by Mike Befeler
“Anything else on Idler?”
“I’ll email you my notes. When will I be given something exclusive for all this work I’m doing for you, or do you intend to use up any remaining credibility you still have left?” Al chuckled.
“When I piece this all together, you’ll be the first to receive a full report.”
“Why am I doubtful that it will be worth anything?”
“You have my word of honor that you’ll be the first to know.”
“This coming from an ex-entrepreneur?”
After hanging up, Mark tracked down a phone number for a David Randolf. He listened to a voice-mail recording before slamming down the receiver. Back on his computer he did an online search and tried to find the earlier article referencing the smuggling charge, but the Denver Post site didn’t have that article in their online archive. He’d have to check it out at the library.
Next, he performed a search for Westerfield Weapons. The web site gave him background on the company: manufactured and sold handguns and rifles. He saw a logo that looked like two crossed rifles and found a listing for a regional office with address and phone number in Denver. Probably the office Howard Roscoe reported into. Mark punched in the number.
“I’m located in Boulder and would like to speak to someone who represents your line of handguns,” Mark explained to the woman who answered the phone.
“I can have someone call you,” she said very businesslike.
“I’m hard to reach. Can you give me a name and number so I can follow up?”
“One moment, please. Yes, here it is. You can reach our sales representative, Howard Roscoe,” she said, and gave Mark the phone number.
Mark ruminated on how far he’d progressed with the investigation. A few unexciting leads to follow up on, but nothing concrete on any of them: Lee Daggett with his gambling connections and possibly illicit financial dealings with Manny; Howard Roscoe, the gun dealer, who supposedly had sold weapons to Manny and who had arrived with perfect timing at the court, right before the lights went out; Jacob Fish of the suspect software business that Manny apparently had invested in. But of them all, Ken Idler currently seemed like the prime suspect. Also, Shelby had talked to Idler, and they had all received threatening notes attached to rocks thrown through their windows. Mark decided he’d go to the library the next day to find the article reporting suspected smuggling by Idler’s firm.
On Friday Mark turned off Broadway onto Arapahoe and stopped as several scantily clad college girls strolled across the crosswalk from Alfalfa market on this Indian-summer day. He wondered when a sight like that would arouse him as it once had. Parking in the only spot he could find under a now-leafless tree, he looked askance at the crows sitting in the branches, ready to desecrate his freshly washed car.
Inside the library, he located the article he wanted and read: “Inept Criminal or Setup? Raul Hernandez was arrested in Denver after attempting to claim an Italian marble table. Customs officials became suspicious when the long-haired, unshaven and poorly dressed Hernandez arrived to take delivery of the table valued at over ten thousand dollars. They told him that there had been damage in transit and asked him to return the next day. The table was x-rayed, revealing a hidden compartment underneath that contained an estimated fifty thousand dollars of hashish in five packets. When arrested, Hernandez claimed he was acting on behalf of his employer, Idler Enterprises, in Boulder, but the manifest indicated only Hernandez’s name. A spokesman for Idler Enterprises denied any knowledge of the shipment.”
Mark scanned though later articles to determine that a jury found Hernandez guilty and the judge sentenced him to five to ten years in the Canon City prison.
Mark took out his cell phone to call information and waited to be connected to the prison in Canon City.
“I’m trying to locate a prisoner named Raul Hernandez.”
“One moment and I’ll connect you with our records department.”
After a pause, a man with a slight Spanish accent answered, “Records.”
Repeating his request, Mark was told to wait.
The voice came back on the line: “Raul Hernandez was transferred six months ago to a halfway house in Boulder.”
“Any reason for the move?”
“Overcrowding. We’ve moved a number of less violent prisoners to local facilities and he was near the end of his sentence.”
