Murder & Billy Bailey

by Jim Riley

  “Nothing personal,” she said after seating him.

  He scowled through gritted teeth.

  “That’s what you think, bitch.”

  Niki walked back to the white Ford Explorer, keeping a watchful eye over her shoulder. She wondered how deep of a hole she had dug herself.

  10

  Central

  “Donna, how are you doing with the open cases?”

  Niki sat her back down, in the townhouse, while addressing her partner.

  “Pretty good, Miss Niki,” Donna Cross replied. “A couple of them need some attention.”

  “Which two?”

  "Mrs. Slocum’s husband is a sneaking scumbag. He’s leaving her almost every night again. She wants us to see where he’s going this time."

  “Keith Stroud wants you to check out a hedge fund manager. He’s got a couple million dollars that just cleared from another investment, and this guy is promising him a nine percent return. He wants us to take a look before handing over two million dollars.”

  “Can’t say that I blame him. What does the hedge fund guy invest in?”

  “Can't say for sure. Mr. Stroud said hedge funds don’t have to tell their clients if they are in stocks, bonds, and options, or blackjack. You just have to trust them.”

  Niki rolled her eyes.

  “With my luck, he would put my two million on blackjack, and bust with twenty-two.”

  “I’ll get as much information about the investment guy as I can. Do you want to tell Mr. Robinson about Mrs. Slocum or do you want me to?”

  Niki thought for a few seconds.

  “If you don’t mind, why don’t you ask Drexel to see what John David "Sleazy" Slocum is doing in his spare time. I have no doubt he is earning his nickname once again. The fund manager is more up your alley.”

  “You’re really getting into this thing with the coach and the cheerleaders, aren’t you?”

  “Despite the evidence, I think Coach Bailey is innocent. Don't ask me why because I don’t know, but somebody set him up well.”

  “Who?” Donna asked.

  “I’ve got three pages of suspects, and not one ounce of proof against any of them. But I will get the answers.”

  “Why? As far as I can tell, we’re not making anything at all on it. It looks like we’re down a whole bunch.”

  Niki shrugged.

  “I have a reason. Not one that you or anyone else will understand, but I can’t let this happen again.”

  “Again? When was the first time?”

  Niki smiled. “That’s a long story.”

  11

  Central

  “This is Earl Washington.” The stockbroker answered.

  “Mr. Washington, I am Donna Cross with Wildcat Investigations. Our client is considering investing a sizable sum with you and asked us to vet your services.”

  “That must be Keith. I don’t blame him for being careful with that size of investment.”

  Donna chuckled.

  “Sure is. He said that you are guaranteeing a nine percent return on his investment per annum. Is that correct?”

  “Not exactly. What I told Keith is that nine percent is the minimum. We’ve made a lot more than that every year for the last five years. Our best year, we were up thirty-one percent.”

  “That’s mighty impressive.”

  “We’re proud of our returns. We put a lot of effort and research into our investments”

  “What type of investments do you manage?”

  Washington hesitated. "You wouldn’t understand what we do. None of our clients know what we do technically. We just make money."

  Donna replied, “I know a little bit about investing. Tell me what you do.”

  “We trade derivatives.”

  “Do you mean options, calls and puts?”

  Washington cleared his throat. “Yes. Most people don’t know what calls and puts are. You are in rare company.”

  “Thank you. I had excellent teachers.”

  Earl chuckled. “You learned about derivatives in school? Well, trust me. They don’t teach you to do what we do.”

  “I didn’t learn about them in school. But that’s beside the point. How is your investment strategy so successful year after year?”

  Donna could hear the pride in Washington’s voice. “We write calls and puts instead of buying them. I wish I had time to explain it to you, but it’s extremely complicated.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it would take months for me to teach you how to write options.”

  “Hmm. The last place I saw it done, it only took about three seconds to originate a call or put, and list it on the electronic exchange. It took a lot longer to study the stock chart, and determine the trading range, and check for the earnings announcements.”

  “My, my.” Donna heard admiration in the stockbroker’s voice. “You really know about writing options. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you. Do you buy covering options for protection above the call and below the put?”

  “No. That would be costly and hamper our ability to give our clients the excellent returns they have gotten in the past.”

  “Do you write more puts than calls? Are you bullish on the market?”

  Washington whistled. “It sounds like you’ve been studying our trading log.”

  “No, Sir. It’s a natural inclination. Aside from 1929, black Monday, and the sub-substandard mortgage debacle in 2008, the market generally trends upward. The pandemic was the latest episode where it took a deep dive. Most people are bulls at heart. They expect the market to rise.”

  “Very perceptive. So you understand what we do, which is a first for me. What questions do you have?”

  “What is your percent of deviation on percent returned?”

  “Dang, you cut to the chase. The deviation is extremely small. We generally make one percent to two percent per month. When those returns are compounded monthly, it adds up by the end of the year.”

