5 A Sporting Murder (14 page)

When Nikki stopped crying, I leaned
forward and kept my voice soft but firm. “We owe it to Arnold to find out who
did this to him. And to you. I think you’re trying to protect your grandpa from
something that involves Arnold, but not his murder. That’s fine. But the police
aren’t far behind us. If they think Nick Zicarelli might have information
relevant to this, they’ll pounce on him with both feet. And they won’t be
gentle about it.”

“If you talk to us, we might be
able to make things easier,” Jill said.

She looked at Jill, then at me,
breathing heavily. “I won’t do anything to hurt my Grandpa.”

“We don’t want you to,” I said. “All
we want to know is why Arnold asked me to meet him at that repair shop last
Monday night. What could he have told me that would make a big difference in
the effort to bring a pro basketball team to Nashville?”

She stared at me, a puzzled look on
her face. “I have no idea.”

“What did he tell you after your
grandpa let him go?”

“How did—?”

“How did we know about the firing?
The police found a letter on Arnold’s computer.” I was treading on dangerous
ground, discussing confidential police information. I saw it as the only way to
shock her into giving us what we were after. “He said he thought he’d been
treated unfairly. He thought he’d done as instructed. It wasn’t his fault he
didn’t get the money.”

Nikki sat with her mouth open for a
moment. “But you said the police didn’t know—”

“The police don’t know the letter
was intended for your grandpa. What did Arnold tell you about it?”

She finally let go. “He was really
mad. He said he knew a way to get even, but I told him to calm down and get his
temper under control. My Grandpa is an old man, and he can act pretty cranky at
times. I intended to talk to him about Arnold.”

“What was Arnold’s reaction to that?”

“I wasn’t too gentle. He
apologized, said he hoped he hadn’t offended me.”

“Was Arnold collecting money for
your grandpa?”

That brought a shift in her eyes and
a guarded look. “I don’t know. I don’t think he wanted me to know what he was
doing.”

She didn’t want to hurt her
grandfather, so she wasn’t willing to say anything that might implicate him in
something illegal, like gambling. Arnold was a big enough guy to present a
fearsome presence if he chose to. He would have made a dandy debt collector for
Nick Zicarelli. Could that figure into the reason behind his murder?

On the way back to the office, Jill
complimented me on the manner in which I handled Nikki’s interrogation.

I gave her a dismissive wave. “I
can be gentle when the occasion demands.”

“A cuddly bear instead of a grizzly?”
I could hear the smirk in her voice.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“Did Nikki tell you what you wanted
to hear?”

“Not all of it. I’d still like to
know exactly what Arnold did for Zicarelli. It sounds like he was a bagman. Did
he put pressure on people to pay up, or was he just a carrier?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might, if it had something to
do with his murder.”

“Do you think Nikki’s grandpa bears
any responsibility for Arnold’s death?”

“I’d like to believe he doesn’t.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Right.”

“I wonder what Arnold meant by
saying he knew how to get even with Zicarelli?”

I reached over and patted her on
the knee. “You’re a good listener, babe. I’ve been pondering that same point.
Could it be what he was planning to tell me the night he was killed?”

If it was, we’d probably never
know, because Arnold was the only one who could tell us. Unless he had told
someone else. But who?

When we got back to the office, I had
two calls awaiting me. One from Phil Adamson, the other from Terry Tremont. I
reached Phil at his office downtown in the Criminal Justice Center.

“How come you aren’t out pounding
the pavement looking for bad guys?” I asked.

“The bad guys are all busy doing
their Christmas shoplifting. I had a bunch of loose ends and decided this was a
good time to look for ways to tie them together. Frankly, I’d rather be home
watching some good holiday basketball tournaments.”

We’d never talked about playing
basketball, but Phil certainly had the height for it. “Now you’re getting into
my territory,” I said. “What do you hear about the NBA recruitment project?”

“I’m not into the pros. College hoops are my passion. The reason I called is I just got the results from those
papers Detective Bledsoe salvaged at the library.”

“Were they able to decipher
anything?”

“Most of it didn’t make sense, but
there were a couple of interesting things.”

“Like ‘get Colonel McKenzie’?”

“No, your name wasn’t mentioned.”

“How about ammonium nitrate and
fuel oil?”

“Negative.”

“Then what was so interesting?”

“There were indications that Isabell
is staying with a Nat Edge in East Nashville. Narcotics says Edge is a known
addict and probably does some small-time dealing.”

“Where does he live?”

“Sheridan Drive.”

That had a familiar ring to it, but
I was concentrating too intently on Isabell to catch the connection.

“What’s going on with your case?”
he asked.

I looked around at Jill, who busily
scrolled down the page in her computer, looking as frustrated as I felt. “Using
a basketball analogy, it’s half-time and we’re down fifty to thirty. Got any
good pep talks we could use?”

