5 A Sporting Murder

by Chester D. Campbell

  As my little earpiece blared with the conversation across the room, Aregis did most of the talking. At first it was “nice to see you again” and “how have you been?” When they ordered, I suspected he was trying to impress Jill that he was now a true Tennessean. He asked for Jack Daniel’s and water. Jill chose her favorite wine, Zinfandel.

  “My secretary looked around at a few newsstands but couldn’t find your magazine,” he said after a few minutes. “When will the article be published?”

  Uh oh, I thought. I hoped the lady hadn’t asked the store if they could order a copy. She would have been told that Sporting World was not among magazines listed in their computer.

  Jill didn’t hesitate. “The editors work several weeks ahead. It’ll be a while before that issue comes out. I’ll be happy to let you know when it does.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, but he promptly hit on another touchy subject. “I see by your rings that you’re married. What does your husband do?”

  My wife is about as moral a person as I’ve ever met. I had a real problem convincing her that in detective work it was necessary to masquerade your motives occasionally. I told her it wasn’t the same as ordinary lying. It was more like a solder’s camouflage, changing appearances to protect yourself or your operation. She finally bought into it but now used her wiles to stick with the truth. “He’s retired military,” she said. “Air Force.”

  “Was he a pilot?”

  “No, he was an investigator.”

  “Interesting.”

  Before he could push the question further, she outflanked him. “The name Aregis is rather unusual. I found a reference to it as being Greek. Is that where your parents came from?”

  “Actually, my father came from Greece. An area near the Turkish border. My mother was from a small town in Sicily. So I guess I’m Greco-Italian.”

  That mention of Sicily rang a bell. I recalled Vernon Quillen mentioning talk that Aregis’ mother’s family had Mafia connections.

  “Did your parents settle in Florida when they came to the United States?” Jill asked.

  “Yes, but they didn’t come over together. They met in Miami and were married there, before moving to Orlando, where I was born. My mother had relatives in Miami, but Dad was the only Aregis to immigrate.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, I was an only child.”

  “So was I. My father sold insurance for one of the major companies, and my mother played classical violin. She was in the Nashville Symphony during my younger days.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to attend a symphony concert here. We were symphony patrons in Pensacola, but I’ve been too busy with the move and getting the business re-established in Nashville.”

  I could make out Jill resting her elbows on the table and folding her hands, although it was difficult to tell much of what was going on in that cave-like atmosphere. “Does your wife like classical music?” she asked. “You said she was a country music fan.”

  “Uh…oh, yes. She likes all kinds of music. It’s just that country is her favorite.”

  What a jerk. That lame excuse was made up on the spur of the moment to help justify the move.

  “Have there been any new developments in the NBA franchise affair since we talked?” she asked.

  “That’s really why I wanted you to meet me here. As you probably know, the local news outlets aren’t too kind to so-called ‘outsiders.’ I’m supposed to be the chief spokesman for this deal, but they defer to Howard Hays, who’s a local legend. Writing for a national publication, you have a wider perspective. I’m sure you have media contacts here.”

  “Yes,” Jill said. “At the newspaper and one of the TV stations in particular.”

  I sipped sparingly on my drink and grinned. She referred to my reporter buddy, Wes Knight, and our new Channel 4 contact, Rod Jenson.

  “Howard is a conservative who wants to keep everything under wraps until we have a firm deal. We need to stir up the public and get them behind this thing. I want to get the word out that Coastal Capital Ventures is committed one hundred percent to bringing this city a National Basketball Association team. I want the people to push the City Council for unanimous support of our efforts.”

  Good luck, I thought. With five at large seats and thirty-five representing districts, you’d have a real problem getting the Metro Council to unanimously agree on the time of day.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he said. “But you have to agree to keep it confidential until it’s been cleared. Agreed?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  I had to grin at that, too. “My” was the operative word. She made no promises as to what her husband might do.

  “We’ve begun some serious discussions with an owner,” he said. “I can’t tell you who, but it’s a start. I’m hopeful it won’t take long to get a workable deal.”

  “That’s great news,” Jill said. “I’m sure Mr. Hays and Mr. Ricketts are elated about that.”

  “They’re pretty naïve at this sort of thing. Frankly, they’d be lost without me.”

  That got him started on a long, pompous oration about all the high-powered dealing he had done. After listening a bit, I checked my watch and decided we’d heard enough of Nashville’s new savior from the Promised Land to the south. I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Jill. I heard her phone ring.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s time to wrap this up, babe,” I said. “We need to get something to eat before we head to the hockey game. Tell Mr. Wonderful good night.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  I heard her tell him she had to wrap it up. I signaled the waitress to pay my check. When Aregis offered to escort Jill to her car, she said that wouldn’t be necessary as she needed to stop at a store in the building next door. I walked out ahead of her, then moseyed along until I heard her say good-bye. I glanced around and saw her come out of the Black Watch Lounge alone.

  We rendezvoused in the building’s elevator lobby.

