by Mike Befeler
Mark gasped. “Why did Manny loan that kind of money to Daggett?”
“I questioned him,” Reagan said. “He only laughed and said he earned a fantastic interest rate.”
“It may have been, but that seems like an awfully risky loan.”
“My take as well.”
“From what I saw in the files, Daggett didn’t make the interest payments consistently,” Mark said.
“That’s correct. For whatever reason, Manny didn’t seem concerned.”
“Have you ever seen the loan agreement?”
“No,” Reagan replied.
“What would prevent Lee from defaulting and sticking Manny with the remainder of the loan?”
“I don’t know.”
Ben had speculated about an undocumented loan, Mark recalled. Maybe Lee had eliminated the financial exposure of repaying Manny.
Thursday morning Mark called Chip Deever.
“Norborne told me you wanted to talk regarding Howard Roscoe,” Deever said.
“Yes. I’m trying to track down some information and would like to speak with you.”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone. I’m going out of town this afternoon and will be gone the rest of the week, but could meet you for lunch on Monday. Would noon at the Brown Palace work for you?”
“That’s fine.”
“Good. I’ll have my admin make a reservation for us.”
At dusk, Mark sat staring out his window at two deer grazing in the greenbelt. One ducked to eat the brown grass, while the other peered ahead with its ears perked up.
These deer always need to be looking out for mountain lions, Mark thought. Just as he would have to watch out for one of the suspects who might take the next step beyond making threats. If he could only determine which of the four to focus on. It was still an open playing field.
He looked again as the sky continued to darken, wishing more daylight remained. He detested one thing about this time of year—losing the hour of evening light now that they had gone off daylight savings time. He had no objection to the darkness in the morning, but he didn’t like the daylight ending so early in the late afternoon.
He wiggled a pen between his thumb and index finger and tried to decide what to do next in the investigation. His game at lunch time had been disappointing. Shelby had arrived twenty minutes late, setting a record even for him.
Mark’s friends had razzed him regarding the duct tape he had placed on his torn glove and sweat-suit pants.
“Do you want us to take up a collection so you can buy some new togs?” Ben had asked, laughing loudly.
“Maybe a trip to the Salvation Army store if you’re too cheap to buy something new,” Woody had suggested.
Mark had played badly, and Woody had to leave early so, all in all, a frustrating outing.
He considered taking a brief walk or catching a short catnap so he’d be prepared for a long night session meeting with the planning board to fight for the platform tennis courts. The ring of the telephone interrupted his stalled decision process. He sighed and picked up the phone to hear his son, Norm, on the line.
“Dad, I tracked down that Idler Enterprises info for you.”
“What’d you find?”
“Did you know that Idler was under investigation by the FTC?”
“My tennis buddy, Shelby, uncovered that information before he and the others dropped out of the investigation, but he didn’t have any details.”
“Ken Idler received a subpoena to testify and turned over a slew of records. They charged him with two counts of deceptive practices under the Federal Trade Commission act. Seems he imported antique vases from China, but some customers claimed they were imitations made in Taiwan. Idler settled by reimbursing his clients and claiming that someone tampered with his shipment. The FTC dropped the case for lack of further evidence.”
“The Taiwan connection’s interesting. What happened there?”
“Again, nothing conclusive. But the record shows that Idler Enterprises did import vases from a company called Lingan Ling.”
Mark jumped up, bashing his knee on his desk. “That’s the company Jacob Fish dealt with. These guys all seem linked together. Woody speculated that they all plotted Manny’s murder. Maybe a conspiracy among the suspects isn’t too farfetched.”
“Do you want me to do some checking on Lingan Ling?”
“Yes, please. See if you can find anything further that ties them to either Idler Enterprises or Creo Tech.” Mark rubbed his knee and sat down again.
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. By the way, Mom’s worried.”
“I know, but I’m taking care of myself. It’s good she’s safe with you for a while. I hope it’s not causing you any inconvenience.”
“No. It’s working out fine. Dawn and Mom have been shopping and playing tourists. It’s good for Dawn as well. She’s taking a break before resuming her job search.”
“I thought she had found something.”
“She had an offer, but after meeting more of the people and thinking it over she decided to turn it down. It offered low pay, and the products they manufactured didn’t excite her.”
“And the name of the company?”
“Westerfield Weapons.”
CHAPTER 17
After Mark had leaped up, bashing his knee a second time, he asked Norm to put Dawn on the line.
“I understand you spent some time looking into Westerfield Weapons.”
“Yes. I had a series of interviews with them.”
“Did you ever hear the name of Howard Roscoe mentioned?” Mark asked.
“No. That doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Norm says the company didn’t impress you.”
“That’s an understatement. I’d say I found the outfit downright sleazy.”
Mark laughed. “Okay. Thanks for the update.”
