They placed Cheryl Howard in behind the wheel of her minivan. We made sure it had only about half a gallon of gas in it, just to hedge our bets that she couldn’t drive off too far. Much like an orca calf, sheltered within the safety of its pod, she slowly drove the one-block distance toward Sally’s, surrounded on all sides by our men in their vehicles. The main difference was that unlike the orca pod, the deputies surrounding her had orders to shoot her if necessary. She pulled the van into Sally’s lot and parked as instructed.
Good girl. We all took a collective sigh of relief when she exited the van and walked into the restaurant’s front door.
I transmitted again: “The secondary is now with the primary.”
She shot a weak smile at Lardass, sitting in the back booth, and walked his way. About this time, Bev Stiles arrived with his eggs, hot and ready. Richardson took out his napkin, opened it, and tucked a corner under the collar of his white dress shirt.
Looking at the approaching Cheryl, he said, “Wouldn’t want to mess up my white shirt and tie. Hello, Cheryl. Now, how may I help you this morning?”
Our reluctant actor began. “Robert, it’s been almost a month since I carried out your little assignment. I did what you asked me to do. Now two people are out of the picture, and all I have to show for my effort is indigestion and a fucking philandering husband. I’m pretty sure the cops don’t have a clue as to who did it, so we’re both in the clear. That cop guy never called me back. You’re right. They are idiots.”
I was sure she added that for my benefit.
Richardson interjected, “So, now what exactly is your request?”
Right on cue, Howard said, “Well, now it’s time for you to fulfill your part of our little bargain, Robert. I need to know when you’ll file my divorce papers and what you think I can get out of my darling Daniel, that prick.”
I liked it. Well put, Cheryl! I turned to Ted. “So far so good.”
Richardson responded, “Well, first we must file and get him served in New York—no problem there. Then, judging from the financials I have already run on you both—you can thank me later for preparing ahead—I think you should net around ten million.”
Curtly, Cheryl Howard reacted quickly, “I told you, asshole, Dan is worth about twenty-four million, maybe more. We have three homes, four apartment complexes, and we hold at least nine million in stock options from his fucking company. I get half of it in California, don’t I?”
While chewing on his Mexican eggs, Richardson said, “Why, yes, but that does not account for my fee.”
My head snapped toward Ted. “Shit, Richardson is pissing her off.”
I keyed the mic and said, “All stand by.”
Instantly, Cheryl Howard reacted. “Your fee? You asshole!”
I whispered to myself, “Lower your voice, lady,” then broadcasted again. “All stand by.”
Richardson kept it coming. “Come now, my dear Cheryl, don’t you think I should receive a little something extra for all my work?” He took another mouthful of eggs off his plate. Chewing, he continued, “This will not be an easy negotiation; after all, Dan is alive. In the past, I only had to deal with the corpses you left behind.”
I heard a pause and saw that Cheryl Howard was just sitting there, just staring at him. Then she broke her silence. “OK, OK, Robert. I guess I can live with ten million. I now realize I’ll have to live with much less in the future.”
The fat man replied, “Cheryl, I am glad we have reached an understanding.”
I thought, Good girl! Calm down and just keep talking.
Calculatedly, our Phantom continued with her mission.
“Robert, I do have one question.”
“Ask away, my dear.”
In a low voice, loud enough for the microphones to pick up, she leaned near him and said, “What the hell did Redbone do to you that you wanted him dead?”
Ted prodded me in the van and said, “Now you’re talking, Cheryl. Come on, baby, come on. Get to the million-dollar answer, asshole.”
Dabbing some egg yolk from the corner of his mouth, Robert Richardson sealed his fate.
“If you must know, and I guess you have earned that right, Marvin Redbone was a very greedy man. He did not respect the fact that I am a talented choreographer. I am the real artist. I write the play, and then I put the puppets into the theater to act it out. He was merely one cog in a bigger machine. Just like Stanley Blivins. I turned the key and drove that machine to the finish line; he did not. Redbone wanted five million dollars from me, and he threatened to expose all of it to Telford if I didn’t give it to him. He wasn’t happy with his quarter of a million. He wanted what I had earned. His greed killed him, Cheryl, pure and simple. You did a fine service for me, and I must say that I think you enjoyed it too, didn’t you?”
