by Mike Befeler
“Questionable business practices?”
“Procuring women for executives, attempted blackmail with pictures from said sexual encounters and physical threats.”
Chip wiped his forehead with his napkin.
“I called Roscoe into my office and repeated the charges. The bastard didn’t deny them, only laughed and said that he did what it took to win a client’s business. I pointed out that he had now lost the business because of his asshole actions and fired him on the spot.”
“How’d he react to that news?” Mark asked.
“Roscoe changed his tone immediately, grabbed me by the collar, told me I would regret firing him and knocked me to the floor. He stomped out of the office. The next day I received a threatening letter. It read: ‘Reinstate me if you value your life.’ ”
Mark flinched. “That’s very similar to a threatening note I received.”
“I don’t picture Roscoe as someone who rides off into the sunset peacefully. The note also included a compromising photograph. We considered going to the police, but Roscoe received a job offer at Westerfield Weapons. They hired him without talking to anyone at Marston. Apparently, Roscoe manipulated it to appear as if Westerfield hired him away from us. Fortunately, once he started the job, he didn’t follow up on the threat, so we let it drop. It took me a year to win back the goddamn account he screwed up.”
“His behavior doesn’t surprise me,” Mark said. “Howard Roscoe is a suspect in a murder case.”
Chip’s eyes widened. “No shit. That fits. The guy’s a thug. I thought he would kill me when he attacked me in my office. I should have sued his ass, but I didn’t want to risk it with the photograph he had.” Chip gave a wan smile. “I learned my lesson to never drink too much at sales conferences.”
“Have you heard anything more from Roscoe since he joined Westerfield?”
“Only a rumor that the asshole’s converting semi-automatic weapons to automatic and selling them illegally.”
After lunch Mark checked his watch and decided he had time to stop to see his reporter friend, Al Lawson, at the Denver Post.
When Mark called from the lobby, Al came down to accompany Mark back upstairs.
“You look like crap, Mark.”
“A little recreational accident over the weekend. You’ve helped me, so let me tell you more details of this white-collar crime spree in Boulder.”
“Peaceful Boulder,” Al replied with a laugh. “Crime capital of the Front Range.”
Mark recounted what he had learned of the four suspects and their nefarious business dealings.
“Sounds like you’ve uncovered a den of vipers.”
“I’m amazed at the dealings of those four. Still, the police haven’t arrested anyone. You’d think enough evidence could be accumulated to nail them on other charges, irrespective of the murder.”
“May fit into an article I’m working on. I’ll plant a few seeds and see what sprouts.”
“Keep my name out of it,” Mark said. “I’m having enough problems with these guys.”
“You can be my unnamed source.”
When Mark returned home, he had another task to take care of. Having thought over what Old Mel’s hut mate had told him, he jotted down some notes and searched the Internet for Jaguar dealers. He found one in Broomfield, called the number and asked for the manager.
After a long pause, a man named Seth Pinter identified himself.
Mark went into his rehearsed spiel. “Mr. Pinter, your dealership has been recommended to me. I’m filming a movie in Boulder and I’m trying to locate a new, black Jaguar to use. I thought you might be able to direct me to some recent purchasers in this area whom I could contact.”
“We don’t give out names of our customers.”
“I understand. But we would be willing to mention your dealership in the movie. You’d receive free publicity in exchange for your assistance.”
During a momentary silence on the line, Mark hoped he had tweaked Pinter with enough thought of greed to cloud asking pointed questions.
“We’d let you borrow one, but we don’t have anything black in stock right now.”
“I need to find a black Jag, right away,” Mark said with an edge to his voice.
“Sorry, but I can’t give you any names.”
Mark hung up in disgust. How else could he track down a black Jaguar? Then an idea struck him. In addition to the Jaguar, Old Mel’s buddy had also mentioned a classy blonde.
CHAPTER 23
I must be nuts. Mark knew he should turn around, but instead continued to drive to the home of Ken and Cheryl Idler at dusk to see if they sported a black Jaguar. The vagrant’s description of a blonde had triggered his own recollection of how striking Cheryl Idler appeared when he had met her at the Dairy Center benefit. Was his intuition on track or was he deluding himself?
As he found the correct address, he admired the Idlers’ large, renovated, turn-of-the-twentieth-century mansion. Ken Idler’s smuggling business obviously paid well.
The last time he had been on this street, a month earlier at the peak of autumn, the trees had glowed a brilliant yellow and orange. Now the leaves had been swept away or covered by the snow earlier that day.
Mark looked at the driveway. A black Jaguar XK attracted his attention like a magnet.
He pulled to the curb, his heart thumping rapidly. How should he proceed? He didn’t know whether to ring the doorbell or try to find some way to meet Cheryl again.
As he sat there, trying to decide what to do, the door to the house opened. Cheryl, the classy blonde, emerged from the house. She wore a coat with a fur collar, and literally flowed along the walkway to the Jaguar.
After slamming the car door, she backed out of the driveway and turned east. Once she headed down a hill, Mark started his car. Why not follow her? Maybe he could learn something. Eventually, she drove past the North Boulder Rec Center.