After saying good-bye, Mark sat there, tapping his right foot as he stared at the wall, and tried to collect his thoughts and focus back on the murder investigation. Instead, his mind spun off on its own agenda: cancer.
Mark had his own little murderer inside his body. Rather than using a paddle or bullet, it had turned good cells into bad. He pictured a meat grinder churning steak into hamburger. Meat and muscles being ground into mush.
Did the surgeon cut away all of the malignancy? He pictured cancer cells still chewing up his insides.
And Sophie had stood by him. How did he thank her? By bogging down in this crazy investigation and causing a threat to his family, so she had to run off to their son’s house.
He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to stem the unwanted memories, while struggling to regulate his breathing. Regain control.
He sighed, flicked a paper clip at the wall and then looked at his watch. Time to prepare himself to go fight for the platform tennis courts again. He couldn’t even play his beloved sport without a hassle.
Round two to save the courts started promptly at six P.M. in the auditorium also used by the city council. Enough topics appeared on the planning board agenda to choke a Rocky Mountain elk. Mark gasped when he saw how far down the list the platform tennis topic appeared and left the chamber to go buy some dinner.
When he returned at eight, the board had hardly made a dent in the topic list. He dropped into a seat next to Ben.
“What’s the process this time?” Mark asked.
“Similar to the previous hearing: an introduction by city staff, public comment, then board discussion and voting on the topic.”
“Then why go through this all again?” Mark asked.
“This board has a different emphasis. They don’t care how many people play or what a great sport it is. They make their decision based on factors that impact the recreation-center site and the surrounding area.”
“So, what do we need to do to convince them to keep the courts?”
“Answer questions like: Will there be enough parking? How will a decision affect nearby property? Wh
at alternative sites exist?”
Mark yawned. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It’s not that simple. They’ll treat this like a new application—as an amendment to the original rec-center expansion plan, which they’ve already approved. Too bad the planners didn’t include the relocated platform tennis courts when submitting the original plans.”
“What a screw up,” Mark said, flicking a speck of lint off his pants.
“Yeah. If we had only known at that time, we could have prevented this whole battle. Now it may be too late.”
“You don’t sound optimistic.”
“It’s the nature of these boards,” Ben said. “They have their agenda and may overlook the points we consider important.”
“It could be a long evening.”
“While we’re waiting, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Ben said.
“Fire away.”
“You mentioned that you visited Manny’s house.”
“Yeah. I talked to his wife and looked through his files.”
“As you know, my partner has a client with a claim against Manny’s estate. It’s for a collection of antique paperweights. He paid Manny half the fee, but he never received delivery of the goods.”
“And you’re trying to find the collection.”
“Either that or request a refund. I thought you might have seen something.”
“No. But if I come across anything I’ll let you know.”
Mark listened to an hour-long debate on the design of a new building. Then the board voted to send the architect back for another revision and to report again in one month.
“All talk and no decision,” Mark said, shaking his head in disbelief. “If I’d run my company this way, it would have gone bankrupt in two months.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of city government.”
Finally the platform tennis topic opened for public comment.
The first several statements repeated points made at the previous hearing. Then to Mark’s surprise he saw Howard Roscoe, the suspicious gun dealer, go to the podium. Mark had an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
“You’re dealing with a damn simple problem here.” Roscoe faced the board. “A group of malcontents intends to prevent us from playing our sport. If they don’t like it, why don’t they move? This board needs to act like adults and not buy this childish crap.”
“He’s doing us more harm than good,” Mark whispered to Ben.
As Roscoe gazed toward the audience, his eyes met Mark’s. Roscoe raised his right hand to make a fist, watching with a smirk on his face to ensure that Mark saw him. Then he sauntered to the back of the room.
One of the neighbors went on the offensive during his allotted three minutes: “I request that you mitigate the impact this sport has on our otherwise quiet neighborhood. Please don’t subject us to the extensive light and noise pollution. Also keep a small park for our children to play in.”
“He makes it sound like we’re crashing cymbals together in his backyard and shining searchlights in his windows,” Mark said to Ben.
“You wouldn’t want a nuclear power plant next door,” Ben replied with a twinkle in his eyes as he faced Mark. “These people don’t want us disrupting their lives.”
“At least no one threw the murder in our faces tonight.”
“They don’t think they need to.”
The final vote came at eleven thirty. Four votes against and two in favor of keeping the platform tennis courts at the North Boulder Recreation Center.
Mark shook his head in disgust as he gathered in the parking lot with a group of the faithful, fortunately excluding Howard Roscoe. The long day stretched his post-cancer stamina, but he wanted to find out what the next step would be.
“Time to call up the issue before the city council,” Ben announced. “With an obvious split between the parks board and the planning board, we need the attention of the higher authority.”
“Let’s aim for next Tuesday,” one of the people said.
“We have to be prepared to address the topics of noise, open space and lights,” Ben said.
