by Donald Bain
I looked into his face and was startled to realize I recognized it. He was the small man I’d seen, and heard, talking on a cell phone outside the hotel the night of the team celebratory dinner.
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” I said as he struggled to his feet with my help.
“No, no,” he said. “I don’t need a doctor.”
The screeching of tires on the floor above alerted us that the danger to him wasn’t completely gone. He hobbled to the soda machine and I followed, both of us seeking to use it as a shield from the careening car—a silver Jaguar with H.B. on the license plate—that raced by a moment later.
The man sank back against the wall.
“That was Harrison Bennett who hit you,” I said.
My blunt statement had its intended effect. He looked at me with wide, frightened brown eyes, his lips quivering.
“I heard you say that he bets against his own team. Would that be the Rattlers?”
“Look, lady, here’s your handkerchief back. I can’t—”
“Please, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t wish you any harm, nor do I care what your role might be in any betting that goes on. But you’ve bloodied my handkerchief, which, I should tell you, has always been one of my favorites, and in addition, I scraped my knee badly in trying to help you. The least you can do is hear me out. Come along, I’ll buy you a soda. There’s something I must know.”
Chapter Sixteen
My conversation with one of Mesa’s resident bookies started out well. But as the pain in his head subsided, he seemed to realize suddenly that he was telling tales out of school to a perfect stranger, hardly prudent for someone engaged in illegal activities. I thanked him for his time and watched him walk away, my handkerchief pressed to his gash. He kept looking back as though to confirm he’d actually been revealing secrets about his clients to a woman who asked a lot of questions she had no business asking.
I walked through town again until I reached a pocket park I hadn’t noticed before. I entered it and sat on a bench beneath a leafy tree that afforded protection from the blazing sun. I looked up and saw a cerulean sky dotted with enormous puffy white clouds that would eventually give way to a still Arizona night, with winking stars and a slice of a moon. Meg had expressed disappointment that my visit to Arizona hadn’t coincided with a full moon. “The desert is especially beautiful when the moon is full,” she’d said. She’d also hoped that I would get to experience a sunrise hot-air-balloon ride over the desert, something I’d wanted to do along with getting in an hour or two of flying time in a rented private plane. It didn’t look like I’d get to enjoy either diversion. All our plans had been set aside because of Ty’s arrest.
I stayed in the park for a half hour, not so much to rest as to try to clear my head and focus on what my timely conversation with the bookie—Harrison Bennett’s bookie—meant to Ty’s defense. I felt the pressure of time. I couldn’t stay in Arizona forever. His trial, if there was one, would be months in the future. His teammates would begin scattering across the country. Recollections of what had happened that fateful night at the Crazy Coyote would fade. I needed to process what I’d learned, put it in some semblance of order, and force a resolution.
The sun’s rays played off water bubbling up from a fountain a few feet away. The gentle sound added to the tranquility of the park, and threatened to lull me into a sleepy, hypnotic state. But I was snapped out of my trance by the ringing of my cell phone. It was Mort Metzger.
“Everything okay with you, Mrs. F?” he asked.
“Yes, Mort, everything is fine. At this moment, I’m sitting on a bench in a pretty little park with a fountain in the center of Mesa. You know how much I enjoy taking walks by the sea. In Arizona, you settle for water of any kind, wherever you can find it. How are things back home?”
“Not as exciting as they must be for you,” he said. “I’ve been following what’s happening with the Ramos case on ESPN and Court TV. Are you still in the middle of it?”
“Yes, I’m involved, Mort, but—”
“Last time we talked, you were asking about sports gambling.”
“Yes, I remember that,” I said. “As a matter of fact—”
I told him of my encounter with the bookie without mentioning names.
“Stay away from the gambling crowd, Mrs. F,” he said, his voice firm and stern. “It’s all mob related. You get yourself involved with somebody who owes a bookie money, you’re liable to end up with a broken kneecap, or worse. You know, I was a cop in New York—” He went on to remind me of how naïve—and stubborn—I can sometimes be. And I was not thrilled to learn that he and Seth Hazlitt had been discussing my flaws and that Seth had wholeheartedly agreed with him.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I hear you loud and clear.”
“Hearing’s one thing, Mrs. F. Acting on what you hear is another. When are you coming home?”
