Three Strikes and You're Dead (32 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
“Stay out of sight until I call you,” I’d told her. Was she outside at that moment? I hoped so.
“This is ridiculous,” Carter said. “The way I always figured it, somebody happened on Junior that night outside the bar and robbed him. Junior fought back and got killed. There were lots of people in the Coyote that night, not just us.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t hold water, Carter,” I said. “The police report indicates that nothing was missing from Junior that night. His wallet and cash were on his person.”
Cole stood up to leave. “Hey, listen, this is a nice intellectual exercise, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t see why it concerns me or Judge Duffy.” He turned to Jack. “Why don’t we talk outside?”
I shifted my attention to the back of the room. “I appreciate your coming here this evening, Sylvester,” I said.
“Fine,” he said, “but none of this means anything to me. Sure, I hope Junior’s killer gets caught and punished, but I came here to talk business with Judge Duffy. We just got caught up in this meeting, right, Judge?”
“Actually, Sylvester, I asked for you to be here,” I said.
“I can’t imagine what for. And I’ve got better things to do right now. So I’ll say ciao.”
“Maybe you can answer a few questions before you leave.”
“I don’t see the need to answer any questions. I’ve already spoken to the police. With all due respect, you’re not a policeman, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“But I am,” came a voice from the door. Sheriff Hualga was leaning against the jamb, his arms folded across his chest.
I heaved a small sigh of relief. I’d informed him of my plans for the meeting and he’d been skeptical. But I’d prevailed upon him to be available in the event things got out of hand. We weren’t at that point yet, thank goodness. But I was grateful to see that he’d arrived.
“I don’t think you’ll be leaving, Mr. Cole,” I said.
Cole appeared unsure of what action to take next.
“You might as well sit down again,” I said. “As you can see, you’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished what I have to say.”
He gave me a hateful look but walked back to the bench. “Are you involved in this?” he snarled at Jack Duffy.
Jack smiled and indicated with his hand Cole’s empty chair. “I’m not sure where this is going,” Jack said, “but it sounds like it’s about to get interesting.”
Cole sat as I prepared to continue. But he popped up again and said in a loud voice, “This is crazy. Are you accusing me of killing Junior Bennett? Because if you are, I want to know it. I want to know why I’m being singled out here.”
I said nothing in response.
“Well,” he said, “if you are, you’ve gone off the deep end, Mrs. Fletcher. Maybe you’ve been reading too many of your own mystery novels.” He looked at the others in the room for a sign of support, but instead received blank stares.
“Hey,” he said to the players, who’d turned in their seats to watch, “I’m no murderer. I’m a sports agent. I’m on your side. I love you guys. We work together, and I make my living from getting you the best deals possible.”
“Is that why you killed Junior?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“What are you talking about? Sheriff, she’s nuts,” he shouted, red-faced. “I wasn’t interested in representing Junior. I had nothing to do with Junior. Ask Mr. Bennett. Ty Ramos was the one I wanted to sign.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Cole took a deep breath, then shook his head and winked at the players, as if he were humoring an addled aunt. He shrugged his shoulders and flashed that winning smile he used to charm many a prospective client. “Look, I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. You know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m a good guy.” He made eye contact with each man, one at a time. “Does anybody here think I’d let Ty Ramos take the rap for something I did? I love that kid like he is my own brother. I want to see him make it to the Big Show, become a superstar. We can make millions together. Together! Remember, I don’t make anything if he’s sitting in jail. I’m the last guy who’d want to see him end up in prison for the rest of his life for something he didn’t do.”
“Very convincing, Mr. Cole,” I said, “but you don’t have to be an expert in psychology to know that self-preservation is a primary instinct, more important even than making money. You didn’t think about that when killing Junior, did you? All you thought about was protecting an investment.”
He made a couple of false starts, sputtering, looking from person to person for understanding. Receiving none, he said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Under different circumstances, what you say would be true. Ty Ramos would have been your meal ticket. Signing him could have pulled you out of bankruptcy.”
“What are you talking about?” he barked, but the blood had drained from his face.
“I’m talking about your gambling debts and how betting has put you in an untenable financial position.”
Jack stiffened in his seat, glanced at me, and slowly shook his head, probably more in upset at having been taken in by the smooth-talking agent than shock at learning the truth about the murderer.
Cole pulled himself up to full height and assumed a defiant expression and posture. “A recent temporary setback,” he said. “Just a bump in the road. Everyone has them. How would killing Junior Bennett help that?”
“Junior threatened your investment,” I said. “He was obsessed with destroying Ty’s chances to make it into the major leagues. He was spreading lies about him, vicious lies that when coupled with aspects of Ty’s background could well have sunk his chances to ever become a major-leaguer. He had you convinced, didn’t he, Mr. Bennett? You asked the league to look into Ty’s activities—you told me that yourself. Did they find anything?”