Mark next tracked down the number of the halfway house and called. He learned that visiting hours were over, but he could request a meeting the following Monday morning. Mark sat down on a bench outside the library in the now-cooler air, and zipped up his sweatshirt. He thought of the various threads he still had to pursue. Then he opened his notebook and called David Randolf’s number again. On the third ring, the ex−Creo Tech employee answered the phone.
CHAPTER 11
During the short phone conversation with David Randolf, Mark set up a lunch meeting for Monday and then drove home in the twilight, squinting at the oncoming headlights. He slumped down at the kitchen table and pushed aside a package of crackers he had left there earlier, struggling to put the pieces together. The doorbell rang. Mark groaned, raised himself and trudged to the door to open it. Two figures with grotesque faces stood there pointing guns at him.
Mark flinched and his heart beat double-time.
“Trick or treat.”
He let out his breath, realizing that he had been holding it. He had forgotten it was Halloween. With Sophie gone, he had no idea where she stored the candy.
“Just a minute.”
He raced into the kitchen and threw open cupboards until he found bags of Snickers and Three Musketeers. He tore open one of the bags, grabbed a handful of wrapped candy, dashed back to the front door and deposited treats in each outstretched pillowcase.
“Thanks, mister,” one of them said as they hustled away.
A steady stream of ghosts, goblins, pirates, princesses and vampires rang the doorbell. Once the trick-or-treaters seemed to be gone for the night, Mark called Sophie at their son’s house in Colorado Springs.
“Mark, have you come to your senses yet?” she asked.
“I know you disapprove of what I’m doing. Please give me a little time to see what I can accomplish.”
There was a pregnant pause on the line.
Mark heard a sigh.
“If you’re going to continue this ridiculous activity, I hope you’re taking good care of yourself.”
“I’m eating TV dinners, sleeping enough but making very slow progress on the investigation. How is Norm?”
“He’s doing amazingly well. I’m so glad he found Dawn. He also seems to be enjoying his law practice. Remember a time when we never would have expected this?”
Mark involuntarily nodded and thought back to Norm’s turbulent high-school years. He had always been bright, but as a sophomore he ran with a bad crowd. As hard as Mark and Sophie tried, they couldn’t pull him away from this self-destructive group that quickly bypassed alcohol and pot and moved into cocaine. They almost lost Norm in his junior year to an overdose, and it was only after another boy in his group committed suicide that they convinced Norm to join a rehab program. He had stayed clean, finished high school with passable grades, excelled in college, met Dawn and ranked near the top of his class in law school. Now he was married and a successful contract lawyer.
Mark had blamed himself for much of the trouble. He had been too involved at work and had been an absentee father right when he was needed most. Their daughter, Audrey, a year younger than Norm, had experienced her own crisis, having become pregnant at the time Norm was recovering. She gave up the baby for adoption, finished high school and college, and now was a self-assured young woman, working for an insurance company in Los Angeles.
Things he would do over if he had the chance. Sophie had borne the brunt of their kids’ teenage years. One memorable evening she screamed at Mark to quit traveling so much and threw a Spode china plate against the dining-room wall. It
was this outburst that had awakened him to his responsibility. Since then he had put his family first . . . up until now.
“Are you still there?” Sophie said.
Mark shook himself out of his recollection. “I’m sorry. I started thinking over the old days. Yes, it’s great news how well Norm has been doing.”
“For a moment I thought I’d been trapped in one of those television commercials where the cell-phone coverage disappears.”
When Mark woke up Saturday morning, he gazed out the window to see snow falling. Checking the outside thermometer, he found the temperature hovered around freezing, accounting for only a thin layer of snow stuck to the ground. He fixed a piece of toast, packed his equipment bag and headed to the North Boulder Recreation Center. As he drove, his mind mulled over things he had learned regarding Manny.
The courts at slightly lower altitude than his home showed some moisture but no accumulated snow.
Ben and Woody stood there smacking balls back and forth to warm up.
“Say, guys,” Mark said, “what do either of you really know about Manny Grimes?”
