Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1)

by K. C. Reinstadler

  “We marked our tanks with our names each day to reserve them for our dives. I tore off two pieces of the masking tape we used for that and wrote Cheryl on one piece and Troy on the other. I placed each of these labels on the two tanks I had just adjusted. Later, after the crew put the other filled tanks outside, waiting to be loaded on our boat, I labeled two of those regular tanks in a similar manner with our names in tape. I placed a very small black dot in pencil under the name on each one of these safe tanks. I needed to know which one was safe for me to use. The two marked tanks, without the dots, were the special ones.

  “Like I said, I always had to set up Troy’s gear before a dive, since he couldn’t be bothered with it. He had a hard time remembering how to do it right anyway. I would make sure my tank had a dot under the name for our first dive. I would make sure his tank held, you know, the special cocktail.

  “Next morning, Troy was excited to be going back to Anchor Wall, the deep-dive site we had been at the day before. You always do the deepest dive first, Mr. Richardson. Jasper anchored the Panga in fifty feet of water above the site. I remember it was so clear and blue that morning. Jasper did a short briefing, stressing for us to follow him through the coral cuts, and he told us to watch our depth at the exit point around one hundred twenty feet. Troy loved it that he would have bragging rights to have done that one-hundred-twenty-foot dive twice. I quietly told Troy that I would follow Jasper as he led us into the cave first and that Troy should follow me. I told him that I would take care of him, right before we back-rolled with our gear into the calm water.

  “At fifty feet, we spotted the ten-foot-high ship’s anchor, stuck vertically into the opening of the coral tunnel. We knew from the day before that it marked the entrance to the coral tube. Jasper took the lead. He slowly kicked down and around a corner, out of sight. As Jasper disappeared, Troy tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at his forehead, indicating he had a problem there—the headache was starting. I needed him to keep following, going deeper and deeper into this one-way cavern, so I motioned for him to follow me, and I just turned around and kicked on in. I knew he was too macho to abort the dive. And sure enough, he followed me, just as I planned.”

  Cheryl Oswald’s breath was coming faster now, as were her words, and Richardson felt the clamminess of her hands. “At ninety-five feet, inside the tight tunnel, Troy suddenly grabbed my fin and pulled hard on it from behind me. I was waiting for this, and I turned my head back toward him. I saw him breathing hard and fast. He was flailing his arms around, and his eyes were wide and bloodshot. His lips were turning a light shade of blue around his regulator mouthpiece, and I knew the carbon monoxide was doing its job.

  “Since we were completely surrounded by coral in this tube, with only narrow slivers open above us to allow sunlight in, Troy got disoriented and was unable to turn around quickly. He pointed toward me and motioned rapidly with his hand, slashing across his throat, indicating he needed to share my air. I knew his brain was screaming, ‘Please, please, Cheryl, I need to buddy breath.’ I thought, ‘Sorry, lover, you should have thought of this before you threatened to kill me.’ I reached back to him, and before he could turn around, I pushed the small black button on the hose of his buoyancy-compensating device with my gloved hand, adding a puff of air to his BCD from the tank. This extra buoyancy forced Troy’s body to float up, and he got wedged into the coral ceiling. He slowly stopped flailing around, and I figured that anyone would think he did this himself while panicking. After all, he was a novice diver.”

  Cheryl got control of herself at this point. “By this time, he was fading into unconsciousness. Troy wasn’t moving much. He was gone. The entire process took about half a minute or so. The sand beneath us, which had been stirred up because of his thrashing around, was settling to the bottom now below his body. It was done. I kicked further down into the tunnel and eventually came out on the wall at one hundred twenty feet, around thirty feet behind Jasper. I was staring into the deep-blue open water at the exit. I was floating in crystal clear, blue water that dropped straight down so far I couldn’t see the bottom.”

  Now gripping the attorney’s hand tightly, Oswald looked directly into his eyes and said, “I remember how beautiful and peaceful it was, Mr. Richardson. I was finally free of Troy.”

