We arrived early at the Villa d’Este Restaurant, hoping to catch Nicole Columbo before things got too busy. I came through the foyer, blowing warmth into my freezing hands, and passed a gaily-decorated tree filled with winking colored lights. We were met by a young woman slightly taller than me, with long black hair and a pretty face. She had high cheekbones accented by a wide smile.
“Two for dinner?” she asked.
I answered with a confirming nod. She looked about the right age for the girl we’d come to see. She pulled two menus from a stack and led us into the dining area, where Dean Martin’s voice trilled That’s Amore for the benefit of three tables of diners. It was a typical mid-range restaurant with lush greenery and subdued lighting that made it difficult to read the prices.
As she laid the menus on the table, I smiled and asked, “Are you by chance Nicole Columbo?”
Her large, dark eyes popped open wide. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met, but I’m the one who found Arnold Wechsel at the auto repair shop three nights ago.”
Her face paled. She looked ready to cry. I felt sorry for her and wished I had phrased my introduction with a bit more subtlety.
Jill gently took her hand. “We’re very sorry about what happened, dear. I hope you’ll forgive us for upsetting you.”
Nicole Columbo looked from Jill to me. “How did you…know…about me?”
“We found out quite by accident,” I said. “Arnold’s aunt is married to a friend of mine. He told me there was a Saint Christopher’s medal among the things they sent back to Germany. It had your name engraved on the back.”
Nicole pulled a tissue from the pocket of her slacks and dabbed at her eyes. “But it only said ‘N. Columbo.’”
“Yes, dear,” Jill said, “but we’re private investigators. It’s our business to find out such things.”
She bit at her lower lip, obviously struggling to maintain her composure, and glanced at me. “I remember now. The private investigator thing. It was in the newspaper story.”
“Arnold called and asked me to meet him there,” I said. “We’d like to talk to you about it.”
She swung her head toward the front of the restaurant, where a few customers had come in. “I’m sorry…I have to go.”
She hurried away.
Jill looked across at me as we took our seats. “Did you notice the change in her expression when you said we’d like to talk to her about what happened?”
“It was fear. Why would she be afraid to talk to us?”
“We need to find out,” Jill said.
When the waitress came, we ordered the three-cheese manicotti and a bottle of Zinfandel. I had no trouble devouring my portion while discussing what we knew about Nicole Columbo, which was not enough to explain her reaction. Jill had a generous helping on her plate when the waitress stopped by to see if we had finished.
“Would you like a take-out box?” she asked.
“No thanks,” Jill said. “I have enough leftovers at home already. It was delicious, though.”
Few additional customers had come in while we were eating. I figured Tuesday must be a slow night. I’m sure the deep freeze outside didn’t help. It was fortunate for us, though, since it meant less likelihood of distraction when we stopped to corner Nicole on our way out.
We took our time, hoping the longer she had to think about it, the more likely she would be to answer our questions. We lingered over the Zinfandel, then ordered coffee and tiramisu for dessert. To keep Jill from objecting, I suggested we share a serving of the tasty concoction. It brought me high marks. According to Jill, it appeared to be made from the original Italian recipe, which called for a round shape containing savoiardi biscuits, or lady fingers, soaked in espresso and layered with a mixture of mascarpone cheese, eggs, sugar and honey. Cocoa powder was sprinkled on top.
After deciding we had dallied long enough, I signed the credit card receipt. We donned our winter gear and headed for the entrance. As we approached, I noticed a sticky note on the edge of the stand where the hostess stood. It bore the name “Nikki.”
“I’m so sorry we upset you,” Jill said in a motherly tone. “Believe me it was not our intention.”
Nikki Columbo gave her a meek smile. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have been so sensitive. I’m starting to get over it, but the past few days have been unbelievable.”
“The police don’t know about you, and we’d like to keep it that way,” I said. “Keep you from becoming involved in the investigation.”
Her eyes turned wary. “I’d appreciate that.”
“At the same time,” Jill said, “it’s our duty to help them find who did this terrible thing to Arnold. You can help by letting us sit down and talk to you. There may be some things you don’t realize you know that could help us track down the person responsible.”
Nikki listened in silence.
“When would be a good time to call you tomorrow?” Jill asked.
Nikki breathed heavily and looked down with unseeing eyes at the seating chart on the slanted stand in front of her.
Jill waited.
Nikki finally looked up and said, “I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
I handed her a business card as a draft of cold air hit our backs and two couples walked in.
“I’ll call you,” Nikki said, glancing at the card, then turned toward the new customers.
Chapter 16
Although we had dined leisurely, we arrived home at a decent hour. Jill returned a call from Wilma Gannon and curled up in her recliner. I had learned early on that any chat with Wilma would be an extended one. I headed upstairs to the bedroom and returned my Sig to its accustomed place in the bedside table drawer. After retreating to the kitchen, I pulled down a container labeled “Spiced Tea” that had the appearance of a jar filled with orange sand. It looked like a good nightcap for a cold winter evening since I wasn’t in a mood for more wine, and I didn’t like to mix Scotch and Zinfandel.
