“How’d you get your order so quickly and we have to wait?” I asked.
“Privilege of the press,” he said. “Plus I’m a regular here, and I know what to ask for that they keep ready.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I said.
He siphoned the foam off his shake. “Okay, give me the lowdown on this deal.”
“First, you have to agree to leave us out of it,” I said. “I’ll give you some sources, but we don’t want to be connected with the story. Agreed?”
He put his elbows on the table and tapped his fingertips. “Why don’t you want any credit?”
“It’s a confidentiality thing.”
“How so?”
“We’re working a case where the client requires that he remain anonymous. If you used our name, it would put us in the spotlight and might compromise him.”
“Now you’re sounding like James Bond.”
Sometimes you have to humor people. “Matter of fact, Jill had to go undercover last night.”
He looked at Jill and grinned. “The lady’s got talent. Okay, if I can nail things down without dragging you in, it’s a deal.”
“You can. Here’s the story in capsule. Nick Zicarelli is an investor with Louie Aregis’s Coastal Capital Ventures. One of his former employees in Florida says Aregis moved his business to Nashville because of the NBA deal. We think Zicarelli brought him here. Knowing Nick’s passion for NBA basketball, we believe he’s financing Coastal Capital’s involvement.”
“Who’s going to confirm all this?”
“I’ll put you in touch with a private investigator in Pensacola, where Aregis came from. He’s been in contact with the former employee.”
“You say you believe Zicarelli is financing the deal. Anyway to know for sure?”
I grinned. “With your bird-dogging reputation, I figure you can sniff that out from Aregis or Zicarelli or some other contact. We know Aregis has lied about the way he got into the deal. He claimed the local guys approached him about getting involved, that he moved to Nashville because he had good clients here and it was a growing city with lots of wealth.”
“Don’t forget his wife,” Jill said.
“Oh, yeah. Reason number three was that she’s a big country music fan.”
“Yee, haw,” Wes said as the loud speaker called out the number for our order.
When I brought our food back to the booth, Jill looked up at me. “Wes wants to know why Zicarelli should be financing the NBA team instead of Aregis himself?”
I turned the tray so Jill could get her half of the sandwich. “The ex-employee down in Florida says Coastal Capital Ventures has lost some important clients lately and hasn’t been doing too well. He doesn’t think Aregis has the personal funds to shell out a lot of money, and a major sports franchise isn’t the type of cash cow investors in a venture capital firm would appreciate.”
“Makes sense,” Wes said, and took a big bite of roast beef.
“Also, a man connected to one of the other local partners told a friend of mine that Aegis heard about the deal somehow and contacted them about getting involved. I suspect he heard about it from Zicarelli.”
“I’ll see if I can confirm that,” Wes said. He chewed a moment, then looked across at me with a raised eyebrow. “What’s the scoop on your car bomb episode?”
It wasn’t a question I’d expected, but I fielded it with aplomb. “The fire investigator hasn’t found anything that points toward who’s responsible. I got a new Jeep Grand Cherokee out of it, though. The black one over there.” I pointed out the window.
“Looks nice,” he said. “Any new developments on that murder case where you found the victim?”
I should have known I’d get the third degree on the whole litany of matters I was involved in. That was the risk you took when dealing with reporters. I thought about telling him our belief that Arnold had worked for Zicarelli but decided I’d best leave that one alone.
“You’ll need to talk to Detective Adamson about that,” I said. “He doesn’t confide in me all that often.”
“That so? After that assassination case a few months back, I thought the three of you were thick as thieves, as my sainted mother would put it.”
“I doubt that Phil Adamson would use that simile,” Jill said with a broad smile.
“Okay. Thanks for the tip about Zicarelli,” Wes said. “I’ll get right on it. Probably won’t make my wife too happy, Christmas being tomorrow. I’m scheduled to work a few hours on the holiday anyway, though we got most of the Sunday paper done today.”
We swapped Christmas wishes shortly afterward. Wes headed back to the office and we started the drive to Hermitage. On the way we stopped first at a clothing store for white boots, a scarf, and a wool cap for a ten-year-old girl named Brenda. In the boys’ section, we chose blue jeans and a red shirt for Larry, a boy of eight. It wasn’t on the list, but Jill picked out a handbag for June, the mother.
At a toy store, we found the requested games, a remote-controlled car, and a doll-size version of a tea set. We tossed in a couple of books for good measure. Then it was off to the grocery for a turkey breast, a sliced ham, and a variety of vegetables and fruits.
“I wish I’d known earlier,” Jill said. “I’d have cooked up a nice dessert for them.”
Instead, we chose a cake and cookies and added in packets of hot chocolate and apple cider. We stopped by the office to pick up Jill’s car and headed home, where she quickly wrapped the gifts.
With winter in its infancy, daylight disappeared early. The outside floodlights substituted for the missing sun, however, as I moved the Jeep near the front porch and carried everything out to stow it in the cargo area. I checked around the lawn and driveway. Everything looked normal. I put the address in my new GPS, feeling like Santa in his sleigh, and off we went in search of the young mother’s house. Following the satellite-directed turns, we found it in a less plush section of Hermitage, on a street filled with duplexes, some bearing For Rent signs, one with the last tenant’s battered sofa and assorted belongings dumped at the front of the lot. It was a tough time for an eviction.
