Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  Mark looked at the wall of the garage farthest from the house, a smoldering black surface with all his garden tools destroyed. The fire had burned a hole in the roof. He climbed through the jagged opening in the door and waded through puddles of sooty mess. Wiping his brow, he determined that the fire had not reached the main part of the house.

  Good thing neither car was in the garage.

  By the time he had completed his visual inspection of the garage, Detective Peters had arrived.

  “I saw someone running away from the scene, but I didn’t catch a good look,” Mark explained. “How do you think he started the fire?”

  Peters scanned the scene.

  “Broken window. I’d guess a Molotov cocktail. The damage appears contained to one side of the garage. Fortunately, the fire didn’t have time to spread and didn’t ignite a can of gasoline or a lawn mower full of gas.”

  “I used to have an extra can of gas on the shelf, but emptied it all when I last mowed in early October. Good thing I also ran the mower dry.” Mark looked at the smoldering remains of his five-year-old Toro.

  “I’ll work with the fire department and have an arson investigator check for glass and other remnants,” Peters said.

  Mark paused for a moment and then looked Peters in the eyes. “I know you believe Ken Idler murdered Manny Grimes, but I still think you locked up the wrong person. Someone besides Ken Idler started the fire and although it could be someone aiding Idler, it’s more likely to be the work of Lee Daggett, Howard Roscoe or Jacob Fish.”

  The detective’s expression didn’t change.

  “You should nail Idler on drug smuggling charges from what I’ve seen and heard, but not murder,” Mark continued. “You need to investigate the other three. It’s obvious they’re all involved in illegal activities, but only one is the murderer of Manny Grimes and Old Mel.”

  “Any other advice for me?” Detective Peters said, sarcastically.

  “Yes.” Mark reached in his pocket, extracted the padlock key and tossed it to Peters. “Go check out storage shed twenty-nine at the Your Store Self Storage facility on the south side of Arapahoe. Rented by Manny Grimes.”

  “I should arrest you for tampering with evidence,” Peters said with a scowl.

  “You should thank me. Your people have been to the Grimes house three times and never found that key.”

  After Peters left, Mark made a mental note to contact the insurance adjuster in the morning. Right now he wanted to find some place to stay in case the arsonist returned to do more than send a message.

  He took out his cell phone and called Ben.

  “Could I impose on you and come sleep in your spare bedroom tonight? There’s been a little accident at my house.”

  “What do you mean by ‘little accident’?”

  “Someone firebombed my garage.”

  “Mark, I’ll be happy to let you stay, but you know you need to lay off this investigation.”

  “Yes, I know. Everyone tells me the same thing. Obviously, someone thinks I’m getting too close. But, interestingly enough, since Ken Idler has been arrested for the murder, he can’t be the one threatening me. It’s one of the other three.”

  “There you go. You’re trying to suck me in again.”

  “No, I’ll park it for the night.”

  “Okay. Besides we need to strategize for the upcoming city council meeting. We can discuss it over breakfast in the morning.”

  As Mark lay in Ben’s guest bedroom, thoughts of murder suspects swirled in his head. Sure, Ken Idler could be sending someone to harass him, but he had larger problems on his hands. Mark’s gut said that one of the other three suspects wanted him out of the way. Jacob Fish could easily have stolen the gun and knife from Howard Roscoe’s house and committed the Old Mel murder and the deer slashing. The evidence originally weighed toward Howard Roscoe because of the timing of his arrival the night of Manny’s murder, but, since then, no evidence directly pointed to Howard. And Lee Daggett with the Cheryl Idler connection bothered Mark. Something Old Mel had said nagged at him, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and although he was inching closer, he hadn’t put the puzzle completely together yet.

  In the morning Mark sat down with Ben to have a cup of coffee and bowl of cereal.

  “You look like shit,” Ben said with a grin.

  “Thanks for the keen observation. I didn’t sleep much last night. Trying to figure out who murdered Manny and Old Mel.”

  “I’ve told you all along I think it’s Howard Roscoe. Timing of when he showed up.”

  “That’s part of the key. I’ve been going over the details in my mind all night. There’s something Old Mel said that my pre-Alzheimer’s brain keeps trying to remember.”

  “It’s all tied to the fifth man arriving at the court,” Ben said, punching Mark’s shoulder playfully.

  Mark jumped out of the chair spilling his coffee on the table. “That’s it! That’s the missing piece I’ve been trying to remember.”

  Ben looked at him quizzically.

  Mark paced the room. “Old Mel told me that he had been instructed to wait for the fifth man to appear before turning off the lights.”

  “So?” Ben raised his eyebrows.

  “The murderer knew a fifth man would appear. Which of the suspects knew that?”

  “Maybe the guy who arrived, Howard Roscoe.”

  “No. He would only come if he thought he planned to substitute. It has to be whoever called Howard to fill in.”

  Ben regarded Mark blankly.

  Mark punched his right fist into his left hand. “Right before the lights went out, an argument occurred. Howard Roscoe called out someone’s name.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Lee.”

