In the morning, I got a call from Bill Warren at the country club. "I was not aware of this when we spoke yesterday, but I thought you might find it valuable."
"I'm listening.”
18
"Isaw Mr. Wescott shove Liam and get in his face," Felipe said in Spanish when we talked to him at the club.
He’d told Bill Warren what he’d witnessed. Felipe was a skinny guy with a slim face, curly dark hair, and a narrow jaw. He wore the typical olive green maintenance uniform.
"When was this?" I replied, fluent in the language.
"The day of the murder.”
"Where?"
"On the court.”
"What happened?”
"Mr. Wescott looked mad. Pointing and shouting at him. Spit flew from his mouth. He looked like he was about to pop.”
"Did they come to blows?"
Felipe shook his head. "Mr. Wescott screamed and yelled for a few moments, then stormed off."
"What was the last thing Mr. Wescott said to Liam?" I asked.
"He said he was going to kill him.”
"You sure about that?”
"Si.”
I handed him a card and told him to get in touch if he remembered anything else about the interaction.
I called Isabella on the way back to the Wild Fury van. "I need you to look into the location history for John Wescott.”
With a few taps of the keys, she said, "His phone was off the grid at the time of the murder.”
Wescott was looking like a promising suspect.
“Wescott made a few phone calls to Liam’s cell phone over the past week,” Isabella said. “I'm sure he called the tennis pro when he found out he was sticking it to his daughter and gave him an earful." Then she added, “I'm noticing some other unusual patterns, too.”
She told me a few concerning things about the man.
I thanked Isabella for the information. We left the club and set out to find John. Isabella told me he was currently at Pump CK. It was a trendy sweatbox gym.
We hopped into the van and drove across the island. The country club had a gym, but it didn’t have the same vibe—a bunch of machines, treadmills, stationary bikes, and some free weights. It hardly saw any use.
Pump CK smelled like sweat and determination. Grunts and groans filled the air. This was a no-frills kind of place. Theexact opposite of the country club. Heavy weights and state-of-the-art machines. Here, you could find everything from serious bodybuilders to weekend warriors to out-of-shape CEOs trying to get their mojo back. John Wescott was the latter.
I flashed my badge at the desk clerk. “I’m looking for John Westcott.”
The cute, fit blonde smiled. “Yeah, he’s here.” She scanned the gym, looking for him. She pointed, “There. On the bench press.”
“Thank you,” I said with a smile.
She smiled back.
