Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11

by Jack Grochot

  The first face to greet Kelly as she stepped off the elevator was that of Chuck Mann, her co-anchor of The Six O’Clock Report. Before she could say hi, Chuck grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “Is it true, Kel? Tell me it’s true,” he said in a conspiratorial tone that would have made Deep Throat proud.

  “What are you talking about?” she said, pulling free.

  “Aren’t you the sly one,” Chuck continued, straightening his too-expensive-for-a-local-news-anchor tie. “Haggling with management over that new contract while you’re planning an escape to the coast with Mr. Golden Glove.”

  Somebody else knew, Kelly thought. And if Chuck knew, the entire station knew or soon would. “Chuck,” she said, giving him a look that meant she was deadly serious, “nothing has been settled except that Paul has been traded to the Dodgers.”

  “If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I know we make a great team, but, to tell the truth, I’ve been giving some serious thought to going solo. And if you leave, I’ll be able to pitch some great ideas to Bill.”

  “Great ideas?”

  “Sure,” said Chuck. “That special series you’ve been doing this year—Locked Up—has been pretty successful, but for me, Kel, it’s a little dull.”

  “What’s dull about stories dealing with bringing criminals to justice?”

  “Maybe it’s that just-the-facts-ma’am-Joe-Friday delivery of yours, but I know people today want more drama, more pizzazz. I’m thinking some live ride-along footage and some undercover shots to spice things up.”

  Kelly was having trouble stifling a smile at the thought of her co-anchor dressed in anything but his designer blazer and slacks haunting the city’s docks in search of a drug deal.

  “The series title would say it all,” beamed the now-on-a-roll Chuck. “Something like ‘Mann Up’ or ‘Odd Mann Out’ or ‘Under the Mann Hole’.”

  Just then, Kelly spotted Phillips coming toward them…and he didn’t look happy. “Chuck,” she said, stepping around the now-frenetic newsman, “sounds promising; let’s talk later.”

  “Miss Locke,” said her boss, using his called-on-the-carpet appellation, “we need to talk—now!”

  III

  Kelly opened the door to her condo and dragged herself to the refrigerator, dropping her purse and kicking off her Jimmy Choos in the process. What a night, she thought as she pulled a cool bottle and unscrewed the cap. She had felt like a middle-schooler as she sat across the huge metal desk from her boss and listened to him read her the riot act concerning loyalty, career suicide, and anything else he could dredge up to make her feel guilty about a move west.

  “But, Bill,” she squeezed in when he finally took a breath, “I haven’t made any decision about a move.”

  “You have only one decision, young lady, and that is to honor your new contract.”

  “But I haven’t signed it yet.”

  Phillips’s face reddened. “Now I get it. This is a ploy to leverage more money. Probably that barracuda of an agent. I thought we were going to come to blows several times during those negotiations.”

  “Money has nothing to do with this,” Kelly said, holding her sometimes quick temper.

  With that, her boss stood, and in a totally dismissive tone said, “You’d best think about your future and the dire consequences of hubris, Miss Locke.”

  Kelly stared at the half-empty bottle. “Paul,” she said, exasperated. Why couldn’t he just head for L.A. by himself and give her some time to think about their relationship? And why hadn’t he realized by now that she had a mind of her own and didn’t like others making decisions for her—especially such important ones?

  She decided to escape her domestic travails by diving into that which she loved since she read her first Sherlock Holmes story—mystery. She pulled out the evidence box her dad left the night before. When she worried about his leaving official material with a civilian, Matt Locke had countered with the dual rationale that the case was about to be classified “cold” and that he was the top of the food chain as far as determining who got to look at the material.

  She had just started to flip through some reports in a manila folder when her cell phone buzzed. It was Paul.

  “Hey, babe,” came the familiar voice. “Hope I’m not calling too late, but I had to tell you about my day.”

  “Paul, please don’t call me babe. I—”

  “Sure thing. Man, what a day! First time in Dodger blue, and I hit for the cycle. The fans went bananas. You’re going to love it here, babe…I mean Kel.”

  Kelly measured her words. “I can’t believe you told people I was following you to Los Angeles, even got Fira to scout out a job. Paul, I have a good job here, and Dad—”

  “Come on, Kel. You’re not Daddy’s little girl any more. You have to cut those strings. Moving away from all that comfort will do wonders for you…for us.”

  “But, Paul,” Kelly said sternly, “you don’t get to make that decision for me.”

  “I thought we had an understanding.”

  Kelly’s throat tightened. “You could have at least given me time to talk with Dad. He’s going through a tough period right now.”

  “Babe, you can’t waste your life worrying about him…he’s a big boy. Now, when are you coming out?”

  “I can’t talk about this now,” said Kelly. She clicked off the phone as a tear welled up in her eye.

  IV

  A restless night’s sleep had done little for Kelly’s mood. After Paul’s call, she had fought the urge to sulk and had returned to the evidence box. She’d found nothing that immediately caught her eye—just the official reports, a few crime scene photos, and some interview notes from the officer on call and her dad.

