by Jack Huber
Jimmy and I both laughed. I replied, “That’s sorta the point of camping, don’t you think?”
He managed a chuckle and said, “I don’t camp when I work.”
Jimmy replied, “You should try it! Every hour is happy hour!”
That got Jimenez laughing and he seemed more at ease. “I had to ask a couple of people how to find you with those coordinates. I didn’t want to call you, if you know what I mean.”
“We do,” Jimmy replied. “Let’s just say you passed the test.”
“Great. I love tests,” the kid replied sarcastically.
I decided it was time to talk business. “Did they bring you up to speed on what we’re doing? What’s your first name, anyway?”
“Enrique … Ricky. We’re investigating the hit-and-run accident in which a cab driver and the country singing duo, Bobbie and June, were injured. The instigator has yet to be found.”
“Correct. Bobbie and June are guests of friends of a friend and I think we’ll take them downtown to interview them after we dig into Bobbie’s ex-girlfriend, Danielle Whitman.”
“Why her?”
“She’s crazy, so they say.”
Chapter 22
“Miss Whitman?” Jimenez asked through an old rickety screen door when she opened her nicer dark blue wood door. Whitman’s home was a very small tan box of a house, maybe 600 square feet or so, in the not-so-nice Nashville suburb of Millersville. The neighborhood was well past its heyday and her lawn was much like the others nearby — green but overgrown. Jimmy and I had agreed to let the young officer take the lead and, to his credit, he didn’t hesitate to take the reins. “Are you Miss Danielle Whitman?”
The lady who answered the door was a larger, Caucasian, middle-aged woman with a pretty face and dirty blond hair. She exhaled some cigarette smoke and said, “Depends. Is Whitman in trouble?”
“No, ma’am, at least we are trying to find out.”
“What can I do for you, Officer …” she opened the screen door enough to read the officer’s name tag. “… Jimenez.” The screen door slapped shut again.
“This is Pat Ruger and Jimmy Stewart, working as consultants for the Nashville PD. We understand you were involved with Bobbie Baylor at one time. Is that correct?”
“Yes. So? It’s been months since that was over.”
The woman was gruff but Jimenez didn’t back off. “You heard that she was involved in an automobile accident?”
“Yeah, I heard about that. She okay?”
“I’m not sure how her recovery is coming, but fortunately she made it through without severe injuries.” He paused and asked, “Ma’am, can you come with us downtown? We have some questions for you.”
“No, I can’t right now. I’m expecting a very important package any time now.” She must have sensed it was serious because her next question was, “Am I under arrest?”
“No, ma’am. We just need to ask you some questions, that’s all at this point.”
I cut in. “Miss Whitman, I’m Pat Ruger. You can call me ‘Pat.’ Why would you think you were under arrest?”
“I watch those shows. They always blame the spouse, or partner or ex-partner for these things.”
“Well,” I said. “There’s a good reason for that. They are often the culprits. But, in this case, we’re just trying to rule you out as a suspect. Would that be okay?”
“Sure, but you can ask me questions right here. Come in.”
She swung open the screen door and held it out for us to walk by her. The pungent odor of a chain smoker was all around her and I wasn’t able to hold my breath in time. Jimmy coughed as he went by and I felt sorry for how her tobacco aroma must have affected his condition.
Inside was more congenial than expected. From the outside I had thought I would have to watch my step in the house, like I was visiting a hoarder or perhaps a squatter. Instead, the floor and furniture were only slightly dated and very clean. The brown and pink flowery prints on the sofa and loveseat were far from my style but I did like the large, comfy-looking beige leather recliner in the corner of the living room. The walnut coffee table in front of the sofa was oversized, nicked up and well-used. The gray walls needed some paint but weren’t peeling badly and the carpet was worn but without holes.
The three visitors sat on the sofa and loveseat, leaving plenty of room on the end of the sofa for Whitman.
“Coffee? Water?” she asked.
We all declined and the large woman sat in the space left for her. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked as she pulled out a cigarette and lighter.
“Please, no,” I answered. “Mr. Stewart here has had a recent lung issue and is recovering. Nothing contagious, but smoke would definitely not be good for him.”
She frowned and put her paraphernalia down on the coffee table. “So? What can I tell you?”
“Well, first,” Jimenez began. “Let me thank you for your cooperation. What do you know about the accident?”
“Well, when I heard about it and when it happened, I remember thinking that I had been bowling around that time.”
Jimmy asked, “Who told you about it?”
“Maureen, a mutual friend — she called me about it. She knew us when Bobbie and I were together and I’ve stayed pretty good friends with her.”
He followed up, “How soon after the accident was her call?”
“It was the next morning, I think. The 7th, I think.”
“The 7th would have been the next day,” he confirmed. “And you had been bowling that night?”
“Yes, my team won three out of four games. I got home about 11.”
“So, obviously, your bowling buddies can vouch for you.”
“Of course. Let me help you get to it. My split-up with Bobbie was amicable. We’ve seen each other a few times, never been confrontational, or anything. Just friendly chats. In fact, check her Facebook and Instagram pages. She’s never deleted any pictures of me or us. If we had a falling out, she would’ve.”