Jill glanced at the note with all the info. “Her name’s June Everly. I can’t imagine what it would be like having to face Christmas with so little for the kids, depending on the goodness of strangers.”
The Everly’s side of the duplex looked neat, with no papers or trash scattered about the lawn. A vintage blue Ford with a weather-mottled paint job sat in the driveway. A simple green wreath with a red bow hung on the door. It appeared to be one of the better-kept examples of low-rent America. I parked behind the Ford, and we gathered up the bags and carried them to the house.
A woman of around thirty, sandy hair pulled back and tied with a scrunchie, opened the door. She wore jeans and a brown sweater, flip-flops on her feet. A friendly smile brightened her round face. In an earlier era, she would have made a great model for a Norman Rockwell cover.
“We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie from Gethsemane United Methodist Church,” I said. “We have a few things for you.”
“Oh, my goodness.” She stared in awe. “Please come in.”
As we walked into the small living room, I saw a short but gaily-decorated Christmas tree. There was also a floor lamp, a sofa and chair, a nineteen-inch TV, and a few toys scattered about. Jill set the shopping bag filled with gifts by the sofa as a wide-eyed boy and girl stuck their heads out of the kitchen.
“You must be Brenda and Larry,” Jill said. “Merry Christmas.”
“These are the McKenzies, kids,” June Everly said. “They brought us lots of nice things.”
They both waved and I turned to Mrs. Everly. “These are groceries. Should I put them in the kitchen.”
“Forgive my manners,” she said, a bit flustered. “Let me help you.”
She took the smaller bag and led me into the kitchen, which appeared adequate though only a fraction of the size of Jill’s.
“You can leave the turkey
out for awhile,” Jill said, “then put it in the refrigerator. It should thaw enough to cook tomorrow.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” the young mother said, shaking her head.
I looked around at the kids, who were watching every move. “Do you want to save the presents until in the morning, or open them now?”
They glanced at each other and said “Now” in unison.
We sat on the sofa while they pulled out packages and ripped off the wrapping.
“I hate to tear up such pretty paper,” Mrs. Everly said as she gently slit open her box. “Oh, what a pretty bag. I needed a new one. This is just perfect.”
The kids squealed in excitement as they pulled out their toys and new clothes. “Thank you, thank you,” little Brenda said repeatedly.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Everly asked. “We have tea and Coke.”
“We appreciate the offer, but no thanks,” Jill said. “We’ll be eating supper when we get home.”
The young mother followed us to the door as we left, thanking us profusely. “You’ve made this a wonderful Christmas for us,” she said. “I feel like you were sent by God.”
I felt humbled and ashamed for having almost forgotten.
“Seeing the joy in these youngsters’ eyes makes it all worthwhile,” Jill said. “You and Brenda and Larry have a great Christmas and a wonderful New Year.”
In the car, Jill leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I pulled her closer and made it a real smooch.
“I feel like we’ve had our Christmas,” she said. “Anything that happens tomorrow will seem anticlimactic.”
I knew what she meant, but I also knew that predictions about the future were fraught with the potential for miscalculation.
Chapter 31
We sat at the kitchen table feeling pleasantly stuffed when Phil called.
“There were no prints on the bottle except yours,” he said. “He evidently wore gloves, which was a wise move if he was dealing with cyanide. However, he wasn’t so smart with the package. Evidently he didn’t know we could lift prints from paper. There were several prints, with you and the delivery people handling it, but they found enough to make a positive ID through AFIS of former federal prison inmate Izzy Isabell.”
The FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System was a priceless asset.
“Now all we need is confirmation on the Scotch,” I said.
“I’ll contact my buddy again and see where that stands. I considered hauling Isabell in on some minor charge so we could keep him on ice until the tox results are in, but the DA wouldn’t buy it. East Precinct reported the blue pickup is still parked in the driveway on Sheridan Drive. We may have to put a tail on him to be sure he doesn’t run.”
When I gave Jill the news, she proceeded to put it all in perspective.
“That means we don’t have to worry about the lieutenant for the time being,” she said. “Now if we could just figure out who the bomber was…”
She let it slide, but she’d said enough.
A short time later, the outside floodlight warning sounded. When I looked out this time, I saw what appeared to be a GMC Yukon SUV pulling up to the house. A large man wearing a black leather jacket and a leather cap climbed out, reached across the seat for a package, and walked toward the house. Having learned to be overly cautious, I turned to Jill, who had followed me to the living room.
“Grab your pistol and keep it handy, just in case.”
She hurried back to the office where she had left her purse.
I waited for the doorbell, then opened the door. The man stood around six-two, well over 200 pounds. He smiled and tipped his cap back. I saw the package was gift wrapped with bright Christmas paper. The security door remained closed, though the upper window pane was open.
“Mr. McKenzie?” he asked in a deep voice.
I nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Barley,” he said. “Mr. Nick Zicarelli asked me to bring you this little package, sort of a token of his respect.”
I frowned. “What’s the occasion?”