That sight reminded Mark that he wouldn’t be able to play his regular game of platform tennis the coming Tuesday night because of the city council meeting—the next round in the unending battle to keep the courts.
Cheryl Idler turned right and drove east. As she and Mark progressed, the effects of the snow storm diminished. Apparently, the storm hadn’t hit as much to the north.
Although unpracticed at this “vocation,” Mark kept a reasonable distance and still followed the correct set of taillights. He almost lost her once when a signal changed and he had to run the light. He looked in his rearview mirror. Fortunately no cops spotted him.
Finally the Jaguar pulled into a parking space on Third Street in Longmont. Mark found another spot half a block away. He watched as Cheryl slithered out of the car and swayed toward a cocktail lounge. After waiting a moment, he followed her.
The place reeked of beer and pretzels—a shadowy room with the typical contingent of early-evening drunks clustered around the bar.
Mark scanned the crowd and spotted Cheryl sitting by herself in a corner booth. He couldn’t imagine her coming all this way to drink by herself, so he figured she was waiting for someone. Might as well see who it would be.
He positioned himself at the bar with a view toward her, pulled his Rockies baseball cap down over his eyebrows and ordered a Coors Light. Cheryl opened her purse and took out a mirror and began primping. She brushed her already perfect hair and then tossed her head back.
Ten minutes later, a man joined her, snuggling up close against her in the booth. Mark recognized him immediately. He stood approximately five eleven, had the build of a proverbial brick shit house, sported a slightly gray-tinged, brown beard to match his brown hair, and displayed his sartorial splendor with a bright red and yellow Hawaiian shirt under an open blue ski jacket. None other than bull-necked Lee Daggett.
The plot thickens. Mark ducked down but kept his gaze on them the whole time. Lee had seen him before, but probably wouldn’t make the connection. Still, Mark didn’t want to risk it.
He needn’t have
worried. Lee and Cheryl appeared completely absorbed in each other’s company. Lee put his arm around her, and she leaned against him. More than a casual friendship, especially since they’d driven all the way to Longmont to a place that Ken Idler would not be expected to frequent.
They had drinks as Mark continued to nurse his beer. Half an hour later Lee threw a bill on the table, as the two of them stood and headed for the door.
Mark waited until they had walked through the doorway before he dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter, jumped off the bar stool, dashed to the door and peeked outside.
Lee and Cheryl stood next to a black Lexus with their backs to him.
Mark darted past them to reach his car.
Once ensconced inside, he peered through his windshield to keep an eye on the lovebirds.
Finally, Lee opened the door for Cheryl and she climbed in.
When they pulled out, Mark followed at a safe distance in the light traffic. After several blocks he merged with other cars so he wouldn’t appear obvious.
Mark maintained a safe distance, but kept Daggett’s car in sight.
Within two miles, they pulled into a motel on the outskirts of Longmont.
Mark parked on the street so that he had a view of the motel, a nondescript place with part of the lighted sign burned out that read: CANCY.
Lee went into the office and shortly emerged and waved toward his car. Cheryl hopped out and followed him into a room on the first floor.
Mark felt like a Peeping Tom. He turned on the ignition and drove away.
On his way back to Boulder, questions buzzed within his head like a swarm of bees. How did Lee Daggett having an affair with Ken Idler’s wife fit into the murder? Why did she take Old Mel to the rec center to turn off the lights? What was the connection here with Manny?
CHAPTER 24
On Tuesday morning Mark called Ben.
“Did you uncover anything about the gun found in my hand last Friday night?” Mark asked.
“I did track down some information from my mole. The murder weapon used on the vagrant also links two of the suspects in the Manny Grimes investigation.”
“I’m sure that includes Howard Roscoe.”
“Right,” Ben said. “He owned the gun, but came up with a solid alibi for the night you received your whack on the head.”
“Who’s the other suspect associated with the gun?”
“Jacob Fish kept his eye on Roscoe’s house and had a key. He let the police into the house, and they found that someone had broken into Roscoe’s gun and knife cabinet.”
“Any fingerprints?” Mark asked.
“No; the wood and glass had been wiped clean. Whoever stole the gun from Roscoe left no evidence.”
“Either that or Roscoe or Fish set it up. I wouldn’t put it past either of them.”
“Why’s that?”
“Each of them had a motive to do away with Manny and may have wanted to eliminate the vagrant who turned off the lights.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been Roscoe. He had dinner that night with a group of people in Dallas, so he didn’t kill Old Mel.”
Mark thought for a moment. “I received another threat the night before last.”
“You did? What kind of threat?”
“A dead deer left on my porch. I bet whoever removed the gun from Roscoe’s house also filched a Bowie knife that was later left with the carcass on my porch.”
“Could be. Apparently the thief took a number of weapons. You need to be careful around these slimebags.”
“Ben, another thing I need to mention to you. I want to be at the whole city council meeting tonight, so I’m going to beg off of our game this evening.”
“I’ll find a replacement for you,” Ben said. “And I’ll meet you at the city council chamber after we finish the match.”