“So,” I interrupted. “I heard that you were kinda crazy. It sounded like you were one of those crazy jealous women.”
“Me? A crazy bitch?” She laughed. “I was happy for Bobbie when she started a new relationship. She really needed to be in one more than I did. And June is way better for her career than I would ever be. I can’t even sing karaoke.”
A moment went by and Jimenez asked, “When we check your finances, we’re not going to find anything odd, right? No payments to anyone that don’t make sense?”
“That’s a laugh,” she replied with an incredulous tone. “If I had that kind of money, you think I’d be living here? Besides, if anyone was jealous, it was June.”
“What do you mean?” Jimmy asked.
“Wait …” She took her phone out and flipped through some pages. When she found what she was looking for, she handed Jimmy the phone and said, “Look at what she’s been sending me, up until the accident. Then she stopped.”
Jimmy looked at a few of the messages, then handed me the phone and I read a few of them.
One read, “stay away from her I mean it,” and another, “ur not our friend.” There were more like that, but, interestingly, they were one-way conversation — Whitman wasn’t initiating the communications nor was she replying to any of June’s messages.
“See?” Whitman said with some exasperation. “I didn’t do anything to provoke her except just be Bobbie’s friend. Bobbie deserves better, but it’s her life, and with June she has a real shot to make it big in the music business.”
“I see what you mean.” I handed the rookie the phone so he could read the messages as well.
Jimenez read through some of it and handed the phone back to her, saying, “So you don’t mind if we access all your phone records and financials?”
“If it will help get to the bottom of all this, be my guest.”
Jimenez pulled out his own smartphone and searched through it for a couple of minutes, then turned it around to show Whitman. “Miss
Whitman, this document says that the Nashville PD has your permission to search phone records, financial records, bank statements, your house and property for the next 60 days to facilitate finding evidence in Bobbie and June’s accident. Anything we find can only be used in that case. Read this and, if you agree, sign in the box at the bottom of the document with your finger.”
She took the phone and began reading.
“That’s new,” I said in a low voice. “When did they start doing this?”
“I’ll explain later,” Jimenez replied.
Whitman signed the phone document and handed the smartphone back to the young cop. “Here, I hope this helps clear me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Thanks, Miss Whitman,” I said. “If we need to ask you more questions, we’ll probably need to do it at the station. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but I may have to make arrangements. I have a business I’m trying to start up and it’s been quite hectic here. But, anything I can do.”
“What type of business, if I may ask?”
“Wallpaper. It’s making a comeback and I’m trying to get all my samples in.”
“Ah. Thanks for your time.”
We all stood up and shook her hand. Jimenez led the way out the door, Whitman closing it behind us.
Once in the car, I asked Jimenez again about the document.
“It’s something I came up with a few months ago. We didn’t really need her permission to make all those searches I mentioned since we had probable cause. However, refusal to sign it can raise red flags, so I use it to gauge their cooperation level — see if there’s any hesitation.”
“Very scientific, psychologically-speaking,” Jimmy said. “I’m impressed.”
“I was told you guys were ex-cops. Is that true?”
“You might say that,” I replied. “I was a senior detective in both Denver and Colorado Springs PD and retired sometime after my wife passed away. Jimmy, here, was my partner for several of those years.”
“I couldn’t get out of it, y’know?” Jimmy quipped.
“Wow. If I had known that …”
“What?” I interrupted. “You would have done something differently? I thought you did very well. Are you looking to be a detective?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“You should. You’ve got what it takes.” I changed the subject. “Do you think you can get your forensic office to start the analysis on her financials while we head in?”
“And have them do the girls, Bobbie and June, too,” Jimmy added. “Might as well see what we’re dealing with.
“Good idea,” the kid replied. He got on the mic and made a request to speak to the forensic department then asked them to make the searches.
“Now let’s check her bowling alibi,” I said. “Do you know which alley she would have been bowling in?”
“There’s only one in this neighborhood,” he answered. “Pinion Lanes on Third Street.”
Chapter 23
“I’ll be damned,” I said, looking over what Forensics had emailed over. It had been a long day and I was getting tired of the investigation. Just age, I told myself. “Look at this,” I told Jimmy and Jimenez.
I swung the laptop so they could both see it without looking over my shoulder. The office they had let us use in the station was not exactly spacious. Three office chairs more than filled the room, so Jimmy and Jimenez had mostly been standing while looking through paper reports and the photos taken at the scene of the accident.
“Looks like someone’s being paid off, alright,” Jimenez said. “This isn’t Miss Whitman’s bank account, is it?”
“Nope,” I replied. “June Thompson. I looked through all the bank records for Whitman and there was nothing but bills and groceries, not even a restaurant tab. Pretty much the same for Bobbie Baylor, except there were lots of restaurants listed. But, June …”
Jimmy finished my statement. “… Had a $1,500 payment to someone every six or seven days for 10 weeks. Does it show who the money went to?”
“The same guy, Martin Layton. That’s 15 grand.”
“A hit?” Jimenez asked. “But June was in the car.”