  “Yes. Roscoe accused Lee Daggett of not calling him back to cancel. Only Daggett knew that a fifth man would appear.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Daggett invites Roscoe to fill in, doesn’t tell him that there are already four players, has him come at seven-thirty when everyone else arrived at seven, sets up Old Mel to turn out the lights, then kills Manny.”

  “Phone Detective Peters immediately. He needs to know this.”

  “Not yet,” Mark said, putting up a hand to hold off Ben. “There’s one piece that still doesn’t fit. When he lined him up, why would Daggett tell Old Mel that his name was Manny?”

  “Probably planting a red herring.”

  “No. That doesn’t make sense. If Daggett planned all this, he’d have to make it look like someone else committed the murder. Like the police think Ken Idler did it or like you’ve been leaning toward Howard Roscoe. If Daggett told Old Mel the name of one of the other suspects, I’d believe it. It doesn’t fit that he’d plant the victim’s name with Old Mel.”

  Ben took a sip of coffee. “Anyway, Mark, stay away from Daggett. The guy’s dangerous. Now, before I go to work, since I can’t afford to be a member of the leisure class like you, we have another subject to discuss. We have our final showdown in front of the city council tonight.”

  The group needed to maintain a tight schedule to be able to complete their regular three sets before the council meeting. Fortunately, Shelby arrived only five minutes late.

  After being partners a set each with Woody and Shelby, Mark and Ben teamed in the third and final set. With Shelby serving to Mark for the set at five games to four, forty-thirty, Mark could see sweat glistening on Shelby’s forehead in the reflected light. In this game Shelby had already served two faults, an unforgivable sin in this sport where the server had only one and not two chances to get the ball in play. Shelby had a tendency to serve too hard. Sometimes the ball would careen off the corner, but more likely he faulted. Then, when he fell behind, he’d send a puff ball over the net, which would be creamed by his opponent. Kind of like his handling of the Idler investigation. Inappropriate and inconsistent.

  Shelby wound up and launched his serve, which struck the top of the net and dribbled over. Mark raced forward bu
t couldn’t reach the ball before it bounced twice.

  “What a way to end the match,” Shelby said with a snicker as they met at the net to shake hands.

  Mark glared at Shelby. “You’re lucky that the let rule changed a few years ago, otherwise you’d have had to serve again. You’d probably have faulted the next time.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Woody said with a smile.

  Mark hit the net with his paddle.

  Woody jumped.

  “What’s the matter?” Ben asked.

  “I guess I’m still nervous after Manny’s murder and the attack on Paul Crandall.”

  Mark bent over to pick up his equipment bag. A gun shot rang out. Mark heard a twanging sound as something struck the net post. Heart pounding, he dropped to the court surface, scraping his chin.

  “It came from the open space.” Ben pointed. “Let’s head into the rec center.”

  Mark jumped up and joined his three companions in a dash toward the building.

  Once inside, they stood, breathing rapidly.

  “This is my fault,” Mark said. “I’ve pissed off the murderer, and he’s been threatening me. I’m sorry to involve the three of you in this again.”

  “Let’s call the police,” Woody said.

  Mark placed his hand on Woody’s arm. “Peters will only give me a ration of crap and tell me to get out of town for a while.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Ben said.

  “I have to get to the meeting to fight for keeping the platform tennis courts. Just find a substitute player for me until things settle down.”

  “But Manny always substituted for you,” Ben said. “And now he’s dead. Our other alternate was Paul Crandall, but he wouldn’t risk it again.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Mark parked in the large lot behind the library. Remembering the castigation from the last city council meeting, he left his cell phone in the glove compartment of his car. He then walked across the footbridge that spanned Boulder Creek and entered the municipal building. His mind spun with images of Manny’s murder, his garage burning and Old Mel’s dead body. He kept circling the answer like a disoriented fly, but he still hadn’t pieced it all together. He had to stay focused. Tonight he had a different mission. He and the other platform tennis players had to convince the city council to keep the courts at the North Boulder Rec Center.

  The council followed the same procedure as the previous meetings. People wanting to make comments could sign a list for the particular agenda item of interest. Mark added his name behind five other signatures that would be called in sequence.

  He didn’t spot any of his group, so he found a seat near the back of the auditorium in order to watch the audience. Ben had said he’d meet him here. Mark recognized a number of the neighborhood opponents from the earlier meetings. Probably not bad people, just obstructionists, as he saw it.

  Five minutes later, Ben dashed into the room, looking wildly around.

  Mark signaled to him.

  Ben threw himself down in the seat next to Mark. “Ready for the fireworks?”

  “I have my statement prepared,” Mark said. “It’s time to force a decision.”

  Ben scowled. “I hear it’s too close to call. Two appear to be already in favor and two already opposed, which leaves three undecided. They sit up there not really caring one way or the other concerning this issue, while we’re sweating bullets over the outcome.”

  The meeting began and the first topic concerned changes to the shopping center. One of the council members, a man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows, grabbed the microphone and glared at the mayor. “How dare you pass the preliminary resolution at the last meeting. I specifically requested that it be held until I returned from vacation.”

