Ted and I conferred in the men’s room; after all, it was our only safe cone of silence now.
I was livid. “Damn it, Ted. What the fuck is he thinking? I won’t let that bitch anywhere near us. She’s twisted my words around one too many times. She can shadow Biff and Louie and maybe ride along with the patrol guys. They’ll appreciate looking at her tits at least, but I won’t tell her shit.”
Ted chimed in. “I just can’t believe it either. We cannot give her access to any key witnesses, and if we get a break, we need to run the lead out before she knows about it. Are we agreed?”
“No question, amigo.”
Storm had already commandeered one of our extra chairs and had pulled it up next to my desk by the time Ted and I returned. I took her gently by the arm and escorted her away. Sliding the chair along the floor, I moved her and the chair across the room to one of our vacant desks.
“Rachael, I’m sure you need a lot of room, as I do, so you can set up your stuff here. This desk has its own phone, and you can have your own work area here, just like we do.”
She thanked me and dumped all her shit loudly on the desktop. She shot me a quick look; her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. I smiled inside.
Ted and I were focused on finding and interviewing Attorney Richardson. We would apparently have to do some extra finagling to get it done. We conveniently “assigned” Rachael Storm to tag along with Biff and Louie that afternoon. Louie had previously managed to interview Raul Diaz’s parents in El Salvador via Skype. Speaking only Spanish, the two were quite distraught to learn of their son’s death. They went into some detail with Louie about their disappointment when they initially realized that their son was a homosexual. Homosexuality was not embraced in El Salvador, as most there viewed it as depravity and a grievous sin in that predominantly Catholic country. Raul Diaz had left El Salvador primarily due to tension with some of the locals in the village where he lived. Some villagers had found out that he had propositioned several men one evening in the town square. One of these hombres had left Diaz beaten and lying unconscious in the street of his own ejido (village). Señor and Señora Diaz tearfully admitted that they thought their son had somehow brought on his own death due to his sexual preferences. The parents provided Louie with several leads to identify a few close friends of Raul, as well as a cousin who lived in Santa Barbara City. Two of these acquaintances worked in the cauliflower fields just outside of town, harvesting for Biggie Farms. With Rachael Storm in tow, Biff and Louie headed off to find these caballeros in some farmer’s field. Biff sent me a warm and fuzzy text on their way out: “Fuck you, Rhino. I WILL get you.”
Ted called Mr. Richardson’s office one more time. He asked to speak to the attorney himself and identified himself to the secretary. After being placed on hold, like the four times before, Ted was told that Attorney Richardson was currently in court. He was expected to be tied up there all day. This time, my astute partner asked what courthouse he was in, and what case he was working on by name. There was a pause, and the Hold button was pushed once again. Four minutes later, the woman came back on the line and said that she was not at liberty to disclose that information and that she didn’t know what court location or what case he was working on. Say what?
Ted thanked her and hung up the phone. We immediately drove to the Richardson law office in Camarillo, two hours away. We ran a check on the license plate of a newer black Lincoln Town Car sitting right outside: registered owner—Robert T. Richardson. The dirtbag had been there all along.
Meanwhile, ten miles outside of Santa Barbara, Biff, Louie, and the lovely Rachael Storm had circled an agricultural field twice, trying to figure out if they had the right harvesting crew. The tractors had the Biggie Farms logos on the sides, so my associates made the determination that they had the right crew, where their two witnesses could allegedly be found. About twenty workers wearing straw, broad-brimmed hats, with handkerchiefs covering their sweaty faces, were bent over, hard at work picking cauliflower and placing the trimmed heads in boxes. This work was backbreaking, and we all knew that folks from El Salvador, Mexico, and other Central American countries were the mainstays of these produce businesses. The pay was not great, but they earned much more than they would doing similar work in their home countries. They sent much of the money they earned back to relatives in their home countries via Western Union.
As Biff brought the tan Taurus to a stop, an SBSO black-and-white sheriff unit came roaring up behind them. After coming to an abrupt stop, the deputy activated the overhead lights on the sheriff car. Louie Ocampo looked back at the deputy and then yelled to Biff, “Is he freakin’ out of his mind?”