Just then it struck Mark. He raised his head as a smile spread across his face. “Ben, you’re a genius. I’ll have to check it out tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Lights. That’s what I had forgotten.”
CHAPTER 18
On the drive home, Mark had the distinct impression of a car following him. He turned off Broadway, and the car stayed on his tail. Rather than going right home, Mark took a side street. He saw a pair of lights still in his rearview mirror. Finally, after another turn the car went a different direction.
I’m becoming paranoid. Still, Mark watched in his rearview mirror for the rest of the drive home.
He woke up the following morning tired and depressed. After breakfast, he headed to the recreation center to continue his investigation. He found out that Julia Ruthers had been the attendant the night of the murder, but she wouldn’t be on duty until the afternoon.
Mark returned later in the day to find Julia on a break.
“Where can I find her?” Mark asked the attendant on duty.
“She’s in the gym watching a pickup basketball game. She should be there for another ten minutes or so.”
Mark strolled into the gym and found an early-twenties woman in shorts and T-shirt sitting on a chair by herself on the sidelines. He pulled up another folding chair and sat beside her.
“Are you Julia Ruthers?”
Her unwavering, wide brown eyes and dimpled smile enhanced her nod.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the night of the murder on the platform tennis court,” he said.
Her smile faded. “Do I have to go over that again?”
“I’d very much appreciate it if you could answer a few questions. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“I can only spare a few minutes.” She peeked at her watch. “Then I have to cover the front desk.”
Mark pressed on. “I played on the adjoining court that night. When I arrived, one of the lights was out in the parking lot. Do you know what happened to it?”
“We received a complaint that a vagrant threw rocks at the light. I went out to check, but he ran away.”
“Did you see him clearly?”
“Not then, but I think the same man came inside later.”
Mark’s heart beat faster. “What happened?”
“This street guy sneaked in when I wasn’t looking and turned off the platform tennis court lights.”
“How’d he do that?”
“There’s a switch behind the counter. While I retrieved a towel for someone else, he apparently walked behind the desk. The lights make a clicking sound when turned on or off. I heard the noise and saw him sneaking away from the switch.”
Mark watched the pickup basketball game end and the group of players head toward the locker room. “Did you get a good look at him then?”
“Yeah. When I turned around, I surprised him as much as he surprised me.”
“Did anyone else spot him?”
“I don’t think so. I shouted, ‘Hey,’ when I saw him, and he ran outside. I went to the door, but he had disappeared by then.”
Mark tried to picture in his mind the scene Julia described and then returned his attention to her. “Do me a favor. Close your eyes and try to remember exactly what this man looked like.”
She pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and narrowed her gaze at Mark. “Are you kidding me? I told you I need to return to work.”
His eyes met hers. “Humor me. Just try it.”
She shrugged and closed her eyes.
“Put yourself back to that night,” Mark said in a soothing voice.
She opened her eyes, blinked and closed them again.
He waited a moment for her to stop fidgeting. Then he continued. “You turn and see this man behind you.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Describe him.”
“An old guy, skinny, gray mustache, gray goatee, long gray hair, pockmarked leathery face.”
“Do you notice any unique characteristics?” Mark asked.
“Just an old vagrant. Dirty, wild-eyed.” She wrinkled her nose. “Smelled like garbage.”
“Any distinguishing clothes?”
“No, only worn jeans and a dirty, black sweatshirt. I don’t remember any writing on the sweatshirt.”
“You see him clearly now. You notice something distinctive. Describe it.”
“Nothing . . . wait . . . it’s shiny . . . that’s it. He had an earring. A silver cross.” She opened her eyes wide in surprise.
“Did you tell all this to the police?”
“All except the silver cross earring. I didn’t recall that until now.”
“You’ve been a big help. Thanks. I won’t keep you any longer.”
Mark sat outside on a cement bench, watching the sun disappear behind the foothills. He had to locate this street person. If he didn’t have a home, where would he hang out? He’d choose the Pearl Street Mall. Full of homeless people and panhandlers. Since winter hadn’t set in, they hadn’t moved south yet.
As Mark pulled out of the parking lot, he remembered the feeling of being followed the night before. He looked in his mirror and saw numerous cars behind him on the busy street.
CHAPTER 19
As he drove, Mark once again had the feeling of being followed. Too many cars on Broadway to make any clear identification. Was his paranoia acting up again?
He locked his car and made his way out of the parking structure on the east end of the outdoor downtown mall. A group of children climbed sculptured animals and jumped into the sand in a play area. Amid the shouts of “Quit pushing” and “Leave my truck alone,” Mark remembered his own children playing here when they were young. He jogged across Fourteenth Street to avoid a speeding car and then slowed down as he saw a crowd of street people sitting on the courthouse lawn. He sauntered up to the group.
“Any of you seen a guy with gray hair and goatee who has a silver cross earring?” Mark asked.