  “Calm down,” the mayor and moderator, a woman in a dark-green sweater said. “No one excluded you. We took a preliminary vote to test the waters to gain a sense of opinion on the issue. We deferred the final vote until this evening.”

  “I put months of research into the subject of land use for the shopping center and know more than anyone else on the council. Proceeding without me was completely unacceptable.”

  Two of the council members rolled their eyes. The mayor said, “The business of the council must go on. Now you can make whatever statement you want.”

  The protestor launched into a long and emotional tirade advocating the need to provide low-cost housing along with the expansion of the shopping center.

  Ben poked Mark in the ribs. “This guy will want to tie low-cost housing to the approval of the platform tennis courts. Just watch.”

  “It’s obvious the council members have their own pet projects, much like we do,” Mark said.

  At five minutes after eight the platform tennis question came up for review. Once again the park planner reiterated why he recommended that the courts stay at the North Boulder Rec Center. A representative from the parks board explained their decision to support the recommendation. Then a member of the planning board testified that, in spite of the parks board, they had decided against the recommendation because of concern over the land use at the increasingly crowded site in North Boulder.

  “The rec center expanded, so we’re supposed to be pushed out?” Ben said, twisting in his chair.

  “We’re the lucky recipient of the oversight in planning,” Mark added. “No one has admitted that a screwup occurred in not including the platform tennis courts in the original rec-center expansion plans.”

  Next, comments began from the public. Mark listened as a man in a turtleneck sweater gave an impassioned plea to rid his neighborhood of the noise, light and undesirable “paddle-toting miscreants.”

  Mark’s lips curled in disgust. “There’s a statement that would be perfect on someone’s tombstone. Where do these people come from?”

  When the moderator called his name, Mark leaped out of his seat and strode to the microphone to make his statement. He surveyed the city council members. One man twiddled a pencil; a woman looked off to the side with a bored expression; several, including the mayor, made eye contact; and the low-cost-housing man gave Mark a frigid stare. Great. Count one against him, and he hadn’t even said anything yet.

  Mark cleared his throat. “First, I’d like to ask all the people who play platform tennis to stand up.” He turned to the room as approximately fifty people scattered throughout the auditorium rose.

  “As you can see, a wide variety of people of different ages, sizes and shapes enjoy platform tennis.” Several chuckles emerged from the audience. Two council members who had previously stared at him impassively now smiled.

  “This sport can be played from childhood through old age. The city has had the foresight to install two courts at the North Boulder Rec Center, providing recreation and exercise to a community of over two hundred players here in Boulder, players who vote. I personally have met a hundred and twenty-seven of these people over the last several years.” He didn’t mention one of these being dead and another in jail.

  He then paused to make sure his point regarding the number of voters had sunk in. “The neighbors have raised legitimate concerns so let me address them. There can be noise. Therefore, the relocated courts will be installed closer to ground level to reduce the amount of noise. Lighted tennis courts currently exist at the rec center so light at night will not be eliminated by not having platform tennis courts. But with the proposed courts being lowered and with the planned low-scatter lights, there will be significantly less diffused light than today. The community of platform tennis players has agreed, in good faith, to limit play so as to complete by nine P.M. to further alleviate the apprehensions raised by the neighbors.”

  Mark saw one more council member looking up with interest. “Open space being taken away is a valid concern. What used to be a small park will be replaced by a drainage holding area as required by city code, not because of the platform tennis courts, but because of the expanded rec center.”

  Mark saw a head nod from
a councilwoman. “I have walked through the neighborhood and found seven houses and ten apartments that will have a view of the platform tennis courts. If someone watches television in any of these dwellings, they will never notice a light nor hear a sound. Also, a playground exists right on the other side of the apartments. When in use, this park playground produces more noise than the platform tennis courts.”

  Mark paused and eyed Mr. Low Cost Housing, who gave him a scorching look back. “During the summer, daylight continues past nine P.M., so winter use of the lighted courts until that time should provide no more distraction than natural summer sunlight. The council must decide between conflicting rights for the greater good of the community. Why take away an existing, popular resource when all the stated concerns have been addressed? The real objection from the neighbors isn’t the platform tennis courts. It’s the expansion of the rec center, and the city has already decided to enlarge the recreation building. The platform tennis players are merely the unfortunate recipients of the reaction to the expansion. I urge you to rule for the best interest in our community and keep the platform tennis courts. Thank you.”

  Mark scanned the faces of the council members one last time. One woman nodded to him. Two others smiled. The low-cost-housing advocate fixed him with an icy stare.

  As he returned to his seat, he heard a smattering of applause from supporters and an undertone of growls from rec-center neighbors. He also anticipated, and saw, a few glowers.

  After several more speakers, the mayor threw the issue open for discussion among council members.

  The low-cost-housing proponent grabbed the microphone. “I can’t support this. It’s obvious that an elite group is pushing their own agenda at the expense of residents who live in low-cost apartments bordering the rec center. The families in the apartments deserve peace and quiet as much as someone who can afford a palatial estate.”

  “What’d I tell you,” Ben whispered in Mark’s ear. “This guy turns everything into a low-cost-housing issue. Count one against us so far.”