Three Strikes and You're Dead (28 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Three Strikes and You're Dead
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“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
 
 
“I think I do,” I said. “Would you like to discuss it out here, or do you think we can find somewhere less public?”
 
 
He answered by pushing through the double doors. I followed. He closed the doors behind us and said through clenched teeth, “I lost a son, that’s what I lost.”
 
 
“And I am terribly sorry about that,” I said. “Truly I am. I’m not out to hurt you, Mr. Bennett, but Ty Ramos did not kill your son, and I am determined to clear him of the charge against him.”
 
 
“What do you want from me?”
 
 
“I’m here to talk about integrity, about a minor-league baseball team owner who bets against his own team.”
 
 
“What the hell does betting have to do with my son’s murder?”
 
 
“I’m not sure yet, sir, but I’m becoming increasingly convinced that there could be a connection. I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time this morning—or the right place at the right time, depending upon your view—and I overheard you berating and physically attacking your bookie. I heard it all, Mr. Bennett.” I decided not to mention my follow-up talk with the bookie, to spare him any retribution.
 
 
I paused, expecting some kind of reaction. He didn’t speak, but his rage was palpable. I was tempted to stop but felt compelled to continue. “If anyone asked, I’d have to say the most despicable part of your unscrupulous behavior is that you had your own son place your bets for you.”
 
 
In all my years of stumbling into murders, I’ve only occasionally been afraid for my physical well-being. This was one of those rare times, and it immediately brought to mind the conversation I’d just had with Mort. H.B.’s face was a deep purple, as if his bruised ego had surfaced. His head visibly shook and his fists were clenched. He shifted from one foot to the next, rocking back and forth. His eyes bored into mine with laser intensity. If his receptionist had not been within screaming distance, I would have been in danger of his lashing out, just as he did with his bookie, or worse. I wondered if I should back off and soften my assault on his character. The cognitive part of my brain suggested I do that, but the emotional component told me to stick to my convictions.
 
 
“You’ve been following me,” he said, pointing an accusatory index finger at my face. The glint from a large square diamond-and-ruby-encrusted ring flashed light in my eyes.
 
 
“No, I haven’t followed you,” I said.
 
 
“Who have you been speaking to?” he asked. “I’ll find out. I have my ways.”
 
 
“You will not threaten me, nor will you intimidate me,” I said. “Your jealousy and anger at Ty Ramos is misplaced. Even you have to admit that sending an innocent young man to prison is wrong. Most important, it won’t bring back your son. Nothing will. But I believe that you can help bring your son’s real killer to justice.”
 
 
His face didn’t appear as swollen with anger as it had a few moments ago. His shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his feet.
 
 
“What do you want from me?” he asked, the fire in his voice extinguished.
 
 
“If you’ll allow me to sit here with you for a few minutes,” I said, “I’ll tell you.”
 
 
Chapter Seventeen
 
 
My unpleasant visit with H.B., if you could call it a “visit”—“visits” back home have a much more sanguine connotation—left me both somewhat shaken and more optimistic that I might finally get to the truth about Junior Bennett’s murder and the accusation that Ty Ramos was responsible for it. I grabbed the first taxi I could find outside Bennett’s office and went directly to the Duffy house. Both Jack and Meg were there.
 
 
“How was your shopping expedition?” Meg asked.
 
 
“Successful,” I said, pointing to the small bag of things I had purchased. “But I found more than I’d bargained for.”
 
 
“Happens to the best of us,” Jack said. “Meg always ends up with more than she set out to buy.”
 
 
“I’m not talking about purchases, Jack,” I said. “Where’s Ty?”
 
 
“Upstairs, trying to catch up on some of the sleep that he missed last night,” Meg said. “He was just exhausted when we got home. I don’t think he closed his eyes all night, worrying about whether his bail would be revoked.”
 
 
“Good,” I said. “I hope he gets some rest. In the meantime, I have something important to tell you.”
 
 
I recounted for them the scene I’d overheard between H.B. and the man with the cell phone—who I now knew was named Jake Giacondi—and how it had ended with H.B. knocking Giacondi to the ground, opening his scalp, and threatening worse.
 
 
“This is remarkable news, Jess,” Jack said. He got up from his chair and began to walk back and forth. “You say this Giacondi fellow is a bookie?”
 
 
“That’s right,” I replied.
 
 
“And Bennett has been betting against the Rattlers?”
 
 
“Right again, at least according to Giacondi. I believe him, and not just because he said so. I overheard the exchange between him and Bennett, when he threatened to go to the press. There’s no doubt in my mind that the owner of the Rattlers has been betting against them. That would help explain his mood following their win in the final game.”
 
 
“He
was
very sour for a man whose team had just won the championship,” Meg said. “Remember, in the locker room?”
 