Biff sheepishly looked toward his partner and said, “I called him. Uh, I thought it would help to have a uniform here.”
Almost concurrently, the heads of about twenty workers, who were stooped over in the field about fifty yards away, snapped skyward. And almost as quickly, all twenty bodies began scampering away. Cries of “La migra! La migra!” rang out as the braceros all beat feet away through the rows of crops. Louie’s head turned, ever so slowly, and he stared long and hard at Corbet. Yeah, he gave him the look.
“Dumbass!” was all Louie could say. Biff fired the Taurus up to head the rabbits off as they hopped away in the field. The deputy, not knowing any better, turned his siren on and followed. The three-ring circus was now rolling. Rachael Storm just sat in the backseat, stifling a laugh.
Right around 3:30 p.m. that afternoon, I saw a tall, portly but well-dressed figure exit the law office and lumber toward the black Lincoln parked outside the law office. Standing about six feet tall and weighing around three hundred pounds, Robert Richardson looked like a large rolling sack of potatoes in an Armani suit. Expensive duds; fat-ass occupant. His black receding hair was combed over in a Donald Trump kind of bouffant. He reeled toward us as we drove up to the car before he was able to stuff himself into the driver’s seat.
I exited and said, “Excuse me, are you Mr. Richardson the attorney?”
He paused to look me up and down. “Why, yes. And who are you?”
“I’m Detective Rhinehardt. This is Detective Banner. We’re with the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office, and we’ve been trying to speak to you for a few days about the murder of Dr. Marvin Redbone.”
“Oh, yes, my staff told me. But you must understand, I am late for a court hearing, and I need to reschedule this interview for another time. So excuse me.”
We anticipated this. Ted spoke up. “Sir, this is very important, and I am sure you could continue your matter to facilitate our interview. We both know most of the magistrates in the county and all of the court clerks. Please let us know where your hearing is, and we can contact the court to see if they can hear your matter at a later time.”
Robert Richardson blared at us, “My job as an officer of the court is of no concern to you, Detective. And I must attend to this matter personally for my client.”
Richardson was now perspiring like it was hundred and ten degrees outside, even though it was a cool seventy. I looked at Ted. Turning to the attorney, I threw my trump card down.
“No problem, Mr. Richardson. We understand. We’ll just follow you to the courthouse. And when you’re finished, we can take care of our interview.”
He paused and then replied, “On second thought, Officers, let me make a call and see what I can do for you. Just a moment.”
Richardson shuffled into the Town Car, shut the door, and picked up the handset to the cell phone mounted on the dashboard. We could see his lips moving as he appeared to talk to someone on the other end. We wondered if it was all an act. After about three minutes, he hung up the handset. He exited the car and told us he had been successful in delaying the court hearing. He invited us to accompany him back into his office. As we walked past the two secretaries sitting inside, the ladies looked back and forth at each other in what appeared to be disbelief.
Cops 1, lawyer 0.
Chapter Eight
What a Tangled Web We Weave
The personal office of Robert T. Richardson was, to put it mildly, baroque. It measured more than four hundred square feet overall. I had lived in apartments this size in my bachelor days. The well-fed attorney shuffled in behind a ten-foot-long, L-shaped cherrywood desk, which had behind it a credenza and shelving as its dramatic backdrop. He sat down in a high-backed chair resting behind the desk. Also crafted of beautiful cherrywood, the chair had ornate carvings along the armrests and the seat back. It looked like a damn throne, for Christ’s sake! I did like the matching wet bar nestled behind us in one corner of the room, though. Nice touch. I wondered what he did on the crushed red velvet couch sitting against the back wall. To his right, the wall boasted shelves of the same high-quality wood and design, each filled with law books. Several large-framed diplomas, along with news and magazine articles about his cases, were hung prominently around the rest of the expansive room. One such newspaper heading read:
Camarillo Attorney Wins Millions from Telford
In deep, bellowing, almost-condescending tones, Richardson spoke. “Now, Detectives, you have my undivided attention.”
