by Glenn Rogers
Dad’s right hand is still fully functional so he types with his right hand and then moves the cursor to a speak button near the bottom of the screen and clicks on it. The voice then reads what he has typed.
“Hi Dad,” I said, as I walked over to the table.
He looked up at me, smiled and gestured at a chair next to him. He clicked the speak button on his computer and the electronic voice spoke. “The reason I wanted to visit with you,” the voice said, not sounding anything like my father, “is that Mr. Addison, our in-house investigator, is retiring. Instead of replacing him with another in-house investigator, I would like to have you on retainer so you can handle that feature of the firm's business.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly what I’d expected, but it was related. One way or the other, my father was going to have me associated with his law firm. I immediately saw the potential for significant frustration, which made me hesitate. But I also saw an opportunity to give my father at least a small part of his dream—to have his son associated with his law firm. It would also probably generate a steady income stream. What would that be like?
My father sat patiently, watching me analyze and evaluate his offer. When I was eleven that sort of thing unnerved me. But over the years, I’d learned that it was nothing to be concerned about. He was merely observing. And he was willing to wait while I considered whatever it was that he’d placed before me.
I asked, “How many hours a week did Mr. Addison actually spend doing investigative work for the firm?”
Dad thought for a moment and then typed. When he clicked the speak button, the voice said, “On average, probably ten to fifteen hours a week.”
“And how much did you pay him for that?”
More typing.
“Forty thousand a year.”
My eyebrows went up involuntarily and my father smiled. Forty thousand was chump change to him.
“So what kind of a retainer do you have in mind?” I asked.
He typed.
“What do you have in mind?”
I told him what my daily rate was. “Based on the amount of work Mr. Addison had,” I said, “I suggest you retain me for two days a week paid monthly based on my daily rate. If my hours exceed the two days a week, based on an eight hour day, I'll bill you at my regular daily or hourly fee, whichever applies.”
My father smiled, nodded and typed. “So you are accepting my offer?”
“Yes.”
He typed.
“I like it,” the voice said. He typed some more. “Now, as you know, a couple of our associates specialize in criminal defense.”
I nodded. He typed again. He was jumping right into it. My father was not one to put things off.
“One of our bright young stars,” the electronic voice said, “is Lucinda Maria Esperanza. She goes by Lucy. She is defending a young man accused of assault. She needs your help to prove his innocence.”
I hesitated. That was an odd choice of words. Was this some sort of test? I said, “She wants me to help prove that he didn't do it?”
Typing.
“There a problem?” the voice asked.
“You know there is.”
“Tell me,” the voice said.
“What if he did do it?” I asked.
My father waited, his eyes searching mine.
“Dad, I'm an investigator,” I said, “not an attorney. I'll discover whether or not there was an assault and if there was, who did it. I discover facts related to incidents and I report those facts. I'll give Lucy facts to work with. What she does with them is up to her.”
My father nodded and typed. “Good answer. I believe you are going to work out just fine. You need to schedule an appointment with Lucy.”
That meant our meeting was over. I didn’t mind his abrupt manner. I’d learned not to take it personally. It’s just the way he is. He’d been dismissing me when our meetings were over since I was a boy. He’d finished his business with me and now he had other things to do.
Chapter 4
It was four-thirty when I got back to my office. Mildred had left at three and had taken Wilson home with her—standard operating procedure. I went by her place, picked him up and went home, stopping on the way for Chinese take-out.
We ate. I watched the news but wasn’t really paying attention. I read for while, but couldn’t concentrate. Thinking that one of my team had been an informant and responsible for Elaine’s death was nearly unimaginable. But there just wasn’t any other explanation. My thoughts were a muddled mess. I needed to walk, to think and to focus.
It was late evening and beginning to cool. I took Wilson to the park where we run in the mornings. As we walked, I let him range out ahead of me, knowing he would not stray too far and that he would return periodically to check with me.
The grays of the twilight sky were being swallowed by the ravenous darkness of night. I liked the darkness. It was a blanket I could wrap myself in and disappear for a while, a secure place where I could relax. The air was chill and fragrant with night blooming jasmine. I breathed deeply, pushing the frenzy of the day aside, trying to clear my head. But it would not be cleared. Images of Elaine clawed their way into my consciousness. I needed to think about the logistics of the investigation. I couldn’t. The images. I knew what they’d be. I'd seen them many times before. I tried to look away; I tried not to see. But they came.
I saw her, the day we met, the day she was assigned to be my partner. I was twenty-eight. She had just turned twenty-nine. Her hair was a rich chestnut brown, long and silky. Her eyes, nearly black, were penetrating, her tan skin the color of coffee with lots of cream. Did she spend time in the sun, or was that her natural coloration? Whatever it was, it was perfect. She moved with grace and confidence, like an athlete or a dancer. Her handshake was firm, her voice clear and strong. I knew I was in trouble. But why? What was it about this woman? I'd worked with women before. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Why was it happening now?