“I have no idea,” I responded. “But tell Maureen I found your chipotle sauce and bought you a jar.”
“We’re not concerned about that, Mrs. F. We’re concerned about you.”
“You tell Seth Hazlitt to mind his own patients or I won’t give him the Diamondbacks cap I bought him today. Seriously, Mort, I can’t leave just yet. I’m needed here, not so much for Jack and Meg—they have one another. And Jack has so much experience with the legal end that he doesn’t need any help there—not that I would tread in that territory anyway. It’s Ty who I feel needs me more than anyone. He’s such a nice, deserving kid, and his dream is about to go down the drain. All that hard work, on and off the field. It’s heartbreaking to see him trying to cope.”
“That boy is lucky to have you on his team, Mrs. F.”
The conversation with Mort had roused me from my lethargy. I now knew things I hadn’t known earlier that day. The question was to what use to put my newfound knowledge. I had walked out of the park with the intention of heading back to the Duffys’ house when I happened to notice three medium-rise office buildings lined up against the horizon. One had large red letters at its top, but I was too far away to read them clearly. It looked like it might say BENNETT BUILDING. I walked toward the buildings to see if I was right. My eyesight was still working. Sure enough, BENNETT BUILDING was emblazoned across the structure’s upper span.
I crossed the street, leaving the leafy protection of the park and wishing I’d bought that pretty sombrero. The sun was brutal, bringing to mind the proverbial egg frying on the sidewalk. In this case, my head was the egg. I reached the building’s entrance and gratefully stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. The directory indicated that Bennett Enterprises was on the top floor.
The elevator opened into an expensively decorated and furnished reception area where an older woman with perfectly coiffed blond hair wearing a colorful cowboy shirt sat behind a very large desk.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I hope so,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was wondering whether—”
She popped up and came around from behind the desk, her ankle-length blue denim skirt with patches of horses and cows sewn on it swirling around her. She extended her hand. “My, my,” she said, “it really is Jessica Fletcher. I recognize you from your book covers. This is such a pleasure. I’ve read every one of your books, and so have my nieces and nephews. I tell them there isn’t a lot of senseless gore and sex and bad language in them, and that they’ll enjoy figuring out who dunnit.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “Come, sit down. Would you like a cold drink, some coffee perhaps?”
“Thank you, no,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping to catch Mr. Bennett for a few minutes. I know I’m barging in but—”
She became conspiratorial. “Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “He’s probably in his office trying to put his silly little golf ball into the cup he has on his carpet.” She shook her head. “Boys and their t
oys. Do you find that men become more childlike as they get older?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the direction the conversation had taken. “I really hadn’t thought much about that, but—”
A large set of wooden double doors behind her desk opened and Harrison Bennett stepped into the reception area. He spotted me and frowned as if trying to force recognition.
“H.B.,” his receptionist said, “do you know who this is?”
His frown deepened. He wore lime green slacks, a bright yellow polo shirt, and white loafers, and carried a gold putter.
I took the initiative, walked up to him, and offered my hand. “Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Bennett. We met at the team dinner following the Rattlers’ win.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, ignoring my hand.
He started back toward his office and I stayed at his side. He stopped and glared at me.
“I came to express my condolences, and—”
He cut me off.“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“I think we should have a talk,” I said.
“About what?”
“Why don’t we go into your office? This is really a private matter.”
“I have no private business with you. Now, tell me what you want.”
I lowered my voice so the receptionist couldn’t hear. “Oh, I was wondering who’ll place your bets against the Rattlers now that Junior is gone.”
I’d certainly surprised him. He stood in the hallway, his mouth open.
“I understand you lost a lot of money on that game,” I said, meeting his angry eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I think I do,” I said. “Would you like to discuss it out here, or do you think we can find somewhere less public?”
He answered by pushing through the double doors. I followed. He closed the doors behind us and said through clenched teeth, “I lost a son, that’s what I lost.”
“And I am terribly sorry about that,” I said. “Truly I am. I’m not out to hurt you, Mr. Bennett, but Ty Ramos did not kill your son, and I am determined to clear him of the charge against him.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m here to talk about integrity, about a minor-league baseball team owner who bets against his own team.”
“What the hell does betting have to do with my son’s murder?”
