Done Rubbed Out: Reightman & Bailey Book One

by Jeffery Craig

  As they walked to the doors, Riley turned and asked, “Detective, do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, Dr. Riley. Do you?”

  Reightman’s stomach clenched when he answered. “I think I might.”

  She nodded once and addressed Mitchell. “Officer, please make sure that Dr. Riley is able to reach his attorney, then escort him to one of the interview rooms. I’ll be up as soon as I finish checking things down here.”

  She and Tom went through Lieberman’s office. He’d be back later with Laurie to give it a more thorough inspection, but she wanted a quick look while she was here. Nothing immediately jumped out at her, but if there was something here, the techs would find it. In the process of removing their gloves, Reightman stopped at Riley’s desk. Pulling the partially removed glove back on, she motioned for Tom to do the same. She opened the top middle drawer and took a quick look. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She opened the top drawer to the right and, again found nothing. The next drawer down, Reightman hit pay dirt. There, hidden behind a stack of forms and an extra stapler, was a small box which formerly held paperclips. As she opened the top, a small flash of light caught her eye. She turned it over with a gloved finger and recognized the diamond earring which had previously resided in Geri Guzman’s ear. Coiled next to the earring was a substantial silver chain strung through the bale of a six-pointed star, the symbol of the Jewish faith. It matched the necklace that Lieberman was wearing in the picture.

  “Tom, do you think Guzman was Jewish?” she asked the tech.

  “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t.”

  “What makes you sure?”

  “Well…” Tom looked down at the floor and cleared his throat. “He was…I mean – Oh, what the hell? I got a really good look at Mr. Guzman at the murder scene. I’m certain he wasn’t Jewish, because he wasn’t circumcised.”

  “Oh,” she answered, thinking furiously. She remembered something about circumcision being important to members of that particular faith: A circumcised man wasn’t necessarily Jewish, but an uncircumcised man certainly was not. “And the first picture we saw on the computer…?”

  “Could be him. Based on what we know so far, it seems likely.”

  Reightman handed him the small box with its contents. “We need to log this in, Tom.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He took the box from her hand.

  She took one more look around the room. “I need to check with the Chief about a warrant, and then send a car to try and pick up Lieberman. We’ve also need to find that piece-of-shit, Helliman.” She flipped off the lights as they went out the door.

  “Why’d you turn off the lights, Detective?”

  She shrugged. “The dead don’t need them. Might as well save the city a few bucks.”

  They opened the door and were met by two uniformed officers, trailed by Jackson. “I thought we should button this place up until the team can check it over.” Jackson greeted Tom and offered her a grim smile. “You’ve been a busy girl, Reightman.”

  “It’s about to get busier, Jackson.”

  “Yes it is. The Chief’s waiting on us upstairs.” They stood next to the elevator bank, waiting for the door to open. “And I better warn you, Nancy’s pretty miffed.”

  “Is she snapping her gum?”

  “Nope. She threw all twelve packs right in the trash. She snatched a pack of menthols out from the back of her drawer and said she was taking a break – right after she stopped and bought a candy bar from the vending machine in the breakroom.”

  “Oh, man! She’s going to hate herself in the morning,” Reightman said to no one in particular as the three of them entered the elevator.

  He pushed the button for the next floor. “Unless she focuses her blame on you instead.” Tom and Sam burst into delighted laughter as the realization dawned.

  “I am so screwed,” she said, as the elevator door closed.

  ♦♦♦

  Benjamin Lieberman drove into his garage and hit the automatic button clipped to the driver’s side visor. As the door closed, he sat in the car, trying to catch his breath. Sweat ran down his fat, flushed face and dropped on his drenched shirt. “You need to calm down, Benny,” he told himself. “You could have a heart attack.”

  He opened the car door and heaved himself out of the plush leather seat and fumbled with his keys as he unlocked the door to the house. He set his briefcase down on the kitchen table and hurried to his bedroom.

