5 A Sporting Murder Read online

  “That’s not Rod Jenson’s take on it.” I took a sip on the cappuccino, found it cool enough to drink, then asked, “How did you approach him on the question of why he came to Nashville?”

  “I just asked if his move here was related to the NBA business. He claimed it resulted from several factors. Number one, this is a growing, progressive city. Number two, he has some good clients here and there’s lots of wealth in the area. And number three, his wife is a big country music fan.”

  I shook my head at that one. “So he denied the basketball deal was responsible for his moving here.”

  “Not in those exact words. Aregis should be a politician. Instead of answering a question directly, he shifts the focus to what he wants to get across. I’d say the NBA was a major influence, but he doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “Did you ask who some of his local clients are?”

  That brought a grin. “He wasn’t at liberty to discuss that. I mentioned all the colleges and universities in Nashville and asked if any of them were limited partners in his venture capital funds.”

  “And he said…?”

  “He couldn’t say.”

  “So what did he want to talk about?”

  “Well, he didn’t mind painting a glowing picture of what a great job Coastal Capital Ventures is doing. They’ve been endorsed by all sorts of people, like TV and movie stars. You name it.”

  “How did he size up the deal for a basketball franchise?”

  “He says they’ve had discussions with some teams that might be possible candidates for relocation to Nashville. He wouldn’t give a figure on how much money they’re willing to spend but said they have enough to buy any team they’re interested in.”

  “Will Coastal Capital be an investor?”

  “Now you’re asking specifics. Mr. Aregis doesn’t like to get specific about anything. Remember how I boned up on those three teams and their players? He wasn’t interested in talking about any of them. I got to wondering if he even knew who they were. One point he did make was that they had contacted the NBA commissioner’s office to show they were a legitimate owner group.”

  When the phone rang, Jill looked at the caller ID and said, “Germany.”

  I answered it.

  “Greg, this is Jeff,” said my one-time OSI colleague. “We’ve come up with a bit of a puzzle.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Arnold’s body arrived today, along with his personal effects. They included something we can’t figure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Saint Christopher’s medal. It appears to be solid silver. Old Chris is the patron saint of Baden, which is part of the state of Baden-Wurttemberg, just to the southeast of here. The medal was attached to a silver chain. It was packed in a box along with his billfold and a few other things they apparently found in his pockets.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “For one thing, the Wechsels aren’t Catholic. For another, it has a name engraved in small letters on the back—‘N. Columbo.’”

  “I presume the family has no knowledge of an N. Columbo?”

  “Not a clue. I shot a picture of it. I’ll email you a copy.”

  Could it have any significance to the mystery surrounding Arnold Wechsel’s death? We were in the process of assembling a large jigsaw puzzle designed to answer the question of what had happened to him. I didn’t intend to leave any pieces on the table.

  Chapter 14

  I repeated Jeff Price’s story for Jill, then called Detective Adamson and left a message on his voice mail.

  “I presume you plan to write off your gift to Fingers O’Malley,” Jill said.

  I did my bull snort impression. “Let’s head out to Dickerson Pike and see if we can find Fingers. It’s time we had a few choice words with Mr. O’Malley.”

  We took Briley Parkway past Opry Mills Mall and the massive Opryland Resort and Convention Center complex. The Mall appeared loaded with Christmas shoppers, but this season was a lull time for conventions at the big hotel. Just as well, the way the weather had been lately. Yesterday’s rain and sleet mixture had passed on but left in its wake folds of heavy, dark clouds chased by a cold, gusty wind. We made a short jog on I-65 to the Trinity Lane exit and found the A&R Café a short way down Dickerson Pike. It occupied a small building sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a hardware store. Tommy Carroll turned out to be the owner, the chef, and the headwaiter.

  “Have you seen Fingers O’Malley this morning?” I asked.

  A short, squat man with eyes as big as silver dollars, he wiped chunky hands on his white apron. “You must be Mr. McKenzie.”