  “What did you think of Prince Charming?” she asked with a mischievous grin.

  I shook my head. “There’s not much doubt about what he thinks of himself.”

  “He has a lot of charisma, if you can take the narcissism.”

  “Unfortunately, they often go hand in hand. But I’m afraid our client isn’t going to feel charmed when he hears the news about their discussions with an NBA owner.”

  Chapter 28

  We arrived early at the arena, located downtown at Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The first of Nashville’s hotly-disputed, big-ticket, publicly-funded sports projects, and the smallest at only $150 million, the arena was fronted by a twenty-two-story tower that squeezed down to what looked like a radio station antenna on top. The arena itself, viewed at night from high up in a downtown hotel, resembled a clamshell opening with bared teeth, if clams had teeth. We picked up the tickets Smotherman had left for us and took an elevator to the Suite Level.

  With the distinctive Hatrick Brake Company logo at the door, we had no trouble finding the correct location. Inside, it featured a counter with a variety of snack foods, a large flat-panel TV screen above, and another table with a roll top food warmer. A row of chairs behind a serving counter faced the ice rink, with two rows of seats beyond, angled down toward the ice. A small Christmas tree covered with colorful lights and ornaments stood in one corner of the room. A green wreath and garlands of red and silver decked the walls.

  “Glad you could make it,” a beaming Brad Smotherman said as he hurried over to welcome us. He wore similar casual garb to what we’d seen at his office.

  “We take in a game now and then,” I said, “but we’ve never been to the suites before. Nice location.”

  “We’re almost on the red line, and we’re high enough to get an excellent view of the ice.”

  The red line was hockey’s equivalent of football’s fifty-yard line. I gazed out over the ex
panse of white below. Although this was more like a working vacation, I gave the work part top priority. “When will Mack Nelson be here?”

  “Just talked to him. He’s on the way. Gordon said he’d drop by, also. He’s in a different suite. Sample the food and make yourselves at home. There’s a restroom over there if you need to use it. I think that’s where my wife is now.”

  He introduced us to a couple of visiting automaker execs and one of his top company staffers who would be watching the game with us. One of the Detroit types talked about how he enjoyed getting away from all the snow, although the frosty air made him feel like he was back home. Moments later an attractive Asian woman came out of the restroom and headed toward us.

  “Maruko,” said Smotherman, “meet the McKenzies, Greg and Jill. My wife, Maruko.”

  She shook my hand and then Jill’s. “You’re the ones working with Terry Tremont. So nice to meet you. I’m happy you were able to be with us tonight.”

  She had dark hair that nearly covered her forehead and fell short on the sides. Dressed in a white shirt with the Predator’s sabretooth tiger logo, she had a pretty face that showed few hints of being as old as her husband. I’d always marveled at how some Japanese women did such a great job of masking their true age.

  “We’re looking forward to the game,” Jill said. “Hopefully we’ll also come up with some ideas that will make it worthwhile from Terry’s standpoint.”

  “I’m sure that would make him happy,” I said. “Incidentally, the Christmas décor looks great. I suspect that’s your doings, Mrs. Smotherman.”

  “Please, call me Maruko. And you’re a good detective, Greg. That was indeed my idea. I love this season.”

  I told Brad about the latest developments in our investigation, including our suspicions regarding Nick Zicarelli’s connection to Arnold Wechsel. When I related what Louie Aregis had told Jill about their negotiations with an NBA owner, he pounded his fist against the countertop.

  “Crap! We need to crank up our efforts. We need proof that something off-color is going on with these guys.”

  Jill darted an anxious look my way, but before I could reply, everyone’s attention shifted to the suite entrance. The door opened and three chattering young men made their entry as noisy as a flock of pigeons. I recognized Mack Nelson in his dust-brown cowboy hat, jeans, and square-toed boots. A lean, wiry young man, he looked rugged enough to have come off a ranch. But I knew he hadn’t. He grew up on the south side of Memphis, the son of a pizza shop manager. A shorter man, a little older, also wore a cowboy hat. The trailing figure appeared middle thirties, hard as a cedar post, with dark, searching eyes. A security type if I’d ever seen one.

  “Hi, everybody,” Nelson greeted us.

  Smotherman patted him on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Come in, Mack. Meet our guests, Greg and Jill McKenzie. I told you they needed to have a few words. I thought we could get that done before the game starts.”

  Mack shook hands and nodded to Maruko.

  “I appreciate your coming,” I said. “We’ve already talked to your two Protect Our Preds partners, and we need to touch bases with you. I’m sure you know about the murder of a young guy named Arnold Wechsel last Saturday. We think it’s tied in with this NBA deal, and we’re trying to track down the connection.”

  Mack Nelson nodded. “I haven’t had much time to read the local papers, but Brad told me about what’s been goin’ on.” He looked around and motioned to the man in the cowboy hat. “This is Deke Bragg, folks. He’s my band leader. He keeps me on key and all that good stuff. The fella over there against the wall givin’ y’all the evil eye is Rocky Topp. Swears that’s his real name, but I dunno. Anyway, he’s paid to see I don’t wind up like that Wechsel boy.”

