There were no sidewalks, so I stayed on the road’s edge across from the homes, near the thick-trunked trees. How did Olivia, a young teacher, manage to afford a seven-figure condo at Lakeside? I wondered. People had asked the same about me, an unemployed freelance writer, including Charlie after our third date. I’d told him about the lottery money. Maybe Olivia had won the lottery, too. What were the odds of that happening to two neighbors?
I grew more focused when I spotted an SUV parked in Olivia’s driveway. No lights were on in the condo. A nearby subdued street lamp might allow me to see the license plate. I moved in closer and was able to copy down the Illinois plate number on the older model SUV in my notebook.
A faint sound of Olivia’s front door opening intensified my attention. I moved away fast to hide behind a huge oak across from her drive. Two bulky men were carrying something heavy down the porch stairs. They set a solid metal box down near the rear door of the SUV which must have been four feet tall, two feet wide and two deep. One man lifted up the tailgate. It struck me how no front security lights had come on outside of Olivia’s and there was no interior light in the SUV. The huge men slowly raised the massive object into the vehicle. I squinted for a closer view. It looked like a safe. Why would Olivia have needed that?
The men quietly got into the car and drove out the nearby back gate which opened automatically, but only for someone leaving the complex. How did they get in? I wondered. I suppose if they’re accomplished burglars no fences or card devices would be able to keep them out. Still, Lakeside was not nearly as secure as I’d declared to Olivia at the January board meeting. And my measly .22 caliber pistol wouldn’t likely stop those big men.
I stepped out from my hiding place and decided to see if I could find out more as to what the intruders where doing at Olivia’s. Her house key easily unlocked her door. Once inside the unlit unit I wished I’d brought a flashlight. A low light was on down a short hallway from the foyer where I stood, in what was probably the kitchen. I waited for my eyes to adjust to focus in on my surroundings. Everything looked like it was in place. I tiptoed through the front room to see if there was a back office where the safe might have been kept. I passed a couple of bedrooms that were perfectly neat and undisturbed. One more doorway stood open at the end of the hall.
Sure enough, the room contained office furniture. A few papers were scattered on the desk. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place except that there was no computer. I noticed a closed door behind the desk to the left. It turned out to be unlocked and opened right away.
The spacious walk-in closet was much darker than the outer office had been. I waited again for my eyes to adapt to the lack of light source. At the far end of the space was an empty spot that certainly could have held the safe. Nearby file drawers were open and folders were strewn on the floor. What could they have been looking for? I bent down and picked up a handful of files with my gloves, grabbed the papers off the desk and took them to the better-lit kitchen.
The folders were filled with pages of monthly statements from banks in LA, Chicago and the Cayman Islands. I shook my head in disbelief, then wrote each account number on my note pad. Olivia’s name, birth date and social security number stood out on a couple of pages which I also copied into my book.
The sound of a car horn honking outside made me freeze. The beeping finally stopped. I placed the papers back on the desk as closely as I could to where they’d been lying, and put the folders back on the closet floor, leaving the file drawers open like I’d found them. I carefully closed the closet door and silently returned to the entry area of Olivia’s home. I slowly opened the outside door and listened. Nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief as I locked up and jogged back home.
Two days later Olivia’s name was released on the evening news in connection with the mall murder. Shortly after, the house phone rang. It was Charlie.
“Did you hear about Ms. Hill?” he said rapidly.
“Yes. I’m shocked. And what a loss to Indy High.”
“I know. A couple of my buddies called. Said it was a professional hit, maybe by the mob.”
That might explain the beefy men I saw hauling the safe out of Olivia’s home. “They didn’t even hint at anything like that on the news. Do your friends have any idea why someone would want to hurt her?”
“No clue. I’ll call you if I hear anything more. Pick you up at the usual time for the game. See if her death affects how the guys play.”
I thought Charlie sounded a little too casual, but he hadn’t known Olivia very well. Then it struck me, what kind of friends did he have that would know if a murder was a mob hit or not? I decided not to mention to him what I’d witnessed at her condo the other night or that I had her key.
“See you tomorrow, Charlie.”
Needless to say, the crowd was lacking in its usual exuberance at Friday’s Indy High basketball game. School officials had considered canceling the event due to the murder of Coach Hill, friends seated around Charlie and me said, but instead they held a short memorial before the start and had a tribute during halftime.
During the game I felt myself becoming suspicious of fans in the stands. I scanned the bleachers for burly men. Was the killer here? Were others on the hit list? The fact that Coach Hill’s murder might have been mob-related was not common knowledge. Charlie and I did not mention it to anyone in the stands espousing theories about possible motives. Nor did I mention my escapade at Olivia Hill’s the night before to Charlie.
The Indy High players managed to eek out a win over the rival they’d been expected to demolish. I held onto Charlie’s arm tightly afterward on the way to the car as I kept glancing around, leery that the danger could be anywhere.