Over the next couple of months, Elaine Bristol proved to be a very capable agent. Smart, fearless. We were a good team. One day we walked into a hornet’s nest. One minute we were knocking on a door expecting to interview a witness in an interstate fraud scam, the next minute people were shooting at us. We’d stumbled into a drug deal in progress. When it was over, three people lay dead and Elaine was wounded. She'd stepped in front of me and taken a bullet that had been meant for me.
The smell of gunfire hung heavily in the silent room. I sat on the floor holding Elaine, waiting for the paramedics. I had seen lots of death. I had killed lots of men. I had just killed two of the three people that lay dead in that room. I'd held wounded Marines in my arms as they died. But holding Elaine as she clung to life, I felt things I had not felt before. Indescribable things. Things I was not prepared for.
The paramedics arrived and took her away. I went to the hospital as soon as I could get away from the scene. She was in surgery. I waited. The doctor came out and said she'd be okay. I went off by myself and cried. I spent the rest of the day and the night in her room. When she woke up, I told her I loved her. She said she loved me, too.
Wilson came running back to check with me. He woofed softly at me. I smiled at him and he ran ahead again, zigzagging back and forth across the expanse of grass in front of us, hot on the trail of something unseen.
Thoughts of Elaine flooded back into my mind, blocking out everything else. I remembered the first time we'd made love, the first time we spent the night together, the first time we'd had a fight and the make-up sex afterward. The sex was always amazing. Remembering generated an insatiable longing, an ache from deep within me. Tears filled my eyes and I knew what was coming next. I tried not to remember, but I was powerless against the rush of images and the emotions they generated. Once again, I was holding Elaine's bloody body in my arms. She’d been shot again.
It had been a sting operation, my sting operation. We were going to buy weapons from the syndicate, weapons that could not be
bought legally. It would be a good bust, would get a lot of illegal weapons off the street. Three other agents, Griffin, Hoffmeyer, and Elaine were with Alex and me for the purchase. Two additional agents, Warren and Kraft, a SAC at the time, were nearby, ready to provide back-up, if necessary. We'd spent weeks planning it and setting it up. Nothing should have gone wrong. But something did. The sellers had brought more people than we'd expected. One of them said something; one of the others pulled a gun. And then the shooting started.
They were good, but we were better. Only one of our team got shot. Elaine. One shot to the head. As I held her in my arms, I knew she was dead. I held her, rocking gently back and forth, and cried.
I'd been too broken up to think clearly about what had happened. And felt too guilty. I blamed myself. It had been my operation. I'd planned it. The official agency report had said the failure had occurred due to poor planning and execution.
I'd left the agency and started fighting—cage fighting. Brutal. Forty-two fights; forty-two knockouts. After two years and beating a guy into a six-week long coma, I came to my senses and quit fighting. I tried to put it all behind me. I opened Badger Investigations and Assistance Agency and tried to start over. And I did … to a degree. But the ghosts of the past continued to haunt me. Elaine was dead. But my love for her, and my guilt, were still alive.
I realized that Wilson was licking my face. I focused on him. I had stopped and sat down under a tree. I didn't remember doing it. I was crying. He'd come to see if I was all right.
“I'll be okay,” I said to him. “Come on. Let's go home.”
Chapter 5
The next morning, as Wilson and I were on the last quarter mile of our daily four-mile run, my phone rang. I answered it on the run.
“Jake Badger,” I said.
“Jake, Jimmy's dead. That creep killed him.”
“Heidi?”
“Yes. He's dead. Jake, I'm scared.”
I said, “Slow down, Heidi. Tell me what happened.”
“Jimmy. Our security guy. Our bouncer. You told me to have him talk to the creep who was watching me. So I told him about the guy and pointed him out. Jimmy said he would talk to him and now Jimmy's dead. They found him in the parking lot last night.”
“Who found him?”
“Jason. One of our waiters. After we closed, he went out and Jimmy was in his car. Shot. I had already left. I saw Jimmy's car when I left but I didn't see him in it. A little while after I got home, Cheryl called me.”
“And Cheryl is?”
“A waitress at the bar.”
“Has someone called the police?” I asked.
“Yeah. They're here now. They're talking to everyone.”
“Did you go back to the club? Are you there now?”
“Yes.”
“All right. You stay there. I'll be there in a little while.”
By the time I disconnected, Wilson and I were almost to my Jeep. I took Wilson home and fed him, showered and got dressed. We left our apartment at seven thirty. Wilson sat in the passenger seat, his head out the window, as I pulled into traffic. I called McGarry.
“Frank, its Jake. Sorry to call so early.”
“Me, too. What do you need?”
“Murder last night at Bailey’s in Studio City.”
“And?”
“My neighbor works there. She knew the victim. She thinks the murder involves her.”
“Tell me.”
I gave him the short version of what had happened.
“You get a look at the guy?” Frank asked.
“No. But I'm pretty sure Heidi can describe him if you sit her down with a sketch artist.”
“Are you at the scene?” Frank asked.
“Not yet. Probably five minutes.”
“Your neighbor gonna expect some personal involvement from you?”
“I'm already involved,” I said. “The guy watching her waited for her after work night before last and followed her at least part of the way home. She's scared right now. Probably thinks the guy is coming after her next.”