I looked toward my partner. “Holy shit, Ted, we got it. He’s toast! Now, lady, get the hell out of there. Stand up.”
But Cheryl Howard didn’t stand up; she just sat there. She began laughing. Richardson laughed with her. Then she said, “You know, Robert, I haven’t had any breakfast yet. I’m starved!”
Now I’m worried. Turning to my partner, I said, “What’s going on, Ted?”
He replied, “Hold on, Kev. I have no idea.”
With my finger on the mic, I said, “All units stand by.”
I heard Cheryl Howard speaking. “Can I get a bite of your rice, Richard, maybe a forkful of beans, too? You haven’t even touched them.”
“Arrest team, stand by. Something’s happening. Stand by!”
Ever the gentleman, Richardson accommodated the pretty lady sitting opposite him.
“Certainly, Cheryl, take all you want.”
My synapses were firing all at once now. “What the fuck is she doing, Ted? Just stand the fuck up, lady. Knock the shit off!”
“All units, anyone inside got eyes on the table? Something’s happening.”
From the kitchen, someone transmitted crudely, “She’s eating off his frigging plate.”
I hit the Transmit button. “Watch her! Watch her!”
I heard the Phantom whisper, “This is yummy, Robert. Thank you so much.”
In a flash, she was up, standing close to the fat man. I could see the rage on her face through the window. Cheryl Howard loudly screamed, “You fucked me, Robert. Now fuck you!”
I began to scream over the radio, “Take ’em down! Take ’em down!” But it was way too late.
Even though a total of eight heavily armed deputy sheriffs scrambled toward their table, Cheryl Howard had taken the dinner fork she held in her right hand and plunged it deeply into Robert Richardson’s face twice, while screaming, “Die, motherfucker! Die!” One thrust penetrated his cheek to the tongue; the other hit closer to the mark she sought.
She continued to laugh, even as Luis Ocampo tackled her to the floor and handcuffed her. Ted and I fled the van and ran into the restaurant amid the screams and frantic radio traffic calling for paramedics.
Richardson lay mute on the floor, eyes wide open, grasping the bloody fork buried deep in his throat. His body jerked spasmodically as he rocked back and forth, spewing blood from the wound on all of us. For the first time in a long while, the guy never said a word.
The good news (I suppose) was that Richardson survived. If the fork had landed about a quarter inch farther to the left in his throat, his carotid artery would have been severed, and the Phantom would have assassinated her coconspirator. She would have choked up victim number four.
After his short stay at County General, I got the pleasure of booking Richardson’s sorry ass for two counts of PC 187 and PC 182 (homicide and criminal conspiracy, respectively). No bail for you, fat man; there never will be. I threw in a bucketful of theft, conspiracy, and fraud charges with it, based on his shenanigans with Stanley Blivins concerning Telford Corporation. In everyday language, the esteemed attorney was screwed.
The bad news for us was that two weeks after I gloated over his charges, th
at asshole filed a ten-million-dollar claim against the sheriff’s office, yours truly, and Santa Barbara County. The basis for the claim was failure to protect him from a known killer—Cheryl Howard.
But whatever happened to Billy Baxter? Ah, a very good question. The night before our investigation ended at Sally’s Place, Baxter kept calling me. He was tying up my cell phone, ringing me up every ten minutes. He kept insisting that I give him a bone, his “exclusive.” He reminded me repeatedly that my chief had ordered me to cooperate with him, “or else.” He wanted the big story. He knew something was happening, and of course he was right.
Before I blocked Butthole’s number that morning, I made sure he got his exclusive. I called him at 4:00 a.m., right about the time we started setting up at Sally’s Place, and directed him to gather his video crew and go all the way to the other side of the county. I gave him an address: 1355 Mill Street in the city of Santa Barbara. I told Billy that “something big” was going to happen sometime around 7:00 a.m., right there on that very spot. It was an open field, located about a block from the Los Angeles Times building.