The portly lawyer swiveled his throne in our direction as he addressed us. His voice resounded throughout the room, and Ted and I wondered if he thought we were hard of hearing. We soon realized that this loud, bass-heavy speech pattern was just part of Richardson’s own unique communication style. He spoke in perfect Elizabethan king’s English. Perhaps he thought it made him sound important. He merely came across like an overbearing, narcissistic gasbag to the two of us.
We had decided beforehand that Ted would handle this interview. After all, Banner looked more polished than I did, and I acknowledged that an attorney would respond better to someone looking like a GQ model than a balding guy in a Men’s Wearhouse suit. As Banner prepared to ask questions, he placed his small digital tape recorder on the desk in front of him.
Richardson blared out, “You do not have my permission to record this. If you insist on doing so, I must refrain from making any statements.”
Ted responded, “If that’s your wish, Mr. Richardson, we’ll honor it.” He turned off the small recorder and placed it back in his briefcase. What Richardson didn’t realize was that my recorder, attached to an amplifying microphone, would pick up every word spoken while hidden in my nearby satchel. We cops don’t have to tell witnesses we are recording them while investigating criminal offenses. He might be an attorney, but he’s still a dumbass.
Ted continued, “Mr. Richardson, as you probably know, Dr. Marvin Redbone and a man visiting with him were murdered about three weeks ago at Dr. Redbone’s town house in Solvang. We’re certain you’ve heard about it. You read the Santa Barbara papers and watch the television news, don’t you?”
Booming back, he responded, “Of course I do. I was shocked to hear that someone would murder a man of his character. Have you caught the perpetrator, Detectives?”
Ted responded, “No, Counselor, we haven’t as of yet. This brings us to our meeting with you. Dr. Redbone was involved in a recent civil case of yours against Telford Corporation. We have information that he was a witness in your case for the plaintiff, having treated your client, Stanley Blivins. You had an ongoing business relationship with Dr. Redbone, didn’t you? In fact, he testified as your expert witness in the Blivins case and was paid for his testimony, was he not?”
Looking thoughtful, the attorney replied, “Why, yes, our relationship was perfectly legitimate, Detective. He had treated poor Mr. Blivins for almost two years. Stanley lost all use of his left arm after the accident. He will never work again, and the injury will affect him for the rest of his life. The doctor’s testimony proved to the jury that Stanley will endure a lifetime of pain. The good doctor had firsthand knowledge of the suffering Mr. Blivins endures as a result of the negligence on the part of Telford, that mega conglomerate, which resulted in his catastrophic injury. I am sure that Stanley Blivins received the utmost quality of care under Dr. Redbone.”
My partner finally got down to it. “Mr. Richardson, can you tell us what the civil judgment against Telford Corporation amounted to, and what, if any, compensation was provided to Dr. Redbone by you for his testimony in the case?”
This solicited an immediate response. “Absolutely not, Detective! That information bears no connection to your murder investigation in my opinion. I will tell you the settlement for Mr. Blivins was in the eight-figure range and that workers’ compensation paid for only half of Stanley’s necessary medical treatment. That information was reported in the newspaper accounts. The actual settlement number is confidential, as agreed to by both parties. That was sanctioned by a judicial ruling at the completion of the trial. I paid Dr. Redbone only the accepted fee for expert testimony in such cases—no more and no less. Both Stanley Blivins and Dr. Redbone deserved everything they received. Why on earth would you ask me that question?”
Ted and I didn’t want this blowhard to know where our investigation was headed, so Ted lightened up a bit. “Sorry to upset you, sir. But because Dr. Redbone was murdered not long after his testimony for you in the civil case, we are exploring all avenues to determine the motive. If he had received a large sum of money, perhaps that may have provided a motive for someone to kill him.”
Then Richardson got our attention with his next statement. “I can assure you that Marvin Redbone got no more than he deserved for compensation in that case. It was not excessive. I would think you would be checking on his lifestyle, Detectives. That is where I would be looking if I were the sheriff’s office.”
