Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “I don’t have the answer for that just yet,” I said. “I’m not a betting person, but if I were, I’d wager that it ties in directly.”

  “How can we find out?” Meg asked.

  “The only way I can think of is to confront some of the people who might be involved in betting.”

  We were so engrossed in our conversation that we failed to see Ty, who stood in the doorway.

  “What are you talking about?” he said, stifling a yawn.

  “Good nap?” Meg asked.

  He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, um, I mean, yes. I feel a little better.”

  “Come in, son,” said Jack, taking a seat on the sofa. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  Ty took the space next to his foster father.

  “Mrs. Fletcher has come up with some interesting information,” Jack said.

  I hoped he wouldn’t share with Ty what I’d learned about Harrison Bennett. It was better to keep it between us, at least for the time being.

  “How much betting on baseball goes on with your teammates?” Jack asked.

  “Betting?” Ty said, surprised by the question—and not pleasantly. Whereas he had been lethargic and still sleepy when he entered the room, he was now tense, his posture stiff.

  “Yes, betting, particularly on your games.”

  Ty avoided looking at Jack. “Some, I guess,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Some? Can you be a little more specific?” Jack’s voice had an edge to it.

  “What difference does it make?” Ty asked. “It won’t help me.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” Jack said. “Who bets on the games?”

  “Ah, sir, please, I—”

  “Have you bet on them, son?”

  Ty didn’t respond. We all sat in silence.

  “Once,” he said. “Maybe a couple of times.”

  “Did you bet against the Rattlers?” his foster father asked.

  “Never!” Ty said, completely out of his lethargy and animated now. “I would never do that. I never even bet on a Rattlers game. It was always one of the major-league teams.”

  “Always?” Jack said. “Sounds as though it was more than once or twice.”

  Ty said nothing.

  “I’m glad to hear that you never bet on your own team,” Jack said, “for or against.”

  “May I be excused?” Ty asked.

  “No! I want your promise you’ll never place another illegal bet.”

  “It’s not like I was doing it all the time. And, anyway, I’m not the only one.”

  “Oh, Ty,” Meg said, a world of disappointment in her voice.

  “Who else on your team was placing bets?” Jack asked.

  “You know I’m not going to tell you that. I’m not going to rat out my teammates. It was no big deal. If a guy needed a little money, sometimes he would bet if he thought it was a sure thing.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Maybe ten bucks. I won a couple of times, too, but I didn’t bet very much. I don’t like to lose.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” Jack said. “Don’t you know every time you break the law, no matter how innocent you think it is, you’re supporting the criminal population? They don’t make it day to day without you and your small-time bets. You’re supplying their everyday meat and potatoes so they can go on to gorge themselves on bigger feasts. Your little breach of the law keeps them going.”

  He looked at Ty, who was visibly upset. “All right. Get out of here.”

  Ty bolted from the room and took the stairs two at a time, returning to his room, and likely his bed.

  “I’m shocked,” Meg said after Ty was gone.

  “At least he gave us an honest answer,” Jack said. To me: “It doesn’t help tie anything to the murder, Jess.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “Meg, you called me on my cell phone when I was in Patsy’s restaurant wearing your wig. Remember?”

  “Sure. I was envious. I wanted to be there, too.”

  “You said during that conversation that Jack had learned Karen Locke was involved in some sort of investigation of sports betting.”

  “Yes, I did. Jack, remember you told me that?”

  He nodded.

  “Who told you?” I asked him.

  “A friend at the club. He runs a PR agency in Mesa. He pretty much has a finger on the media pulse.”

  “Do either of you know where Ms. Locke lives?”

  Meg and Jack looked at each other and shrugged.

  “We can look it up,” Meg suggested.

  “She’ll have an unlisted number and address,” Jack said. “Everybody in the media does.”

  Meg ignored his negative comment and pulled out a local phone directory from a cabinet. “Here it is,” she said. “K. L. Locke. Must be her. The only other K here is Kenneth.” She read off the address and phone number, which I noted on a slip of paper.

  “Do you know where this is?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a condominium development on the southern edge of town,” Jack said, “not far from where I play golf. But you’d better call first. K. Locke could be Kerry Locke, or Keith Locke, or—”

  “I’d rather assume it’s her,” I said, “and show up unannounced. Will you drive me?”

  “Sure,” Jack said, picking up a Rattlers cap and putting it on, “but I still think you’re off on a wild-goose chase.”

  “That may be,” I said, “but I learned long ago to never second-guess my gut instincts.”

  Jack was right. The address in the phone book for K. L. Locke was a new condominium development on a rise that afforded a limited view of mountains in the far distance. We pulled up in front of a town house with the number listed in the book.

  “So, what do we do now?” Jack asked. “Are we on a stakeout?”

  “Let’s just give it a couple of minutes to see if anyone comes in or out,” I said. “Then I’ll ring the bell.”

  “Okay, but I think you’re wasting your time.” He slid down in his seat, pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes, and pretended to snore.

  “There she is,” I said, watching the door on the attached garage go up.

  Karen pulled her car in, got out, climbed the stairs, and disappeared inside the house.

  “I’ll wait for you,” Jack said.

  “Please don’t,” I said, opening the car door. “I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I’ll go hang out at the clubhouse. It’s only a few minutes from here.” He wrote down his cell number and handed it to me. “Give a call when you’re finished.”

  “I will. And thanks, Jack.”

  “Hey, you have a lot better instincts than mine at this point. Go for it, whatever it is.”

  He drove off, and I approached the front door, which was up a set of three brick steps. I rang the bell. I heard movement inside, but no one answered. I was then aware of someone peeking though a curtain on a narrow window at the side of the door. I rang again. The door opened and I was face-to-face with Karen Locke.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I was hoping to have a chance to speak with you,” I said. “I apologize for just barging in like this, but it’s terribly important.”

