I said, “Tell us what you mean by that exactly.”
Almost crying, Rachael continued, “He all but ordered me to break a story on your current lead with the redheaded Phantom. Don’t worry, though, I didn’t tell him anything, but he knows you had a break in the case. He told me he wants us to run the story now, right away, to get the credit before any other news group could figure it out. I told him to shove it up his fat ass and reminded him that he’d screwed up my relationship with you all once before. I made it clear he would never do that to me again.
“Next thing I know, he puts out a memo pulling me off the case and reassigning me to public interest stories—you know, covering the fair and weather-related bullshit. He said he would make sure my career as a legitimate reporter was over.”
Ted spoke up, “Asshole! Can we do anything, Rachael? You’ve actually been great to work with, and we don’t want to work with anyone else. You’ve earned our trust.”
I had to admit I trusted her now, too. “Look, Rachael, we respect you. You’ve kept your word and went out on a limb to back our play. Just give the word, and we’ll break his legs.”
She smiled at my joke (I really wasn’t kidding) and warned us that the new Channel 3 reporter would be unscrupulous. “I think he’s giving you Billy ‘Butthole’ Baxter. He’s a snake. He’d throw his mother under the bus to get his byline on a good story. Anything he learns from you will be farted out in next Sunday’s feature page. He’ll throw in a little unsubstantiated bullshit to make him look good along with it, too. I don’t plan to give him any of my notes on what I’ve learned from you all so far. I owe you that. I’ll tell him that somehow I misplaced them. That’ll give you a chance to cornhole little Billy Butthole.”
We thanked Rachael and saw her off. We then laid all this out for Sergeant Roberts. He agreed that we needed to keep this Billy Baxter guy in the dark. The chief didn’t need to know our plans either, because Walters would just muck it up. We decided to treat this dude like a mushroom: keep him in the dark and just feed him shit.
Two days later, Ted left the office alone after making an appointment with Robert Richardson. At around 2:30 p.m., Ted was ushered into Richardson’s throne room, where the attorney sat high on his keister. Ted set his briefcase down, wired for sound, and addressed the pompous blowhard.
“Thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice, sir. I just have a couple follow-up questions, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Richardson.”
In his usual thunderous tone, the attorney smirked and said, “By all means, Detective. I am always happy to speak to the sheriff’s office.”
Ted began a little back and forth. “Well, Robert…Oh, may I call you Robert?”
“Certainly. Ted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right, sir. Robert, have you been able to find or speak to Stanley Blivins recently?”
“Why no, Detective. I have made several attempts to contact him. He never returns my calls. I actually don’t know where he is at the moment. Do you?”
“No, Robert. Whenever we try to call him, we just get his voice mail. Here, I’ll show you.” Dialing the cell number for Stanley Blivins, Ted put his cell on speaker phone. Hey, there, you’ve reached Stan. If you’re a buddy, leave a message. If not, FUCK OFF! Leave it at the beep.
“Right, that’s all we get, Robert. We really want to talk to him, since he was Dr. Redbone’s patient, and we figure he was one of the last people to see or speak to the doctor alive.”
“How exactly can I be of help, Detective?”
“Sir, could you do us a big favor and use your contacts to try and locate Stanley Blivins for us, please? You know the man and his habits much better than we do. Don’t you agree?”
The fat lawyer boomed back, “It would be my pleasure to try and do so, Ted. Is there anything else I can do for you today? How is your murder investigation going? Any leads?”
Ted purposely hedged the answer. “Well, we aren’t at liberty to discuss most of it, but if you don’t mind, I have one other question that I’ve previously neglected to ask you.”
“Certainly, Ted. Ask away.”
“Do you know of any associates of Dr. Redbone with red hair? Have you ever seen anyone—tall with red hair—coming to or from his office while you were working with the doctor?”
The attorney paused, just for a second, and replied, “Why, no, I can’t say I have. However, my relationship with Dr. Redbone was purely professional, and I did not see him socially outside of official business.”
After a strategic pause, Ted looked as if he was reluctant to speak but continued, “This might seem strange, sir, and I can’t tell you why I’m asking the question, but how about a woman fitting that basic description? Ever see a woman with Redbone? She would be tall, athletic, with red hair.”
