5 A Sporting Murder (18 page)

We sat at the kitchen table feeling pleasantly stuffed when Phil
called.

“There were no prints on the bottle
except yours,” he said. “He evidently wore gloves, which was a wise move if he
was dealing with cyanide. However, he wasn’t so smart with the package.
Evidently he didn’t know we could lift prints from paper. There were several
prints, with you and the delivery people handling it, but they found enough to
make a positive ID through AFIS of former federal prison inmate Izzy Isabell.”

The FBI’s Automated Fingerprint
Identification System was a priceless asset.

“Now all we need is confirmation on
the Scotch,” I said.

“I’ll contact my buddy again and
see where that stands. I considered hauling Isabell in on some minor charge so we
could keep him on ice until the tox results are in, but the DA wouldn’t buy it.
East Precinct reported the blue pickup is still parked in the driveway on Sheridan Drive. We may have to put a tail on him to be sure he doesn’t run.”

When I gave Jill the news, she
proceeded to put it all in perspective.

“That means we don’t have to worry
about the lieutenant for the time being,” she said. “Now if we could just
figure out who the bomber was…”

She let it slide, but she’d said
enough.

A short time later, the outside
floodlight warning sounded. When I looked out this time, I saw what appeared to
be a GMC Yukon SUV pulling up to the house. A large man wearing a black leather
jacket and a leather cap climbed out, reached across the seat for a package,
and walked toward the house. Having learned to be overly cautious, I turned to
Jill, who had followed me to the living room.

“Grab your pistol and keep it
handy, just in case.”

She hurried back to the office
where she had left her purse.

I waited for the doorbell, then
opened the door. The man stood around six-two, well over 200 pounds. He smiled
and tipped his cap back. I saw the package was gift wrapped with bright
Christmas paper. The security door remained closed, though the upper window
pane was open.

“Mr. McKenzie?” he asked in a deep
voice.

I nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Barley,” he said. “Mr. Nick
Zicarelli asked me to bring you this little package, sort of a token of his
respect.”

I frowned. “What’s the occasion?”

“He said he wants you to know
there’s no hard feelings. There may have been some misunderstandings. Mr. Nick
is a really compassionate man, but sometimes, when he gets upset, he says
things that may not sound quite like what he meant.”

I had no doubt about what he meant
when he shouted “Hell, no!” at me. Apparently Nikki was convinced of the way he
sounded when he called her. This was an interesting exercise, but I wasn’t
quite ready to take it at face value.

“Is this his way of apologizing?” I
asked.

Barley gave a little twist to his
head that seemed to indicate uncertainty. “He just wants to leave things in a
more friendly manner. Keep it amiable, you know.”

“I have no problem with that.” I
turned the dead bolt and pushed the security door open. “Come on in and open it
for me,” I said.

His dark eyes flashed as if he’d
been hit by an electric current. Then his face relaxed into the beginnings of a
smile. “Oh, I get it. You think…that’s funny. Mr. Nick will get a big laugh out
of that.”

“If you’d just had your car blown
up with you inside, it wouldn’t sound so funny,” I said.

“I guess not.” He nodded. “Mr. Nick
told me about that.”

So Mr. Nick was well aware of who I
was and what I had been doing.

Barley came in and I pointed toward
the table beside the sofa. “You can open it there.”

He shrugged, tore off the Christmas
wrap, and removed the lid from a large box. It was filled with Ghiardelli
chocolates.

Jill walked over and stared at it.
“That’s enough to last us for a year.”

Barley grinned. “Well, enjoy it,
folks. I need to be on my way.”

When he left, I picked up a
chocolate and sniffed at it. “Don’t detect any bitter almonds, so I don’t guess
it’s laced with cyanide.”

“You don’t really think he would
send us tainted chocolates, do you?” Jill asked.

“No, but I’m not sure just what he’s
up to. Maybe he’s trying to open the door to the possibility of manipulating
our investigation. Like Terry said earlier, he’s a wily old fox.”

Since moving to Hermitage, we had
made a tradition of attending the midnight Christmas Eve service at Gethsemane United Methodist Church. Actually, it started at eleven and wound up around midnight. We always sat with Sam and Wilma Gannon and several other members of the Sunday
School class. The service by candlelight lent a feeling of lapsing back 2000
years to the biblical origin of the celebration.