  “I made sure Jasper saw me as I turned around with a jerk, and I motioned to him as if I was surprised my fiancé wasn’t behind me. Jasper swam back in and came out with Troy about five minutes later. I helped him get Troy to the surface, and we both struggled to pull him into the boat. I screamed and cried in pain and disbelief as Jasper administered CPR while on the fast boat trip back to the dock.

  “While the others were dealing with his body on land, I reached over and rubbed off the pencil dot below Troy’s name on the other tank lying on the deck of the boat. The dot on the label of the tank I had just used had long since worn off—I made sure of that. I figured it was over. My relief was short-lived.

  “The Cayman authorities came to the correct conclusion that Troy had obviously died of carbon monoxide poisoning. They figured he had mistakenly put air into his BCD in the tunnel as a panic move, too, just as I had planned. They centered their investigation on the air compressor used to fill all our tanks, after finding that one other tank, marked Cheryl, also contained contaminated air. They told me it was a miracle that I had not also perished. There must have been a terrible glitch in the compressor system, an accident. Every other available tank at the popular dive operation was checked, and no other tainted cylinders were found. This bothered the police inspector.

  “He grilled me for hours the next day, but then he let me leave and go back to my hotel room. As the police discussed their next move, I managed to fly out of the Cayman Islands on my scheduled return flight, right on time. Mr. Richardson, I felt that I was finally free of Troy to live out the rest of my life. I only did what I had to do. It was the only way I could be free of fear. Can’t you see that?”

  Robert Richardson reached out and stroked Cheryl’s shoulder. “Of course, my dear, I fully understand. Continue.”

  Choking back tears, Cheryl Oswald continued, “Back in Miami, I consoled Troy’s parents, who were shocked when they were contacted by members of the State Department. I actually feel bad for them. After all, they never knew the monster he was or what he had done to me. We’ve learned that Troy’s body will not be released to us either. I got scared when I was asked to voluntarily return to the island for further questioning on the circumstances of his death. That’s why I’m here. I can’t go back there. My life will be over.”

  That first day, Robert Richardson tenderly held the vulnerable Cheryl Oswald in his arms as she cried hysterically. He assured her he would be contacting the Cayman authorities the next day and that they could discuss his fee as the case progressed. He highly suggested she remained unavailable to Troy’s family during this process. “Just don’t answer the phone. Make excuses. The fewer questions from anyone, the better. I will take care of everything, my dear.”

  Robert Richardson did just that. Five days later, he asked her to meet him at his office. He told her he had a solution to her dilemma. They sat next to each other on his office couch.

  “Ms. Oswald, Cheryl, I have many connections, and one of my associates has reached out to the police on Cayman Brac. It has not been easy, but I now have assurances that the investigation will soon be closed in your case. The coroner will declare that Troy died as a result of a terrible accident. Isn’t that great news, Cheryl?”

  The relieved young woman exclaimed, “Fantastic! I can’t thank you enough.”

  Richardson wasn’t finished. “There is a slight wrinkle in the arrangement, however. They want twenty-five thousand dollars to make things go away.”

  “Oh, my God, Mr. Richardson, I don’t have that kind of money. I was raised by foster parents, and I can’t possibly ask them for money. After paying for the trip, I don’t have a lot of savings left either. I’m desperate here. What
can I do? Can I make payments to you?”

  “Cheryl, you know we haven’t even discussed my fee yet. I need another ten thousand, which, I may add, is a discounted fee. How might we deal with this, my dear?”

  Cheryl Oswald just sat there sobbing with her hands in her lap and her eyes cast downward. After several seconds, she slowly looked up into the lawyer’s eyes.

  Richardson whispered, “You are such a lovely woman, Cheryl,” as he slowly stood up in front of her and unzipped his pants.

  Her mind wandered. She had always done what she had to do to survive. Over and over again, she kept thinking, I’ll get through this, too. It will finally be over.