  “That’s right. I need to talk to Mr. Fingers.”

  “He was in here a little while ago. He’s got money. Even paid for his coffee.”

  I gave him a pained smile. “Some of my money.”

  “I figured you must have beefed up his bank account. Did you not get your money’s worth?”

  “The information he gave me was hardly accurate.”

  “Sorry. He means well, but he’s not the sharpest blade on your pocketknife. I’m pretty sure he headed up the street. You’ll probably find him at the grocery store on the next corner.”

  I thanked him, and we drove to the market. Looking around inside, we spotted him leaning against the deli counter, munching on a handful of crackers. He grinned at us as we walked up. His nose looked redder than his eyes today.

  “Bring my other fifty?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “I’d like to get back the fifty I gave you, but it’s probably been spent already.”

  “How come you want it back?”

  “That license number you gave us was for a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, not a black SUV.”

  His frown carried a puzzled look. “Cain’t be. I writ what I seen.”

  I looked at those cloudy eyes and diagnosed the problem. Pointing at a poster across the store, I asked, “What does that sign say?”

  He squinted at it. “Somethin’ ’bout grapes. I ain’t too good at readin’.”

  “What are the numbers in the price?”

  “Uh…looks like two…uh, three…five.”

  The grapes were priced at $2.86. “Have you ever had your eyes checked for glasses?” I asked.

  “How you ’spect me to afford them fancy things?”

  “Some civic organizations sponsor free eye clinics now and then. I’d advise you to check it out next time you hear of one. Keep the fifty bucks. That’s our charitable contribution for the week.”

  It was after lunch when Phil Adamson returned my call.

  “I just heard from the Louisville PD,” he said. “Izzy Isabell showed up in his old neighborhood last weekend. His parents still live there. They reported he was high on drugs and abusive. They told him they didn’t have room for him to live there, that he’d have to find some place else. He said he might go to Nashville, he had a friend here.”

  “Did they mention what he was driving?” I asked.

  “Said he had a blue Ford truck.”

  “That’s what I saw him in. Didn’t get a look at the license plate. I wonder if he’s tapped into the drug money he stashed away before I caught him?”

  “You think the money might be here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Louisville is sending me a recent photo,” Phil said. “Want me to pass it around, see if anybody might spot him?”

  “It would be good to know where he is in case anything happens. And by the way, I had another call from Germany today. What can you tell me about Arnold Wechsel’s Saint Christopher medal?”

  “He was wearing it on a chain around his neck when he was shot.”

  “I figured it was either that or in his pocket. Did you notice the engraved name on the back?”.

  “Columbo. Did his folks identify it as somebody in Germany? I haven’t found anybody with that name around Nashville.”

  I studied the photo of the medal on my desk, printed out from Jeff
Price’s email. “They never heard of N. Columbo either.”

  “It may not mean anything, but I’ll keep looking.”

  I intended to, also.

  “Have you turned up anything new on the homicide?” I asked.

  “I measure progress with this investigation in millimeters. We checked his phone records for the past few days. Nothing but calls to work and this Ullery guy. He didn’t have a cell phone on him. Neither his check register nor his credit card receipts showed any payments to cell phone companies. Matter of fact, he apparently used his credit card infrequently. What about you? Making any progress with the hoopsters?”

  “If talk is progress. We’re doing plenty of that. But nobody’s said anything that puts a sign on the roadmap showing any destinations.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  When I got off the phone, I found Jill sitting at her desk with that Cheshire cat grin.

  “Okay,” I said. “Get that mouse from between your teeth.”

  “I’ve been on the computer,” she said with a smug look. “There’s no Columbo in the phone book, but I found one through Peopledatascan dot com. They give more details than anybody. I think they must have a back door to the credit bureau. She’s Nicole Columbo, a twenty-three-year-old from Memphis who works at an Italian restaurant in Green Hills.”