“Okay. What do you need me to do?”
“Ask the detective in charge to talk to me,” I said.
“No problem. May be a few minutes, though, before I can get hold of anyone.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
I parked on the street up a ways from the Bailey’s lot that was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The sky was overcast, a sad gray color appropriate for a murder scene. And it was cooler than it had been the past few mornings. A patrolman whose job was to secure the perimeter watched me approach.
“I'm sorry, Sir,” he said when I arrived, “active crime scene. No admittance.”
I gave him my card. “I'm a private investigator working for one of the witnesses.”
“That may be, Sir, but I still can't let you in.”
From across the lot, a detective holding his cell in his hand called out. “Simpson.”
The patrolman talking to me turned and looked.
The detective yelled, “That Badger?”
The patrolman looked at my card and called back, “Yes, Sir.”
“Let him in,” the detective yelled and put his phone back to his ear.
The patrolman raised the tape and said, “Have a nice day, Sir.”
I thanked him and crossed the lot toward the detective. As I did, Heidi saw me and hurried over.
“Jake,” she said, “thank you so much for coming. That freak shot Jimmy in the head.” Her eyes were red. Her voice trembled. “Can you believe it? He just shot him. I feel terrible. If I hadn't said anything to Jimmy, he'd still be alive.” Tears filled her eyes.
“Heidi,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, “Jimmy was doing his job. If he could, he would tell you that it wasn’t your fault. If Jimmy had noticed this guy that was stalking you, he'd have confronted the guy even if you hadn't asked him to.”
“You think so?” Heidi asked.
“Yes, I do.”
Just then the detective came over.
“Jake Badger?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, offering my hand.
He shook my hand. I handed him my card. He said, “Angelo Valentino. Call me Angie.”
I nodded and said, “Angie.”
Angelo Valentino looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was maybe five ten and two twenty. Most of the extra weight he was carrying appeared to be muscle. His sport jacket looked too small for him. His eyes were dark and serious. A Glock 23 was on his belt just in front of his left pants pocket, butt forward for a right hand cross-draw. You don’t see that very often.
“Frank says your okay,” Angie said. “Former FBI. Says he'd appreciate it if I talk to you.”
“Frank's a good man,” I said. “His help over the years has meant a lot to me.”
“Means a lot to me, too. Good to make the captain appreciative.”
I smiled. “Got anything important yet?”
“M.E. says time of death is between two and three a.m. Shot through the driver's window. Window was still up. One slug to the head. Dead instantly.”
Heidi moaned. Angie and I looked at her. She looked like she might pass out.
“Oh, geez, Ms. Ekstrom, I'm sorry,” Angie said, taking Heidi's arm to steady her. “I wasn't thinking. Would you like to sit down?”
“That'd be good,” Heidi said. “I'm not feeling well.”
While Angie took Heidi to his car so she could sit in the back seat, I walked over to Jimmy's car, a blue Ford Explorer. The M.E.'s assistants had just taken the body from the car and the M.E. was making a note.
I asked him, “Any idea as to the caliber of the slug?”
Without looking up from his pad, the M.E. said, “Judging by the size of the entry wound, I’d say a nine.”
“Any brass?”
“Nope.”
“Anyone see or hear anything?” I asked.
“Doesn’t look like it,” he said. “But then, I'm not the one quest
ioning people.”
Angie scribbled something in his notebook just as the M.E. said, “Load him up, guys.” Angie walked away without saying anything else. Not overly friendly. Probably hadn’t had breakfast yet.
I took the moment to think things through. One shot to the head through a closed car window in a parking lot. Policed his brass. Likely that no one heard or saw anything. Had Heidi’s stalker done it? Maybe. But it had the feel of a professional hit. What would the motive be? Maybe Jimmy was more than lounge security. Drugs? Always a good possibility. Why else would someone send a pro after someone like Jimmy? Maybe Jimmy witnessed something. Maybe he was an informant. Maybe Heidi’s stalker was a shooter. But why would a pro be sitting in a bar several nights in a row watching the bartender? Maybe he was doing recon on his target and got distracted by Heidi. That body of hers is enough to distract anyone. But maybe the stalker’s just a psycho who knows how to shoot. Maybe Jimmy scared or humiliated him when he confronted him and the guy overreacted in his revenge. Too many unknowns here. I needed to know more about Jimmy.
I walked back over to Angie and Heidi. Heidi looked better. Angie must have asked her about the events that preceded the shooting because she was saying, “So I explained to Jimmy about this guy that was creeping me out. I told him that he had followed me. Jimmy said he would take care of it.” Heidi's bottom lip began to quiver, tears overflowed and she said, “And now he's dead.”
“It wasn't your fault, Ms. Ekstrom,” Angie said. He looked at me and shook his head.
I motioned with my head for Angie to follow me and we went around to the back of the car so Heidi couldn't hear us.
“Anyone see or hear anything?” I asked.
Angie shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Any ID on the body.”
“Yeah,” Angie said, looking at his notebook. “Driver's license. Name's James Falcon. Lives in Van Nuys.” He gave me the address.
