Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  When he’d finished, the place looked as good as new. Slightly trampled, dried-out grass, but no permanent damage, other than to his pride.

  He sat down against the building and stared at the platform tennis courts. What had started as a good idea—to have a Saturday tournament and observe the suspects—had ended in disaster. He had only confirmed the violence of the suspects. He felt convinced that Peters had the wrong man in jail, but had found no way to prove it. So, he would have to follow up on Howard Roscoe tomorrow, either find something or eliminate him in favor of the equally suspicious Lee Daggett.

  The neighbors would undoubtedly redouble their effort to rid the city of the platform tennis courts. How could he blame them? It certainly appeared that an unruly crowd had come to the courts. The protesters may have provoked the disturbance with their idiotic signs, but that didn’t excuse the melee that ensued.

  Idler, Daggett, Roscoe and Fish all deserved to be locked up. And Manny, whom Mark would have earlier considered an innocent bystander, now seemed to be linked to all of the suspects, and embroiled in nefarious dealings.

  Mark shook his head again in disgust. How easy to be fooled by people. He considered himself a good judge of character, but he had certainly missed the mark with Manny, who may have brought his death on himself.

  Evidence continued to accumulate against all four of the suspects for their various illegal activities, Mark mused, but one of them also needed to be put away permanently for murder. There had to be some further proof. Maybe he had overlooked something. He would have to call Barbara Grimes and go over to her house to check out Manny’s files again.

  But not now. Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 30

  Back home, an idea occurred to Mark, and he figured he would try one more thing to flush out the guilty party. He had been to Howard Roscoe and Lee Daggett’s homes, and now he looked up Jacob Fish’s address from the mailing list he had used for the tournament.

  Then he carefully composed a note. When satisfied with the result, he printed off four copies, and in large, bold capital letters he carefully printed the name of each of the non-jailed suspects on an envelope before inserting the notes and sealing the envelopes.

  After dark Mark loaded three rocks from his garden into his car and drove off to deliver the letters. Outside Lee Daggett’s house, he waited a few moments and then sneaked up to the porch to deposit the letter and hold it down with a rock.

  No lights shown at Roscoe’s house, but as Mark approached the front door, a spotlight flashed on. Mark froze. He looked around, trying to determine whether to proceed or retreat. No one came to the door, and no dogs raced out to tear him apart. He breathed again as he realized an automatic motion detector had turned on the light.

  Jacob Fish lived in a large, two-story house with a long driveway.

  The house remained dark, but a man with a dog strolled past, so Mark proceeded along the street and parked two houses away. He waited five minutes, exited from the car and returned to Jacob’s place to leave the message under a rock.

  Back home, his answering machine greeted him with a flashing light. He played the message, and a muffled male voice said slowly, “Your time is up. Drop the investigation. No more warnings.”

  He couldn’t recognize the voice. It could be any of the three suspects not in jail or a man one of them had hired.

  How ironic. While he left notes for the suspects, the murderer delivered a message to him.

  Mark set the deadbolt and chain for both front and back doors. He wished he had a dog.

  He slept fitfully again, his mind racing, his body feeling every single ache and pain from the afternoon’s melee. He was glad Sophie couldn’t see him.

  Once he awoke to listen to a noise outside the house. He staggered to the bedroom window, pushed the curtains aside and peered through the glass.

  No one there. Only the wind rattling the gate in his backyard.

  On Sunday, Mark drove into Denver with his thoughts focused on the four murder suspects. Still no clear picture. Each had a legitimate motive and clear access. None had expressed any remorse over Manny’s death. And they all seemed to have explosive tempers. He remembered Ken Idler throwing a fit at the public-safety building after the murder. The night he gave Cheryl Idler a ride home, Lee Daggett had bashed his body into his car so hard that he left a dent in the door, to say nothing of the scratches caused by Lee ramming his Lexus into the rear bumper of Mark’s car. Howard Roscoe had physically thrown Mark out of the house. And Jacob Fish boiled like a volcano ready to erupt during the encounter on the restaurant patio of the Pearl Street Mall.

  Now he needed to learn more about Westerfield Weapons and Howard Roscoe.

  Mark pulled his car into a space at the back of an almost full parking lot. He stepped out in front of a telephone pole and noticed a penny stuck in the wood. With his car key he pried the penny out and dropped it in his pocket.

  He entered the Farwest Hotel and followed the signs and stream of people flowing toward the convention center. He paid his seven dollars for an admission ticket. As he passed the screener at the door, he shook his head at the question, “Any camera or guns?”

  Once inside, a panorama of a military base opened up before him. A room half the size of a football field, full of tables covered with every imaginable weapon, met his startled gaze. A smiling young woman in a cowboy hat handed him a sheet of paper. He looked at it and read that if he filled it out, answering how he’d found out about the show, he’d be entered in a contest to receive a fifteen-dollar gift certificate or two V.I.P. passes to the next show. He considered filling it in and stating that he learned of the show by trying to track down a murderer, but instead threw it in the trash.