The attorney’s eyes darted away from Ted, almost imperceptibly. Then staring directly at my partner, he replied, “Oh no, I don’t know of any women like that being around here, and I can’t say I remember the good doctor ever being with such a person in my presence. He preferred to surround himself with men, you know.”
Then he asked, “Why on earth would you ask about a woman, Ted? Are you telling me you suspect a woman is involved in Marvin’s murder?”
Ted finished up quickly. “Oh, forget I asked, Robert…er…Mr. Richardson. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I was just thinking out loud, just wondering. I am sure you understand, but I can’t discuss it any further.”
“Of course, Detective. No problem. Come back any time. We should have lunch sometime.”
Ted replied with a wry smile. “Sure, call my secretary.”
Promptly at 2:35 p.m., while I knew Ted was with fat ass, I dialed the home phone number for Dan and Cheryl Howard. I knew she was home, because I had Will Phillips sitting quietly down the block watching. He had seen the striking redhead arrive in her Mercedes just after 1:00 p.m. with her gym bag in hand. Will had followed her back home from the 24-7 fitness club in Santa Barbara. We knew her husband was in New York now, too, because our buddy the chief had called him on our behalf to talk about playing racquetball and to verify his whereabouts.
“Am I speaking to Cheryl Howard?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Ma’am, my name is Detective Kevin Rhinehardt of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office, and I have been assigned a report about a disturbance that occurred between you and your husband over two months ago at your home. It’s my job to do follow-up on it. Do you recall the incident I’m speaking of?”
“Why, yes. It was a night I’d rather forget, though. But no one was injured, and things are much better between us now. Is there a problem? It’s been so long ago now.”
In a calm voice, I replied, “Well, no, Ms. Howard, this is just a routine response to an incident of alleged domestic violence. These kinds of cases are potentially serious, and we look at each circumstance individually and decide whether to file any charges, if necessary. We do this to ensure that no future incidents occur. I am sure you understand.”
Sounding resolved, Cheryl Howard said, “Listen, Detective. I regret my actions that night, as does Dan. We would never have hurt each other. He really didn’t do anything wrong. We had a spat, and again, I was not hurt in any way. We have since reconciled and are having no other problems. Have you spoken to my husband about this?”
“Why, no, ma’am, not yet. Do you know where I can reach him?”
“He’s out of town right now, but when you talk to him, he will tell you we’re just fine now. There’s no more need for concern.”
“I’ll call Mr. Howard when he returns. When may that be?”
“Actually, I can’t tell you right at the moment. He’s in New York on business. His stay there is open-ended.”
I let her think I was wrapping it up. “This is just a courtesy call to give you my name, and suggest you call 9-1-1 if you have any further disagreements. The deputies will come out and referee, if you get my drift.”
With relief in her voice, she said, “Oh yes, I can assure you we will not be calling the police in the future. We will obtain counseling if necessary. We have too much to throw away. I am sure you understand. Thank you so much for checking on us, though, Detective.”
“I fully understand, and thank you.”
After a perfunctory pause, I neatly slipped in, “Oh, excuse me, but I do have one more quick question. It’s not related to this incident at all, but do you mind?”
After her own quick hesitation, she replied, “No. Go ahead, Detective.”
“Well, Ms. Howard, have you ever met a doctor named Marvin Redbone?”
After almost a five-second pause this time, Cheryl Howard answered, “Redbone…No, don’t think I’ve ever met the man. Wait, isn’t that the person who was murdered a while back? I think I read it was a doctor named Redbone. Is that him?”
“Yes, actually that’s him.”
“Mr. Rhinehardt, why on earth do you think I know this man?”
“Well, I am not at liberty to say, but someone said you might know him. So I was just asking the question.”
In a deliberate tone, Cheryl Howard replied, “Can’t say I ever met him. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
I wrapped up with, “Well, Ms. Howard, so am I. Thank you, and have a nice afternoon.”
Exactly twenty-seven minutes after I ended my call with Cheryl Howard, a very nervous redhead called the cell number for Robert Richardson.