Phil laughed. “Sounds like the
score in most of my cases. I could use a few free throws for sure.”

“Remember the girl named Columbo I
told you about? Turns out she wasn’t much help, but I learned she’s a
granddaughter of Nick Zicarelli. What can you tell me about him?”

“Nick’s an old-time gambler. Ran a
roadhouse operation on the north side years ago.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Anything
in recent times?”

“I never had any dealings with him.
I’ve heard vice guys talk about him, though. They say he only indulges in
big-money betting, so they figure no little guys are getting fleeced. They
decided he wasn’t worth spending a lot of resources on. If you caught him, it
would probably involve some big shot around town who would put pressure on the
mayor or the chief. That could lead to a lot of bad press. You know how cops
shy away from all that notoriety.”

“Cops are shy?” I chuckled. “All
the smiling badges I’ve seen on the tube lately, you could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t get me started on that. I’ve
told you what I think of those self-aggrandizing types who think they have to
take a bow every time they stop a DUI.”

“Yeah, reminds me of Detective
Tremaine, when he was riding high in the saddle.” I couldn’t forget my old
nemesis and his handling of the Tessa Peterson disappearance two years ago that
got me in trouble with the DA. “He relished every minute he stood in front of a
camera. Funny, I don’t see much of him anymore.”

“He got his wings clipped.”

“How’d that happen?”

“It was sort of a replay of the
Peterson case. Tremaine spent days chasing after a guy when the guilty party
was practically parked under his nose.”

“Nice to hear,” I said, feeling
more vindicated. “What else can you tell me about Zicarelli?”

Phil muttered for a moment, then
said, “Okay, just remember you didn’t hear this from me. You need a little
background on the Nashville criminal element that you won’t find in any police
report. I don’t mean the petty thieves and drug runners. I’m talking about the
big boys.

“Some years back, four guys
involved in local organized crime split up the city into geographical zones.
Nick was one of them. He had closed his club, but he owned another restaurant
closer in. He stocked it with illegal gambling machines. He also arranged to
put them in other places around his zone.”

“Didn’t he get raided?”

“Sure. But he had a son who was a
cop. Nick always got tipped off before a raid. He had a crew that would go
around and pick up the machines and haul them off to his warehouse. They would
leave a few around to be found and keep everybody happy. Nick supported all the
politicians’ favorite causes, sponsored an annual picnic for officeholders. He
was the all-around good guy with a hand in everybody’s pocket. He made tons of
money. When he got into his late sixties, he turned the day-to-day business
over to another son and retired to handling only big bettors. He’s almost
untouchable.”

Jill was on the other line when I
finished with Phil, so I called our client.

“I suppose you saw that little note
in the morning paper about us,” I said when Terry came on the line.

“Yeah. Your car blew up in the
driveway. What the devil is going on? What does ‘unknown origin’ mean?”

“It means we don’t know who the
hell did it.” I caught Jill’s frown but only shrugged. I believe my wife could
pick up a cuss word from a block away in a thunderstorm. But the thought of my
Jeep’s fate and my inability to pinpoint the culprit was getting to me.

“The story said no one was
seriously injured.” Terry’s voice held a note of sympathy.

“Right. I got a cut on my leg that
required a few stitches. I’ll live.”

“Was there any indication it
involved our case?” Terry asked.

“Not directly, but I have to assume
that’s quite likely what it was. Of course, there’s one other possibility.”

I told him about the former
navigator I had helped send to prison, who was out now and apparently looking
for revenge. As I thought about it, I realized where I had run into Sheridan Drive before.

“The cops found Izzy Isabell at a
house on Sheridan Drive in East Nasville,” I said. “That’s the street where
Jill was held two years ago after that Palestinian group abducted her. Isabell’s
staying at the home of a guy named Nat Edge, a drug addict.”

“Sounds like Izzy might be your
bomber,” Terry said.

“I’m reserving judgment. I hope he
learned his lesson. He got a tougher sentence because he tried to recruit
somebody to murder prosecution witnesses. Scratching up my car sounds like he’s
more of a threat to make himself a nuisance now. The cops are keeping an eye on
him.”

“If the bombing was related to our
case, it must mean you’re getting too close for somebody’s comfort.”

“I’d like to think so.”

I also told him about Nikki
Columbo’s grandfather, Nick Zicarelli, and what Sam Gannon had heard regarding a
little discord in the ranks of the basketball crowd.

“Brad Smotherman will be happy to
hear things aren’t going smoothly,” Terry said. “As for old Nick Z, I’m
familiar with him. The high school where he played has a trophy named for him.
They say he was quite a player in his day. I’m sure he’d be happy if Nashville got a pro team. I understand he’s a familiar figure at the NBA playoffs. Knowing
his reputation, I suspect he has a big finger in the betting pie, too.”