“He said he wants you to know there’s no hard feelings. There may have been some misunderstandings. Mr. Nick is a really compassionate man, but sometimes, when he gets upset, he says things that may not sound quite like what he meant.”
I had no doubt about what he meant when he shouted “Hell, no!” at me. Apparently Nikki was convinced of the way he sounded when he called her. This was an interesting exercise, but I wasn’t quite ready to take it at face value.
“Is this his way of apologizing?” I asked.
Barley gave a little twist to his head that seemed to indicate uncertainty. “He just wants to leave things in a more friendly manner. Keep it amiable, you know.”
“I have no problem with that.” I turned the dead bolt and pushed the security door open. “Come on in and open it for me,” I said.
His dark eyes flashed as if he’d been hit by an electric current. Then his face relaxed into the beginnings of a smile. “Oh, I get it. You think…that’s funny. Mr. Nick will get a big laugh out of that.”
“If you’d just had your car blown up with you inside, it wouldn’t sound so funny,” I said.
“I guess not.” He nodded. “Mr. Nick told me about that.”
So Mr. Nick was well aware of who I was and what I had been doing.
Barley came in and I pointed toward the table beside the sofa. “You can open it there.”
He shrugged, tore off the Christmas wrap, and removed the lid from a large box. It was filled with Ghiardelli chocolates.
Jill walked over and stared at it. “That’s enough to last us for a year.”
Barley grinned. “Well, enjoy it, folks. I need to be on my way.”
When he left, I picked up a chocolate and sniffed at it. “Don’t detect any bitter almonds, so I don’t guess it’s laced with cyanide.”
“You don’t really think he would send us tainted chocolates, do you?” Jill asked.
“No, but I’m not sure just what he’s up to. Maybe he’s trying to open the door to the possibility of manipulating our investigation. Like Terry said earlier, he’s a wily old fox.”
Since moving to Hermitage, we had made a tradition of attending the midnight Christmas Eve service at Gethsemane United Methodist Church. Actually, it started at eleven and wound up around midnight. We always sat with Sam and Wilma Gannon and several other members of the Sunday School class. The service by candlelight lent a feeling of lapsing back 2000 years to the biblical origin of the celebration.
Some of our classmates had already taken their seats by the time we arrived shortly before eleven. I sat beside John Jernigan, an accountant who had retired from what was now known as U.S. Smokeless Tobacco. It was the maker of the famous Bruton’s Snuff, and John had been stuck with the nickname “Snuffy” in earlier times. We honored his desire to be known by his given name. He was a confirmed smoker and his tobacco expertise had helped us out with the Marathon Motor Works case a few months ago.
“What have you been up to, Greg?” he asked.
“Trying to make a buck the usual way.”
“I read about you finding that young fellow who’d been shot over in Northeast Nashville last week.”
“That was a real shocker. I guess you also heard about my Jeep getting barbequed.”
“Sam told me. Any idea who did it?”
“No, the investigators are still working on it. How about you? How’s your holiday season going?”
“Ha. You know us retired guys don’t get holidays. I’ve been spending a lot of time on my ham radio rig, trying to see how many countries I can reach. Gotten a pretty good list so far.”
“I didn’t know you were a ham, John.” I gave him a curious look. “You never mentioned it.”
“I sort of got away from it for several years. Recently I decided to update my equipment and give it another try. Keeps me out of pool rooms.”
I laughed and was about to as
k him the question that had been bugging me lately, but the service started before I could get to it. We sang all the familiar Christmas hymns, the choir performed a beautiful anthem, and one of the members with a great voice read the scriptural account of Christ’s birth. Dr. Peter Trent, our pastor, told the story of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s troubled life that led to his writing the poem that became the Christmas carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” The carol typified the spirit of the season with its message of peace on earth, good will to men. Thinking about Arnold’s murder, I knew somebody out there had missed the message. I was even more determined to track him down and bring him to account.
When the lights came on in the sanctuary, everybody began to bundle up for the trek out into the frigid night. I finally had the chance to put my question to John Jernigan.
“You must know a lot of local hams,” I said. “Do you by chance know one who drives a Cadillac Escalade?”
He cocked his head as he pulled on a heavy jacket. “No, can’t say that I do. Of course, I haven’t been back into it for all that long. Who’re you looking for?”
I chuckled. “I’m not sure. Just taking a shot in hopes of hitting something. The investigators found evidence that a handheld transceiver like the ones used by ham operators was used to trigger the bomb that did in my Jeep. They wanted to know if I knew any hams. I told them I hadn’t run into one since I made a phone call home from Vietnam.”
“Then you used somebody with the Military Amateur Radio Service. Some of those GI’s did miraculous things setting up stations in combat zones. They cannibalized stuff to put it all together so people could make calls to their kinfolks back home.”
“Yeah. That was back in the days when making an overseas call was a big deal. Were you involved in the Amateur Radio Service?”
“Sure was. Got a cigarette lighter to prove it.”
He pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket and showed it to me. I saw a round symbol with a globe and the letters “MARS.” Around the circle it read “Military Amateur Radio Service.”
A Sporting Murder (Greg McKenzie Mysteries Book 5) Page 18