Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  “By the way, how did the meeting go?”

  “I don’t like the result,” Mark said. “Although we ‘won’ the issue of having a final vote, I’m not certain that the city council will support the courts when they make the decision next Tuesday.”

  “We have to round up as many people as we can,” Ben said. “The city council responds to citizen input, and if they see overwhelming support for our position, it will help. I’m going to put out an email to all the people on my platform tennis list.”

  As Mark walked toward his car, he remembered he had received a call on his cell phone during the meeting. He turned his phone back on and listened to a message from a credit-card company.

  “Shit,” he said. He had incurred the wrath of the city council for a cell phone ringing, and it was something he shouldn’t have received anyway. He was supposed to be on the telemarketing do-not-call list.

  Wednesday morning Mark found an email from Ben. It read: “The future of our platform tennis courts will be decided finally, one way or the other, next Tuesday night. We need to do several things to help our chances of winning. First, send an email message to the city council asking for their support. Second, show up in person next Tuesday night. The city council pays attention to numbers, and the more people there, the more visibility will be given to our position. You can also make a public statement at the meeting if you want to.”

  Mark immediately composed a message for the city council. It read: “Concerning the platform tennis courts at the North Boulder Recreation Center, I urge you to approve the Parks and Recreation Advisory Board recommendation. My family and I have played here for years, these being the only public courts in Boulder. As a recent cancer survivor, I find this a very important resource to improve the lifestyle that makes Boulder such an outstanding place to live. Please keep this service that adds to the quality of life in our city.”

  Mark thought back to when he had teamed with Sophie in mixed doubles. They had also taken the kids out to play a number of times—Mark and their daughter, Audrey, taking on Sophie and their son, Norm.

  Mark clicked “Send” and his message whizzed off into the electronic mailbox of each city council member.

  He stared at the screen a moment, and then one of the things he had written struck him again. Cancer. Without Manny’s insistence, he wouldn’t have gone for that fateful physical exam. If he had waited another month, it would probably have been too late and the cancer would have spread.

  But had the cancer returned?

  He needed to gain control of his thoughts. He stood, stretched and paced the room. Memories ricocheted within his skull. The day of his prostate exam when he saw the doctor’s worried look. He hadn’t realized the implications—that a knife awaited him. The hospital attendant rolling him on the gurney into the operating room and the groggy feeling before he blacked out from the anesthetic dripping into his arm. The uncertainty of what would happen. The disorientation when he woke up. The puking after the surgery. The pain in his groin for days afterward.

  This made him think how Paul Crandall had been attacked and almost killed.

  Mark reached for the phone.

  Paul’s wife answered. She said that Paul had returned home from the hospital and taken the day off from work to recuperate.

  “Is this a good time to come over to see him?”

  “I’m sure he’d like a visitor.”

  When Mark arrived, he approached Paul, resting in bed, a bandage wrapped around his throat.

  “I’m terribly sorry someone attacked you,” Mark said, once again taking note of Paul’s physical resemblance to his own build.

  “I felt completely helpless,” Paul said in a gravelly voice. “All at once someone choked me, and I couldn’t do anything. I’m glad Ben came back and scared the attacker away.”

  “Did you notice any unique characteristics of the guy who jumped you?”

  Paul shook his head and then groaned. “None whatsoever. He jumped me from behind and knocked me to the ground. I only saw part of a bush and a beat-up shoe.”

  “It’s too bad you ended up in the middle of this. I think the assailant meant to attack me.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  “It’s a long story. How do you feel now?”

  “I’ll be fine. But I don’t think I’ll play platform tennis at night for a while.”

  That afternoon Mark called Ben.

  “Are there any suspects in the attack on Paul last night?” Mark asked.

  “Damn right. I’ve been plying my sources, and have I uncovered some news for you. First, guess whose fingerprints showed up on one of the garrote handles?”