  Lieberman flung open the closet door and rushed to a row of hanging clothes hanging on the lower rod, quickly pushing them out of the way. He dropped to the floor, groaning at the pain it caused his knees. He punched a sequence of buttons on the revealed wall safe and waited for the indicator light to turn green. When the small door sprung open, he grabbed handfuls of stacked and bound bills and tossing them on the floor. He took out a small bottle of liquid which preserved something very meaningful to him. He rubbed his hands over it lovingly for a moment and then, remembering his plight, scrambled frantically on the carpet, reaching back behind another set of hanging clothes. He found an old duffle bag and stuffed the cash in its bottom. He pulled himself to his feet and started to cram several things into the bag on top of the bills. He placed the vial of liquid carefully in the bag, nestled between a stack of bills, and closed it.

  After looking around one last time, he carried the bag into the kitchen and pulled a different set of keys off of the hook hanging by the door. He was going to the only place where they might not find him. His mother had passed away six month earlier and he hadn’t listed her house for sale yet. “Maybe they won’t know about it,” he hoped as he picked up his briefcase. He opened his car door and removed the garage door opener. He closed the door and waddled over to the car parked next to his. It was an older model sedan, which had also belonged to his mother. He opened the back door and threw in the bag and briefcase and then carefully wedged himself into the front seat. He sat in the dark garage, trying to calm his racing heart. He held his fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse while breathing deeply.

  Lieberman leaned over and opened the glove box, rummaging around until he found a bottle of aspirin. He tried to open the cap and panicked when it wouldn’t turn. He forced himself to focus, pressing the cap down and around to disengage the child-proof mechanism. He poured the pills into his shaking clammy hand, spilling several onto the seat and down onto the floorboard. He held two in his hand. “I need some water.” He considered a run back into the house for something to drink, but decided against it and dry swallowed the pills, almost choking. He rubbed his throat trying to help the pills move down, and then collapsed on the seat, exhausted.

  “Come on Benny! Pull yourself together. You’ve got to get out of here.” He used the steering wheel to pull himself up in the seat and started the car. He opened the garage door with the controller, and eased the car out. When he cleared the door, he closed it and backed out and drove away. Lieberman avoided the main streets and highways as much as possible. The indirect route took much longer, but he considered it safer. He checked the rear view mirror every minute or so, checking for lights or sirens. “They’re probably looking for you now, Benny.”

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of a well maintained ranch style house in an older neighborhood. “You’re almost safe,” he told himself. He looked around to make sure no one was watching before he opened the car door and hurried to the garage. He inserted a key in the locked door and turned the mechanism. “I should have bought her an automatic opener,” he lamented as he struggled with the heavy door. Once he lifted it, he returned to the car and drove it in. He scurried out and quickly lowered the door, wincing as it hit the concrete floor and bounced. He hoped no one had heard the noise. He unloaded the car and unlocked and opened the back door, squinting in the darkness. He fumbled for the switch and turned on a single light. The house smelt musty and it was hot. He walked to the thermostat and adjusted the air down, not worried about the expense. With any luck,
he’d be long gone when the bill came due. He checked the blinds then filled a big glass of water. After chugging it down, he waddled past the plastic covered furniture to the recliner in the corner of the living room and collapsed into the plushy softness. “I need to rest.”

  An hour later, Lieberman woke up with a start, confused and disoriented. He blinked and looked around him, trying to determine where he was. “Oh, no!” he thought as it all came rushing back. He hauled himself out of the chair and went for another glass of water.

  Standing by the sink while he drank, he tried to think of what to do next. He rinsed the glass and put it in the draining rack, just like his mother had taught him.

  “We’re not dirty people, Benny,” she’d say. “We keep things tidy and nice in our home. Rinse your things and don’t be a schlep.”

  He retrieved his briefcase and went back to the comfortable chair. “I feel better,” he assured himself after checking his pulse again. Lieberman opened his briefcase and pulled out his phone. There were several missed calls. He remembered if the phone was turned on, they might be able to track him, so he turned it off and stowed it back in his briefcase. He pulled out an alternate phone. There was nothing to connect this phone to him. After it powered up, he opened his text messenger app and laboriously typed:

  IN TROUBLE HELP THEY NO

  In a few minutes a reply came.

  NO???

  He needed to type more carefully. He tried again, with shaky fingers.