Mark wanted to make a statement to the murderer. He would not succumb to intimidation. Still, he didn’t know which of the suspects seemed bent on harassing him. He retrieved his platform tennis list and looked up the phone numbers of each of the suspects. He dialed each of their numbers, heard a recorded voice each time and left the same message: “I will not quit.”
In the afternoon, Mark phoned Peters, but the detective remained unavailable, so Mark left a message.
An hour later Peters returned the call.
“Does the Bowie knife belong to Howard Roscoe?” Mark asked.
A pause on the line, and then Peters said, “You know I don’t need to share any information with you,” his voice cold.
“I understand. But, I’m more than ever convinced of the link between Roscoe and the Manny Grimes murder. The gun found in my hand belonged to Roscoe. Someone stole it from his house.”
“You shouldn’t know that.”
“Maybe so, but I also suspect the same person took a Bowie knife from Roscoe’s house. You could save me the step of confirming that as well.”
There was another brief silence on the line. “I met with Roscoe yesterday, and he verified that the knife belongs to him,” Peters answered in a businesslike tone. “It seems several items have gone missing from his weapons collection.”
Mark quickly processed the information. “Since Jacob Fish had a key to Roscoe’s house, he could have taken both the gun and knife.”
“I’m not going to confirm that.”
“And Roscoe could have reported the gun and knife missing, but really hidden them somewhere else.”
“Also possible. Or they could have been stolen.”
Mark continued to contemplate the possibilities. Lee Daggett or Jacob Fish or Ken Idler, for that matter, could have stolen the gun and knife.
“And I bet only Howard Roscoe’s fingerprints appeared on the knife,” Mark added.
“You said it, not me.”
Tuesday night. Round three with the powers-that-be to keep the platform tennis courts. This meeting convened with the city council to determine if the issue would be called up for an official vote at the following council meeting. A vote to take a vote.
Mark sank into the comfortable but worn cushion of an auditorium chair in the front row of the city council chamber moments before the meeting began at six. This time, the platform tennis issue appeared on the agenda near the beginning of the meeting. After listening to a discussion on street repair, his cell phone suddenly rang. He reached for it.
The moderator glared at him. “Turn off your cell phone or you’ll be escorted out.”
“Sorry,” Mark mumbled as he pushed the power button. He’d check who called later.
By seven the public statements began.
The park planner again presented the proposal with the background of how relocating the platform tennis courts within the North Boulder Rec Center property had been approved by the parks board but rejected by the planning board. He concluded, “Given this split in opinion, I request that the city council call this issue up for a final vote next Tuesday.”
Supporters then described the wonders of platform tennis, while opponents painted the picture of murderers roaming through what would otherwise be a quiet and peaceful neighborhood. The council members gave no hint of supporting or denying the request to keep the courts, but did agree that, given the diversity of viewpoints, it merited city-council attention. By eight thirty they agreed by a vote of six to one to bring the issue up for a final vote at the next meeting.
As Mark prepared to leave, Ben raced into the room and waved his arms like he held semaphore flags.
Mark signaled back in acknowledgement and ambled over to meet Ben by the door.
“We need to talk,” Ben said, his eyes darting from side to side. “Outside.”
“What’s the panic?” Mark asked.
“I can’t say anything here.”
He pushed Mark toward the door, and they moved into the empty hallway.
Mark looked at his friend closely. “I’ve never seen you this upset, Ben.”
“Upset? I’m more than upset! Someone almost co
mmitted another murder at the rec center tonight!”
CHAPTER 25
“What?” Mark grabbed Ben’s arm.
“An assailant attacked Paul Crandall,” Ben said.
“Slow down. Start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”
Ben took a deep breath. “I lined up Paul Crandall to substitute for you. When we finished playing, Ben, Shelby and I had almost reached the parking lot when I noticed Paul had disappeared. I turned around, thinking he must have left something on the courts. I heard a gurgling sound in the bushes off to the side of the walkway. A dark figure was attacking Paul. I shouted and waved my paddle, scaring the attacker away. Paul lay on the ground. He was gagging, with a garrote wrapped around his throat.”
Mark felt his head throb. “Is Paul okay?”
“He’s in the hospital under observation.”
Mark’s gut clenched. “Did you spot any distinguishing features of the attacker?”
“No; it all happened in the shadows. Unfortunately, the court lights had already gone out. I only caught a glimpse of a ski mask.”
“Why didn’t you grab the attacker?”
Ben frowned. “I guess I froze, and then he ran away.”
“Any clues?”
“Only the garrote. Clothesline material with handles on each end. Funny thing though. One side looked like the handle of a platform tennis paddle.”
“Did the police have anything to say?”
“They checked the scene and took the garrote away. Interviewed all of us. I think it could have been Ken Idler. Shelby thinks the guy had the build of Lee Daggett, and Woody didn’t see enough to form an opinion.”
“The assailant meant to attack me,” Mark said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Paul’s my build and when bundled up could be mistaken for me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I feel at fault.”
Ben looked at Mark carefully. “What makes you blame yourself?”
“My investigation has obviously provoked someone. I’ll have to visit Paul tomorrow.”