  “I can’t imagine the attacker not using gloves,” Mark said. “So any fingerprints would be from an earlier use of the handle.”

  “Possibly. Fingerprints belonged to Ken Idler. How does that grab you?”

  Mark thought for a moment. “So, either Idler became careless or someone wanted to make it look like Idler.”

  “And the handle with the fingerprints was the one made from a platform tennis paddle. Do you want to hear another intriguing tidbit from my mole?”

  “I’ll bet Ken Idler says he has a paddle missing,” Mark said.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Male intuition.”

  “No, really, how did you know?”

  “Ken Idler is too bright a guy to attempt to garrote someone and then leave a clue with his fingerprints. I think one of the other suspects stole Ken’s paddle and tried to set him up.”

  “I don’t know. When the police questioned Idler he said he’d lost a paddle. What a sleaze.”

  Mark’s brain sorted all kinds of possibilities. “I wonder if Idler had an alibi for last night.”

  “What I heard was that his wife told the police he was going to the rec center. Idler says he had gone back to his office, but no one else worked there that late, so no corroboration of his story. Looks awfully suspicious.”

  “Seems like a big risk for Ken to attack someone at the rec center. None of you saw the attacker, so it could have been any of the suspects or someone hired.”

  “Come on, Mark. Why the reluctance to accept that Ken murdered Manny and committed the subsequent attack on Paul?”

  “It just doesn’t feel right. Remember, someone tried to set me up for Old Mel’s murder. I think we’re dealing with a killer who uses misdirection. I can’t believe that Ken would go to all the trouble of an attack and then leave a garrote with his fingerprints at the scene.”

  “Maybe he panicked when I came back waving my paddle.”

  “If he knew what a weak forehand you have, he never would have run away.”

  After Mark hung up the phone, he sat deep in thought. Then an idea occurred to him. Time to revisit Old Mel’s ex-roommate in the lean-to near Boulder Creek.

  He stopped at Safeway, before parking near the wooded area. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains when Mark arrived in front of the makeshift habitat. Old Mel’s ex-roommate sat on a log, carving a stick.

  Mark opened the bag he carried and put two wrapped sandwiches and two soft drinks on the ground. Then he hunkered down. “You and I met a few days ago,” Mark said.

  The man looked at Mark carefully and opened the wrapping around one of the sandwiches. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “It seems like there’s been another incident at the rec center. A man was attacked with a garrote. I thought you might have heard something.”

  The man clasped his sandwich as if he held a bar of gold. “What makes you think that?”

  “Maybe the same person who hired Old Mel also hired someone to do his dirty work again.”

  “Could be.”

  “Anything mentioned down on the mall?”

  The man continued to munch on the sandwich, swallowed and then regarded Mark. “I heard some rumors. About a guy who gives us a bad name.”

  “What did you hear?”

>   “Same as with Old Mel. Guy hired to go to the rec center. This time to do some damage. Didn’t see him around today. Good riddance.”

  Mark took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a moment. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Clyde.”

  “Any idea where he hangs out?”

  “Usually see him on the courthouse lawn during the day. Don’t know where he sleeps.”

  “If Clyde had come into some money, such as pay for doing this little assignment, any special place he might go?”

  “Clyde has a serious drug problem. With money, he might go buy some shit.”

  Mark opened a bag of cookies and put them on the ground. “If he didn’t skip town, what’s the most likely spot for him to buy drugs?”

  “I’m not into that, man, but he’d probably go to the crack house.” The man mentioned a street as he reached for a cookie.

  Mark felt his eyes widening. “A crack house, right in downtown Boulder?”

  “Yeah. Serves a whole community.”

  “Do you know the address of the house?”

  “No. But you can’t miss it. It has a black mailbox in front.”

  Mark dropped a ten-dollar bill on the ground and raised himself up.

  Without looking up, the man said, “If you’re thinking of stopping by the crack house, you better not look too neat. They’ll think you’re a cop.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Mark turned and headed back to the parking lot.