“We don’t know that he has any role
in this NBA deal, or in Arnold Wechsel’s murder, but we’re digging hard to find
out.”

“After what happened last night, it
sounds like you two had better be careful and watch your flanks,” Terry said.

I intended to. I planned to move
carefully as I sought answers to the puzzle Arnold Wechsel had left behind, but
I was determined to find what he knew that would blow my mind. I still felt a
twinge of guilt that he was murdered on my watch.

When I got off the phone, I turned
to tell Jill what I’d learned from Phil and Terry. She beat me to the draw.

“I hope you were careful in what
you said to Phil. We led Nikki to believe we’d go easier on her grandpa than
the police would. If you give Phil a reason to go after Zicarelli, Nikki will
find out about it and we can write her off as a source.”

“I was circumspect,” I said.

“What did Phil say about him?”

I related the story of Zicarelli’s
gambling background and his current posture. “He may not admit anything to us,”
I said, “but I think it would be worth a trip out to push him a bit.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “From
what Phil told you, it doesn’t sound like he’d be an easy one to push.”

I grinned. “You know my motto,
babe. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” It was mostly bravado to
keep her from worrying too much. I knew the chances were slim, but that had
never stopped me from trying.

I checked his address and found he
lived in Whites Creek, a small community on the north side of town with its own
post office but not much else. It wasn’t too far from where his long-defunct Sporting
Executives Club had been located. Whites Creek’s most notable feature was
Fontanel, the 27,000-square-foot mansion built by country music superstar
Barbara Mandrell in 1988. Despite what Phil had told me, I suspected
Zicarelli’s abode would be a bit more modest.

We ate a quick lunch at the
restaurant across the center and headed out Old Hickory Boulevard. The circumferential
highway took us around the eastern edge of the county, then west through Madison and across two interstates. The road wound about an area of farms with fallow
fields and leafless woodlands, spiced up by an occasional large home. We turned
left at Whites Creek Pike. This intersection housed another of the community’s
notable features, Richard’s Louisiana Café, which advertised “live music, dead
crawfish.” We had once visited Richard’s with a client who loved Cajun-style
food.

Houses were few and far between
along here. We cruised slowly until we spotted a mailbox with Zicarelli’s
address in front of a large two-story house that sat at least a hundred yards off
the road. The afternoon sun glistened off its pristine coat of white paint. With
four tall columns in front, it resembled Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, which I
suspected was the catalyst for the architect’s design.

We headed up the paved driveway and
pulled into a circular parking area beside a Lincoln Town Car. We walked up to
the broad front porch with its double-door entrance, and I rang the bell. After
a few moments, we found ourselves facing a tall, slender man with bushy white
hair and eyebrows and a set to his mouth that made me think stubborn. I figured
it was indicative of Nikki’s characterization of her grandfather as “cranky at
times.”

“Mr. Zicarelli?” I asked.

“That’s me,” he said. “Who are
you?”

“Greg and Jill McKenzie.” I handed
him a business card. “We’re private investigators.”

He
glanced at the card and handed it back. “I don’t need any investigating, thank
you very much.”

“We’re
looking into the murder of Arnold Wechsel,” I said.

“I don’t
know anything about that.”

“It’s a
bit cold out here, Mr. Zicarelli,” Jill said. “Could we come in and talk to you
for a few minutes?”

He obviously wasn’t thrilled with
the idea, but I figured he was too much of a gentleman to refuse her request.
He pulled open the door and stood aside. We entered a large wood-floored foyer
with a circular staircase in back. He directed us to a parlor off to the right.
Furnished in pale colors with oversize pieces of furniture, it possessed the
formal look of one of those rooms people normally ignore in favor of more
casual digs.

“I don’t know anything about a
murder,” he said when we were seated. “I didn’t read the story.”

“But you knew there was a story
about Arnold’s murder?” I asked, rumpling my brow.

He just stared, his jaw set.

“What was Arnold Wechsel doing for
you?” I asked.

“Who said I knew Arnold Wechsel?”

“Your granddaughter.”

His nostrils flared. “You stay away
from my granddaughter.”

“She was very circumspect in what
she told us. She wouldn’t say anything she thought might be harmful to you. But
she admitted that Arnold worked for you, and that you let him go.”

“That boy talked too much,” Zicarelli
said with a scowl.

I found that accusation astonishing.
Our experience, and that of everyone else we had talked to, indicated he was a
very close-mouthed young man. Perhaps Zicarelli meant Arnold had talked too
much to Nikki. I didn’t want to cause her any trouble, but I was determined to
squeeze something out of her grandpa.