“One of the friendliest players around,” Woody answered, bouncing the ball on his paddle. “Always willing to sub for you when you were out of commission. A good sport.”
“He played a reasonable game,” Ben added. “Manny could hit a powerful forehand, but a crappy lob.”
Mark frowned. “Not his platform tennis game. What did you know of him off the court?”
“I met his wife once,” Woody said, wiping sleet from his glasses with a towel. “She helped with a fund-raiser for foreign students. Name’s Barbara. Kind of a mousy woman.”
Their eyes all shifted to the sight of Shelby puffing up the stairs. “Say, we better start,” he said, opening the door. “I need to leave by eleven.”
“Then how come you’re the last one here?” Ben asked.
Shelby ignored him and set his equipment bag down on the deck right inside the door. Then looking up with a huge smile, he said, “By the way, I want to report that my car achieved thirty-five miles to the gallon on the first tank of gas.”
“I hope it doesn’t drop off,” Ben said, winking at Mark. “Some cars quickly change into gas guzzlers.”
Woody retrieved a new ball from his sweat-suit pocket. “I love that we can play this game in any weather. With tennis you couldn’t play in wet conditions like this.”
Mark and Shelby teamed together in the first set. In the middle of the sixth game, Ben hit a high lob to Mark.
“Ken Idler has been on my mind,” Shelby said as the ball floated down.
Mark hit a cross-court shot and said through clenched teeth, “Wait until we finish the game.”
While changing sides after they won that game, Mark wiped his face. “Okay, Shelby. Now let’s discuss Ken Idler.”
“I think he’s the prime suspect after all. You realize this isn’t official since I’m off the case.”
Mark rolled his eyes. “None of it’s official. You just don’t have as much opportunity to put your foot in it anymore.”
Shelby took a swig of water from his thermos and wrinkled his forehead. “Do you want to hear my opinion or not?”
“Sure, fire away,” Mark said, shrugging.
“As an unofficial observer, I’ve been thinking. Idler has a very suspicious import/export business and Manny knew this. Maybe Manny was blackmailing Idler.”
“I don’t think Manny would do something like that, but you’ve given me an idea.” Mark took his notebook and pen out of his equipment bag and jotted down some notes.
“Are you two going to stall all day?” Ben shouted. “We’re ready to finish whipping your butts.”
Mark dropped the pad and pen back in his bag. “You, Woody and who else?”
On the next point Mark prepared to return serve.
“One more thing,” Shelby said.
Mark’s eyes flared at Shelby. “Don’t distract me in the middle of the game.”
“I’ll bet Ken spends a lot of money supporting his wife,” Shelby said, ignoring Mark’s comment. “Probably can’t afford her and paying off Manny. One had to go.”
“Who says Manny blackmailed anyone?” Mark hit his paddle against his thigh. “I appreciate your insights, but we’re behind in this set.”
“It’s only a game.”
Mark looked at Shelby with disgust. “You sound like some of the neighbors who’d like to rid the city of the platform tennis courts.”
The set reached six-all so they decided to play a tiebreaker. Woody prepared to serve, and he stepped over to the deuce side of the court.
“Wait a minute,” Shelby called. “You need to serve from the ad court.”
Woody grinned. “I always forget the tiebreaker starts on the other side, not like tennis.”
He scooted over and served to Mark, who hit a lob back to Ben.
Ben drew his paddle way back and smashed the ball, sending it bouncing over the fence.
“Damn, bouncy ball,” Ben said, kicking the net. “I hate the rule that you lose the point when you hit the ball out of the court.”
“We wouldn’t have such good rallies if you could always win a point by smacking the ball over the fence,” Shelby said, then went out to retrieve the ball.
A few points later Mark played the ball off two screens as Ben kept him pinned back. Five, ten, fifteen rallies. Mark launched yet another lob, feeling a twinge in his sore elbow. He resisted the urge to rub it as he waited for his opponents to hit a short shot so he could drive the ball again. He found beauty in this aspect of the game. Precision and long rallies. Patience. Waiting for the opponents to let down, so he could take the initiative.