Indy Star online headlines the next morning reported that Olivia Hill was an alias for Candi Sparke. Photos of a slender, but muscular young woman in a low cut top, tight jeans and long blond wig were posted with the story. According to the reporter, Ms. Sparke had had drug-related arrests in Chicago, no convictions, and had worked as an exotic dancer until she admitted herself into a substance abuse treatment facility, changed her identity and moved to LA where she’d received a legitimate teaching degree in physical education.
I pondered the incredible news and wondered if Olivia had avoided drug convictions by becoming an informant. Had she been in a witness protection program in Indianapolis, albeit not a very effective one? Investigation by law enforcement continued into the high-end nightclub where Candi had worked.
Charlie and I had actually chosen not to go to a weekend basketball game and spent Saturday together running errands followed by dinner at our favorite seafood restaurant. Charlie ordered blackened salmon which sizzled when it arrived. I inhaled the delightful aroma of the garlic sauce on my giant browned scallops. We nibbled on each other’s delicacies as we discussed Candi Starke’s demise.
“I’ve hesitated about telling you this, Marty, but some of my buddies are very familiar with the club where Candi Sparke worked in Chicago. Not me, I’ve never been there. Not my style.”
I smiled at him. “Glad to hear that.”
“The place is deep in mob activity.”
“Oh? So why do your friends go there?”
“They have a private gambling room. Very discreet, along with all the other services they provide.”
I chewed slowly on a scallop. “You mean like prostitution?”
Charlie nodded. “Yeah. The owner’s also a bookie. Some of the guys I know made bets while they were there. Classy nightclub, I guess.”
“Except for all the illegal mob activity.” I put down my fork and rested my hand on the table.
“Well, I mean, they said it was classy as in elegant.”
“How are you involved with those types of guys? How did you meet them?”
“Business. In real estate I run into all types.”
“I suppose that’s true. Well, do you do other types of gambling or use call girls or drugs? You don’t seem like the type, but you b
et on sports and pay a bookmaker.”
Charlie rested his hand on mine and looked me in the eye. “Marty, my brother was a gambler. He owed so much to a loan shark he lost his life over it.”
“Oh, Charlie. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m pretty sure I know who did it, but the police don’t have enough evidence yet to prosecute. I’ve kept my fingers in gambling hoping to learn enough to help prove the case against his killer. Business, basketball and you are my addictions.” He laughed nervously and squeezed my hand. “For your comfort and your safety I will cease placing any more bets. My friends will fill me in.”
“What if your bookie, Nick, is involved? They probably all know each other. Online it said that bookies are also usually in the drug business and connected to the mob.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ll agree with you that illegal betting does not make good sense. So now that I’ve quit my last really bad habit, maybe you’ll agree to marry me in the future.” He picked up my hand and kissed it.
I swallowed hard, then smiled. “Maybe. But I’m not quite ready to make that commitment.”
First, I wanted to check Charlie’s background thoroughly, to see if he was as truthful as he sounded, maybe have him tailed for a few months, and research Olivia’s murder as much as I could. Might be able to pull together a good story to sell. I already had calls in to publications that might be interested. This story had the potential to capture national attention. But I was busy with all the ball games, and I was supposed to be on a leave of absence. The articles I’d written before were more often light human interest stories, although, before that I’d worked on one newspaper’s crime beat in Michigan for a couple years.
Later in the week Charlie and I went to an Indy High home game. Our team was again defeated. Since Coach Hill’s death, both the Indy High boys and girls basketball teams were in a downhill slide. Nothing close to a state championship for either team would be won this year.
Olivia’s case was being investigated closely by law enforcement, and the FBI had been called in, according to press accounts. A close contact of mine who was retired from the Chicago FBI office and who did private undercover work gave me information about Olivia aka Candi Sparke that had not yet been released to or discovered by the press. For a substantial fee, of course. He also recommended that I give the FBI the license plate number of the SUV at Olivia’s the night of her death and the bank account numbers that I had found in her condo.
Candi had been the girlfriend of the Chicago nightclub owner where she’d danced and was well versed in all aspects of the establishment including the gambling and bookmaking operation. Her father had also been in the gambling business. Candi had loved sports in school, the private detective told me, and had become most active in the sports bet component of the club’s businesses, particularly underage betting. Sometimes teens were allowed into the nightclub to gamble, but mostly they placed their bets at secret locations. Candi collected the youths’ money and paid them when they won. She was basically a bookie herself with high school students working for her, via the nightclub, who took wagers from other students at two affluent suburban Chicago high schools and collected the cash for her.
After I’d spoken with my covert Chicago liaison, I received an email from an online news outlet that wanted to hire me to write an exclusive ongoing series about the Olivia Hill case. I’d written for them before. We negotiated, via email, a price for each story. I put together the first one which included a summary of the mysterious events so far along with my scoop. Wow, it felt great to be on the job again!
Charlie dropped by my home to share the latest hearsay about the death of Olivia Hill. He always had news more up-to-date than the newspapers and television stations about the hit. I told him I was working on a feature series for an online publication’s crime section. He was pleased, initially.