My coconspirator arrived at that field promptly at 7:30 a.m., shortly after I gave her all the details of our arrests. Rachael Storm would personally deliver the big story to Billy Butthole Baxter. After all, she was the new investigative reporter for the Santa Barbara bureau of the Los Angeles Times, and she relished the privilege of notifying William Baxter of exactly what the big story really was.
“Billy, just givin’ ya a heads-up. I got the exclusive on the arrests in the Phantom case. I’ll be breaking this fabulous story in less than an hour. Watch the AP. And, oh yeah, don’t forget to say hi to Earl for me.”
I never heard another peep from Billy Butthole. His things were boxed up at the station and delivered to KCMP. I was surfing TV channels about three weeks later when I saw him reporting on a really big weather story for Channel 3. Then a month later, a competitor station reported that KCMP’s news editor, a Mr. Earl Waxford, had been terminated after a past employee filed a sexual-harassment lawsuit against him and KCMP. Way to go, Rachael!
Chapter Twenty-Two
What Goes Around…
Karma: The effect of any act. The law of ethical causation regulating the future life; inevitable retribution. (Standard dictionary definition)
For months after what became known around the office as “The Incident at Sally’s Place,” I waited for the shoe to fall…right up my ass. The sheriff had obviously been right about the risk involved, but on the other hand, we got all, and then some, of what we needed to put both killers away for life. Believe it or not, I never got that call into Sheriff Billingsly’s office, but Chief Walters did. I heard it was pretty nasty in there, too! Chiefy seemed to lay low for quite a while afterward.
Although I didn’t get my ass reamed by the sheriff, what I did get, almost every day, was a steady litany of “Boy, you sure forked up, Rhino. You could be forked over this. You sure forked over Richardson, buddy.”
My replies included, “Go fork yourself. Fork me. Get the fork out of here” and the ever-popular “Fork off.” I guess everyone thought it was a big forking deal. It really was.
Eight months after planting that utensil firmly into her attorney’s throat, Cheryl Howard pled nolo contendere to two counts of first-degree homicide and a felony count of criminal conspiracy. It made national news. Prior to her sentencing, two psychiatrists testified that they had diagnosed her as an egocentric psychopath.
Her examinations had revealed that as a young foster child she had been exposed to physical and emotional abuse over a twelve-year period. This caused a fear of abuse and eventual abandonment by those she loved. Blah, blah, blah. I think I dated a psychopath once, but she didn’t slit my throat. All this was meant to soften the blow at sentencing. It didn’t, though.
Superior Court judge Katherine Staples was known as one tough cookie. On the day she pronounced sentence on Cheryl Howard, every national news organization stood by, and pool video was shot inside so it could be broadcast by all the networks live. After the attorneys did their usual verbal exchanges, Judge Staples made her pronouncement. “I have read and considered both the probation and sentencing reports in this case. I must tell you, miss, that in my twenty years on the bench in this county, this is the most gruesome and horrific crime I have ever had to deal with. They say that money is the root of all evil, and this case proves that wise, old adage to be true. Four people’s lives were cut short because of the love of it. You and your accomplice may still be alive, but your freedom is over, I assure you. I find these facts disgusting.”
After a pregnant pause, the judge pronounced her sentence. “Ms. Howard, look at me. My only regret is that I cannot sentence you to death row. However, I must honor your plea agreement and therefore sentence you to spend the rest of your life—two consecutive life sentences, without the possibility of parole—in the state penitentiary. Oh, and consecutively you will serve an additional thirty years for killing your two victims in such a torturous manner. May God have mercy on you, Cheryl Howard, because I certainly will not. Court dismissed.”
The solitary bang of Judge Staples dropping her gavel resounded through the silent chamber. Cheryl Howard never blinked. Her sentence was hardly fair, when you consider that Marvin Redbone and Raul Diaz had received their own death penalty.
I swear it sounded like the running of the bulls in Pamplona when the newsies pushed and stomped their way out of the court room to post their stories.
