The Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 3

by Renee Pawlish

  “Who heard you arguing?”

  “I don’t know. The neighbors, I guess.”

  “Did anyone see you coming or going?”

  “Pete’s next-door neighbor saw me going in. I’ve seen her around when I’ve been over there. And there was some younger woman when I left. She was going down the stairs and…”

  “What?”

  He blushed. “Don’t call me crazy, but I think I’ve seen her hanging around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She kind of…stalks me.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You have a stalker?”

  He shrugged. “A fan, you know. They can get a little obsessed. It happens.”

  “And she might’ve been at Pete’s apartment?”

  “I know, what would she be doing there? I’m not sure, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The fan that stalks me has the number twenty-three tattooed on her neck. That’s my number.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  “Yeah. I think they thought I was crazy.”

  “Okay.” I thought for a moment. “Just arguing with someone doesn’t make you a suspect.”

  “Yeah, but finding my gun in his apartment does.”

  That got my attention. “Let me guess – it was the gun used to kill him.”

  “You don’t miss a thing,” he said sarcastically.

  I liked to think so.

  “You probably think I’m lying, but I didn’t kill him, and I have no idea how my gun got there.”

  “Actually, I can believe it.” I’d had the same thing happen to me on my last case. My Glock had been found at a murder scene, and I’d had no idea how it got there. I had been Suspect No. 1, and I’d had to clear my own name. I shoved that memory aside and said, “Tell me about the gun.”

  “It was a Smith & Wesson Shield. I bought it a few months ago.” He tapped his fingertips harder. “As I’ve said, I’ve been followed by some fans. I live right near Coors Field, so I usually walk to and from the games. Most people don’t recognize me when I’m in street clothes, but some fans have figured out where I live. A couple of times, the following has been more like stalking, and it kind of scared me, so I bought a gun. But then it was stolen.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I had it out the night before Pete was killed.”

  “Two days ago. Wednesday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you know right away that it was missing?”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t know it was gone until the police told me it had been used to…shoot Pete.”

  “Did someone break in?”

  He shook his head. “I had a party here that night, people going in and out. I think someone must’ve taken it.”

  I couldn’t contain my surprise. “You leave the gun lying around like that?”

  “I…uh…” He cleared his throat. “I sometimes show it off. The ladies think it’s cool.” I tried not to show that I thought that was a colossally stupid thing to do. “Anyway,” he said hurriedly, “one day it was here, and then it was gone.”

  “Who was at the party?”

  “Some guys on the team. My agent. Pete and some of the guys that work in the clubhouse. And some women.”

  “So just about everybody in lower downtown,” I said.

  “I guess.”

  “You told the police all this?”

  “Sure, but they don’t believe me.”

  “Were your prints on the gun?”

  “The police didn’t say, but it’s my gun, so yeah.”

  I ran through it all. “So, people heard you and Pete arguing the night he was murdered. Someone may have seen you leave his place around the time he was murdered. He was shot with your gun. And the gun – which you claim was stolen – was found at the crime scene, with your prints on it.”

  “That sums it up.”

  I sighed. “It doesn’t look good for you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  A long silence ensued.

  “So,” he finally said, “will you see what you can do before they arrest me for murder?”

  I nodded halfheartedly.

  “I’m innocent,” he said.

  I nodded again. That’s what they all say.

  And by the time this was all over, I’d get more than I bargained for. Funny, they all say that, too.

  Chapter Two

  I told him my rates and he agreed. Then I shifted on the hard cushion. “If you didn’t kill Pete, who do you think did?”

  “I have no idea,” he said.

  I was sensing a pattern: he was clueless…or lying. But I pressed on. “Tell me a little more about yourself.”

  He thought for a second. “I grew up in south Florida, and I’ve played baseball all my life. My dad took me to spring training when I was a little kid – the Yankees – and I was hooked. All I’ve ever wanted to do was play ball, and I’ve worked damned hard to get here. When other kids were partying, I was practicing. I did okay in school, but baseball was my focus. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Have you been in any trouble? Arrested for anything? Get a girl pregnant?”

  He seemed taken aback. “That’s kind of personal.”

  “Do you want me to help or not?”

  He held up a hand. “Okay, I get it. And no, no trouble. I’m too focused on baseball.”

  “And Pete? You met him in high school?”

  “Yeah.” A wistful look swept across his face. “He was funny, the class clown. But he was good at sports, too, and he dreamed of being in the pros just like I did. So we started hanging around, practicing together, pushing each other to get better.”

  “Did you take steroids then?”