  “N. Columbo. It has to be her. Looks like our boy had a girlfriend after all.”

  “She’s probably a hostess or a waitress. I’ll see if she’s working tonight. We can go eat Italian and I won’t have to fix anything for supper.”

  I ran my tongue around my lips. “I could use a little manicotti, maybe some cannelloni.”

  She lifted a sculpted brow. “And I’ll need to keep an eye on your portion control.”

  “That’s not all we need to keep an eye on,” I said. “Phil said the Louisville cops confirmed my sighting. Izzy Isabell returned home last weekend and left for Nashville in a blue pickup.”

  Her eyes flashed in alarm. “Coming after you?”

  “I wish I knew. He told his parents he had a friend in Nashville.”

  With a few new developments in hand, I called Terry Tremont to update him on what we’d learned about Arnold Wechsel and Louie Aregis.

  “So Aregis is apparently lying about how he got into this deal,” Terry said, a note of disgust in his voice. “Sounds like he may be the faulty link in this chain.”

  “Could be, but we haven’t found a way to exploit it yet. We’ve come up with a new angle that we plan to check out, though.”

  I summarized the story of Nicole Columbo and the Saint Christopher’s medal. Having watched Terry at work in his office, I knew he would be taking notes on everything I had to say. That was one reason for his success in court. He missed nothing.

  “My wife’s Italian,” he said. “I’m familiar with the Italian community around Nashville. I’ve never heard of any Columbos.”

  “She’s from Memphis. I’d like to know how she met Wechsel and what their relationship was. He could have been a customer at the restaurant. We plan to go by there tonight and check her out.”

  “I’ll be interested in what you find. Getting back to the NBA folks, what have you learned about Fred Ricketts? Everybody knows the Howard Hays story, but Ricketts seems a bit of a question mark.”

  “I read an interesting magazine article about how he put P and S Software on the map. I haven’t learned much about him personally, though.”

  “I may have the answer,” Terry said. “I have a client I just learned worked with Ricketts when he was a big shot at the hospital chain a few years ago. Name’s Ken Vickers. He runs a company that deals with hospital supplies. Why don’t you give Ken a call. Tell him I’d like him to help you with some background on Ricketts. See what he has to say.”

  Vickers was in a meeting and wouldn’t be out for another hour. I left word that I needed to talk to him, then explained what was going on to Jill.

  “Since you have an hour to kill,” she said, “you can make a run to the office supply store and get a carton of copy paper. All these data searches are about to deplete our supply.”

  I drove to a nearby shopping center and parked in front of the store. As I was about to get out, I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw a large black SUV moving slowly behind me. I popped the door open and jumped out, but I wasn’t fast enough. I caught a glimpse of the car as it turned between two rows of vehicles and headed out of the lot.

  Damn! I slammed the Jeep’s door and fumed. If it was the one we had seen Sunday night, I had just missed a chance for a positive ID.

  Then I leaned back and took a deep, cold, sobering breath. It could have been anybody. Some people actually drove slowly through parking lots to keep from hitting someone. Was I getting uptight over an incident that, for all we knew, had nothing to do with us? I didn’t believe that. Something was going on and I wanted to know what.

  When I came out of the store and reached to open the car door, my eyes nearly bugged out at what I saw. A long, jagged scratch ran from just under the side mirror, across both doors, back to the quarter panel. I hadn’t been keyed. It looked more like I’d been awled. I shoved the box into the back seat, then stood there and fumed. That was when I spotted the note under the wiper. It read:

  “The guy who did it got into a blue pickup. I couldn’t get his license number.”

  Chapter 15

  "That bastard Isabell scratched hell out of my Jeep,” I announced in a loud voice as I stormed into the office.

  Jill looked at me with a frown that could have been a cross between indignation at my outburst and despair at my message. I showed her the note and told her what happened, then carried the large box of paper over to the counter. After taking out a ream and refilling the drawer of our combination printer-copier- scanner- fax machine, I noticed the sheet in the output tray.