Some of our classmates had already
taken their seats by the time we arrived shortly before eleven. I sat beside
John Jernigan, an accountant who had retired from what was now known as U.S.
Smokeless Tobacco. It was the maker of the famous Bruton’s Snuff, and John had
been stuck with the nickname “Snuffy” in earlier times. We honored his desire
to be known by his given name. He was a confirmed smoker and his tobacco
expertise had helped us out with the Marathon Motor Works case a few months
ago.

“What have you been up to, Greg?”
he asked.

“Trying to make a buck the usual
way.”

“I read about you finding that young
fellow who’d been shot over in Northeast Nashville last week.”

“That was a real shocker. I guess
you also heard about my Jeep getting barbequed.”

“Sam told me. Any idea who did it?”

“No, the investigators are still
working on it. How about you? How’s your holiday season going?”

“Ha. You know us retired guys don’t
get holidays. I’ve been spending a lot of time on my ham radio rig, trying to
see how many countries I can reach. Gotten a pretty good list so far.”

“I didn’t know you were a ham,
John.” I gave him a curious look. “You never mentioned it.”

“I sort of got away from it for
several years. Recently I decided to update my equipment and give it another
try. Keeps me out of pool rooms.”

I laughed and was about to ask him
the question that had been bugging me lately, but the service started before I
could get to it. We sang all the familiar Christmas hymns, the choir performed
a beautiful anthem, and one of the members with a great voice read the
scriptural account of Christ’s birth. Dr. Peter Trent, our pastor, told the
story of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s troubled life that led to his writing the
poem that became the Christmas carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” The
carol typified the spirit of the season with its message of peace on earth,
good will to men. Thinking about Arnold’s murder, I knew somebody out there had
missed the message. I was even more determined to track him down and bring him
to account.

When the lights came on in the
sanctuary, everybody began to bundle up for the trek out into the frigid night.
I finally had the chance to put my question to John Jernigan.

“You must know a lot of local
hams,” I said. “Do you by chance know one who drives a Cadillac Escalade?”

He cocked his head as he pulled on
a heavy jacket. “No, can’t say that I do. Of course, I haven’t been back into
it for all that long. Who’re you looking for?”

I chuckled. “I’m not sure. Just
taking a shot in hopes of hitting something. The investigators found evidence
that a handheld transceiver like the ones used by ham operators was used to
trigger the bomb that did in my Jeep. They wanted to know if I knew any hams. I
told them I hadn’t run into one since I made a phone call home from Vietnam.”

“Then you used somebody with the
Military Amateur Radio Service. Some of those GI’s did miraculous things
setting up stations in combat zones. They cannibalized stuff to put it all
together so people could make calls to their kinfolks back home.”

“Yeah. That was back in the days
when making an overseas call was a big deal. Were you involved in the Amateur
Radio Service?”

“Sure was. Got a cigarette lighter
to prove it.”

He pulled a Zippo lighter from his
pocket and showed it to me. I saw a round symbol with a globe and the letters
“MARS.” Around the circle it read “Military Amateur Radio Service.”

My breathing quickened as it hit
me. “Do you know a CPA named Gordon Franklin?”

“Sure.” He grinned. “He was a MARS
operator in Vietnam. Did you run into him over there?”

Before I could answer, Jill tugged
at my sleeve. “Let’s go, Greg, so they can lock up the church.”

I turned to Jernigan. “Thanks, John.
See you Sunday.”

When we got outside, Jill asked,
“What were you and John palavering about?”

“Remember the paperweight on Gordon
Franklin’s desk that had M-A-R-S on it? It stands for Military Amateur Radio
Service. One of the Protect Our Preds is a ham radio operator. You know what
Buddy Ebsen said about the bomb maker. Franklin’s a short guy. It could have
been Franklin instead of Frank that Arnold Wechsel’s neighbor heard him saying
in an angry voice on his cell phone.”

“Why in the world would Gordon
Franklin want us out of the way, not to mention Arnold?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“Aren’t you sort of jumping to
conclusions?”

“I’ll have to admit it’s a long
shot, nothing more than a hunch at this stage. But put all of it together and
who knows? Sometimes hunches pay off.”

“Okay. Then I suppose you want to find
what kind of car Franklin drives?”

“Exactly.”

I pulled out my cell phone and
punched in Phil Adamson’s number. I got a drowsy sounding “Hello.”

“Phil, it’s Greg McKenzie.”