  He drove home and selected old clothes from the closet: worn jeans, tattered boots, an aging flannel shirt and a stained Broncos sweatshirt.

  Back in his car, he slowly cruised until he spotted a house with a black mailbox. He pulled up in front of the house in the pitch black and crept up to the front door. Locked. He looked in a window from the porch. There appeared to be no one inside.

  Strange for a crack house. For some reason it appeared out of commission this evening.

  CHAPTER 26

  Later that evening, Mark checked his notes. He needed to find out more regarding the company Howard Roscoe worked for. He accessed the Westerfield Weapons web site to read a catalog describing their product line and background information on the company. Founder Haskell Westerfield, a World War II veteran and outspoken opponent of any gun-control legislation, started the company in 1960. A sidebar indicated Westerfield would be displaying products at the Harvest Gun Show the upcoming weekend, at the Farwest Hotel in Denver. Mark jotted down the hours and address in his notebook.

  Next, he took out the box of letters for the platform tennis tournament. He had received entries from ten teams. He addressed two envelopes and inserted the checks to be returned since there would be only eight teams competing. He looked through the others. Lee Daggett and Ken Idler would team. That should be quite a combination. Howard Roscoe sent in a registration to play with Jacob Fish. Mark had decided not to play, but just run the tournament and observe. Ben and Woody formed a team, and Shelby had found another partner. Four other teams rounded out the entries. He filled in a draw sheet making sure the two teams of suspects were in opposite sides of the draw. The format would provide for first-round losers to go into a consolation bracket. That way every team would be assured of playing at least two matches during the day.

  Tired, Mark headed off to catch some sleep.

  Mark awoke and sat bolt upright in bed. Murky phantoms swirled in his head. His chest tightened. Was he suffering a heart attack? He breathed in gasps. A dream seeped into consciousness. A wisp of a recollection—running, afraid, trying to escape. What chased him? He wracked his brain to recreate the nightmare image. Slowly, a vague picture formed—an arm with a knife? Or a gun? Then something else—a car trying to run him over? A mysterious stalker? He shivered in the cold, early-morning darkness. He looked toward the nightstand. Ten minutes after two. What had caused him to wake up so suddenly at this hour? He turned his head and listened. A floorboard creaked. The faint sound of the heater running. A car in the distance. Then a rustling sound outside. A neighborhood cat? A deer? Or something else? He held his breath, trying to pierce the wall and darkness. Nothing. He let air escape from his lungs, and his chest slumped. After a few quick gasps he brought his breathing back to a steady rhythm. He had to regain control. Not let his mind wander.

  Sophie’s face flashed into his mind. He felt a pain inside. He missed her. When would it be safe for her to return? When would it be safe for him again? His stomach tensed. Why had he undertaken this lost cause?

  He still felt an obligation to Manny, but Manny had turned out to be a sleaze, not the nice guy he knew. Still, Manny had probably saved his life. Could that be reason enough to sustain taking risks with the investigation? Sophie and his friends all thought he was nuts.

  Why not let Detective Peters take care of finding the murderer? Peters gave him that message every time they met.

  Ben had stated it clearly. He had something to prove. Helping Manny might have been his initial motivation, but he no longer even cared what kind of person Manny had turned out to be. Now he had to solve this puzzle, prove to himself that he could uncover the truth, take the risk and survive. Win again.

  It would be a relief to bow out, but he couldn’t let go. It reminded him of when his company almost went out of business. There had been a day when he considered chucking it all, closing the doors and admitting failure. But he didn’t. He had pressed his investors again. Just one more small round of funding. They had acted reluctant, but his insistence paid off, and he’d had a major order with Cisco pending. He had asked for an additional month of funding, and, finally, they had given it to him. The investors had maintained their skepticism, but Mark had known he could pull it off. And he’d done it. He had won the order, and the follow-on business had taken off like a skyrocket. He had succeeded, and his investors had multiplied their hesitant handout twenty fold.