“Robert, why are the police asking me if I know Redbone? What the hell is going on here? I went to great lengths to ensure I had no connection with him, so I figure this is somehow coming from you. The guy said he talked to somebody who said I knew him. Was that somebody you?”
“Cheryl, calm down. I, too, had a recent visit. I just had a detective in my office as well, asking about a red-haired woman. I told them nothing. I theorize they have some sort of lead about a redhead in their murder investigation, but they don’t have anything concrete or they would have acted by now. Look, I don’t like talking about this on the telephone. We need to meet in person to discuss this but not around here. Let’s go to Guadalupe. I know a small restaurant there—Sally’s Place. Meet me there tomorrow morning, say six o’clock. The only ones there at that time are day laborers getting ready to work the fields.”
Howard’s voice was shaking at this point. “I’ll be there, Robert. I’m scared.”
“Stay calm, and stay quiet. Remember, the police are idiots. Tomorrow, then.”
At six the next morning, Robert Richardson, driving his secretary’s Beetle, and Cheryl Howard in her SUV, arrived for coffee at Sally’s Place. They asked for a back booth. They talked for nearly forty-five minutes. Howard shook her finger angrily several times at Richardson’s puffy red face. He remained calm, and slowly but firmly pushed her raised digit back down onto the table. Neither drank a sip of his/her coffee, and an obviously animated Cheryl Howard left the restaurant first.
Robert Richardson paid the tab. When he was outside, he looked up and down the parking lot and adjacent street. He then drove off in the VW, oblivious to the six undercover deputies who had been taking still photos of the entire encounter.
Chapter Eighteen
A Favor Redeemed
Almost three weeks before Marvin Redbone’s head was nearly disconnected from his body, Cheryl and Dan Howard had one of their all-too-frequent “discussions.” Now in their eighth year of marriage, Dan Howard was overly engrossed in his stock-brokerage business, and Cheryl had little but money and time on her hands. The woman had come to realize that she was little more than a trophy wife—a handsome escort to show off to Dan’s stockholders and other business acquaintances at parties. Dan insisted on exuding this all-American image. His stodgy investors craved a reliable benefactor, someone who managed his life as proficiently as he did their portfolios.
Cheryl did not relish the present role she filled, but she had morphed into this marital farce with her eyes wide open. She thought the money and the status would be enough for her. She hated her life now, though. It was déjà vu all over again.
“Cher, did you pick up my suit today? I need it for my meeting tomorrow. Where the hell is it?”
“Oh crap, Dan, I forgot. I just got busy at the gym. Worked out for an extra hour today. Then Susie asked me to help her find a dress for her daughter’s wedding. I got wrapped up in other stuff. Gosh, I’m sorry.”
Responding in an angry tone, Dan Howard barked back, “Sorry my ass. Look, damn it, I ask very little of you. You don’t clean around here; Carmen does. You don’t cook either. So what the fuck are you good for if you don’t get the things done I need taken care of? I’ll cancel your fucking gym membership if you pull this shit on me one more time. Do you hear me, Cheryl?”
Dan Howard had made idle threats like these far too often lately, and Cheryl had reached the boiling point.
“You asshole, how dare you come down on me for failing to wipe your ass every time you crap! I am nothing but a doormat to you, a little fuck doll. You get what you want and give nothing back. ‘Cheryl do this, Cheryl do that!’ I’m sick of it. Why don’t you run to your girlfriend in Manhattan? Have her run your damn errands for you.”
Feebly trying to look puzzled, he replied, “What are you saying, Cheryl?”
“Don’t give me that look, asshole. I know all about her. I used some of that money you so graciously allow me to have and I hired a private investigator to follow your sorry ass. He saw you playing kissy face with that whore. He took some nice pictures of that cow, too. Wanna see ’em? He saw you spend the night in her apartment, too. Do you pay for that bitch’s apartment?”
Dan Howard was on the defensive now. “How dare you fucking check up on me!” He took a quick step toward her, his face crimson with anger.
“Listen, just leave me alone! If you know what’s good for you, back off!”