“Damn.” After a pause, he said, “Do
you know what time it is? Who’s dead now?”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s
Christmas morning, Phil. Merry Christmas. I need a favor.”

“Christ a’mighty, Greg. Can’t it
wait till daylight?”

“We may have found the car bomber,
and he could be the man we’re looking for.”

“Slow down. Do you have any evidence,
or is this more speculation?”

“You’re always getting technical.”

“I have laws to follow.”

“Consider this one the law of
preservation.”

“What’s happened?”

“We don’t have a case ready for the
grand jury, but we have enough to warrant some serious probing.”

I told him briefly the reasons
behind my suspicions, then asked if he could find out what kind of car Franklin drove. “If he has a Cadillac Escalade, I need to have a talk with that gentleman.”

“Go to bed, Greg. I’ll check it out
in the morning.”

We slept late on Christmas morning. Both of our parents had
died years ago, and neither of us had siblings or aunts and uncles to visit.
Jill had discovered a couple of younger generation cousins as the result of an
investigation we had worked back in the spring. She kept in touch with Molly
Harrison, who had taken back her maiden name after the tragic end of the case. Interested
in maintaining family ties, Jill invited her over for Christmas dinner, but she
had already made other plans.

When we rolled out of bed, I
suggested we check under the Christmas tree and see what Santa had brought.

She gave me a knowing grin. “What
have you done, Greg? I thought we made a pact not to buy each other gifts.”

“I got a new Grand Cherokee.”

“All right. Let’s check it out.”

We went downstairs in our PJ’s.
With the drapes closed and a thick overcast outside, the living room resembled
nighttime. I switched on the tree lights and lit the logs in the fireplace.
When I turned around, Jill sat on the floor in front of the tree, holding the
small package.

I grinned. “Open it.”

She peeled off the wrapping and
lifted the lid off the box. She caught her breath. “Greg, you shouldn’t have.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it, but it was so—“

“So what? It’ll look great on you. That’s
all that counts.”

I sat beside her and she reached
around, pulled me toward her, gave me a monstrous kiss. “I love you,” she said.

“And I love you, babe.”

With a gentle movement, I laid her
back on the carpet. I felt the warmth from the fire on my back and saw the
reflection of the flames dancing in her eyes.

“When was the last time you made
love in front of a Christmas tree?” I asked.

“I don’t think we ever did that.”
She grinned. “But there’s no time like the present.”

It was after ten o’clock when we sat at the kitchen table
with cups of cappuccino and strawberry muffins.

“I wish Phil would call,” I said,
checking my watch.

“Give him a break. He’s probably
got family over to open presents.”

“This is no time to be monkeying
around with toys.”

She munched on a muffin, then said,
“Have you come up with any reason Gordon Franklin would want to kill Arnold? The young man was apparently intent on exposing something that would thwart the
NBA plans. That’s exactly what the Protect Our Preds people want.”

“I know. And I haven’t figured it
out. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“I can’t really see Nick Zicarelli murdering
Arnold, either. He could have hired someone to do it, though.”

“It might make more sense for Louie
Aregis to have done it,” I said. “But how would he know what Arnold planned to
do, or where and when he would meet me?”

“I think we may have to sit down
with Phil and lay out everything we know. He has the resources to look into all
these questions.”

I hated to admit she was right, but
it didn’t appear that we had the clout to go after these people.

When the phone finally rang, I
hesitated. Jill got up and answered it. “He’s right here, Phil.”

I took the phone. “What did you find?”

“Sorry, pal, but there’s no
Cadillac Escalade registered to Gordon Franklin.”

“Bummer,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, there are no
vehicles at all registered in Franklin’s name.”

“But he’s bound to drive
something.”

“I checked Franklin, Gretchen and
Silverman. It’s not theirs. Of course, he could drive a leased car and that
wouldn’t show.”

I felt a bit deflated, and I guess
my voice showed it. “Thanks, Phil. I apologize for waking you up last night.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I’ve followed
more than my share of false leads. Anyway, I saved the best for last.”

“You saved what?”

“My TBI crime lab buddy just
called. He’s a real conscientious guy. After I told him last night about
finding Isabell’s fingerprints on the package, he went in this morning and ran
the test. That bottle of Scotch contained enough potassium cyanide that you’d
be a Christmas cadaver if you’d celebrated with it.”

“Damn, Phil.” This was one
Christmas I wouldn’t forget.

Looking across at my expression,
Jill had no response to my expletive.

