by Diane Kelly
The first time I requested a ride to Tootsie’s, the request was accepted by a driver named Ronnie K with a bald head and broad smile. Darn. I hated to disappoint Ronnie K, but he wasn’t the guy I was looking for. I jabbed the button to cancel the ride and waited ten minutes before trying again. I got lucky this time. Luis B picked up the request. If I survived the ride, I’d treat myself, Buck, and Colette to drinks at Tootsie’s.
A couple of minutes later, when headlights approached the florist and seemed to be slowing, I glanced down at my phone’s screen. The Hitch-a-Ride app indicated that Luis Bautista was only a hundred feet away and closing in. As he pulled to the curb in the Accord we’d spotted in the apartment’s parking lot, the app issued a cheery beep-beep and flashed a message. Your ride has arrived!
I stepped to the curb and bent over to look in the front passenger window. The driver rolled the window down. Sure enough, the guy at the wheel wore his longish black hair pulled back in a man bun. While he resembled the person in the Instagram photos, in the parking lot’s dim light and without a photo pulled up to compare I couldn’t be sure he was the same guy.
“Are you Luis?” I asked.
He nodded, and I climbed into the backseat, scooting into the middle where I could keep an eye on him in the rearview mirror. “Hi,” I said with forced friendliness. “I’m Whitney.”
He replied with a curt “Hi,” and pulled away from the curb, glancing over to consult the map on the screen of his phone, which rested in a mount affixed to the dashboard.
As he pulled out of the lot, I attempted small talk. “Sure was nice weather today. I’m glad it warmed up a bit.”
He said nothing in reply. Then again, I supposed I hadn’t actually asked him a question.
I posed a simple one to start. “How’s your day going?”
“Okay.”
Hmm. Not one for words, is he? “These ride services are great,” I said. “I hate waiting for the bus, especially in the evenings when they don’t run very often.”
He responded only with a nod. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make it easy for me to glean anything from him. But I was nothing if not persistent.
“How long have you been driving for Hitch-a-Ride?” I asked.
“A little while.” He took the turn as directed by the voice coming from the GPS.
A little while? That was a vague, imprecise answer. But maybe it only seemed that way to me because my job required precise measurements. I constantly used my measuring tape and rulers—measure twice, cut once.
“Do you like driving people around?” I asked.
“It’s all right.”
Ugh. What could I do to get this guy to open up, show me a glimpse of personality so I could try to determine whether or not he was Nelda Dolan’s killer? Then again, what, exactly, had I expected? It was doubtful the guy would come out with a complete confession during the drive. But I’d hoped to hear or see something that would provide some evidence to either incriminate or exonerate him. I glanced around the car, looking for anything that he could have pulled out from under Nelda’s body as she lay on the landing. I saw nothing.
What can I ask him next? Having heard of drivers going on strike, I knew their pay and working conditions weren’t optimal. While some drove full-time, others held regular full-time jobs in addition to driving for the ride services. “Do you work a day job, too?”
His eyes cut to the rearview mirror, meeting mine. Lines of suspicion formed around them. He hesitated a moment before replying, “No.”
The guy appeared to be in his early twenties, not much older than Dakota. My gaze traveled the front windshield before I discreetly cast a glance behind me to see if the back window bore a student parking decal. Sure enough, in the lower back corner was a sticker bearing the name of Aquinas College, a small Catholic institution in the southwest part of the city. “I noticed your parking decal. What are you studying at Aquinas?”
He shifted in his seat, seeming uncomfortable with my personal question. “Philosophy.”
“Ah. I think therefore I am.” It was the only philosophy I knew. Well, other than the metaphysical musings of Charlie Brown as professed in the Christmas special and the Peanuts comic strips.
Again, the driver failed to respond verbally, though I thought I discerned a slight eye roll at my quote. He probably heard it from everyone who learned he studied philosophy. It was one of the most well-known philosophical statements, after all. A moment later, though, his attitude seemed to change. He still seemed suspicious, but he was no longer so quiet. Maybe his guard was up due to the fact that Detective Flynn had questioned him recently. His narrowed gaze locked on me in the rearview mirror. “The app indicated you canceled a ride request a few minutes before I accepted.”
