“Okay. I’ll let you know if I hear from Louisville.”
With that out of the way, we sat around Jill’s desk for a strategy session to prepare her for the interview with Aregis tomorrow morning.
“One thing we need to know is where the money’s coming from to finance this deal,” I said. “I’m sure we’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars. Is Aregis the investor, or is it his Coastal Capital Ventures?”
She skimmed a newspaper clipping from the file. “They haven’t confirmed what team they’re talking about, either, but this story speculates it could be the Sacramento Kings, Portland Trail Blazers or Minnesota Timberwolves.”
“See if you can get him to name any people he’s talked with.”
“Wonder if he talked to Arnold Wechsel? Be nice if I could get his reaction to that name, wouldn’t it?”
“True, but there’s no way you could get into that. You might probe around a bit as to how he got interested in this deal. I didn’t see anything in his background that would hint at a basketball connection.”
Jill looked up from her notes. “Should I inquire into what caused him to move his business to Nashville?”
“Sure. It might be significant if his move was related to this NBA franchise. I’d doubt it, but it would be helpful to know.”
We discussed several additional possibilities before winding up our session. Jill had one other bit of preparation for the interview. Being a whiz at computer graphics, she quickly dummied up a business card for Contributing Writer Jill Parsons (her maiden name) of Sporting World Magazine. She printed out a few to go in her billfold.
Afterward, we spent a little time tying up some loose ends on an insurance case we’d just finished, then took off early to get dressed for our annual Sunday School Class Christmas Party. We had been members of the class at Gethsemane United Methodist Church since moving to Hermitage a few years back. I was a reluctant participant at first, but my wife is a world-class persuader. We soon developed friendships that had served us well since. After dinner at a local restaurant, we would adjourn to the home of Sam and Wilma Gannon for a gift swap. Another Air Force retiree, Sam had gone from flying B-26 light bombers in Korea to handling the controls of giant C-17 Globemaster transport planes.
At the dinner I got stuck beside the class clown, a retired pharmacist in his seventies who fancied himself the reincarnation of Jack Benny. He did resemble Benny a little, with his round glasses and high forehead, and he had the requisite tight-lipped smile. But he didn’t have the timing quite right. He made a dramatic pause before the punch line, then botched it.
Jill was luckier. She sat next to Wilma Gannon. They had become best friends since returning to Nashville, where both grew up though on opposite sides of town. The daughter of one-time missionaries to China, Wilma liked to say Jill was born with a silver spoon in her mouth while she arrived with wooden chopsticks.
The Gannons lived in a brick ranch not far from us. Though the neighborhood was like a chessboard in its uniformity, the architects had varied the building materials enough to keep the houses from resembling clones. The Gannons’ spacious den glowed with candles large and small, abetted by winking strings of lights on a Christmas tree that tickled the ceiling. You could tell it was real by the fresh evergreen smell. Cookies and candy, crackers and dips vied for space on a long table anchored by a sparkling glass punch bowl. Ice cubes drifted in a concoction as red as blood spatters, though the others didn’t likely view it in those terms. Folding chairs sat around the walls, where people drifted after loading up on the goodies.
Everyone had brought a wrapped gift to put under the tree. Sam strolled along with a basket of paper slips bearing numbers, and we each took one. Starting with the bearer of the number “1,” we all trooped to the tree to choose a gift. Under the rules, you had to open the gift and show it around. The person with the next number could either take that gift or go to the tree. The third person to possess a particular gift kept it. Things got pretty raucous at times, such as when a prim little lady unwrapped a three-cup bra supplied by the class wag. He tried to look innocent, but everyone knew who to blame.
While the women cleaned up the gift wrap mess, I chatted with Sam, casually bringing up the NBA basketball deal. He grew up in a rural area south of Tulsa and met Wilma at the University of Oklahoma, where he played basketball. Though he’d never been a starter, he had the physique for it, being a few inches taller than my five-ten and a lot slimmer. I’d heard him talk about how Oklahoma City should have an NBA team.
“What do you think about this bunch wanting to bring a pro basketball team to Nashville?” I asked.
He leaned against a bookcase loaded with paperbacks. “I’d probably buy a season ticket if Wilma didn’t object too vociferously.”
“Know what you mean. We go to a Titans game occasionally, but I couldn’t talk Jill into taking the season ticket route.”
“Some of the guys I play basketball with over at the Y are really fired up about the possibility of a team here. They say the people putting the deal together are loaded with cash.”
“This Aregis fellow seems to be the ringleader, from what I’ve seen.”
“Right. They told me the deal has been simmering the past several months. Aregis came up from Florida because of his interest in it. They say he’s a real smooth operator, has lots of connections.”
“Any of your friends involved in it?”
“One of them works for Howard Hays at Dollar Deal Stores. He’s apparently been involved in some of the negotiations.”
“I wonder if they’ve talked to any teams about selling?”
“I don’t think so,” Sam said, grabbing a cookie from a dish as Wilma passed by. “At least it hasn’t been mentioned.”
“I’d never heard of the other fellow the paper said was an investor in the deal. Fred Ricketts is his name, I believe.”