  “You’re Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “I didn’t appreciate what you said to me at the spa,” she said. “I didn’t deserve it.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m afraid I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. It was just that my friend Meg Duffy was in a difficult situation and I couldn’t—”

  To my surprise, Karen opened the door wider. “Yeah,” she said, “I guess I was a little too aggressive, considering what she’s going through. Why are you here?”

  “To ask you some questions about the investigative report you’ve been working on.”

  Her eyebrows went up into question marks.
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  “About betting on sports,” I added.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “A friend of a friend,” I answered. “It’s not idle curiosity on my part,” I said. “I believe that the murder of Junior Bennett is linked, in some way, to gambling. I don’t know what that link is yet, but I was hoping you might help me establish it.” I paused. “A young man’s life hangs in the balance.”

  “Ty Ramos,” she said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it?” a male voice asked. He came to the door and stood behind Karen. He was a good-looking middle-aged man, slightly taller than she. His hair and eyes were brown, his expression pleasant.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher,” Karen said. “She’s a mystery writer.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “She wants to ask me a few questions,” Karen told him.

  “Oh? Are you going to be in one of her novels?”

  “I don’t think so,” Karen said.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  Karen shot him a hard look. “Yes, come in,” she said. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m due at the station in a few hours.”

  “I promise not to take too long,” I said, following them inside.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “I’m marinating a steak for the grill. There’s plenty if you want to join us for dinner. My name’s Jerry, by the way. Jerry Lansing.” He extended his hand and smiled.

  “Nice meeting you,” I said, “and thank you for the invitation, but I’m expected for dinner elsewhere.”

  He left us alone in the somewhat disheveled living room. Clothing fresh from the dryer and in need of folding was piled on chairs. Stacks of cardboard boxes took up much of the floor space.

  “Pardon the mess,” she said. “I haven’t been here very long and still have lots of unpacking to do.”

  “I know how difficult moving is,” I said. “One of life’s primary stresses. I promised I wouldn’t take too much of your time, Ms. Locke, so let me be direct. I’ve learned that Harrison Bennett bets on Rattler games, often against his own team. Does that match up with what you’ve uncovered during your investigation?”

  A delayed nod was her answer.

  “What about Junior Bennett?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did he bet against his own team, too?”

  “Since you seem to know a lot, Mrs. Fletcher, why not tell me the answer.”

  “I understand he did,” I said.

  “Your source?”

  “A man named Giacondi.”

  “Jake Giacondi,” she said.

  “You obviously know him,” I said.

  “Sure. Everybody in Mesa knows Jake. He’s kind of a sad case, a wise-guy wannabe who doesn’t have what it takes to move up. He’s been around as long as I’ve been here, running numbers, booking bets, handling errands for some of the real wise guys in Arizona. He told you about Junior?” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you know it?”

  “Yes. He said Junior was the one who placed bets with him on behalf of his father. Is he correct?”

  Another nod of her head.

  “Were other members of the team betting?” I asked. I knew my time with her would be limited and wanted to make optimum use of every minute.

  “Some of the players,” she replied.

  “Ty Ramos?”

  “Not that I heard,” she said. Her answer pleased me.

  “Which players?”

  She laughed. “You were critical of me, Mrs. Fletcher, for being aggressive in my questioning. I think you might be crossing the line.”

  “If I am, I apologize,” I said, “but Ty Ramos’s life has already been thrown into turmoil and his future compromised. I assure you, Ms. Locke, that I’m not out to hurt anyone over the gambling issue. But I am out to clear Ty.”

  She pondered my comment, chewing her cheek and allowing one foot to bounce up and down. “Some of the players are into gambling on the games more than others. Carter Menzies was heavy into Jake Giacondi.”

  “Carter?” I said, incredulous.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, “it goes against type. Nice guy, good ballplayer, clean-cut, handsome, every mother’s dream of a potential son-in-law. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not being critical of Carter and other players like him. He came out of a tough childhood. Players at this level don’t get paid much and are always looking for some extra money. They get a few so-called insider tips, latch on to someone like Giacondi, and put down a few bucks. Innocent enough. The problem is that it becomes a habit. You lose a few bets and double up to recoup your losses, only the losses keep getting bigger. Don’t get me wrong. I have no information that Carter ever bet against the Rattlers, and I’m not about to point to him by name in my report. But you wanted an example of a player who bets, and I gave you one.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  She pulled a stick of gum from a pocket in her blouse, unwrapped it, and began to chew.

  “Does that help with the morning sickness?” I asked pleasantly.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a very astute lady, Mrs. Fletcher. You picked up on my pregnancy before anyone else did.”

  “It just made sense to me, that’s all.”

  “You know what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to level with you, completely level with you. I’m really not sure why, but I sure don’t want to see Ty take the rap for something if he didn’t do it. Somehow, I trust you to do the right thing.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I know it’s difficult for you because of your relationship with Junior Bennett and—”

  “You were right about my being pregnant, Mrs. Fletcher, but wrong about the father. Junior wasn’t the father.”

  “Oh?”

  “My fiancé is,” she said, indicating the kitchen with a nod of her head. “Jerry and I are getting married. That’s why we just moved in together.”

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said, smiling. “You want to know about Junior? I went out with him to learn what I could about H.B.’s gambling. It was basically an undercover job, but nothing happened under the covers, so to speak. I couldn’t stand Junior, although I’m not glad he’s dead. He was a spoiled, selfish, nasty young guy. How I put up with him for as long as I did is beyond me.”