, or I’ll tell your wife.”

  Sheepishly Mark turned back to prepare for the next serve. Trying to show off somewhat for the woman watching, Mark managed to lose the next three points, then noticed that the woman and her dog had departed anyway.

  After their match they reconvened at Vic’s. The typical fall Saturday crowd of joggers, dog walkers, bicyclists and other assorted young-to-middle-aged athletic wannabes milled around the coffee house. Mark’s group sat in the back near a green neon sign displaying the words “Tea Room.” Mark inspected the carpet pattern of yellow and red ellipses and kicked aside the remains of a bagel as he slumped into a worn chair.

  “Shelby, I see you traded in your old clunker for a newer car,” Ben said.

  “Yes, in spite of my precarious financial condition, I had to procure a replacement. Found a slightly used Honda Civic that’s supposed to consume hardly any gas.”

  “Is that so?” Ben said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Absolutely. I’m going to track it on every tank to see what good mileage I obtain.”

  Mark tapped his fingers on the table. “Let’s return to the matter at hand. Ben and Shelby, what did you learn about the murder suspects?”

  “I’ll start,” Ben said. “I’ve been digging up dirt on Lee Daggett. He’s a real sweetheart. It reminds me of my days dealing with the wise guys back in New York.” Ben had been a prosecuting attorney before moving to the quieter life of private practice in Boulder.

  “This guy Daggett was arrested, but not prosecuted, ten years ago on gambling charges. He’s now state-sanctioned as an investor in one of the casinos up in Black Hawk. The gaming commission owns the responsibility to keep his type out of the state gambling industry, but with the earlier charges dropped, Daggett’s now viewed as having a clean bill of health.”

  Woody jumped in. “If he’s making money at it, you might say he has a green hill of wealth.”

  Everyone groaned, including Ben.

  “I’ve seen Daggett play platform tennis,” Shelby said. “Reminds me of a fireplug. He positions himself at the net and doesn’t let anything get past him. Fearless. Not concerned when someone drives the ball at him. He stands his ground and makes a drop shot with an unorthodox stroke.”

  “And his personal life?” Mark asked Ben, ignoring Shelby.

  “A bitter divorce involving physical abuse. His ex-wife Melinda still lives in Boulder. Local police keep their eyes on Daggett. He has a reputation for waving around large amounts of cash. Once beat up a ‘friend,’ but the guy didn’t press charges. Daggett seems like a natural to bash one of his buddies with a paddle.”

  “Any specific link to Manny?” Woody asked.

  “A possibility. Daggett’s financial status seems to be as smooth as the top of the Rockies. One year he’s flush and the next he’s scrambling. One of my contacts in the DA’s office suspects that he owed money to Manny. Probably no notarized loan agreement. Good motive. Knock off the guy who wants money back.” Ben dusted his hands together. “Debt eliminated.”

  “Lee Daggett stays on the suspect list,” Mark said, as if running a business meeting. “Shelby, what did you find out about Ken Idler?”

  Shelby took a sip of his latte. “Sorry guys, I don’t have much to report. I meant to do my investigating, but with buying the car and getting stuck interviewing three candidates to replace the retiring Dean . . .”

  “I thought you were up for consideration,” Woody said.

  “No. I’ve made too many enemies along the way. When I thought I could afford to retire four years ago, I told too many colleagues what I really thought of them. Now that I’m broke, they’re certainly not going to help me obtain a promotion.”

  “And I always thought the politics bad in business,” Mark responded.

  Shelby rolled his eyes. “You haven’t seen anything like the politics in academia. We murder each other with subtlety and innuendo, not paddles.”

  “Don’t get us off the track,” Mark said, wagging his finger. “You must have discovered something.”

  “Only that Idler runs an import-export business. I’ll have a student contact his company to perform a study project. We’ll see what pops up. So Mark, what did you find out?”

  Mark studied the other three as their heads turned toward him. “I planned to wait to report until next time, but since Shelby doesn’t have much, I’ll go now. I found some very interesting things regarding Jacob Fish: genius, ruthless, driven by money and success. In digging into his software business, I came across an article
linking his firm to white-collar fraud. Then a contact of mine uncovered that Manny Grimes invested in Jacob’s company. What better motive than eliminating someone who may know the details of your slimy business practices?”

  “And he cheats,” Shelby interjected. Three pairs of eyes turned to Shelby. “He serves before his opponents are ready and calls good shots out. When I watched him play once, he spent the whole time arguing and distracting his opponents.”

  “Bottom line—at least two of these jerks remain suspects,” Ben said, slamming his hand on the table and jostling the cups.

  “Can we return to this discussion in a moment?” Shelby asked. “I need to use the restroom.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Ben leaned toward Mark and Woody. “Shelby’s so enthusiastic about the gas mileage he’s going to achieve with his new car that I think I’ll tweak him with a little prank.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Ben asked.

  “Listen to his gas mileage results over the next few weeks,” Ben replied with a twinkle in his eyes.

  When Shelby returned, Mark brought the meeting back to order. “Shelby and Woody, report back on Tuesday with your findings. Now, there’s another issue we need to discuss.” Mark had been thinking over a comment made by Sophie. He leaned toward the others. “This awful murder will impact our ability to play platform tennis.”

  “How so?” Woody asked.

  “The expansion of the North Boulder Recreation Center building starts in three months,” Mark answered. “The two platform tennis courts interfere with the planned renovation. They either need to be moved to another part of the outdoor area or demolished. No decision’s been made yet.”

  “I get your drift,” Ben said. “The neighbors feel platform tennis disrupts their peaceful neighborhood, and this murder will only give their complaint more credibility.”

  “Exactly,” Mark replied. “I don’t want the reputation of our sport ruined by one criminal. No other courts exist in town and if they’re voted down, we’re done playing. What can we do to convince the parks and recreation board to keep our courts?”