  KNOW ABOUT GUZMAN

  There was no reply for several minutes.

  WHERE R U

  He considered telling, but he was smart enough not to trust the person on the other line.

  SAFE

  He waited for the reply.

  $$$?

  He punched in three words:

  YES

  There was no reply, and after an hour he turned off the phone and stowed it back in the briefcase. He closed the briefcase and carried it to the larger bedroom along with the duffle. He rearranged things and placed an item into his pocket. He then went into his mother’s kitchen to find something to eat. “You need to keep up your strength, Benny.” He stood at the counter and wolfed down a can of spaghetti and drank several glasses of water from the tap. Once he was finished, he carefully rinsed the plate and the glass and placed them in the drainer. He was not a dirty person.

  He made his way back to the chair and checked his pulse again before leaning back the recliner and falling asleep.

  ♦♦♦

  In a stripper bar a few miles away outside the middle of nowhere, John Brown was stretched out at a table by himself; his booted feet up on the chair next to him. He nursed his twenty-five dollar bourbon while he watched the show. The bourbon wasn’t all that good, but that was what even the cheap stuff cost in this dive. He had the place mostly to himself since it was late, and most of the regulars had already pried their eyes off the girls and gone home.

  He watched the redhead working the stage, mentally critiquing the goods on offer. “Tits aren’t real,” he decided. “No one has real tits as firm and unmoving as that.” The girl bent backward, thrusting her crotch into the air. Her bent legs stretched and spread, providing him a glimpse of a thin swath of the hot pink nylon thong she wore. He was considering moving closer to the stage for a better look when his phone buzzed.

  He reached into his pocket and removed it, glancing at the message.

  I HAVE A PROBLEM

  He considered the text for a while, glancing up occasionally to watch the girl on the stage. As she finally crossed her spread legs and lifted herself from the stage floor he typed back, SOLVE PROBLEM 4 U?

  He wasn’t worried about who the target was, or who was looking to take out the hit. Only people who’d been pre-screened and vetted had his number. John Brown was a careful and experienced man. He wouldn’t have survived in his business if he hadn’t been.

  In a few minutes, he got an answer. HOW MUCH?

  50K

  There was no response for several minutes and he considered the current state of his finances. He adjusted his price. 40K

  He hated to make cut-rate deals, especially with the bastard he was texting, but a man had to make a living somehow if a regular job didn’t quite cut it. After a few more exchanges, the transaction was agreed and the details finalized. He’d start the job in the morning. He put the phone back in his pocket and took a drink.

  The girl on stage was now working the pole in the center of the stage. Her ass jiggled a little, just the way he liked ‘em. He drained his bourbon and signaled for another as he moved to a seat closer to the stage. He pulled a fifty out of his front shirt pocket and beckoned to the girl with the bill in his hand. She worked her way over to the edge of the stage in front of him and spread her legs widely as she bent down in a provocative pose, giving him a good shot at her goodies. He made a leisurely inspection, discovering she was, as he’d expected, waxed clean as a whistle. He crooked his finger and she leveraged herself closer, putting herself practically in his face. He breathed in her scent and reached out with his hand and tucked the fifty into her thong. She smiled and brushed his finger with her snatch. She was moist. Money did that to girls like her, he knew. As she backed away, he brought the finger up to his mouth and licked it while she watched over her shoulder on her way back to the pole.

  When the topless server arrived with the new drink, he whispered in her ear then gave her a very generous tip. Thirty minutes later, he was seated on a zebra-striped sofa in a back room waiting for his lap dance. He figured he’d earned it. He’d done a little business this evening and had a new job ahead of him. The redhead from the stage entered the room and walked over to him on her five inch stilettos. He unbuttoned his shirt and lifted his hips slightly to stuff several fifties down his pants while she watched. He was just making sure that if she wanted them, she’d have to work for them. She smiled, eager to please, and licked her glossy, cherry-red lips as she eyed his crotch.