“I’ve heard the name, but nobody’s said anything about him.”
“The Predators folks don’t seem too happy about it,” I said.
“I suppose not,” he said with a grin. “They would have some real competition for fans.”
Talking to Jill on the way home, I passed along what I had learned from Sam. It made good background for her interview in the morning.
Our neighborhood appeared clear of lurking SUVs, but I patted the bulk of the Sig-Sauer pistol I carried now. It was lighter and easier to conceal than the Beretta I had used since my Air Force days.
I pulled into the driveway still unsettled about how to take that SUV sighting Sunday night. Was it related to Arnold Wechsel’s murder and Terry Tremont’s case? Was it simply a random thing that had no relation to us? When we arrived at the house and checked the answering machine, there was a call at 8:07 showing “Uknown Name, Unknown Number.” They had listened to our message, then hung up.
Had somebody with an untraceable cell phone checked to see if we were at home? Could it have been Izzy Isabell?
I had a sudden thought and turned to Jill. “Is that box of old papers from my OSI days still in the walk-in closet?”
“Unfortunately. Every time I try to throw it out, you insist on keeping it like some stash of love letters from your deep, dark past.”
“What do you know about such things? Have you been hanging onto letters from some old lover?”
She put her hands on her hips and gave a sensuous sway. “I might let you read them sometime. They’re from a dashing young Air Force officer in Vietnam. Some of them get pretty steamy.”
I popped her one on the bottom and headed for the closet. I hauled out the box that hadn’t been opened in years. It contained copies of files from a few special cases I had kept for future reference. One of them was the investigation of First Lt. Izzy Isabell. I took it downstairs to the office and spread papers across the desk.
Isabell was assigned to a Strategic Air Command refueling unit at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, North Carolina. When high quality cocaine began showing up in the area
, the local cops got concerned and asked for Air Force help. We picked up information suggesting the source could be on base. Working with a Goldsboro police officer, I got an informant to admit that the drug came from an aircrew member. We finally narrowed it down to a particular KC-135. We searched the aircraft thoroughly following a couple of missions that had landed in suspect areas, but found nothing.
Although I spent many years in the Air Force, I readily confess I do not like to fly. Even with my competent and trusted wife at the controls, I am not a happy passenger. My motto is feet and wheels should be kept firmly planted on the ground. However, this was a case where duty prevailed. I arranged for a mission to a location the DEA identified as rife with cocaine trafficking and flew along as a passenger. I posed as a Department of Defense civilian on a familiarization flight. The guys would’ve called it a joyride.
After a routine refueling operation, we spent a couple of hours on the ground before returning to base. The crew consisted of the pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and boom operator. I wasn’t able to keep an eye on everybody while we were killing time, but I did the best I could. One thing I noticed, the navigator never let his briefcase out of his sight. He disappeared while I had coffee with the pilot. When I saw him again, he still wagged that briefcase at his side. It looked a bit heftier than before.
On the flight back, I identified myself to the pilot as an OSI agent and sent a message to my office to have a narcotics-sniffing dog handy when we landed. The dog found Izzy Isabell’s briefcase fascinating. He sat alertly beside it on the ramp. His handler said it indicated he had found the scent of drugs. When I told Izzy to open it, he caught me with a sucker punch. I retaliated with a right cross that flattened him. That was back in the days when I was still scrappy. Our relationship went downhill from there. I found three bricks of cocaine in the leather case. That’s three kilograms, or nearly seven pounds, which would have brought a tidy sum, even in the late eighties. Under interrogation, he admitted to bringing in dozens of bricks worth a small fortune. While he was locked up awaiting trial, Izzy talked to a cellmate about putting out a contract on me and another witness in the case. Fortunately, he trusted the wrong person.
When I returned the file to my storage box and stuck it back in the closet, I knew Arnold Wechsel’s murder and Terry Tremont’s sports melee were not the only problems I faced.
Chapter 13
We drove both cars to the office the next morning. Jill soon bailed out for her interview with Louie Aregis. I felt she would be in no danger at Coastal Capital Ventures, but I made sure she had that nasty little snub-nosed .38 in her handbag. When I called Rod Jenson at Channel 4 to see when we could meet with him, surprisingly, he said, “Right now. Come on over.”
I called Jill before she reached Coastal Capital Ventures. I told her I would talk to Jenson and we could compare notes when we made it back to the office.
The television station occupied a hilltop on the opposite side of town. Rush hour had almost ended, but I-40 was still no picnic. I arrived to find a saucy redhead at a reception desk in the lobby, an area with two large windows that looked down on the studio and its news set. Having visited TV stations before, I always marveled at how cramped the studios looked up close compared with how they appeared on a TV screen. It was a profusely lighted room stuffed with cameras, an anchor desk, a weather nook, and sets where news and sports reporters stood to introduce their stories.
“I know Rod’s around here somewhere,” the receptionist said. “Let me see if I can scare him up for you.”
She punched a few numbers, spoke into the phone, and looked up with a smile. “He’ll be right out.”