Finally, Ben hit a short shot and Mark leaned into it and drove the ball hard enough that Woody missed a volley.
Mark leaned over to catch his breath. Much more finesse than tennis. And besides, at the end of each point he didn’t have to waste time retrieving the ball, unless Ben hit it over the fence.
Mark’s breathing had returned to normal when a car alarm sounded in the parking lot.
“That God-awful sound coming from any of your cars?” Ben asked.
“Hey, that could me mine,” Mark said. “I better go check.” After dropping his paddle and opening the court door, he charged down the stairs and jogged along the walkway. As he approached his car, the sound became louder. Pulling his keys out of his sweat-suit pocket, he deactivated the alarm. He reached to open the door but found someone had shattered the window on the passenger side. He looked inside. A wrench lay on the seat amid shards of glass. His stomach tightened, and he looked wildly around the wet parking lot. He could see no one else there. He sat on the curb with his feet in a puddle and rested his head in his hands. It would be a cold and wet drive to Vic’s. What pile of muck had he dropped himself into?
Mark, Ben and Woody sat at a table in Vic’s and sipped various forms of steaming coffee amid the noise and confusion of a Saturday-morning crowd.
“You sure you want to keep up this investigation?” Ben asked Mark. “Someone has sent you another pretty clear message.”
Mark pursed his lips. “I can’t give in to intimidation. We need to figure this out. Maybe the murderer will start making careless mistakes.”
“Don’t be in the line of fire when the asshole makes a mistake,” Ben said as he rolled up a napkin and threw it at Mark.
Mark ducked and the napkin landed on the next table, drawing a glare from a young woman in a purple jogging suit.
“I still think you should have reported the broken window to the police,” Woody said.
“What good would that have done? I’d only end up receiving another lecture from Detective Peters to stay out of the investigation. Speaking of which, anything new on your suspects?”
“I’ve run into a dead end,” Woody said. “Can’t find out anything else concerning Howard Roscoe.”
“I’m having a similar problem with that scumbag Lee Daggett,” Ben replied
, answering Mark’s question. “Without being like Shelby and actually confronting the prick, which might be suicide, I’ve hit a brick shit house.”
Mark watched both of his companions as he took another swallow of coffee. “Come on, guys. With the Internet and your contacts in the community, there are all kinds of sources. I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“Maybe you’re better at this than we are,” Woody said. “I’m tapped out. We need a new approach.”
“I agree,” Ben said. “We need some way to observe these ass-holes.”
“Something like a party,” Woody said.
Mark’s head jerked up from his cup, and a smile crossed his lips. “Maybe you’re on to something. What if we held a platform tennis tournament?”
“A tournament?” Ben said.
“Yeah. We could pick a Saturday and invite a group of players, including the four suspects. It’d be a perfect way to mingle without raising any suspicion with them.”
Ben scratched his chin. “It might work.”
“It’s worth a try,” Woody said. “We need to figure out how to encourage them to come.”
“Make it an event they won’t want to miss,” Mark said. “Then we have to suck them in. We can make all the arrangements, charge a minimal fee and order some sack lunches from Safeway.”
“I wouldn’t put much stock in that because you’d probably get someone sacked,” Woody said.
Mark groaned.
“Don’t encourage him by acknowledging his awful puns.” Ben glared at Mark. “Ignore him.”
Woody sat back with a satisfied grin and took another sip.
“I bet if he doesn’t receive his pun fix every hour he’ll go into a depression,” Ben said. “It’s like a drug for him.”
“Just don’t pull da-rug out from under me,” Woody said with a straight face.
“Maybe we should exclude Woody from the tournament,” Ben said. “He might piss off the murderer. Then we’d have another dead body on the courts.”