 
“Exactly,” I said. “And at the dinner, too. We all thought that he was angry because the manager pulled his son from the lineup for Ty to pinch-hit. But I kept thinking there had to be more to it than that. He evidently lost a lot of money on that game and was furious, which would account for his unpleasant postgame behavior.”
 
 
“Yes, but the question is, with whom is he furious?” Jack said.
 
 
“Sit down, Jack,” Meg said. “You’ll wear out the carpet.”
 
 
He stopped pacing and turned to me. “What I’m trying to figure out, Jess, is how this information you’ve come up with ties in with Junior Bennett’s murder.”
 
 
“I don’t have the answer for that just yet,” I said. “I’m not a betting person, but if I were, I’d wager that it ties in directly.”
 
 
“How can we find out?” Meg asked.
 
 
“The only way I can think of is to confront some of the people who might be involved in betting.”
 
 
We were so engrossed in our conversation that we failed to see Ty, who stood in the doorway.
 
 
“What are you talking about?” he said, stifling a yawn.
 
 
“Good nap?” Meg asked.
 
 
He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, um, I mean, yes. I feel a little better.”
 
 
“Come in, son,” said Jack, taking a seat on the sofa. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
 
 
Ty took the space next to his foster father.
 
 
“Mrs. Fletcher has come up with some interesting information,” Jack said.
 
 
I hoped he wouldn’t share with Ty what I’d learned about Harrison Bennett. It was better to keep it between us, at least for the time being.
 
 
“How much betting on baseball goes on with your teammates?” Jack asked.
 
 
“Betting?” Ty said, surprised by the question—and not pleasantly. Whereas he had been lethargic and still sleepy when he entered the room, he was now tense, his posture stiff.
 
 
“Yes, betting, particularly on your games.”
 
 
Ty avoided looking at Jack. “Some, I guess,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
 
 
“Some? Can you be a little more specific?” Jack’s voice had an edge to it.
 
 
“What difference does it make?” Ty asked. “It won’t help me.”
 
 
“We’ll be the judge of that,” Jack said. “Who bets on the games?”
 
 
“Ah, sir, please, I—”
 
 
“Have you bet on them, son?”
 
 
Ty didn’t respond. We all sat in silence.
 
 
“Once,” he said. “Maybe a couple of times.”
 
 
“Did you bet
against
the Rattlers?” his foster father asked.
 
 
“Never!” Ty said, completely out of his lethargy and animated now. “I would never do that. I never even bet on a Rattlers game. It was always one of the major-league teams.”
 
 
“Always?” Jack said. “Sounds as though it was more than once or twice.”
 
 
Ty said nothing.
 
 
“I’m glad to hear that you never bet on your own team,” Jack said, “for
or
against.”
 
 
“May I be excused?” Ty asked.
 
 
“No! I want your promise you’ll never place another illegal bet.”
 
 
“It’s not like I was doing it all the time. And, anyway, I’m not the only one.”
 
 
“Oh, Ty,” Meg said, a world of disappointment in her voice.
 
 
“Who else on your team was placing bets?” Jack asked.
 
 
“You know I’m not going to tell you that. I’m not going to rat out my teammates. It was no big deal. If a guy needed a little money, sometimes he would bet if he thought it was a sure thing.”
 
 
“How much did you lose?”
 
 
“Maybe ten bucks. I won a couple of times, too, but I didn’t bet very much. I don’t like to lose.”
 
 
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Jack said. “Don’t you know every time you break the law, no matter how innocent you think it is, you’re supporting the criminal population? They don’t make it day to day without you and your small-time bets. You’re supplying their everyday meat and potatoes so they can go on to gorge themselves on bigger feasts. Your little breach of the law keeps them going.”
 
 
He looked at Ty, who was visibly upset. “All right. Get out of here.”
 
 
Ty bolted from the room and took the stairs two at a time, returning to his room, and likely his bed.
 
 
“I’m shocked,” Meg said after Ty was gone.
 
 
“At least he gave us an honest answer,” Jack said. To me: “It doesn’t help tie anything to the murder, Jess.”
 
 
“I’m not so sure,” I said. “Meg, you called me on my cell phone when I was in Patsy’s restaurant wearing your wig. Remember?”
 
 
“Sure. I was envious. I wanted to be there, too.”
 
 
“You said during that conversation that Jack had learned Karen Locke was involved in some sort of investigation of sports betting.”
 
 
“Yes, I did. Jack, remember you told me that?”
 
 
He nodded.
 
 
“Who told
you
?” I asked him.
 
 
“A friend at the club. He runs a PR agency in Mesa. He pretty much has a finger on the media pulse.”
 
 
“Do either of you know where Ms. Locke lives?”
 
 
Meg and Jack looked at each other and shrugged.
 
 
“We can look it up,” Meg suggested.

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