Jenson appeared a few minutes later and ushered me into a conference room with a long table surrounded by comfortable chairs. About my height, at least ten years younger, he gave me a smile that rumpled his broad brow, well-tanned despite the season. He had the casual, breezy look of a man who enjoyed living on the edge.
“I didn’t realize how long it would take you to get here,” he said as we took our seats. “I have to do an interview shortly. I’m not usually here this time of day.”
“I should have warned you I was on the other side of the county. I promise not to take much of your time.”
“Tell me what you’re looking for. From what you said on the phone, it sounds like you’re talking about the effort to bring an NBA team to Nashville.”
I gave a noncommittal shrug. “It’s related to that, but I can’t tell you anything about the client.”
His laugh was a muffled rumble. “You sound like a coach declining to talk about a quarterback change. I’ll accept that.”
“What are some of the hurdles a group would face in bringing a professional sports team to town?”
“I’d say raising lots of cash would rank number one. In the current situation, they seem to have mastered that with two well-heeled local businessmen and this venture capital guy from Florida. You’d need to line up sponsors, too, corporations willing to shell out cash to help get things set up. The most important hurdle, of course, would be attracting fans and selling tickets. That would require a major publicity campaign.”
“Do you think Nashville can support three teams, NFL, NHL and NBA?”
“In a word, no.”
“Which one would lose out?”
“My newspaper colleagues are more inclined to speculate on that. I don’t mind giving you my take on it, though. With annual sellouts and a long waiting list for season tickets, the Titans have a lock on their share. The Preds also have an established fan base, though hardly on the same scale. Basketball would have to build from scratch. Still, it could go either way.”
“If a basketball team comes in, would they likely share the same arena with the Predators?”
“They’d have to. Nashville isn’t about to build another indoor monster downtown. It would require a lot of coordination in scheduling.”
“Is this a typical ownership situation for a major league sports franchise, a group of local businessmen?”
Jenson pulled a pen from his pocket that resembled a giant golf tee and twirled it between his fingers. “Actually, it’s one of two ownership patterns. The other is a single millionaire like Bud Adams. He started the Titans as the Houston Oilers back in 1959. And for group ownership, it isn’t necessarily all local. Could be guys from anywhere. They just have to have a passion for sports.”
I had been taking notes but put my small pad back in my pocket. “This question is a bit different and doesn’t involve basketball or hockey. I understand some gamblers bet on NASCAR races. Do you know how that works?”
“You have rather eclectic interests, Mr. McKenzie,” he said, the big grin returning.
“The hazards of the profession,” I said.
“Personally, I’m not a gambler. Except for the lottery now and then. That’s not really a gamble. Just a contribution to education. I’m familiar with betting on auto racing, though. It involves bets on race winners, sometimes on qualifying, also driver matchups.”
“What are driver matchups?”
“It’s preferred by professional gamblers. With forty-three drivers in the field, it’s a crap shoot to pick a winner. With matchups, you pick two drivers and bet on which will finish ahead of the other.”
“That should improve your chances, I’d think.”
“You can keep the same matchup through the season or change from time to time.”
I saw him check his watch. “Thanks for the information,” I said, getting up. “That should give me a good start. I won’t keep you any longer.”
We shook hands. “Glad to help,” he said. “Just give me a call if you need anything else.”
Jill and I made it back to the office at about the same time. After shedding our coats and getting cappuccino cups in hand, which felt good to my freezing paws, we gathered at her desk. I started with a recounting of my Rod Jenson interview. After that, I pressed Jill for some tasty morsels.
“What’s L
ouie Aregis like?”
“He’s shorter than I expected,” she said, “but very handsome. Still has his Florida tan. From the way he treated me, I’d say he’s quite the ladies’ man.”
“Sounds provocative. Should I be worried?”
She shifted those big brown eyes. “He doesn’t have that cute grin of yours.”
I almost believed her. “What else does Mr. Aregis have?”
“Judging by the photos around his office and plaques on the wall, it appears that he has a love for outdoor sports, golf and tennis in particular. He also had an award from a shooting competition with a replica of a pistol mounted on it.”
“That’s interesting. Was he short enough that he could have fired an upward trajectory into Arnold Wechsel’s head?”
Her face lit up with a sudden realization. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. It certainly could have happened that way.”
“Unfortunately, we’re a long way from having any proof that Aregis might be guilty of murder.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, which I took to mean she was reserving judgment.
“Where did he get his interest in pro basketball?” I asked.
“He claimed he was a big basketball fan in college but never had much opportunity for exposure at the professional level. Then the Charlotte Hornets moved to New Orleans, and he got excited, started thinking how nice it would be to own a basketball team.”
I shifted my eyes away from the distraction of Jill’s bouncing screensaver. “Did he say how he got involved in the Nashville deal?”
“He implied that it came about when some local businessmen approached him because of his experience with venture capital.”
“Not exactly the way Sam’s friends at the Y put it.”
“No, it isn’t. But that’s his story.”
“He must think a team can be successful here.”
“He told me that surveys have shown a great deal of interest in basketball around Nashville.”
“He doesn’t think the fan base is saturated by the Titans and the Preds?”
A Sporting Murder (Greg McKenzie Mysteries Book 5) Page 7