Shouldn’t his eyes be on the road, not me? “That was an accident,” I said. “I’m new to the system. Just signed up this evening. Still learning how to work it.”
He glanced at the road before turning his laser-like stare on me again. “Sometimes people cancel rides if they’re trying to get a specific driver.”
“As long as I get where I’m going,” I said with a casual lift of my shoulders, “I don’t care who drives me there.”
Aside from trying to figure out if this guy was a killer, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would necessarily choose to ride with him. It certainly wasn’t because his car smelled nice. The vehicle had a distinct scent of drive-through burritos. And I couldn’t claim it was his hospitality. He hadn’t offered me water, gum, or a phone charger.
Luckily, he seemed convinced by my words, and his face relaxed. A minute later, as the driver headed up the entrance ramp to the 440 loop, my phone chimed and lit up with an incoming text from Detective Flynn. It read: What are you doing in that car? He followed his words with an angry-face emoji. Uh-oh. Collin had caught me playing private investigator, going well beyond my role as mole or confidential informant. He clearly didn’t appreciate it, either. But he couldn’t really blame me. I had a personal stake in this case. A financial one, too. A quick resolution was in both his interest and mine.
For the detective to know I was in the car, he must have been following it, too, just like Buck and Colette. I typed a response. Trying to see what I might find out.
As I hit send, another incoming text note sounded, this one from the front seat. One glimpse up front told me it didn’t come from the phone mounted on the dash, however. Rather, it came from a second phone stashed in the cup holder. He’s got a burner. Only people up to no good carried burner phones, right?
The driver turned the phone so he could read the lit screen. From the space between the seats, I could read the screen, too. It displayed a text that read Mayday! Mayday! We’re out of potato chips! The screen indicated the text had been sent by Luis Bautista. But how could the driver receive a text from himself? He can’t be Luis Bautista, can he? Who is he really? Has he killed Luis and assumed his identity? I couldn’t be sure who the guy was, but at least he seemed to be wearing his own face. There was no telltale line of torn skin along his jawline. My imagination is running away with me, isn’t it?
I discreetly snapped a quick pic of the burner phone’s screen and sent it to the detective along with another text. This just came in on the driver’s second phone. After I sent the text, I kept pretending to type, tapping my short thumbnails on the screen, tap-tap-tap, buying myself some time as I waited for a response to come in. None did. Seconds later, however, the car lit up as the flashing lights of a police cruiser illuminated the road behind us and a siren sounded. Woo-woo-woo!
CHAPTER 27
END OF THE ROAD
WHITNEY
The driver’s eyes popped wide as they went to the rearview mirror and met mine. With me blocking his view of the road behind us, he turned the other way to consult the side mirror. “I wasn’t speeding. Why are the cops pulling me over?”
I didn’t reply. The question seemed to be rhetorical, not addressed to me. Besides, he’d been none too r
esponsive to the questions I’d asked him. He could figure this one out on his own. They’re pulling you over because they think you might be a killer. Duh! This thought was followed by another that was much more worrisome. What if he tries to outrun them? I was trapped in this backseat. What if we wrecked, or hit a pylon, or rolled down an embankment? The car could burst into flame! I could be severely injured, or worse!
Fortunately, while I sat in the back seat panicking, the driver slowed and eased over onto the shoulder of the freeway, muttering curses under his breath. Once the car was stopped, he rolled his window down, letting in the brisk early-evening air. I took a deep breath to calm myself, regretting the action when my nose filled with automobile exhaust fumes. I glanced back to see Officer Hogarty at the wheel of the cruiser and the detective sitting in the passenger seat. As I looked back, Buck and Colette drove by on the freeway, both of their heads turned in my direction. My gaze followed Colette’s car now. She signaled and took the next exit.