“I know,” I replied. “But we don’t know yet what we don’t know.”
“What?”
“Easy, Ricky,” Jimmy answered. “It doesn’t make sense yet because we still don’t have all the facts. We need to find this Layton guy and find out what the payments were for. For all we know, he was giving piano lessons.”
I picked up the desk phone’s handset and dialed 203, Ronin’s extension. When he answered, I said, “Hey, Whitman’s alibi checked out — she was bowling — but we found something interesting. Does the name ‘Martin Layton’ mean anything to you? Has he shown up anywhere in your investigations?”
“No, never heard that name,” he replied. “But, just a sec, let me see if I can pull him up.” A minute or two went by and Ronin uttered, “Ooh.”
I found the speaker button and pressed it. “What did you find?”
“He has a rap sheet with several indictments and convictions, mostly burglaries, a few cons, a DUI, nothing violent.”
“Detective, this is Jimmy. Does he own any businesses? Anything that would lead him to receiving money from anyone?”
“No, but … well, he has conned seniors out of cash before. He could have faked a business.”
“So,” Jimmy started to say, then paused.
“What is it?” I asked.
“So,” he repeated. “He either was paid for a hit or he is conning June out of some real money. We need to find out which. Maybe …”
Jimenez interrupted, “His photo, maybe the cab driver would recognize him.”
“Good call, kid,” Jimmy said. “Detective, can you send us over Layton’s picture?”
“Sure thing, and his rap sheet, too. Pat, I’ll send it to your email.”
“Do we have the name and address of the cab driver here somewhere?”
“It should be in the accident report.” I could hear Ronin shuffling paperwork while I did the same, then he added, “Yeah, it’s there. Cham Bitar, 38, on a Saudi work visa.”
“Found it. Thanks, Mike,” I said and set the receiver back in its cradle. “I hope Layton’s still in town. His most recent address is in Nashville.”
Jimmy nodded. “I don’t think 15K is enough to leave town with, especially if he thinks no one knows he was involved.”
“True.” To Jimenez, he asked, “Learning anything?”
“Yeah, I’d say I am. The main thing is I’m learning to like this type of work.”
“Good man,” I said. “We’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. What now?”
“The email just came in. Here’s his photo … wait, I’ve seen this guy.”
Jimmy asked, “Where?”
“Karaoke,” I answered. “He sings Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin and Johnny Cash. He was at Mike’s Tavern several nights ago. I stayed to hear Bonnie sing karaoke and he was there.”
“Well, maybe we have somewhere to find him if he’s not home.”
I printed several copies of Layton’s picture as the other two gathered all our reports, photos and other printouts for the road. I asked Jimenez to put together a couple of lineup pages for our questioning the cabbie and the ex-girlfriend. We left the PD building and Jimenez led us to his new squad car.
“Nice!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Kissing up to the boss?”
He laughed and said, “Hey, somebody’s gotta drive this thing.”
We climbed in, Jimmy riding shotgun with me in the back seat. Jimenez punched the St. Joseph West Medical Center into his fancy built-in laptop and the Aussie navigation voice began to guide him.
“I hope he don’t take us to Outback,” Jimmy said in an Australian accent, and we all laughed.
“Why not?” Jimenez added. “I’m hungry.”
“Later,” I replied. “Business first.”
We arr
ived at the hospital and Jimenez pulled into the parking spot reserved for police. We entered near the ER, asked about Mr. Bitar and were directed to the fourth floor. Once there, the nurse’s station gave us Bitar’s room number, only a few rooms away. He was in a solo room.
“Excuse me,” Jimenez said, and the Saudi patient looked up and seemed worried when he saw us. “Are you Cham Bitar?”
“Y- yes,” Bitar answered nervously. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Officer Jimenez and this is Pat Ruger and Jimmy Stewart. They’re working with the police on the accident you were in.”
“Jimmy Stewart? The actor? He don’t look like Jimmy Stewart.”
I laughed. It still amused me to have someone confuse Jimmy with the Hollywood legend, long passed away. “No, sir. Not that Jimmy Stewart.” I held up the two lineup photo pages. “Do you recognize any of these men as the driver who hit your taxi?”
Bitar seemed to concentrate on the photos one at a time and then pointed at the upper left picture in my left hand, Layton.
“That’s the guy! You get him!”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy responded. “That’s the plan.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bitar,” Jimenez said. “I hope you are feeling better.”
“We’ll be back if we have any other questions,” I added as we walked out of his room.
We left the hospital knowing that at least one question was answered. For whatever reason Layton was the man who crashed into the cab.
We got to the address on Temple Way that was listed in Layton’s dossier and parked on the street. The tow in front had their guns ready as they exited the squad car and I waited for Jimmy to open my door from the outside as I readied my Ruger. As I climbed out a bullet whizzed by my face and we dropped to the ground.
“It came from the house!” Jimenez yelled while Jimmy and I scrambled to get to the driver’s side of the car for shielding.
“I don’t think Layton wants to talk with us,” Jimmy said as more bullets hit the car.
Jimenez reached in for his radio mic and called in for backup, then dropped back next to me. “We should wait for backup.”