I heated water, shoveled orange sand into a cup, stirred it a bit, and moved to the table. As I sipped it slowly, I thought about our confrontation with Nikki Columbo. I had chosen to let Jill do the talking since her motherly manner went over well with the younger set. You’d never know she had no children of her own. Nevertheless, it wasn’t an easy sell. Would Nikki call us back? That earlier look of fear still bugged me. Who or what was she afraid of? Jill had said we would try to shield her from the police, and that would mean holding back from Phil Adamson. Hardly something new. What we needed was to bore in on her relationship with Arnold Wechsel. I decided to pursue her background a lot deeper and see if we could turn up something that would provide a hint about the problem she was bent on hiding.
When I got down to the dregs, I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher, then headed for the living room. Jill still had the phone anchored to her ear. I took up my position beside her, listening to an occasionally muttered “I know what you mean” or “did she really say that?” Punching on the TV remote, I muted the sound and watched some fictional CSI guys and gals pull off their miraculous feats. Like most professional law enforcement types, I marveled at the fantastic advancements of forensic science but watched in dismay at the way they were portrayed on TV.
Jill finally turned to me and held out the phone. “Sam wants to talk to you.”
I gave him a cheery greeting. “How are things in the wild blue yonder?”
“Ha, the only wild blue I’ve seen lately was the jeans hanging halfway down some young hooligan’s butt at the drugstore. What’s up with you?”
“From the sounds in my stomach, I’d guess I’m digesting all that Italian food I ate at the Villa d’Este Restaurant.”
“Been stepping out with your lady, huh? Good for you. What I wanted to ask about, I got the idea last night that you’re more than a little interested in this NBA proposal. True?”
Sam knew me too well. I was afraid something like that might happen. “True, but it isn’t
something I can talk about. If you hear anything else, though, I’d appreciate your passing it along.”
“I was playing ‘horse’ with my friend from the Dollar Deal Stores today—he lets me beat him now and then—and he started talking about that situation again.”
“What’s going on now?”
“Seems the commissioner’s office wants more background on everybody who’ll have any ownership interest in the team.”
“They want to be sure there’s nothing unsavory about any of them.”
“That’s what he said. When he mentioned something about Aregis, I asked how the new guy from Florida got into the picture. According to him, Aregis got wind of their efforts somehow and contacted them about getting in on the action.”
“Interesting. I’m sure they looked into his background before inviting him in.”
“He said Mr. Ricketts had known Aregis before.”
I thought about that a moment. “I wonder if Ricketts was an investor in Coastal Capital Ventures?”
“He didn’t say. Like me to see what else I can get from him?”
I didn’t want to risk getting too inquisitive. “Better to just listen to what he has to say. Don’t get too obvious about it.”
When I told Jill what the dollar store fellow had said, she gave a “hmph” of disgust. “So much for Louie Aregis’ believability.”
“I wonder what else he lied about?”
“Couldn’t have been much, since he didn’t tell me a lot.”
“It sounds like he muscled his way into this group, doesn’t it?”
“He’s a manipulator and a world class bamboozler.”
I had run into his kind before. They were the guys who sold refrigerators in the Arctic Circle and heaters to the natives in Equatorial Africa. I was a little surprised that sophisticated businessmen would hook up with such a character, but Fred Ricketts had apparently had some sort of relationship with him in the past. No doubt they considered his status as a venture capitalist a plus in negotiating a deal.
A beep-beep sounded from the alarm system. It was similar to the signal for an outside door opening, except for the tone. This one meant the exterior floodlights had been tripped. I went to the front door and looked out. It normally indicated a car was approaching on the driveway. I saw nothing.
“Who is it?” Jill asked.
“Nobody. That’s odd.”
“Could it have been a dog?”
“A dog won’t do it. It takes at least a man-sized object.”
“Maybe it was a deer.”
“When have we seen a deer around here, Jill? I’m going out and take a look around the place.”
She jumped up and grasped my arm. “Be careful, Greg. Take your weapon.”
I grabbed my Beretta from the downstairs office, stuck it in my belt in back, pulled on my jacket, and hurried outside. Muffled traffic noises from adjacent streets and the solitary bark of a neighbor’s dog broke the stillness. A freezing breeze out of the north bore the smell of wood smoke as it nipped at my nose. I made a quick circle of the house, letting my gaze sweep the perimeter of the property. We were surrounded by trees, except for the driveway opening and a gap that allowed us a glimpse of the Rogers’ house next door. Everything appeared in order, with neither man nor beast in sight. The second time around, I walked slowly, checking every spot where somebody or something might choose to hide. In an area near the garage, I saw what looked like a footprint. When I stooped beside it, though, I realized it was a slight depression where water had frozen.
Back inside, I shed my jacket and tossed it onto a chair.
“What did you find?” Jill asked.
“A lot of fog from breathing out in that cold air. But nothing that would have triggered the floods. Whatever or whoever it was must have been scared off when the lights flashed on.”
“Do you think it was somebody? Like that ex-lieutenant who defaced your car?”
“I wish I knew, but I don’t. To quote one of my old OSI instructors, ‘If you have no clue, admit it.’”
“When you add in that phone call last night and the SUV the night before, I’m not too happy about it.”