The sound of the cruiser’s door closing cut through the night from behind us, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. Officer Hogarty strolled up alongside the car and bent down to look inside. Her gaze went from the driver to me, her expression souring. She returned her focus to the driver and held out her hand. “License and registration, please.”
Gripping the wheel so tight he appeared to be strangling it, the driver looked up at her. “Why did you pull me over? I was careful to make sure I wasn’t speeding.”
“We’ll get to that,” she said. “For now, show me your license and registration.”
Exhaling sharply, the driver reached over to open the glove box. Lest he pull out a weapon, I unzipped my purse, shoved my hand inside, and gripped the wrench, ready to whack his wrist with it if he grabbed a gun. Fortunately, all he retrieved from the compartment was a slip of paper. He handed it to Officer Hogarty.
She glanced down at the page. “This car is registered to Luis Bautista.” Her gaze moved to the driver’s face. “That you?”
He paused a long moment before releasing a long breath. “No.”
I had to fight the urge to shout, “A-ha!” Collin’s gut had been right. Something was up here.
“Who are you?” Hogarty asked him.
“Caesar Santos,” the driver said. “Luis is my roommate.”
So the driver was Bautista’s roommate, not his killer. Less dramatic, sure, but I suppose it was a good thing the body count so far remained at one. Their relationship also explained the emergency plea for salty snacks. Must be this guy’s turn to buy.
Hogarty waggled her fingers and Santos reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and produced his license. “Hang tight,” she said. With that, she returned to her cruiser.
Although I had lots of questions for the driver—Why was he driving under his roommate’s name? Why couldn’t he use his own name? Did he really think a man bun was his best look? How did he plan to make a living as a philosophy major? Had he tried salt and vinegar chips? They’re delicious!—I realized it would be best to back off and leave the investigation in the hands of the professionals in the cruiser behind me. Collin and Officer Hogarty were already irritated at me for butting in.
Officer Hogarty returned to the window a moment later with Detective Flynn on her heels. “Step out of the car, please,” she directed Santos.
“Why?” he cried. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
Hogarty skewered him with her squint. “Step. Out. Of. The. Car.”
He exhaled an indignant huff, but complied. She took him by the shoulder and turned him to face the vehicle. He glanced in at me and seared me with his stare, as if he knew I had something to do with his arrest. I did my best to look innocent, opening my eyes wide and batting them as if I were totally bewildered by this unexpected predicament. Who me? A spy? Why, that’s crazy talk!
As Hogarty cuffed Santos, she said, “You’re under arrest for fraud.”
He remained silent as Hogarty read him his rights. Silence was an option. Anything he said would be fair game in court. The usual stuff about lawyers. Blah, blah, blah. Once she’d finished and marched him back to the cruiser, I grabbed my purse and climbed out of the car.
Collin leaned on the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. “You have no business being here. You could’ve botched our investigation.”
“But I ended up giving you a reason to pull Santos over.” Really, without my photo of the text from Bautista, would they have had a reason to pull the guy over and arrest him? No. They would’ve had to keep following him until some other incriminating evidence reared its head. Or at least until he committed a traffic infraction. As careful as he’d been behind the wheel, they might have had to follow him for weeks. “The way I see it, I saved you some time and effort.”
Collin cocked his head and eyed me. “I can’t decide if you’re a thorn in my side, a pain in my neck, or—”
“The wind beneath your wings?”
There was no doubt about it this time. Collin definitely rolled his eyes. “I hope you had a weapon with you. This guy could be a killer.”
“I know that. I’m armed.” I pulled open my purse to show him the wrench.
He peeked inside and shook his head. “You’ve got some screws loose, Whitney. Maybe you should use that tool to tighten them.”
“This is a wrench, detective. A screwdriver is for tightening screws.” I zipped up my purse and gave him my best eye roll in return. “If you’re going to insult me, at least do it right.”