“Not yet,” H.B. said, scowling. “Go on.”
I turned back to Cole. “You had to stop Junior, didn’t you, to protect Ty’s career, but you never imagined that Ty would be accused in your stead.”
Cole now appeared ready to bolt. But Carter, Murph, and the other players stood up to block all possible exits from the room. I looked to Harrison Bennett for any angry reaction to what I’d just said about his deceased son. There was none. He sat ramrod straight in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, his face devoid of any telltale emotions. “Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes,” I said, looking at Cole. “You called Judge Duffy to inform him about the murder weapon being found.”
“That’s right. So?”
“You said the police found the bat in an open Dumpster outside this stadium. You heard it on the radio. Yet the police report said nothing about the Dumpster being open, so the radio couldn’t have reported it that way. It’s not open usually. Buddy Washington was surprised to see it that way tonight. All the others are closed. But the person who wiped the bat clean and threw it away would have known this Dumpster was missing a top.”
He started to respond, but no words came.
“You also spoke of Mr. Bennett’s new Mercedes. It was green, you said. You hate the color green. Yet I believe H.B. had it delivered from the dealer the morning of the murder. He never even drove it himself. You couldn’t have known it was green unless you’d seen it—unless you were at the Crazy Coyote the night Junior was killed.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I—”
“The police found a lot of footprints near Junior’s body. Sheriff Hualga, you may want your officers to check out Mr. Cole’s shoes. I’m confident the photographs of footprints from the crime scene contained in the police report will match up nicely with a pair of his shoes.”
There was a deathly stillness in the room.
Cole’s sudden smile was wide and engaging. “You’re one smart lady, Mrs. Fletcher. I really have to hand it to you. The only problem is, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“If I’m wrong,” I said, “I’ll be the first to apologize to you and to everyone else who heard my accusation.”
“Yes, I was there, but I didn’t murder Junior Bennett,” he said. He looked around at the men in the room, his eyes bright.
“No?”
“No. It was self-defense.”
“He attacked you?”
“That’s right. That’s right,” he said, panting. “I went to that dive to ask him to lay off Ty, to stop trying to ruin Ramos’s career. You were right about me being broke. That’s why Ty was so important. I haven’t shared this with the judge or Ty, but my sources tell me that there are two major-league teams eager and ready to sign him to a lucrative contract.” He faced Jack. “See? That’s why you have to sign the contract right now. A year in Triple-A ball and he’ll be a starter at shortstop for either team. I’m talking serious money, Jack, enough to set the kid up for life.”
“That may be,” I said, “but let’s get back to what happened that night.”
“Okay,” he said, swinging in my direction. “Like I said, I went to that bar to try and talk sense into Junior.” His words came pouring out, in staccato, his breathing audible. “I was, I was even going to offer to cut Junior in on some of my commission if he’d leave Ty alone. I had pulled into the lot right after the fight. I saw all the guys in the parking lot filing back into the Coyote. Carter was dragging Ty away. Junior got to his feet and grabbed the bat someone left by the door, the one Carter Menzies said he left out there, the one the fan club kid gave him.”
Carter was staring at Sylvester, his hands fisted in his lap.
“Junior had a bloody nose. I got out my handkerchief to give him, but he was swinging the bat, saying he was going to kill Ty with it—‘smash his skull in’ was how he put it. Junior was nuts, off the wall. I was trying to
prevent
a murder, don’t you see?”
prevent
a murder, don’t you see?”
“You were trying to protect your investment is what I think,” H.B. said.
“Right,” Cole said, seeming unconcerned that he was talking to his victim’s father. “Ty was my ticket to financial health. I didn’t want him to get a bashed-in skull. I wrestled Junior for the bat and I got it away from him. All I intended to do was walk away with it. He jumped me. I swung the bat and caught him in the side of the head. I didn’t mean to kill him. It just happened.”
“If it was accidental,” I said, “you should have called the police yourself. Instead, you wiped off the murder weapon with your handkerchief, threw the bat in the Dumpster, and let Ty get arrested for what you did.”
I checked with Sheriff Hualga, who had a tight smile on his face. He cocked his head at me, eyebrows raised. “Gentlemen,” he said. All the men swiveled to look at him. “I’d appreciate it if you all left the room right now. Not you, Mr. Cole.”
H.B. rose from his chair and strode out the door. The Rattlers filed out after him, Buddy Washington waving them through the door until they were all out of the locker room. He closed the door himself as he left.
The sheriff stepped outside, too.
Jack stood, his movements slow and stiff. “You’ll have a decent defense in court,” Jack said to Cole. “But it doesn’t change things for me. What’s important is that the authorities know that you were responsible for Junior’s death, and that Ty can now go free.”
“Judge, I think we need to talk,” Cole said.
“I don’t want to talk with you anymore,” Jack said, and crossed the room to where Hualga stood.
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