  “What about the months that yield a loss?”

  Washington cleared his throat. “Fortunately, we haven’t had but a couple of them. The worst one was about two percent.”

  “That’s amazing. It’s also a lie.” Donna said.

  “Excuse me.” There was indignation in Earl’s voice. “I can assure you that all our returns have been validated.”

  “By whom?”

  “The financial institution that serves as our clearinghouse. They hold all the funds for our company. That protects my clients from embezzlement.”

  “No, it doesn’t. All the institution does is provide a record of your profits and losses as well as any deposits and withdrawals. It may help in the prosecution against you, but it won’t help them recover the money you have lost in the market.”

  “Young lady,” anger filled Washington’s voice. “How dare you make these allegations against me without proof?”

  “I don’t need any proof. I have common sense.”

  “Excuse me,” the broker said.

  “There have been several corrections in the market of ten percent or more in the last few years. If you are writing unprotected puts that are leveraged at ten to one or more, then you have several months of double digit losses. With the margin requirements, you would have to liquidate some of those positions before they recovered.”

  “That’s not true. You don’t know which stocks we used to write the puts. How could you know what kind of returns we had without that knowledge?”

  Donna remained calm. “To get two or three percent returns in a good market, that tells me you’re playing with volatile stocks, not utility stocks. That means you took a bath in those down months.”

  “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, including Keith Stroud, I’ll sue you and your firm for slander.” The broker did his best to intimidate her, but the young detective could hear the fear underlying his words.

  “There is only one way I’m not calling the Louisiana Office of Financial Institutions. That is if
you show me the actual P&L statements from the clearing firm for your account.”

  “I can’t do that. This is a private placement. All hedge funds are private.”

  “Okay, who is the auditor for the funds?”

  “We have been an accountant, a third party who is not affiliated with our firm.”

  Donna laughed. “All that means is he regurgitates whatever numbers you give him to your clients. He does not audit your account.”

  Washington sighed. “What will it take to convince you we are on the up and up?”

  “Give me the login ID and password for your account with the clearing firm. If I can look at the real transactions in your account, every option you bought and sold, then I’ll be satisfied. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you a written apology and recommend you to Mr. Stroud.”

  “I can’t—I can’t give you my ID and password. That would put my firm in an untenable situation,” Washington replied.

  “All right, then I’ll come by there. You log on and hide the ID and password. But I want to see the trade log. I want to see the actual transactions.” Donna was persistent.

  Washington hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Come by after we close. I don’t want my employees or clients know you are questioning the viability of our returns. What about six?”

  “Sounds good,” Donna replied. “You’re right off of Sherwood Forest, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and remember, not a word to anyone or I’ll file a suit tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be discrete. But there is one thing, Mr. Washington.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No tricks. I want to see it all.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Cross. I plan to show you everything I have.”

  12

  Blackwater Road

  Niki learned that Flavia Foster’s father owned a home inspection service on Blackwater Road. With all the growth in the city, his firm was deluged with requests. Most home buyers wanted to know of any leaks in the roof, broken air and heating units, or malfunctioning appliances.

  Flavia had always been the prettiest girl in her class. Or to be honest, she was the prettiest girl in the city, if not the state. She participated in the Miss Teen contest in Louisiana and easily claimed the crown.

  Flavia had no single asset that stood out. They all did. Her thick blonde hair accented her perfectly symmetrical face, and baby soft skin. Her figure seemed to have been poured from a mold.

  Flavia’s full pink lips broke into an infectious smile at the slightest provocation. Her deep blue eyes sparkled like gemstones. The curvaceous body was firm, yet graceful.

  She was the model of beauty and grace in human form. The cheerleader was living a charmed life. Until—

  Donald Foster was rightfully proud of his daughter. She was the oldest of his three children, the other two boys. The youngest was still in junior high, only fourteen years old. The middle child was a sophomore at Central and one of the school’s better athletes.

  Sean was the starting weak-side linebacker, unseating the incumbent senior who held the position before Billy Bailey became the coach.

  Niki figured the overly protective father would object to a one–on–one interview with his daughter. She instead called him first. He was reluctant to talk to the detective, and referred her to the prosecuting attorney. She convinced him some questions would better be answered in private.

  The private investigator found the home inspection shop behind the main residence. The four thousand square-foot brick home with a two-acre fishing pond reflected the new wealth of the Foster family. The shop was equally professional and ornate.

  “Hello, Mr. Foster,” she said when he answered the door.

  She saw a strong man in his late forties sitting behind the desk. He looked nothing like his daughter. His dark black hair accented a pair of silver-gray eyes. His smile was not infectious because he didn’t have one. A perpetual frown stood on his countenance.

  Donald Foster glared at the private investigator as though she represented evil personified. There was no hint of help in his strong expression.