He conceded with raised palms. “Point taken. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Our gazes locked for a moment. I felt my cheeks warm with a blush, and saw his cheeks darken as well.
He scowled. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”
I repeated his palms-up gesture and echoed his phrase. “Point taken. By the way, what did Andy Walsh say when you showed him Lillian’s revised will this afternoon? Was he surprised?”
“Not in the least. His mother had given him a copy shortly after she’d had it signed and notarized. He says he didn’t file it because he didn’t want to hurt his brother’s feelings. He says Wayne isn’t lazy, he’s just misunderstood, that he works hard but hasn’t seemed to have found his niche yet.”
The theory was certainly plausible. After all, Dakota seemed to be in the same situation. He’d had trouble holding other jobs, but he’d worked diligently for us today, done a meticulous job. I hadn’t thought he’d had it in him. I was glad to be proven wrong.
“Andy doesn’t need the money,” the detective added. “He makes a good living from his insurance business, and he doesn’t have a family to take care of. He was more than happy to let his brother have half of the estate. In fact, Andy’s put his half of the inheritance into college funds for his nephews.”
No doubt Wayne would be happy to learn that his brother didn’t expect him to pay his share back. “What happened when you spoke with Dulce and Carl?”
“Dulce admitted that she and Carl have engaged in harmless flirtation for years, but she swears nothing happened until Nelda passed. She said their date last Friday at the steakhouse was their first. Carl said the same thing. He says he wasn’t honest when he ran into you and Roxanne after your poker game because Roxanne is a gossip and he didn’t want everyone in the neighborhood talking about him and Dulce behind his back.”
“Roxanne is definitely a gossip,” I concurred. “But she wouldn’t have had much to gossip about if Carl had waited a respectable time after his wife’s passing to start dating.”
“Carl’s aware of that, too,” Collin said. “But he told me, man to man, that he’d been miserable with his wife for years and that he didn’t want to put off being happy any longer.”
“He admitted he’d been miserable? That seems surprising. He had to know it could make him a suspect in Nelda’s murder.”
“True, but he was probably well aware the other ladies would have told me about him and Neld
a already, how difficult she could be and how unhappy he must have been. He might have thought by putting a happy face on things, he’d look like a liar and only seem more guilty.”
“In some warped kind of way, that actually makes sense.”
“Roxanne was the one who surprised me.”
My nerves tingled. Had I been right about Roxanne all along? Was there something sinister about her? Or was she just a brash blabbermouth? “How, exactly?”
“When I asked her about her relationship with Nelda, she broke down in tears. She said it was all such silly nonsense, that they’d spent years bickering over petty grievances that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. That she wishes she could take back some of the things she’d said.”
“Like what?”
“She once called Nelda an uptight busybody to her face.”
“That’s no worse than what Nelda called her.” In fact, hussy was more insulting. The term insinuated a lack of morals. Roxanne’s reaction surprised me. It seemed like overkill. Then again, maybe it did have something to do with killing. Maybe Roxanne had broken down because she felt guilty for pushing Nelda down the staircase. I posed the theory to the detective.
“I wondered the same thing,” he said. “I even gave her some nudges to see if she might confess. I suggested that Nelda’s constant name-calling and nosiness could lead a family member or friend to lose their cool and give Nelda a push. That if someone had pushed her, it didn’t necessarily mean they were a bad person, that everyone snaps at one point or another.”
“She must not have confessed or you’d have her in custody.”
“She agreed with me, but she didn’t confess. In fact, she said she hoped that, if someone had simply snapped, they would come forward and admit what they’d done.”
Hmm. Does Roxanne suspect someone in the circle?
Now that he’d brought me up to date, he asked, “Do you need a ride?”
“No,” I said. “Buck and Colette are nearby.”
“I thought I’d spotted them following you.” He glanced back at the traffic zipping by on the freeway. Most drivers hadn’t bothered to slow down, though a few cut their speed and gawked as they rolled past. “At least let us get you off this road. There’s a gas station at the next exit. We’ll drop you there.”