Six months following the sentencing, I was contacted by my friend Rachael Storm. “Rhino, is it true?”
“What’s up, fair lady?”
“My sources just informed me that Cheryl Howard has finalized her divorce settlement, and she got just shy of fifteen million dollars.”
I was dumbfounded. “Get the fork out of here, Rach. No way!”
“No. Way, Kev. She divorced the guy, and a judge in family court gave her a full half of his money. What a fucking joke. I made some calls, and sure as shit, the killer is now a multimillionaire.”
The family-law judge ruled that her murderous ways had no bearing on her eight-year marriage to Dan Howard and that he did have some history of domestic abuse toward her (my own investigation into their domestic-abuse call proved that up, unfortunately). There were some other neighbors and acquaintances of hers who testified in court to his emotional abuse of Cheryl as well.
The reality is that Dan Howard was one of the few people she hadn’t killed. In the end, she got half of their combined wealth, and the judge even made Danny boy pay her attorney fees. Now, that was forked up!
Ninety days following the national news story that our serial killer was now a wealthy prison celebrity, Phantom Howard was served with civil papers from the State of Florida, announcing that Tom and Susan Williams, along with Troy’s sister, Samantha, had filed a lawsuit against her there. She was being sued for precipitating the unlawful death of Troy Williams.
Several video depositions from Cheryl Howard and the family later, the civil trial commenced in Miami. Cheryl employed the same Southern California lawyer she had used to get her husband’s money in the first place. The jury watched her testify in absentia on closed-circuit television. The monitor depicting her testimony sat on the defense table for added effect.
The Williamses’ attorney flew Inspector Grisham of the Royal Cayman Island Police in for his testimony. He verified that he believed Howard had manipulated the compressor to contaminate the air that killed Troy on the dives. His evaluation and witness interviews supported that theory. He also told the jury that suddenly, and inexplicitly back then, his boss, the commissioner, told him to close the case. The local coroner’s magistrate ruled the death accidental without a formal hearing as well, which was also highly unusual. Of course it was revealed that Robert Richardson, JD, had represented her. The Williamses’ family attorney had a real field day with that.
Testimony was presented that the same Cayman police commi
ssioner stepped down five years later after a bribery scandal surfaced with him as the focus. The coroner was implicated in that incident as well. Cheryl’s defense was predictable. She had been truly devastated after her fiancé’s death; she loved him so much. This was all just a tragic accident—no more and no less. Her defense attorney used the tag line “The coroner got it right” in his closing arguments. Cheryl chose not to testify, of course, because her attorney said she didn’t want to relive the emotional trauma of the accident one more time. Robert Richardson was called by the plaintiff, and refused to waive his Fifth Amendment rights to testify. What a shocker.
Then, the coup de grace. Troy’s family subpoenaed the audiotape of the last piece of the conversation between Richardson and Howard at Sally’s Place, where he implied that she murdered Troy. I made sure the Williams family knew about it.
Richardson speaking to Howard: “…after all, Dan [Howard] is alive. In the past, I only had to deal with the corpses you left behind.”
The defense vigorously objected to its introduction as a “protected conversation between attorney and client.” Yeah, right. The judge allowed it.
For whom the bell tolls, as they say. The jury was out for a mere two hours (we all figured they wanted a free lunch on the court). They promptly found for the plaintiffs. Award: fifteen million dollars. George Strait sang it right: “Easy come, girl, easy go!”
Stanley Blivins pled out to grand theft and conspiracy and got only four years for cooperating. He was now flat-broke, though, because the DA had placed a hold on his bank account. The IRS and California Franchise Tax Board were right behind him with their hands out.
They never found his Mercedes SLS GT either. Too bad, so sad. By then, his ride was part of about five other vehicles driven by associates of Bubba Jackson around the greater Las Vegas area. Payback is a motherfucker, you know.
With all his criminal charges still pending, Robert Richardson needed to get his lawsuit rolling. It seems he was a little strapped for cash, too. The DA had frozen his bank accounts immediately following his forking (as the fruits of his illegal insurance fraud activities).
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