Howard didn’t respond and kept advancing toward his wife with fists clenched. Almost as tall as her husband and more physically fit, she blocked his advance and pushed him away effortlessly. Dan Howard met force with force and pushed Cheryl, now off balance, back hard against the kitchen wall and counter. Dinner plates and a wine bottle fell to the floor with a loud crash. Shards of china and red liquid splayed beneath their moving feet as they began slipping and sliding in the developing mess.
Reacting instinctively, Cheryl glanced left and spotted a ten-inch carving knife sitting on the counter. It was suddenly ready in her hand. Dan Howard could see the rage in her eyes. He backtracked immediately, stumbling and almost running out the entryway and through the front door toward the front lawn.
Cheryl followed quickly and confronted her husband out front, the knife held at her side, ready to thrust. Now the neighbors were watching this love dance from the comfort of their living rooms. Many of them were all too familiar with this type of commotion as of late at the Howard household but most made a practice of never getting involved. For a change, two 9-1-1 calls were made, and deputies arrived while the pair stood confronting each other.
Spotting the black-and-whites roaring up their street toward them, Cheryl quickly tossed the weapon aside in some nearby bushes. The deputies made the decision not to arrest anyone right away because no one was hurt, and Dan kept his mouth shut about the knife. He couldn’t afford a scandal after all. One neighbor said she “thought” she saw a knife, but a knife was never located by the coppers, who did a half-assed job of trying to find it. There were no telltale marks on either one of them to indicate actual physical violence, which would have triggered a mandatory arrest. The deputies took pictures of the hurricane that had passed through their kitchen, however.
Neither Dan nor Cheryl Howard thought anything would come of the incident, but Cheryl had made up her mind. She would cut ties with her rich, philandering, and dispassionate SOB of a husband—not today but soon. He was worth a bundle, and she was entitled to at least half of his fortune, maybe more. She would just bide
her time for now, but as far as she was concerned, their marriage was over.
A day later, in her dingy one-room office in the outskirts of Ventura, Latrice Tyson scanned the third of three local papers she had purchased down the street at Tom’s Liquor Paradise. As usual, midmorning, she went there for the rags to peruse and to pick up a pint of vodka to help her manage through the day.
Tyson was the owner/operator of Tyson Investigations, licensed through the California Bureau of Science and Investigative Services. For the last three years, Latrice managed to survive by working skip traces, doing sleazy marital surveillance cases, and the occasional witness interview for local attorneys. It wasn’t always like this for Latrice. At thirty-five, she was the youngest person and the only African American woman ever picked as assistant to the chief investigator for the Ventura County Public Defender’s Office. Five years ago, she had her eye on the prize. Like many poor souls before her, though, she made the mistake of mixing work with pleasure, of letting her “lower parts” cloud her common sense. Hence, a relationship with one of her criminal clients, a certain Darnell Anderson, led to her fall from grace.
The prize slipped slowly out of her fingers. Although they kept their tryst on the down low, Latrice sealed her fate one night when Darnell convinced her to chase the heroin “dragon” with him. She chased it long and hard. Within a month, work found out about Darnell, and then a judge noticed her nodding off in court one day.
Her boss called her into his office. “Latrice, I’m sorry, but I need you to pee in this cup.” The drug test took one day to come back. Disgraced, fired, and forced into rehab, Latrice Tyson began clawing her way back up from the abyss. Her progress was slow. The dragon constantly blocked her path.
As she picked up the diminutive Solvang Valley News, she immediately peeled pages back until she reached the “Sheriff Corner.” The Valley News’s reporters checked all incident, arrest, and other reports from the daily sheriff logs from the Solvang station and gleaned anything newsworthy from them. Tyson immediately spied a blurb about deputies responding to a report of “Domestic Abuse.” She read on: blah, blah, blah, the usual generic rendering about what happened, and then she came to the named parties involved—Daniel and Cheryl Howard. Even loaded on heroin and alcohol, Latrice remembered something about the name “Howard.” Logging on to the Internet, it didn’t take her long to find articles in the Santa Barbara society pages. Daniel and Cheryl Howard were high rollers. Daniel Howard was CEO of his own publicly traded firm on Wall Street. Bingo!
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