I eased the magazine from the Beretta, recalling the black SUV I’d seen this afternoon. “I forgot to tell you after that episode with the scratch, but I saw an SUV cruise by slowly just as I parked at the office supply store. It looked like the one from Sunday night, but it sped away before I could get a good look. I’m not happy at all about it. I don’t intend to lose sleep over it, though.”
I hoped I didn’t lose anything else.
Chapter 17
Flurrying snow swirled about the next morning on our way to the office. The forecasters predicted no accumulation. Though the stores weren’t open yet, it was looking a lot like Christmas, now only three days off. A woman sauntered away from her car toting a large shopping bag with colorful packages peeping out the top. Probably getting ready for a party at the medical clinic down the way. It reminded me that I hadn’t bought anything for Jill. Not surprising, since I’m a Christmas Eve shopper.
Inside the office, a call from Terry Tremont awaited us.
He got right to the point. “Did that Columbo business bear any fruit?”
I told him about our conversation at the restaurant. I also related the information Sam had picked up from his basketball-playing friend at the YMCA.
“We’ve talked to a lot of people, and I’m convinced there’s a scandal out there somewhere,” I said. “We haven’t been able to put a face on it, though Aregis is looking more like a possible candidate.”
Terry replied in an edgy voice. “I hope you can give me some answers soon, Greg. From what that Dollar Deal fellow told your friend, it sounds like they may be a lot further along than we thought. I’ll have to pass this on to the Preds folks. Gordon Franklin told me yesterday that you all had been by to see him. You still plan to talk to Mack Nolan?”
“When we can pin him down. Franklin wasn’t much help. Said he left all the details up to Brad Smotherman and Nolan.”
“Probably true,” Terry said. “I met with the three of them originally, but Brad is the key man. Franklin is highly regarded in the accounting field, and he’s obviously an avid hockey fan. He doesn’t seem too interested in getting involved with the nitty-gritty of this campaign, though. He wanted to know what I thought of your investigation.”
“I hope you weren’t too hard on us,” I said.
“I relayed some of the information you gave me yesterday and assured him you were working hard on the case. I expected you to have something definitive soon.”
“That’s certainly our intent.”
When I put the phone down, Jill brought my cappuccino with a questioning frown. “We haven’t been fired yet?”
“No, but we’d better start getting some results. Maybe a check into Nikki Columbo’s background would yield something.” I took a sip from my insulated travel mug and grimaced. “Wow, that’s hot. I think I’ll let it cool a bit while I go get some extra batteries for our spy gear.”
“Take your time,” Jill said. “Those cups hold heat like the cone of a volcano.”
Flurries of snow twisted in the swirling gusts, peppering my face with needle pricks as I trudged along the row of shops, tightening my grip on the collar of my jacket. The battery store was next to the café on the opposite end from our office. About halfway down, a pickup truck caught my eye. A light blue Ford F-150.
I slowed my pace and casually looked around the area. The vehicle was empty. I saw no one else along the sidewalk.
The truck was parked in front of a store that sold women’s handbags. I walked in and looked around.
“Can I show you something?” asked a small woman with graying hair and a friendly smile.
“I was looking for someone,” I said.
“Unfortunately, you’re my first customer today. Or almost customer.”
“Sorry,” I said, returning her smile, “but I’m not in the market for
a bag. Is that your truck out front?”
“Oh, no. I drive a small car. The truck was there when I came in.”
I walked out across the parking lot where I could see the license plate. It was a Tennessee plate, not Kentucky. Maybe it meant nothing, but as I turned toward the battery store, I wrote the number in my ever-handy note pad.
Back at the office, my cappuccino tasted great after coming in from the cold. I had just settled back into my chair when the phone rang and the caller ID showed R.T. Investigations with an 850 area code, meaning Pensacola, Florida.
“Hi, Red, you must have found an office,” I said.
“I’m in business. Already have a couple of referrals.”
“Great. Are you making any progress on Louie Aregis?”
“I’ve run into a few smoldering guns but no smoke. I intended to call you sooner, but I got tied up getting moved in.”
“What sort of smoldering guns?”
“The Better Business Bureau has some complaints. They appear to be mostly from people who didn’t make as much money off their investments as they thought they should’ve.”
“Sore losers.” I sipped on the cappuccino as Red replied.
“Mostly, but there was one who says Aregis cheated him out of a big chunk of change. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him yet. I also found a recent employee who wasn’t very complimentary. He says his former boss is a megalomaniac who thinks he’s God’s gift to the financial world. Aregis will exaggerate his importance at the drop of a celebrity.”
“That’s the impression Jill got when she interviewed him yesterday.”
“She did? Good move. I trust he didn’t know she was a detective?”
“Hardly. She posed as a writer for a sports magazine. Our case involves a plan to bring an NBA team to Nashville.”
“Sounds like you’ve brought her up to speed on social engineering,” he said with a chuckle.
That was a term used mostly by skip tracers to cover methods of getting information out of subjects by pretending to be someone else. “I think it helped that she did a little acting in school,” I said.
A Sporting Murder (Greg McKenzie Mysteries Book 5) Page 9