Rumor through Charlie’s grapevine was that the missing stripper, Candi Sparke, had finally been found in Indianapolis a few weeks before her death by the crooked Chicago club owner’s mob associates. They were amused that she was living as a coach and teacher named Olivia Hill, but not so pleased that on the sly she was running a sports betting business at Indy High. They claimed her earnings were theirs. It had probably been a mistake for her to leave LA and move back to the Midwest near her sister, only a few hours from Chicago, Charlie surmised.
“Would you arrange a meeting for me with the club owner or someone else in the know about Candi Sparke?” I asked Charlie as he stood in my foyer.
He shook his head. “Why?”
“For my articles.”
“No. It could be dangerous for you, honey.” “A phone call interview would be enough for me. You keep in touch with them.”
“My buddies do. Not me.”
“Then, I’d like to speak with one your buddies in the know.”
“They’d never agree. You can keep asking me questions. I’ll keep you informed.”
“I need confirmation from a direct source.”
“Sorry, Marty. Best I can do is keep telling you what I hear.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I considered calling or visiting the nightclub myself.
“I’d be glad to pay your informant, but only for accurate information. They can remain anonymous. How about it, Charlie?” I stepped over close to him and rubbed his bicep. “Please?” I said as I slid my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder.
Charlie restlessly adjusted his weight back and forth from foot to foot a few times then relaxed. He finally said, “All right. I’ll try to set up something.”
I gave him a slow kiss on the cheek.
Word came to me through Charlie’s source a few days later via an untraceable throw-away cell phone that had been provided, to check out five affluent male Indy High School students who had attended Ms. Hill’s private funeral arranged by her sister. He gave me their names. The only other student body members present at the service had been on the girl’s basketball team. I discovered the five young men were not even on the boy’s basketball team. Other students had only participated in the memorial at the school. Neither the media nor general public had been allowed in the funeral home.
That evening Charlie came to pick me up for the state high school finals, even though Indy High had not come close to qualifying for the play-offs. He told me in the car, while we were still in my drive, that one of his friends was frantic over the possibility that his son, Zack, had been involved in the sports betting at Indy High, along with several other students and might be harmed, even though no threats had been made.
“Zack Stoneman?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my gosh, Charlie, that’s one of the names your source gave me.”
“Well then, you’ll really like this. I talked to Zack’s dad about your stories, and Zack is willing to meet with you before he goes to the police.”
I leaned over, looked into his eyes and stroked the side of his face with my fingers. “Thanks so much, Charlie. I’m touched that you set that up. You’ve been more supportive than I ever expected. Zack really could be helpful to my articles.”
After watching one of our favorite teams, Carmel High School, win the Indiana high school basketball championship, my cheery mood disappeared the minute we arrived at my condo. I felt uneasy. I used a remote to switch on the entry light, then held Charlie’s arm as we walked up to the front porch. As we neared, we both saw my storm door was ajar, and the brand new main door handle was scratched around the key area. I gripped Charlie’s arm harder. I flashed on the scary men that had stolen Olivia’s safe.
After we entered the foyer and decided no one had been inside, Charlie turned and grabbed my shoulders. “You’ve got to end the series, Marty. Someone tried to break in! It’s too dangerous to keep going. I don’t want you to end up like Olivia Hill.”
I shook my head. “I can’t. I won’t. This makes me more determined to find the truth.”
“I’m worried, Marty. I insist
on staying here with you.”
“You don’t have to, Charlie. I’ll be fine,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I believed my own words.
Charlie frowned.
“But on the other hand, I’d really enjoy having you around more.”
“Then it’s settled.” He pulled me to him and hugged me.
I smiled in his arms. “I think I’ll like having you as a roommate.”
At his parents’ home, Zack admitted to me that he’d been one of the five seniors at Olivia Hill’s private funeral service. The five young men had all become novice gambling entrepreneurs with Ms. Hill’s encouragement, Zack reported. Sports betting and bookmaking had seemed harmless to them in the beginning, Zack told me, especially since they were working for the lovely and seemingly non-threatening Ms. Olivia Hill. The boys were in charge of bringing in basketball bets from Indy High students, mostly for the pro games. They took in the money and kept records of the bets the way Ms. Hill had taught them. She’d taken a majority percentage of the proceeds, but the young men had made thousands of dollars each month.
“Did you ever work with any other bookies in Indianapolis?” I thought of Nick.
“Nope, just with Ms. Hill.”
The illegal gambling enterprise, started at Indy High, had been growing and was poised to expand to other schools, according to Zack. The nightclub owner in Chicago, Ms. Hill’s ex, had caught wind of the operation and paid her a visit. She’d warned the boys that the man was connected with the mob, had threatened her, and that she took his threats seriously. Out of fear, Ms. Hill quickly closed down her sports-bet business. Zack and the other four had not taken any more wagers from students, he said, for about a week before her murder. Zack hung his head and said he regretted that, even then, it’d been too late to save Ms. Hill.
Candi, aka Ms. Hill, had become greedy, according to national crime news opinion-makers, and never should have started the sports-betting business without the Chicago mob’s approval, even in Indianapolis. If she’d at least shared the profits with the mobsters she might have lived. And Zack, an adult at age 18, might not have been arrested, with his life on hold, waiting for the trial.
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 25