  He viewed an overhead banner reading BLOWOUT SALE and sauntered by rifles and handguns linked with chains to the tables, as well as a complete array of ammunition, clips and sights. A boy not more than eight years old, dressed in camouflage gear, caressed an AK-47 as his father in jeans, black T-shirt and an NRA cap looked proudly on.

  Behind a table a tall, older man with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a Harley Davidson jacket spoke to a companion. “This baby can do some serious shit. Fully automatic.”

  “I thought you couldn’t own an automatic weapon,” Mark interjected.

  “In Colorado you can own a legal automatic weapon. You can’t be a felon, and you have to submit fingerprints and a photo to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Then with the signature of your local chief of police and a two-hundred-dollar tax payment, you’re set.”

  “Can you change a gun from semi-automatic to automatic?”

  “That’s different. You can’t convert or own a modified weapon. That’ll earn you ten years in jail. You can only own a legal, non-converted automatic rifle.”

  Mark strolled around the convention center. He approached another table covered with American flags. Mark picked up a rifle. The price tag said, “Pre-ban AR-15, $1600.”

  “What does ‘pre-ban’ mean?” he asked the bearded man behind the table.

  “Means it was manufactured long enough ago that a noise suppressor and bayonet attachment were still legal. The suppressor isn’t worth shit. You can hear it a county away. If you’re interested I also have a Lightning Link AR-15. Only three thousand dollars.”

  “Thanks. I’ll stick with my bow and arrow,” Mark said.

  The man turned a cold eye on Mark.

  As he walked around the room, he listened to the steady background noise of indistinct conversations and inspected tables covered with camouflage cloth, gingham and more flag patterns. In addition to guns, items for sale included knives, coins and flashlights.

  The aroma of hot dogs tickled his nostrils as he approached a refreshment stand in the back of the convention hall. Right beside the food concession, three members of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation manned a table.

  Mark stopped. “You here to arrest overzealous gun fanatics?”

  An off
icer, his hair mowed into a crew cut, looked like he had never smiled in his life. He said, “No, sir. Anyone buying a weapon at the show needs to complete a background check with us before they can walk away with their purchase.”

  “You can do it while they’re here?”

  “Yes, sir.” He tapped the laptop on the desk.

  Mark walked on, shaking his head at the wonder of the interaction between computers and guns. All around the convention floor, men strutted with newly purchased rifles. Mark vaguely noted that three-quarters of those in attendance were male.

  He looked down at the pattern on the carpet—black with a green, red and brown plant design. It reminded him of the rugs at the Brown Palace, but not as upscale. How different from the ladies having tea and cakes in the lobby of the Brown Palace.

  He stopped at a table with a sign reading “Wholesale Ammo.” Boxes and boxes of ammunition rested in easy reach of a group of kids playing with a set of Legos. The next table had a sign that said, “AKs, Here. Russian.” Behind another sign that read “Buy Sell Trade,” a skinny man in a wife beater, highlighting arms covered with tattoos of eagles, juggled three ammo clips, deftly launching the casings into the air and grabbing them on their downward path.

  As Mark turned, he saw a man who must have weighed three hundred pounds, plodding along as multiple sets of keys jangled from his bib overalls. He held hunting rifles in each hand as if carrying two toothpicks.

  Mark passed a table that advertised legal services. This show covered all the bases. If people ended up in serious trouble, they could find a service to help them get out of it—for a fee.

  Finally, he found the Westerfield Weapons exhibit. A flashing sign overhead directed his attention to a large, glass cabinet with a display of guns. Mark looked at the collection, identifying a handgun that resembled the one he had found in his hand after Old Mel’s murder.

  “Can I answer any questions for you?” an eager young man in brown and gray camouflage gear asked.

  Mark eyed the combat boots and looked up at the man’s short-cropped hair.

  “What’s this handgun?” Mark pointed to the gun he’d recognized.

  “One of our most popular models. Small enough to fit in a purse so the little lady can protect herself. Also provides the action and accuracy for a guy like you. Here, let me grab it for you.”

  He opened the cabinet and extracted the gun.

  “Feel how light it is. Contoured grip fits easily in the hand. Safety can be quickly clicked off like this.”

  Camouflage man’s eyes lit up, and Mark could picture a cowboy drawing in a showdown.

  “If you place an order right now, I can let you walk away with this baby, and if you want more we can have them delivered to you within one week.”

  “No. Just looking right now.”

  Mark sauntered to the next cabinet, which contained a variety of rifles. He took out his notebook and searched through to find the type of weapon mentioned in Manny’s file.

  “Do you carry AR-15s?” Mark asked.

  “Sure do. In addition to weapons we manufacture, we distribute a wide variety of rifles. Third one down on the left side.”

  Mark looked at the rifle. “Can it be modified into an automatic weapon?”

  The man frowned. “It’s possible. Some people have done it by machining several parts. Not legal though.”

  Mark looked around and didn’t see Howard. “Who’s your toughest competitor here in Colorado?”

  “Probably Gentry Guns. See them everywhere.”

  Mark decided to tackle the subject at hand. “Say, I’m looking for Howard Roscoe.”

  “I saw him earlier so he must be at the show somewhere. Probably checking out the competition. He has show duty in an hour. You should be able to catch him then.”