  His face flushed red. “I tried them, but then stopped.”

  “Why?”

  “I got scared about what they might do to my body. And I was better than everyone else anyway, so I figured I didn’t need them.”

  “Did Pete use them?”

  “Yeah, but he quit, too.”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “Some kid had them,” he said. “I don’t know where he got them from.”

  “And Pete? Where was he getting the steroids now?”

  “He never told me.”

  “You weren’t curious?”

  He shook his head. “I figured the less I knew, the better.”

  “How did you know what he was getting was good?” I asked. “I don’t know a lot about buying steroids, but I’ll bet if you get them off the Internet or something like that, the quality wouldn’t be good.”

  “No,” he said. “It was good stuff. I know because I’ve seen the results. And Pete wouldn’t screw me over by getting crap.”

  “Okay.” I switched course, back to Pete’s murder. “You don’t know who took your gun?”

  He shrugged. “It had to be someone who was here in the condo.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” He flew off the couch and started pacing. “Do you know how many people were around? A lot. The guys had friends and girlfriends. I don’t keep track of everyone.”

  “So no one person comes to mind?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “And strangers were here the other night?”

  He nodded.

  “It seems suspicious that someone stole your gun and then killed your friend with it,” I said.

  “I thought about that. Maybe someone’s setting me up.”

  “Who and why?”

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. Somebody who wants me out of the way.”

  I mulled that over. It wasn’t much to go on. “Who would benefit from you going to prison for murder?”

  He stopped pacing and let out a mirthless laugh. “The next second baseman who wants my job. You don’t know what guys will do to get an edge.”

  “Like use steroids.”

  “Man, would you quit bugging me about that?” he snap
ped. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to get to the big leagues? I have to stay competitive or there are tons of guys who’ll take my place. I was better than the guys in high school, but everyone’s better in the pros. I’ve worked too hard to get sent back to the minors. And if I finish this year on the streak I’m on, I’m going to get a big contract.” He looked around. “I can get a better place, a nicer car.”

  I glanced around, too. I didn’t see anything wrong with his condo. A little sterile, maybe, but certainly not a dump. It was way better than mine, and mine wasn’t shabby. “There’s no other reason someone would want to set you up?” I asked. “Someone you pissed off?”

  “Not enough to commit murder.”

  “Any enemies?”

  “Every fan when I strike out.”

  I sighed. This was going nowhere. “Let’s look at why someone would want to kill Pete then,” I said. “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of. People liked Pete, always have.”

  “You saw him interact with guys around the clubhouse?”

  “Yeah. I helped him get the job, and he was working his way up. Believe me, he didn’t want to screw that up because jobs in a professional sports organization are hard to come by.”

  “What about his family? Do they…” I hesitated.

  “Do they think I killed him?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “No,” he said forcefully. “They like me and they believe I’m innocent.”

  “Did Pete have other friends besides you?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I suppressed another sigh. It was like pulling teeth with this guy. “Do you have any names?”

  “He hung around a guy named Greg Revis, and he mentioned someone named Mason, but I don’t know his last name. I’m sure there are others, but those are the main ones.”

  “How can I get ahold of Greg?” I asked.

  “He works in the clubhouse as well. I don’t have his number, but I can get it for you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I’ll want to talk to him. And if you remember Mason’s last name, or how I can reach him, let me know.”

  “I think he lived in the same building as Pete. You could try there.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s an apartment off 9th and Washington.”

  I knew the area. It was in Capitol Hill, on the edge of downtown Denver. A decent urban area, once a bit rough but now gentrified and hip, with apartments and condos ranging from reasonable to expensive.

  “Did Pete have roommates?” I asked.

  “No, he lived alone.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Not right now. There was some girl last summer, Tara, but he hasn’t talked about her in a long time.”

  “Was he selling steroids to anyone besides you?”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “Just me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve known Pete for over ten years, and I could trust him. We both agreed that if he was going to help me get the steroids, it had to be just me, so that we wouldn’t be discovered.”

  “And he was fine with that?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to help me. And I was paying him a decent amount for them, so it was worth it to him.”

  “Somewhere along the line, it wasn’t enough,” I said wryly. “Or he wouldn’t have been asking you for more.”

  He shrugged.

  “Did he have money trouble?” I asked, then thought not that I know of at the same time he said, “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he seem like he needed more money?”

  “Not really. If anything, he seemed to be spending more.”

  “Any other trouble? Drugs? Alcohol? Gambling?”

  He shook his head.