  As the pair stood afterward, dressing in his locked office, Robert Richardson broke the uncomfortable silence. “Cheryl, I have decided to waive my fee, and I can cover the twenty-five thousand needed to silence the authorities. But you do realize you owe me here, do you not?”

  A somewhat-defeated Cheryl Oswald muttered, “I do understand I owe you, but I can’t keep doing this. I just can’t…I won’t. I hope you understand.”

  Now speaking in Richardson’s normal, patronizing tone, the attorney looked fiercely into her eyes and barked, “Ms. Oswald, I do not work for free! If you choose not to continue my compensation in a similar fashion, I reserve the right to ask for a favor at some later date. Is that fully understood?”

  Puzzled, Cheryl retorted, “What kind of favor? I just told you I will not continue doing this.”

  Richardson came close and placed a sweaty hand on her ass, making her flinch. “I don’t yet know, my dear, but occasionally, I have a need for unusual favors. If I experience such a need, I will call you. Understood?”

  Cheryl nodded in reluctant agreement. She felt uncomfortably relieved.

  Richardson called twice in the following months, asking to meet her for drinks. She made cordial excuses. She then changed her phone number. Twenty months later, she left Miami for good. She didn’t bother telling him she was leaving. The official inquiry into the accidental death of Troy Williams had been closed for months now.

  She was with Troy’s parents when they buried him. They all wept as the flower-draped casket was lowered into the ground. What a tragic loss of life. It was finally over. Cheryl Oswald had her life back. She moved to California and started anew, making sure no one had her forwarding address.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Police Are Idiots

  How did I miss that? Damn! I tore through my stack of reports on the Howard domestic-violence case. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? There! I pulled out the deputy’s report, which clearly stated Cheryl Howard had red hair. However, the DMV driver’s license printout and photo, which I checked previously, showed a blond Cheryl Howard six years ago. I screwed up when I didn’t check all the printouts, but back when I first reviewed the case, we hadn’t yet spoken to Jose Camacho. I didn’t know we were looking for a redhead then either. OK, I thought, calm down and give yourself a break.

  I almost ran down the hall to find Ted, who was coming out of the crapper. I ran it all by him: the mysterious underwater death where tall, red-haired Cheryl Howard (aka Oswald) had been put under the microscope for the killing. Then her close connection with our buddy Robert Richardson.

  “Too much of a coinkydink, don’t you think, Teddy? She could be the one. A female Phantom! I betcha we just ID’d our fucking killer.”

  Then I weirded Ted out by saying, “And you may not believe this, man, but I think I’ve been dreaming about her killing that guy while scuba diving in the islands back then.”

  Ted looked at me like I had a screw loose.

  “Look, I’ve been having dreams about being underwater in the ocean, and I wake up scared and wondering about something. It’s been freaking me out. Teddy, I think my head—you know, my subconscious mind—has been telling me that this Howard chick killed her fiancé. I just know it.”

  “I don’t know, Kevin. We can’t do anything with this Twilight Zone shit of yours, but the other stuff is very interesting. The fifty-dollar question is how can we sell it? No way can we get a warrant with just her hair color and her connection with the attorney. Gotta have more, bud. The DA will want a damn video of her slitting his throat. I just don’t think we have enough yet.”

  “Look, Ted, we’ll go see Janet Swan. She’s a straight shooter. She’ll help us figure out a way.”

  If only we could get a judge to sign a search warrant for little Miss Richy Rich. Regardless, we had to convince a DA to sign off on it first. All we had to do was get it signed. As long as cops don’t fudge or exaggerate on the facts, once they have a search warrant in hand, it’s gold. I had worked on several cases with DA Janet Swan. If there was a way to sell this information, this lady would know how. She was one sharp cookie.

  Ted and I met with Bob Roberts, and he made us brief the chief personally. Of course Walters was our biggest naysayer.