  She was pouring a second cup of coffee when her phone buzzed. This time it was Matt Locke.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi, Kelly. Just called to apologize for the weepy act last night. It’s just that—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything. I know how much you loved Mom.”

  “Listen, Kelly, I’m driving out to the cemetery, and I wondered if you’d like to go.”

  Kelly’s throbbing head protested, but she quickly said, “Sure.”

  * * * *

  As Matt and Kelly walked through the tall grass at the Pheasant Run Cemetery, Kelly realized that they hadn’t said a word the entire 20-minute drive.

  Arriving at her mother’s grave, Kelly tenderly squeezed her dad’s huge hand. “You two really loved each other, didn’t you?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. Twenty-eight years of total devotion.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad,” said Kelly, releasing his hand. “You two were married twenty-nine years when she died.”

  Matthew Locke looked intently at the gravestone. “Libby,” he said, “we agreed not to tell the kids.”

  “Tell us about what?”

  Her dad turned to Kelly. “Your mother and I were going through a rough period when she died. That’s why we were at the cabin. Thought maybe if we spent some time alone, we could set things right.”

  “Set things right?”

  “Kelly, I was moving up in the force, lots of late nights and hurried meals. You and Myles were a handful to say the least, and your mother was feeling a bit deserted. We had you two rather late in our marriage, and she needed me to help out. I thought we were getting back on track that weekend, then…”

  Kelly wrapped her arms around the bear of a man. “Dad, you can’t blame yourself; it was an accident.”

  “That’s just it, Kelly; for twenty-one years I’ve never believed your mother’s death was an accident. I was supposed to be in that cabin, too. That explosion was meant for me.”

  V

  Matt Locke guided the unmarked sedan into a parking
slot at Rachel’s, his newly-discovered best-restaurant-nobody’s-heard-of, and turned off the engine. The drive from the cemetery had been as silent as the trip there.

  “The least I can do,” said Kelly’s dad, “is treat you to an early lunch.”

  “Dad,” said Kelly, again touching his hand, “we need to talk about what happened and why you think that explosion was meant for you.”

  Matt opened the door and pulled away. “Later, Kelly; now just isn’t the time.”

  As they walked toward the restaurant, Kelly decided not to push things. She’d learned long ago that her dad had his own timetable for everything and nothing could make him change it. “I looked through the Strong evidence box last night. Nothing stuck out.”

  “Oh,” said her dad, regaining some of his usual energy. “And I was so sure that like the Great Detective, you’d spot something that everyone else missed.”

  “Maybe if you’d review the case for me,” said Kelly as they slid into the booth’s bright red vinyl seats, “I’d be inspired.”

  Matt Locke chuckled and took a sip of water. “My notes pretty much tell it all. D. MacMillan Strong, one of our city’s most powerful industrialists, was found dead in his study. As far as we could make out, someone hit him from behind with a brick from a display commemorating the opening of his first munitions plant way back in the 70s. The blood trail suggested that he tried to make it to the door, but fell as he passed a bookcase.”

  “Yeah,” said Kelly. “I saw the shots of the body with the books he’d knocked off. By the way, who found him?”

  “His wife, Beth. They’d been married thirty-eight years. She said she’d come to the study to remind him of a dinner engagement.”

  “How did she take his death?” questioned Kelly.

  Matt put down the menu he’d been poring over. “Come to think of it, she was actually pretty cool for someone who’s found a spouse murdered in such a brutal fashion.”

  “Did you think she was a possible suspect?”

  “Not really. To tell the truth, she’s a small person, and I’m not sure she could have handled that brick. Besides, she had just returned home from a charity event downtown. Had three credible witnesses.”

  Kelly glanced at the menu. “Any suggestions?”

  “They have a cook here named Chris, who makes a killer—pardon the pun—lasagna. In fact, when we walked in, they probably assumed we’d be having it.”

  “Lasagna it is,” said Kelly, closing the menu. “You said you interviewed a son.”

  “Yeah, only child. Russell was the apple of his father’s eye, according to all accounts. Sent to the best schools and groomed to take over Strong Industries.”

  “You know what they say about murders and close relatives.”

  “My interviews with those closest to the family admitted that Russell and his father crossed swords at times over how the business should be run—the old man was old school while Russell was more 21st Century in his approach—but at the end of the day, they seemed to be genuinely close. That day, Russell was across town at the family stables. Seems he was quite the polo player.”

  Kelly interrupted her inquiry long enough to take a bite of the steaming lasagna placed before her. “Wow! I can see why you hesitate to order anything else—this is terrific.”

  “Told you,” said Matt.

  Even the mouthwatering dish couldn’t keep Kelly quiet for long. “Did Strong have any enemies?”

  “I might be able to name friends more quickly. Face it, this guy was a successful businessman who didn’t mind stepping on people to get what he wanted, so, yes, he had enemies.”

  “Did any seem capable of murder?”

  Matt wiped the corner of his mouth. “To tell the truth, they all seemed plenty capable, but I have my eye on three guys in particular.”