  If he didn’t have love, at least he had money. John Brown’s night looked like it was going to turn out to be pretty damned good, even if he had to pay for the privilege.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  REIGHTMAN AND JACKSON stood outside Chief Kelly’s office, waiting for door to open. Reightman could hear the Chief talking on the phone, but she couldn’t make out his words. She’d given him a brief thumbnail update via phone about a half an hour earlier, and he’d indicated he had a couple of calls to make before he’d be free to see her and Jackson. Nancy sat at her desk filing away at a chipped nail, and occasionally shooting a baneful glare her way.

  “Nancy, I’m really sorry your night was ruined. That’s just the way things happen sometime.”

  The woman shot her another look, then opened a desk drawer, tossed in her nail file and closed the drawer, not quite slamming it shut. The admin turned away pointedly, and focused on her computer. From the movements of the mouse and the sounds coming from the monitor, Reightman guessed that Nancy was playing a game of solitaire. She looked over at Jackson, just in time to see his shit-eating grin. At least one of them was enjoying this snippet of office drama.

  After a couple more minutes, the phone on Nancy’s desk buzzed and she paused in her solitaire game. “Yeah, okay… Yes, I’ll tell them.” She placed the handset back in the cradle and turned back to her game. After she made a couple of more moves with the mouse she spoke to no one in particular. “Chief Kelly says you can go on in.” She didn’t look up as they passed her desk, but Reightman could feel Nancy’s eyes, aimed like daggers at her back.

  They filed into the office and shut the door. Chief Kelly turned away from his computer monitor. “I was able to reach Judge McLarity. Warrant should be on its way in the next few minutes. There is also an area wide APB out for his arrest. Hopefully, we’ll find the sleazy SOB.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What tipped Lieberman off, Reightman?”

  “Not what, but who, Chief. Helliman snagged the phot
ocopy from the printer and took it down to the morgue.”

  “Helliman, huh?” the Chief grunted. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but he’s always been a pain in the ass. Where’s he now?”

  Jackson answered for both of them. “No idea, Chief. He was gone from the building by the time Mitchell escorted Riley upstairs. Reightman and Anderson were occupied with their initial inspection of the morgue area.”

  The chief picked up his phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered, Kelly barked into the phone, “Find Helliman and bring him in. I want him in my office, now!” Without waiting for a reply, he slammed down the phone and sat back in his chair with his hands folded over the beginnings of a slight paunch. “Where is our Assistant City Coroner now?”

  “We’re holding him in an interview room,” Reightman replied. “He asked for an attorney, who’s not yet arrived.”

  “He thinks he needs one, huh?” The Chief leaned back in the chair, accompanied by its familiar squeals and groans. “Both Lieberman and Riley involved – what are the odds?” he asked the ceiling before looking back at the two detectives. “How tangled up in this mess is Dr. Riley?” He directed the question to Reightman.

  “I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look good for him right now. We’ve identified a print belonging to him on Mr. Guzman’s phone and found two pieces of Guzman’s jewelry hidden in one of his desk drawers. Those items were missing from the deceased’s effects, and Doris told me that the corresponding descriptions were scratched out on the evidence log. Tom is on his way to pick it up to see if he can find out anything.”

  “So, we have a motive tied to Doctor Lieberman, and possible obstruction along with aiding and abetting chalked up for Dr. Riley.” The Chief chewed his cheek for a minute, thinking through the new pieces of the puzzle. “Any luck in tracking down where the murder weapon originated?” he finally asked Jackson.

  “Some, sir.” Jackson pulled out his notebook and flipped a couple of pages. “I made a circuit to the pawn shops downtown this afternoon. I stumbled onto a bit of luck at “Best City Pawn and Loan.” The proprietor remembers having a knife matching the description of the murder weapon in his inventory. He said he sold it about a month or so ago, but can’t remember who bought it. I showed him a photo of Mr. Bailey and was told it wasn’t him. That’s about the only thing definitive to come out of our entire conversation. His records are a mess, and he can’t see worth a damn either." Jackson glanced down at his notes. “Mr. Goldbleum, the owner, is pretty old and when I asked him why he didn’t upgrade his record keeping system, he stated, quote, “I don’t hold much with all of this computer crap,” end quote. He mostly records everything in old-fashioned ledgers, and for cash transactions of non-regulated items he just writes down the sale amount. “