  “You gotta be shitting me! Red hair—is that all you got on Cheryl Howard? I know Dan Howard, and I’ve met Cheryl. She’s beautiful. No fucking way she’s our killer. These people are big-time connected—lots of money. If we screw up, they will shove it right up our ass—my ass. I can’t even imagine the press on this if you’re wrong. When’s the last time you had a multimillion-dollar lawsuit shoved up your rear ends, gentlemen? Take it from me, all the Vaseline in the world won’t help.”

  I came right back with a persuasive argument. “Chief, she might have murdered her ex-fiancé, too. What if I’m right? I believe she drowned him like a rat, for Christ’s sake. Then, when the island cops heat her up, guess who she hires to represent her? Our asshole, that lying piece of crap, Robert Richardson. Remember what you used to believe in when you were working homicides? There is no such thing as a coincidence—no such thing. I think we know the players here. We just need to find their playbook.”

  Ted spoke up. “Sir, I agree with Kev on this one. It’s too coincidental. It may be a bit thin, but I believe we are on the right track here. Let us try and run with this one, please.”

  Even Bob Roberts finally chipped in. “Chief, I think they got it right here.”

  I thought, About fucking time you backed us up, Bob.

  Deputy Chief Walters looked at us as if we were the Three Stooges but finally relented. “OK, OK, you go with it. But if you’re wrong, it’s your asses.”

  We walked out of the sheriff’s admin office and cautiously smiled. I turned to Ted and whispered out of Bob’s earshot, “I sure hope you’re right about this one, partner.” Ted shot me back the look.

  I spent the next six hours frantically putting my thoughts down on paper, drawing as many nexus as I could between Marvin Redbone and Robert Richardson; documenting how they had bad blood at the end of Stanley Blivins’s fake lawsuit; how this woman, matching the physical description of our killer, was tied closely to Richardson. I threw in the recent allegation about her chasing her hubby out of their house, and I tossed in as many kitchen sinks as I could into the affidavit. I figured if we could just get authority to search her house, her computer, and all her nooks and crannies, we could put the squeeze on her and find something to connect her to the murders. I just knew it.

  My problem was that DA Janet Swan didn’t know it. Ted and I waited in her office as she carefully read the warrant affidavit. She just sat there slowly shaking her head. She mused that a judge would have found it all just hugely coincidental (shit, I hate that word). She knew most judges would have already formed the opinion that the Phantom had to be a man, considering the viciousness of the crime. Trying to sell a woman as this vicious murderer would be quite a feat. Swan looked at us and said, “Very interesting stuff, boys, but not enough to get a magistrate to allow a search. There just aren’t enough facts to connect her directly to the murders here—not to mention that the cops in the Caribbean closed their case. They said that guy died by accident. Now, if you want to search Robert Richardson’s home and office for evidence in the insurance fraud and theft, yo
u bet; I’ll sign off on that one right now.”

  Thanks but no thanks. Solving a big fraud case was just a bone for us; it was like knowing crème brûlée waited for you after a juicy steak dinner. Filing the theft case on Richardson could wait until we tasted the meat we were drooling for. Ted and I were working two murders after all. We wanted to use Stanley Blivins as a witness and get the evidence to prove our murder case. Unfortunately, that’s where Janet Swan balked.

  She said, “No way, gentlemen. Come back when you really have something tangible.”

  After a few moments of silence, pondering our sound defeat, Ted looked up from his chair and spoke to Swan. “Janet, let’s talk about taking a detour to get to our final destination.”

  Our DA leaned back in her chair, lifted an eyebrow, and said, “I’m listening.”

  Ted and I returned to the bureau in time to see Rachael Storm packing up a box of her papers and personals. It looked like she was leaving.

  “Rachael, what’s up? Where are you going?”

  “Well, Rhino, they’re putting someone else with you. I’m off the Phantom case.”

  Ted replied, “What? We just got used to your smilin’ face.”

  Looking beat, Rachael said, “Fact is, I’m out because I believe in what you guys are doing. I’m out because I won’t do what that prick of an editor I work for wants me to do.”