  “And they would be?”

  “Anton Spasky, a Russian immigrant who runs an import-export business and was Strong’s chief competition to buy the Metros—”

  “Paul’s team.” Kelly didn’t want to introduce the issue of Paul’s leaving, since her dad seemed to be one of the few who didn’t know.

  “That’s right. Those two have been jockeying for months.”

  “But to kill someone over a baseball team?”

  “Hey, sports are big business. George Steinbrenner bought the Yankees for $10 million in 1973, and today Forbes tells us they’re worth $1.3 billion. I’ve worked cases where someone was killed for a pack of cigarettes.”

  “You said you had three major suspects.”

  “That’s right.” Matt signaled the server for some coffee. “Number two is Cotton Hazelwood, Strong’s chief rival for a massive contract with the military for unmanned drones. The company that gets the contract will probably put the other out of business or at least eliminate its ability to seriously compete in the future.”

  “And the third?” said Kelly swirling the cream into her cup.

  “He’s the strangest of them all. Glenn Hall.”

  “Chopper Hall, the Kingmaker?”

  “Bingo.” Matt took a sip of the steaming coffee. “He got the name Chopper for all the political assassinations he’s carried out over the years.”

  “What connection did he have with Strong?”

  “His real connection was with Russell. He was convinced that Russell was the next John Kennedy Jr., and he was angling to get Russell into politics.”

  “But what makes him a suspect in Strong the elder’s murder?”

  Kelly’s dad took another drink of his undoctored coffee. “The old man was grooming Russell to take over the business. The last thing he wanted was for his son to detour into politics. Your station probably covered that dust-up Strong had with Hall last year at the Dewey Charity Ball. Strong called Hall a parasite, and Hall grabbed him and threatened to crush him if Strong didn’t back off.”

  “From what?”

  “Everybody assumed he meant his attempts to push Russell into the political arena.”

  Kelly drained her cup. “That’s quite a rogues’s gallery. I’d say you’re right in your estimate that any of the three would be capable of murder.”

  “But singling out the murderer hasn’t been as easy. As you might suspect with men of such wealth and influence, they all had alibis for the time of the murder. Thus my stone wall.”

  As her dad called for the bill, Kelly quickly ran over a couple of scenarios in her mind. Like her favorite detective, she let the pieces swirl until she could fit them into their proper order. She didn’t have everything she needed yet, but the conversation had been a start.

  “By the way, Kelly, will you and Paul be coming by for dinner this weekend? I’ve ordered some steaks from Omaha, and I can’t wait to try out that new grill.”

  Kelly froze. She didn’t have the energy to launch into her current romantic dilemma. “Can’t make it, Dad; Paul’s got a road game.”

  VI

  Kelly picked up the autographed baseball from her freshly dusted desk. As she ran her fingers over the seams, she remembered the night she had gotten it from Paul. The Metros were playing the Red Sox and holding on to a 3–1 lead in the ninth. The bases were loaded when David Ortiz hit a drive to center field. The Metros’s all-star center fielder turned and headed right at her as she held her breath. Not three feet from the fence he held up his glove and made a leaping catch over his shoulder to end the game.

  As the crowd went wild, the player looked at her before pitching her the ball and inviting her to meet him outside the locker room. That night Paul would not only take her to dinner but also return the ball to her after having it signed by the entire team.

  She pitched the ball into the air. What a whirlwind romance they had. She was used to cameras, but being with a celebrity was an entirely different story. Everyw
here they went, photographers popped out of nowhere to snap pictures, and fans of all ages ignored any sense of privacy to clamor for an autograph on a program, a menu, or, more than once, a part of the feminine anatomy.

  Suddenly the door burst open, interrupting Kelly’s reverie. The long-legged woman in a tight, almost-too-short skirt leaped toward the desk.

  “Fira,” blurted out Kelly.

  “The one and only. Girl, I just couldn’t wait to give you the news.”

  “Dare I ask what news?”

  Fira’s flawless coffee-colored face lit up even more than usual. “When WSEE, L.A.’s numero uno station, heard that number two made a contract offer to you and took a look at your tapes—courtesy of yours truly—they couldn’t wait to make a counter offer. Girl, we’re L.A.-bound!”

  Kelly replaced the baseball on its stand. “Wait just a minute, Fira. Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to go the West Coast?”

  “Who isn’t California dreaming? You and Paul—and I’ve decided to represent our favorite center fielder. I’ve got such plans for the two of you. Brad and Angelina, Kanye and Kim, Paul and Kelly.”

  “Sounds like everybody has plans for me.” Kelly stood up. “Moving is a big decision, and I don’t want to be rushed into anything.”

  “Rushed?” said her agent. “The station’s given us till Monday for an answer.”

  “Considering this is Thursday, I’d say rushed pretty much covers it.”

  Fira placed her hands on her hips in exasperation. “Girl, I just worked my young butt off for you, and now you’re telling me you need time to think about things?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Well, you’re throwing away a big score, but like I said, it’s your life. And what about Paul? He assumed—”