“I’m not sure yet, sir, but I’m becoming increasingly convinced that there could be a connection. I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time this morning—or the right place at the right time, depending upon your view—and I overheard you berating and physically attacking your bookie. I heard it all, Mr. Bennett.” I decided not to mention my follow-up talk with the bookie, to spare him any retribution.
I paused, expecting some kind of reaction. He didn’t speak, but his rage was palpable. I was tempted to stop but felt compelled to continue. “If anyone asked, I’d have to say the most despicable part of your unscrupulous behavior is that you had your own son place your bets for you.”
In all my years of stumbling into murders, I’ve only occasionally been afraid for my physical well-being. This was one of those rare times, and it immediately brought to mind the conversation I’d just had with Mort. H.B.’s face was a deep purple, as if his bruised ego had surfaced. His head visibly shook and his fists were clenched. He shifted from one foot to the next, rocking back and forth. His eyes bored into mine with laser intensity. If his receptionist had not been within screaming distance, I would have been in danger of his lashing out, just as he did with his bookie, or worse. I wondered if I should back off and soften my assault on his character. The cognitive part of my brain suggested I do that, but the emotional component told me to stick to my convictions.
“You’ve been following me,” he said, pointing an accusatory index finger at my face. The glint from a large square diamond-and-ruby-encrusted ring flashed light in my eyes.
“No, I haven’t followed you,” I said.
“Who have you been speaking to?” he asked. “I’ll find out. I have my ways.”
“You will not threaten me, nor will you intimidate me,” I said. “Your jealousy and anger at Ty Ramos is misplaced. Even you have to admit that sending an innocent young man to prison is wrong. Most important, it won’t bring back your son. Nothing will. But I believe that you can help bring your son’s real killer to justice.”
His face didn’t appear as swollen with anger as it had a few moments ago. His shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his feet.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, the fire in his voice extinguished.
“If you’ll allow me to sit here with you for a few minutes,” I said, “I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Seventeen
My unpleasant visit with H.B., if you could call it a “visit”—“visits” back home have a much more sanguine connotation—left me both somewhat shaken and more optimistic that I might finally get to the truth about Junior Bennett’s murder and the accusation that Ty Ramos was responsible for it. I grabbed the first taxi I could find outside Bennett’s office and went directly to the Duffy house. Both Jack and Meg were there.
“How was your shopping expedition?” Meg asked.
“Successful,” I said, pointing to the small bag of things I had purchased. “But I found more than I’d bargained for.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Jack said. “Meg always ends up with more than she set out to buy.”
“I’m not talking about purchases, Jack,” I said. “Where’s Ty?”
“Upstairs, trying to catch up on some of the sleep that he missed last night,” Meg said. “He was just exhausted when we got home. I don’t think he closed his eyes all night, worrying about whether his bail would be revoked.”
“Good,” I said. “I hope he gets some rest. In the meantime, I have something important to tell you.”
I recounted for them the scene I’d overheard between H.B. and the man with the cell phone—who I now knew was named Jake Giacondi—and how it had ended with H.B. knocking Giacondi to the ground, opening his scalp, and threatening worse.
“This is remarkable news, Jess,” Jack said. He got up from his chair and began to walk back and forth. “You say this Giacondi fellow is a bookie?”
“That’s right,” I replied.
“And Bennett has been betting against the Rattlers?”
“Right again, at least according to Giacondi. I believe him, and not just because he said so. I overheard the exchange between him and Bennett, when he threatened to go to the press. There’s no doubt in my mind that the owner of the Rattlers has been betting against them. That would help explain his mood following their win in the final game.”
“He was very sour for a man whose team had just won the championship,” Meg said. “Remember, in the locker room?”
“Exactly,” I said. “And at the dinner, too. We all thought that he was angry because the manager pulled his son from the lineup for Ty to pinch-hit. But I kept thinking there had to be more to it than that. He evidently lost a lot of money on that game and was furious, which would account for his unpleasant postgame behavior.”
“Yes, but the question is, with whom is he furious?” Jack said.
“Sit down, Jack,” Meg said. “You’ll wear out the carpet.”
He stopped pacing and turned to me. “What I’m trying to figure out, Jess, is how this information you’ve come up with ties in with Junior Bennett’s murder.”