  After a quick trip to the snack bar, Brad, Mack, Jill, and I pulled chairs together next to the wall. I gave Mack a brief summary of what we had uncovered so far, adding a bit about the explosion in our driveway the night before.

  His hazel eyes widened. “They blew up your car?”

  “That’s right. We have no proof that somebody associated with this case did it, but that seems the most likely explanation.”

  “Dang. Maybe I’d better lend you my man Rocky.”

  “The best thing you can do is think hard about anything you know that might help us pin down what’s going on here. Brad tells us you were the one who picked up the rumor that something wasn’t right about the NBA situation.”

  He crossed his legs and wiggled the boot from side to side. “Actually, it came from a member of the band. I promised I’d leave his name out of it.”

  “Exactly what did he hear?” I asked.

  “He’s got a Porsche Carrera GT that his brother bought just before he died. It’s a high performance car that he gets serviced at a race car shop. Seems he was over there last week and overheard a mechanic talkin’ on the phone. He sounded real put out. He was sayin’ something like ‘I can ruin that basketball deal if I tell what that man’s done.’”

  Jill and I glanced at each other. It had to have been Arnold.

  “Did he say what the mechanic looked like?” I asked.

  “No. Just told me what he heard.”

  “I need to talk to him,” I said. “This could be the break we’re looking for.”

  Mack narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth. “He doesn’t want to get involved, and I promised I wouldn’t use his name.”

  “After what Louie Aregis told them tonight, this could really be important, Mack,” Smotherman said. “That musician has to talk to Greg.”

  “Why don’t you ask him to call us,” Jill said. “We don’t care about his name. We only need to know exactly what he heard, and who he heard it from.”

  Mack folded his arms and looked around. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  “Do more than try, son,” Smotherman said. “See that he calls Greg.”

  The hockey game started a few minutes later, and we watched the action as fans yelled and screamed around us. Ice hockey is the fastest game in sports and the crowd really gets into it. The constant movement tends to keep you on the edge of your seat through all three of its twenty-minute periods. During the first break, while the Zamboni resurfacer cruised about smoothing the ice, Gordon Franklin wandered into the suite.

  He talked to Smotherman a moment, then walked over to where Jill and I sat.

  “Enjoying the game?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his face. It was about as animated as we’d seen him.

  At this point, the Preds were ahead 1-zip.

  “It’s been pretty exciting,” Jill said.

  I stood and looked down at him. “Good game so far. Have you had any thoughts about what’s been going on with this basketball group?”

  “No. I’ve been out of the office a couple of days. I’ve had nothing on my mind but profit and loss statements, cash flow reports, and the like.”

  “We haven’t been so lucky,” I said.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard about the bomb that destroyed my Jeep?”

  His face took on an I’m-not-believing-this look. “Heavens, no.”

  I gave him the short version of what happened in our driveway.

  He rubbed his chin as though stroking a beard. “I’d say you’d better be careful what you’re doing.”

  “We plan to. And I pity the guy who did this when I find him,” I said.

  “When?”

  I smiled. “When.”

  “Well, good luck,” he said before heading over to the food counter.

  The Ducks scored in the second period, and the game remained tied until the last minute of play. When the Preds scored on a power play with 20 seconds left, the crowd went wild. Jill and I stood and cheered along with everybody else.

  After the clock on the scoreboard flashed double zero, I turned to Brad Smotherman. “Thanks for setting this up. We enjoyed the game, but now we need to get home and wait for that phone call.”
r />   “I hope it proves productive,” Smotherman said.

  He wasn’t the only one. After that earlier outburst, I had the feeling we were on a short leash with this case.

  The phone rang just after eleven o’clock.

  “Mr. McKenzie?” said a hushed male voice.

  “This is he.”

  “Mack Nelson said I should call you. What is it you want to know?”

  “Could you describe the mechanic you overheard talking on the phone?”

  “Well, he was a big guy, six feet or more, and young. And he had an accent.”

  “German?”

  “I’d say it was.”

  “Did he use any names, maybe who he was talking to?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you recall his exact words?”

  “I’m not positive, but it was like ‘damn him, I can ruin that NBA deal if I tell what he’s done.’ Then he said ‘I’m not sure who to tell, but I’ll find out.’”

  Chapter 29

  An icy wind moaned in the trees Friday morning. The gas heating unit shifted into overdrive as the mercury hovered in the low 20s. I used a plastic bag to cover my damaged leg before getting into the shower. The steamy water considerably improved my outlook, and Jill had to coax me out with a caution that breakfast would be cold if I didn’t hurry. Turned out she had fixed hot oatmeal, which tasted especially good with plenty of butter and brown sugar. The coffee helped, too. I used it to wash down two Texas-sized cinnamon rolls. Oddly, she didn’t object to the double dose of pastry this time. I presumed she felt magnanimous because it was Christmas Eve.