Ted played dumb. “Lifestyle? Why do you say that?”
“It was no secret that Marvin was, well, a bit light in the loafers, as they say. He liked young men. I can’t believe you have not discovered that if you are truly investigating this case. I understand that the other man was sleeping with the doctor in his bed when they were both murdered.”
A seasoned detective has a red light hardwired into his brain and attached directly to the hair on the back of his neck. When this blowhard said he “understood” that the murdered pair was sleeping together at the time of the attacks, every bell and whistle in our psyches went off. The sheriff’s office had gone to great lengths to keep that detail out of all media accounts. The newsies never reported on the homosexual angle, and as far as anyone knew, Raul Diaz was a houseguest, sleeping in a spare bedroom.
My partner never flinched, never blinked, as he shot back, “Why, Mr. Richardson, who might have told you that they were sleeping together when they were murdered? No one else knows that.”
Looking directly at Ted, after a pause, Richardson said, “I am paid to make deductions, Officer, just as you are. I made that logical assumption, because my gay friend had a male companion with him at that early hour. I deduced they would have been sleeping together in his bed. It’s just that simple.”
Nice recovery, you schmuck. Did we believe him? Judging by the sudden spurt of sweat coming from his chubby, red face, the jury was definitely out.
We left Richardson’s office and immediately drove back to the Santa Barbara Hilton. We had several more questions for our new buddy, dope-smoking millionaire Stanley Blivins. We knocked on his door, and a skinny black maid opened it. “Room unoccupied” was all she said before shutting the door rudely in our faces. The front desk verified that Stanley Blivins had checked out two days before with no forwarding address. He must have left in a rush right after our little chat. We immediately called up the Richardson law firm and were connected right away with the attorney this time.
“My word, I have no idea where Mr. Blivins might have gone. I haven’t spoken with him in several weeks. Our case is finished, and I guess he is moving on with his life. I wish him well.”
Meanwhile, Corbet and Ocampo had rectified their prior screw-up and had managed to track down the remaining witnesses connected with Raul Diaz. Rachael Storm continued to tag along, not attempting to hide her boredo
m. They found three people who had recently spoken to the dead Hispanic: his cousin, Jose Diaz Carillo, and two of his other friends, all of the gay persuasion. All three independently disclosed that mere days before his death, Raul had confided in each of them that he was going to stop seeing Marvin Redbone. He had learned that his steady boyfriend’s aged mother was not long for this world. John Lemmon had told Raul that his mom was worth over a million dollars and that he was her sole heir. He had eagerly proposed marriage to Raul, telling him he wished to share the good fortune with him—forever.
My protégés then went back in on Mr. Lemmon. The poor guy sobbed throughout the whole conversation. His mother had died the previous week, and now poor Johnny was alone. He didn’t have his mommy or even a boyfriend now. He went on and on about how he would have forgiven Raul for his indiscretions had he only been given the chance. Apparently, impetuous Raul wanted Marvin’s “bone” just one more time before splitting their sheets to marry his knight in shining armor. Sex robbed him of his money and his life.
It was crystal clear to us now. The Phantom came to visit and kill Marvin Redbone alone. Diaz was merely collateral damage.
Chapter Nine
Demons
After waking up screaming on yet another early morning, I lumbered out, zombie-like, to the kitchen for a glass of water. I thought about having a beer. I stood at the sink, wiping the sweat off my face and neck, when I had a sleepy visitor. Jimmy, my teenage son, came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, startling me. I turned quickly, half expecting Julie to be standing there.
“Dad, I heard you screamin’ in bed a while ago. What’s goin’ on with you lately, anyway?”
I gave my standard reply. “It’s nothing, bud. Go back to bed.”
My kid wasn’t stupid, and he’s got my temperament, so he shot back, “Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“Jim, I’ll be fine. Just go back to bed.”
“Dad, you know I inherited a bullshit filter from you, don’t you?”
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 6