  Maybe now he sought to regain something the surgeon’s knife had cut away. A drive to be alive? He shuddered. His heart raced. People had treated him differently right after the surgery. Poor Mark. Vulnerable Mark. No longer the tough entrepreneur. The cancer victim lying in a hospital bed, stumbling around the hospital room with his air-conditioned butt hanging out.

  What if the cancer continued growing inside again? What if it was eating away at other organs at this very moment? Did he have a time bomb ticking in his groin? Had his death warrant already been signed? Did it matter if the cancer or the murderer killed him first? He wiped a trickling bead of sweat from his forehead.

  He could take a vacation, be with Sophie, play out whatever days remained before the cancer chewed him up.

  No, he couldn’t. He had made the commitment, not only to Manny but to himself. He couldn’t run away. He’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t follow through, no matter how short or long the remaining time would be. Sophie questioned his sanity. But he couldn’t look her in the eye if he gave up. It might be quixotic, but that’s how he looked at it.

  He felt no better, but lay down, eyes wide open, staring into the darkness.

  Thursday morning, the world looked better as sunlight streamed in through the gap in the curtains. He shook his head. The demons had vanished, temporarily. He strolled outside to pick up the newspaper and noticed something unfamiliar on his lawn. He sauntered over to look. Someone had burned a pattern in the brown grass. It looked like a skull. Mark clenched his fists. He had to nail this bastard.

  Mark debated what to do next in the investigation. He opened the Boulder Daily Camera and calmly read until he saw the headline on the first page of the local news section: IDLER ARRESTED IN MURDER OF MANNY GRIMES. Mark’s hands tightened on the paper. He read further: “Local businessman Ken Idler was arrested yesterday in connection with the bludgeoning death of Manny Grimes three weeks ago at the North Boulder Recreation Center. A source speaking on condition of anonymity stated that Idler received blackmail threats from Grimes and evidence points to Idler committing a re
taliatory murder. Idler remains in the county jail after the judge agreed to no bail. No further information has been released by the police.”

  Mark had told Peters he’d quit when police made an arrest, but this one didn’t smell right.

  He hadn’t yet confirmed or eliminated any of the other three suspects. He’d have to speed up the investigation to see if he could tie up the loose ends. First, Jacob Fish. Deciding to track down further answers about Jacob’s business, Mark called David Randolf, the ex-employee of Creo Tech, and arranged lunch at a sidewalk café on the Pearl Street Mall for noon the following day.

  Mark stared out his window. He also needed to understand the connection between Lee Daggett and Cheryl Idler. In addition to their illicit romance, had they cooked up a murder together?

  That evening Mark parked again outside the Idler home. He had brought a thermos of coffee and wore a ski jacket in the brisk cold of this November night.

  After an hour, his wait was rewarded by the sight of Lee Daggett’s Lexus pulling up in front of the house. Lee beeped the horn twice.

  Cheryl rushed out and climbed in his car.

  Mark followed them as they drove the short distance to Lee’s home. Mark stopped a block away and waited for them to go into Lee’s house. Then he drove past the house and made a U-turn so that he would be facing toward the exit from the dead-end street when they left.

  Mark drank coffee and zipped up his jacket to his chin. Daggett lived in a two-story, Tudor style house with two tall evergreen trees on either side of the front door. Expensive neighborhood. Daggett had won enough gambling to finance this place. And now this relationship with Cheryl Idler. While hubby rotted in jail, they didn’t have to be as careful.

  Mark planned to sit this one out for as long as he could. He had almost fallen asleep when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He jerked his head up to see the front door of Daggett’s house flung open, and Cheryl dashed out. In the reflection of the streetlight he could see a raw bruise on her cheek. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she pivoted her head from side to side frantically as if searching for a knight to rescue her. Mark started his car and pulled up alongside. “Can I give you a ride?”