  “What do you want?” He demanded without offering the investigator a seat. “I’m busy. I don’t have all day.”

  “I need your permission to talk privately with your daughter. I’m trying to find out the truth.”

  Niki remained standing.

  “No,” he was blunt. “No sense in it.”

  “Mr. Foster, I don’t think you understand. A man’s life is at stake.”

  He half rose out of the chair. “What about my daughter’s life? What about Flavia after what that scumbag did to her? I would use more appropriate language, but I’m a Christian.”

  “I can’t say that I understand how you feel. I’ve never had a child, much less one in a situation like Flavia is in.”

  He exploded, rising to a fully erect position.

  “Raped. Is that the situation you’re dancing around, Miss Dupre? My daughter was raped by that lunatic of a coach, and now you are trying to get him off the hook.”

  “No, Sir. If Coach Bailey is guilty of the allegations against him, I’ll be the first one to tell the judge. But I don’t believe he is guilty, despite the evidence.”

  Drool formed at the edges of Donald Foster’s mouth. “Then you are accusing my daughter of lying. She has already told the cops what he did to her. And it wasn’t only one time. I hope you get him off. Then he’ll be out here where I can get my hands on him.”

  “Do you realize that I will get to interview Flavia sooner or later? The defense has the right to question the accuser, even if she is a minor.”

  “I’ll have her attorney with her. She won’t have to answer your stupid questions.”

  Niki shook her head.

  “That’s not true. Your daughter is the accuser, not the accused. She has no Fifth Amendment rights to decline to answer our questions.”

  Foster sat back in his chair. “I don’t want her to go through that. It’s not her fault what happened to her. She doesn’t have to say anything else.”

  Niki again shook her head.

  “She has to give us a deposition. During that deposition, we can ask her any question pertinent to her character and her relationships, both with the coach and others.”

  Foster’s eyes grew wide. “You plan to smear her name. That’s it. You’ll make her look like trash and a slut. I know the game. It won’t work.”

  “We don’t want to taint Flavia’s reputation. But something happened or she wouldn’t be making these accusations. We want to find out what happened.”

  “She has already told the cops. Why does she need to repeat this to you? This is a heavy burden on all of us.” Foster put his hands together.

  “Flavia has no choice. Coach Bailey has a right to a vigorous defense. Part of that defense is to hear the accuser’s story directly. But if you wish, we can depose Flavia and have her come down to the courthouse rather than in the comfort of your home.”

  Donald Foster drummed his fingers together. He dropped his forehead until it rested atop his two index fingers.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. You can talk to her. Only you. No lawyers. Not Coach Bailey. No one else. It will be only you and Flavia.”

  Niki paused. “Your daughter is a minor. She has the prerogative of having you or her mother present during questioning.”

  Foster shook his head. “Flavia is embarrassed by this. She doesn’t want to talk about it in front of me. She is afraid of what I might do. It will be better if it’s only the two of you.”

  “When?” Niki asked.

  “Tonight at seven thirty. You can have one hour with her, not a minute more.”

  “I will be as gentle as I can, Mr. Foster.”

  He pointed both index fingers at the private investigator.

  “I would suggest that you do. Otherwise—”

  He dropped his thongs on the index fingers, simulating the firing of a pisto
l.

  13

  Sherwood Forest

  Donna Cross pulled into the parking lot of Washington’s business. The building fit in with all the others on the block. Brick exterior. Tiled roofing. Manicured flowerbeds.

  Only one vehicle was in the lot, a bright red BMW convertible. The luxury automobile looked as if it had just come off the showroom floor. Not a speck of dust. No dents in the bumper. No cracks in the windshield.

  Donna did nnot know whether to go in. She tried the knob. It was unlocked. The young detective opened the door and entered the dark building. Not a single light was on in the reception area.

  “Mr. Washington. It’s Donna Cross,” she yelled.

  No answer from within.

  “Mr. Washington, are you here?” A little louder.

  Still no answer.

  Donna opened the door separating the reception area from the rest of the building. She inched down the hallway past closed offices and turned left. She yelled again, but received no response.

  The hourglass detective edged down the dark hallway, feeling along the wall. She tried each of the four doors in the first stretch. All were locked. When she turned the corner, Donna saw a light shining from the cracks under the door of the far office.

  “Mr. Washington, it’s Donna. I knocked, but nobody answered.”

  She stood in the hallway expecting the office door to open. It remained closed. Trepidation crept through Donna’s body. Something was not right. Washington should be able to hear her from this position.

  She pulled the Dan Wesson thirty-eight revolver from her bag. Donna slung the bag back over her shoulder and kept the gun pointed in front of her at the door. She eased down the hallway, though her instincts told her to back out and call the police.

  But she would feel silly if she alerted the law and Washington was in his office listening to his favorite song or taking a nap. She was now a full-fledged detective, and should be able to take care of herself.