  “So the guy was a choirboy?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I know I’m not being very helpful.”

  That was an understatement. I stood up. “I’ll start poking around and see what I can find. If you think of anything else, call me.”

  He walked me to the foyer, then gave me a sad look as he opened the front door. “Pete was a good guy and he didn’t deserve to die. You can find out who killed him and clear my name, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sounding very much like him. “I don’t have much to go on.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Sadness turned to dread. “I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  The door slowly closed behind me, but not before I heard him exhale loudly.

  I walked through the door of my condo in the Uptown neighborhood, immediately east of downtown Denver. “How’d it go?” Willie asked.

  It was almost eleven, and she was lying on the couch in the living room in shorts and a T-shirt, her short blond hair still wet from a recent shower. The Big Bang Theory, one of her favorite shows, was on TV. She’d been at work at St. Joe’s Hospital, where she was an ER admissions nurse, when I went to see Charlie, so I’d left her a note saying I was meeting with a new client, but I hadn’t included any details.

  I came over and flopped on the couch next to her.

  “Not bad, if you consider my client doesn’t seem to know anything about anything…except baseball.”

  “Baseball?” she asked as she scooted over and draped a leg across my lap.

  Willie – given name Willimena Rhoden – had had lots of reservations about dating me. Her father had been a cop, and her fears about the dangers of his profession carried over to me. I’d finally won her over with my irresistible charm and tenacity. She’d been living across the street in an old Victorian house she owned that had been converted to three apartment units. But when the house had partially burned in a fire and she’d been suspected of arson, she’d moved in with me. I loved her, and now, almost a year later, I was wondering if it was time to ask her to marry me. But first, I had a case to solve.

  “You’re never going to believe who my new client is,” I said.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

  She raised a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  “Uh-huh. Now tell me who your client is.”

  “Charlie Preston.”

  She sat back and crossed her arms. “The Charlie Preston, second baseman for the Rockies?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh, he’s cute.” She grinned. “Those blue eyes and the chiseled jaw…oh my.”

  Now it was my turn to raise a hand. “Cuter than me?”

  “Hm.” She scrutinized me, then twisted up her lips. “He’s a close second, but I’m partial to your hazel eyes.”

  “You are not funny.”

  “Hey, I’m all yours, babe, but I can still look.” She grew serious. “This is about him being a suspect in that murder?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Just don’t go to the press.”

  “Huh?”

  “He asked me not to talk to reporters, which of course I won’t,” I said. “And I know you won’t either, but don’t say anything about me working this case, okay?”

  “I said I wouldn’t.”

  So I told her the entire conversation, concluding with, “He’s given me almost nothing to work with.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “And I can’t believe that Charlie’s using steroids. That really irks me. It’s cheating.”

  I’d known that Willie was a sports fan, and she liked following the major Colorado teams. We’d gone to a few games here and there, when our conflicting schedules permitted it. But this spring, she was following the Rockies more closely. Now that I thought about it, maybe it was because of the cute second baseman.

  “Where are you going to start?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I want to do thorough background checks on Charlie and Pete, for starters, see if they have any skeletons
in their closets. And then dig into Pete more. There’s a reason why he was killed.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I leaned my head back on the couch. “Not right now, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Charlie’s been all over the news,” she said. To emphasize this, she picked up the TV remote and flipped the channel to SportsCenter.

  And there were two reporters discussing baseball news, and how Charlie Preston was a suspect in Pete Westhaven’s murder. They had no more information on the case. And neither did I.

  Chapter Three

  At nine the next morning, a voice startled me awake.

  “People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you'll be polite.” It was my cell phone, a sound bite of Humphrey Bogart from one of my film noir favorites, The Maltese Falcon.

  Willie and I both had erratic schedules, and it was not unusual for us to sleep late when we could.

  She groaned and mumbled, “Who’s that?” Then she rolled over, her back to me.

  I cleared my throat and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Reed, it’s Charlie.”

  “Charlie, what’s going on?”

  “My agent is all uptight that I talked to you last night.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He doesn’t think I should be talking to anyone but my lawyer right now.”

  “What do you think?”

  He paused. “I don’t know. Listen, my agent and I are going to get some breakfast. Can you meet us at Mattina Café in a half hour? Maybe you can convince him it’s okay to use a private investigator.”

  Mattina 2240 Café is on Blake Street, a block north of Coors Field, and within walking distance of Charlie’s condo. I would have time for a quick shower, but I’d have to hurry.

  “Sure, I’ll be there.”

  “Great,” he said and hung up.