“I’m getting ready to go out and
pick him up,” Phil said. “We haven’t been watching him, but who runs on
Christmas Eve, especially since he thinks he’s safe?”

“Give him my regards,” I said.

Jill looked across at me as I
switched off the phone. “What happened?”

“The Scotch tested positive for
cyanide. If I hadn’t been curious about that tax stamp, we’d be the late
McKenzies.”

She opened her mouth as if to say
something, then closed it, shaking her head. “Thank God for curiosity,” she
murmured.

“Phil has gone after Izzy.”

“What did he say about the Cadillac
Escalade?”

“He didn’t find anything,” I said.
“Franklin doesn’t have any kind of car registered in his name, but it could be
a lease.”

She thought about that for a
moment. “You’ve been wanting to show me how to do a stakeout in a situation
like this. Here’s your chance.”

“Y’know, you’re a doll,” I said
with a smile and blew her a kiss. “We can park on the street and look like Aunt
Susie and Uncle Nabob visiting for Christmas. Perfect setup.”

We took Jill's Camry, figuring it would be less obvious. Franklin’s house sat on a tree-lined street not far off Hillsboro Road. A two-story brick,
it didn’t appear all that ostentatious. I suspected it was his old family home.
It had a large lawn and a paved driveway that led back to a free-standing white
wooden garage. I parked on the opposite side of the street, a couple of houses
down, with a clear view of the garage.

Jill had packed bottles of water
and snacks. We settled in around eleven-thirty, taking turns at keeping an eye
on the Franklin house. The one not “on duty” passed the time by reading a
mystery novel from our formidable to-be-read book pile. After a while, the
windows began to fog up.

Working lookout at the time, I
turned to Jill. “Could you go a little easier on the breathing? I’m having
difficulty seeing the driveway.”

She gave me the evil eye, took out
a tissue, and wiped the inside of the windshield.

“Thanks,” I said as she returned to
her reading.

With everybody but us enjoying
their Christmas dinner, the street looked about as lively as the home stretch at
a turtle race. I counted one car going in each direction during my hour of
gazing. I was about to prompt Jill to put down her book when she looked around.

“I think you’d better run the
engine a bit and warm us up,” she said. “My nose is starting to look like
Rudolph’s.”

A little sunshine would have
helped, but the sky remained as gray as grandma’s shawl. I turned the switch
and cranked the starter. “Okay,” I said, “it’s your turn to be watchman.”

I adjusted the heater to its highest
level and she dropped her book on the console.

“How long do we need to keep this
up?” she asked.

“Until we get some results. Either
he goes out or he comes in, and we get a look at what he’s driving. He may have
gone to spend the day with his brother in Murfreesboro. I warned you this was
the most monotonous part of an investigator’s life.”

She pulled out her goodie bag. “I
made some small sandwiches. You have your choice of chicken salad or pimiento
cheese.”

I chose to eat more chicken. After
a couple of hours, I spotted a Metro patrol car approaching us slowly from the
rear. “Here comes trouble,” I said. “That’s one of the hazards of surveillance
in an upscale neighborhood.”

The car pulled in behind us. The
officer got out and walked toward us. I lowered my window and held out my PI card.

“We’re on a surveillance job,” I
said. I added a smile to keep it light. “Your presence isn’t helping our
cause.”

“A neighbor behind you called about
a suspicious car parked on the street with two people in it,” he said.

“Tell them our car broke down and the
tow truck is coming from California.”

“Brilliant.” He shook his head. He
looked fairly young, not too jaded yet, his thick mop of brown hair picked at
by the chilling breeze. “Who’s the subject?”

“Guy who lives over there.” I
pointed toward Franklin’s house. “He hasn’t poked his head out so far. Maybe he
thinks he’s a groundhog and it isn’t February yet.”

“As cold as it is, he’ll stay
inside if he’s smart. I’ll tell the people who called that you’re okay. If we
get any more complaints, though, you’ll have to move along.”

The Camry’s heater kept the chill
at bay, though we used a lot of gas to keep it fired up. No more cops snooped
around. A little after four, as colors began to fade with the gathering
darkness, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of a car
coming up from behind. It slowed just past us and turned into Franklin’s
driveway.

“It’s a dark blue Lincoln Navigator,”
Jill said, almost a whisper.

We had been wrong about the make
and model of the vehicle, or about the role of Gordon Franklin. I wasn’t sure
which.

I cranked the starter and drove
off.