  “When did this come in?” I asked. I took the sheet and tossed it onto Jill’s desk.

  “Just now. I hadn’t had time to check it out.” She stared at the photo. “It’s Isabell, isn’t it?”

  He looked about as I remembered him. Angular face, short hair, intense eyes, but a bit rougher and more weathered.

  “That’s the…” I let it drop as her frown intensified.

  “Fortunately, he directed his mischief at your Jeep instead of yourself,” she said.

  I sat at my desk and thought of wicked things I might do if we were to meet. Before I got too far, the phone rang. Ken Vickers.

  I told him about Terry Tremont’s suggestion.

  “I haven’t been involved with Ricketts since he left to form his own business,” Vickers said, “but I still see him once in a while. He’s one of those driven guys. You know, not happy unless he’s involved in some sort of action. He took off like a rocket when he started that company. Now he’s about to make a fortune off of it.”

  “Which he’s prepared to spend on a basketball franchise,” I said. “Has he always been a big sports fan?”

  “He’s part owner of an Indy race car and always went up to The 500 to see his car run. I’d say this is just another way to get in on the action.”

  I thought of all we’d learned about Arnold Wechsel. “Is Ricketts a gambling man?”

  “He likes to beat the odds. He’s not afraid to take a chance if he thinks it’ll pay off.”

  “Are you referring to business decisions or making bets?”

  “As for bets, he might make a friendly wager, but probably only if he thought it was a sure thing.”

  “I read where he’s in his thirties, a fairly young guy. How did he get such a good job with the hospital outfit at such an early age?”

  Vickers spoke with the formidable voice of a big man. I could picture a hulking body hovering over his desk. He had a ready answer for every question.

  “Fred was a computer whiz kid out of college,” he said. “One of the top people in the company latched onto him and pushed him up in the ranks.”

  “Did he leave
the hospital business to start his software company?”

  Vickers gave a little chuckle. “In a manner of speaking. What happened was he had the idea for this new venture and began trying to put it together while still working under his mentor at the company. His boss got wind of it and was not the least bit pleased. He suggested it was time for Fred to devote full-time to the new business.”

  “In other words, he was invited to leave.”

  “That’s as good a way of putting it as any. I worked in the office across from his, and I can tell you he was furious as a scalded hornet. Turned out it was the best thing for him, but he had a lot of deleted expletives for his boss.”

  Fred Ricketts sounded like a man I needed to know more about. “I’d like to meet him, preferably in a relaxed, informal atmosphere. Do you know of any place he frequents?”

  He paused for a moment. “Are you familiar with Contacts Nashville?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s a group that sponsors a couple of get-togethers each month to bring business and professional people together for networking. I don’t go to all of them, but Fred has been there every time I’ve attended.”

  “Is it like a cocktail party, or what?”

  “They mix and mingle and have lunch. They’re meeting now at the Bull and Boar Steakhouse in Brentwood. It’s normally only open for dinner, so they have the whole place to themselves.”

  Ricketts’ company was located in Brentwood, an upscale town on the edge of Williamson County just south of Nashville. Williamson had one of the highest per capita incomes of any county in the U.S.

  “When do they meet?” I asked.

  “The second and fourth Wednesdays. That would make it tomorrow. I don’t know about Christmas week, though. I can check to make sure. The sessions are open to anyone, so all you have to do is show up.”

  He called back a few minutes later to confirm that Contacts Nashville would meet tomorrow at 11:30 a.m. I told Jill we had a lunch date for in the morning.

  We arrived early at the Villa d’Este Restaurant, hoping to catch Nicole Columbo before things got too busy. I came through the foyer, blowing warmth into my freezing hands, and passed a gaily-decorated tree filled with winking colored lights. We were met by a young woman slightly taller than me, with long black hair and a pretty face. She had high cheekbones accented by a wide smile.