  “Do you work with Howard?”

  “I see him at sales meetings and shows. I have the southern Front Range territory, and he has the north. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m from Boulder and have run into him a couple of times. How do you rate him as a salesman?”

  “Seems to make his numbers. I worked one big deal with him. Colorado Bureau of Investigation. We put a joint proposal together. Won the business and split a good commission.”

  Mark decided to take a risk. “I’ve heard that Howard sometimes sells modified weapons.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Mark winked at camouflage man. “I’ve heard that you can procure ‘special’ weapons from Howard. I didn’t know if that represented company policy or merely Howard’s sideline.”

  “You some kind of cop?” the man shouted, sending spittle in the air.

  “No, only an interested party.”

  Camouflage man’s jovial expression changed to a scowl. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Word has circulated that if you want rifles converted to automatic, see Howard.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I need to go talk to some real prospects.” He turned on his heel and stomped away.

  Mark scanned the crowd once again and then explored the exhibits until he found Gentry Guns. “I’d like to speak to your sales rep who handles the Boulder territory.”

  “That’d be Hal,” a young blonde in cowboy boots said. “He’s the one in the blue shirt, over there, talking to the man by the counter.”

  Mark waited until Hal finished his conversation and approached him. “I understand you cover Boulder.”

  “Yup. Everything north of I-70 in the state.”

  “Ever run into a rep from Westerfield Weapons named Howard Roscoe.”

  “Yeah. I know him.” Hal’s lips curled with disgust.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t slam my competitors, and Westerfield seems an okay company, but this guy Roscoe is something else. I don’t mind good fair competition, but he’s underhanded. We both made pitches to the Fort Collins police department a few months back, and he tried to steal my notebook.”

  “I’ve heard he deals in special weapons.”

  Hal looked around, moved closer to Mark and cupped his hand to the side of his mouth. “In this industry you find a few guys who go over the line. And Roscoe didn’t just step over the line; he erased it. The guy sells legitimate weapons to the police and modified weapons to the other side.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “I saw him make a delivery to a dealer who asked me for modified assault weapons. I refused. Roscoe didn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you turn Roscoe in to the authorities?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re a small industry. It’d be viewed as sour grapes—that I’m trying to smear a competitor. No, thanks. I’ll do my business and stay legit. He can do whatever he wants as long as he doesn’t steal from me.” Hal nodded to a man standing behind Mark. “Excuse me. I need to speak to one of my customers.”

  Mark left the booth and strolled through the rest of the aisle. After the last table, he spotted a water fountain off in a corner and ambled over to quench his thirst. He bent over, tasted the chlorine-impregnated water and stood. A hand grabbed him, spinning him around and slamming him against the wall. The face thrust two inches from his own belonged to Howard Roscoe.

  “What the hell are you doing snooping around here?”

  “I’m learning how you sell special weapons to people like Manny Grimes.”

  Howard thrust him against the wall again. “What’s this compulsion you have with Manny?”

  Mark pushed Roscoe’s arms away and straightened.

  “I don’t like to see people I play platform tennis with murdered.”

  Roscoe laughed. “Are you one of those bleeding hearts who considered Manny a nice guy? Well, he wasn’t.”

  “I’ve learned that Manny had some shady dealings, but that’s no reason for someone to kill him. I bet you sold him illegal weapons. Could be a problem during a business transaction. It could even lead to murder.”

  Roscoe leveled his gaze at Mark. “If you believe t
hat, you’re either smoking something or lack brain cells.”

  “Then why don’t you convince me that you didn’t kill Manny so I can leave you alone?”

  “That’s a good joke. I haven’t been able to get the cops off my back, either.”

  “Okay. I’ll lay off. But first, answer this: Why did you show up the night of the murder, and why did you arrive after the foursome had already begun playing?”

  “Simple. Lee Daggett told me to be there at seven thirty to take his place. When I arrived, he was playing. He said he’d left a message for me that he could play after all. I never received any message.”

  Mark recalled what he had heard and how it corresponded to Roscoe’s comments.

  “How’d you and Manny get along?”

  “Just fine. Except when he didn’t pay his bills.”

  “Why did Manny order weapons from you?”

  “I don’t ask my customers what they do with my products. As long as they keep ordering.”

  “You must have suspected something.”

  Roscoe shoved Mark again. “Maybe. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “I thought you wanted to get me off your back.”

  A glint appeared in Roscoe’s eyes. “If you’re that persistent, I’m sure that either Jacob Fish or Lee Daggett will be happy to convince you to back off.”

  “So, you think one of them is the murderer?”

  “Yes. Ken or Lee or Jacob. Not me.”

  “So why’d you send Clyde to try to kill me?” Mark asked.

  Howard looked at him and wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?”

  Mark watched him closely. He was either a good actor or genuinely surprised by the question.

  “An old acquaintance of yours named Clyde tried to garrote me at the courts last Tuesday night.”

  “I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m going back to my table.” Howard poked Mark hard in the chest. “If you know what’s good for you, go back to your platform tennis game,” he said and left Mark standing there.