Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4

by Pendelton Wallace

  More murmurs.

  “So I have plan I want to put before you. I hope you’ll all agree with me since this will only work if we all join together as a community.”

  “How you goin’ to catch the Johnson Boy, Ed?” An older gentleman standing at the back of the room shouted.

  “You all know that this boy is making fools out of law enforcement.” Ed ignored the question and went on with his presentation. “Who has lost property to him?”

  “He busted the window in my back door and took a new TV set,” a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and Panama hat said.

  “Us too,” a small middle-aged woman stood. “He broke into our house. He really didn’t take anything except a few blankets and some food, but I felt so violated, that someone strange could just break into my house.”

  The crowd noise rose. People shouted over each other to be heard as each tale became more fantastic than the last.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?” A female voice shouted above the crowd.

  “People, PEOPLE, calm down.” Ed patted his hands downward in the air. When the noise abated slightly, Ed spoke again. “We’re going to hire a bounty hunter.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  The room broke up into dozens of different conversations, each louder than the next.

  “People. PEOPLE,” Ed shouted into the microphone, “settle down. Hear me out.”

  “We don’t want him killed, Ed,” an elderly lady in the front row shouted. “We just want to be rid of him.”

  “No one’s killing anyone,” Ed shouted above the roar. “No one’s going to get hurt. I’ve looked into this. This isn’t the Old West.”

  The conversations subsided enough for Ed to go on.

  “I’ve talked to a couple of these people. They’re very modern. They work mostly for bail bondsmen. When someone jumps bail, they hire bounty hunters to track them down. The police usually don’t go out of their way to find the bail jumper, so they need a private party to do the job. The bounty hunters are pretty good at it.”

  “But the Johnson Kid didn’t jump bail,” a voice said from the crowd.

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s a warrant out on him for escaping from the Island County Juvenile Detention Center. They can bring him back on that. If they get him back here, the sheriff has plenty of other charges to hit him with.”

  “The kids gone already,” a middle-aged man in the front row shouted. “Why bother with him. Let him go.”

  Ed shook his head. “We can’t let some kid make a mockery of the law. We can’t just sit here and let a criminal go unpunished.”

  “Good riddance, I say,” said an older lady with blue hair. “He’s gone.”

  “Yeah, but if Clayton comes back,” the middle-aged man shouted, “We’ll still need to nail him. I think that we need to stop him before someone gets hurt.”

  “Dean’s right. He’s just a kid, but if we let him get away with this, he’s only going to get worse. How long is it going to be before he commits murder or rape?”

  Ed needed to get control of the meeting. “What kind of message does this send to our kids? He’s got fan pages on Facebook now. They’ll think they can get away with this kind of stuff. What does it say about our community?”

  “Okay, Ed.” This from a heavy man in a Seahawks sweatshirt. “How do you propose to pay for all of this? We sure aren’t going to subscribe to a levy.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. It won’t cost us a thing, unless you want to donate. I want to start a KickStarter campaign to raise the money.”

  “A what?”

  “KickStarter. For those of you not into the Internet, it’s a crowd funding web page.”

  “What’s crowd funding?” the blue-haired lady asked.

  “We put up this web page and tell the world what we’re trying to do. People subscribe to it. They pledge money. If we get enough pledges then KickStarter collects the money and sends it to us. Then we can afford the bounty hunter.”

  “Sounds crazy to me,” an old man in the back row said. “Why would anyone want to contribute money to such a cock-eyed scheme?”

  “It’s in the news,” a younger man said. “It’s on TV every night. It’s in the papers. There’s Facebook fan pages. Everyone is talking about it. I like it. I think people would want to be part of catching the Fly Away Bandit. Can you imagine if they had anything like this in the Thirties? You could be part of catching Dillinger or Bonnie and Clyde.”

  The debate raged on. No one was really against catching the Fly Away Bandit. Most just couldn’t understand the crowd-sourcing idea.

  “Folks, folks.” Ed raised both of his hands over his head, palms out. “Settle down. I think we all agree that we can’t stand for this kind of lawlessness. He’s flaunting it in our faces and putting the message on his Facebook page. ‘Catch me if you can.’ Well, we can. I think we have consensus. I’ll ask my son, Eric, to make a KickStarter page. I’ll report back in two weeks to tell you how we’re doing.”

  ****

  “Goooood afternoon Seeeeattle, and welcome to Crime Beat. Your afternoon drive-time show that keeps you up to date on all the criminal activities in the Puget Sound Area. I’m Dave Lawrence and I’ll be your host this afternoon.”

  Dave leaned back in his leather swivel chair. This was going to be good. Just when everyone was convinced that Dick Randall was dead, Dave was about to blow the lid off the Randall case.

  “Our topic today is sexpresso stand owner Richard Randall. You all know that Mr. Randall disappeared three weeks ago in the California Desert. The San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department found his burned out pickup truck along route 395. My inside sources tell me that their forensics team found a large quantity of blood, which they have now identified as Richard Randall’s, under the truck and a bullet hole in the driver’s seat.” Dave leaned back in his chair, smirked and let the audience dangle.

  “How, you ask, could Mr. Randall be anything but dead? Well, today, here on Crime Beat, for the first time anywhere, I’m going to blow the cover off of this case.”

  It was so sweet. Dave had his audience by the short and curlies. The show received more calls on the missing sexpresso owner than on any other topic. Even on days when he wasn’t reporting on the Randall case, people called in about it. Seattle was in an uproar.

  And why not? Hot women, sex, money, violence. Dave was not above stirring the pot. He had called on the State Police to take charge of the investigation and portrayed the San Bernardino County Sheriff as a Dudley Do-Right idiot who couldn’t find is ass with both hands. Crime Beat broadcast “leaked” information from the crime lab and interviewed investigating officers.

  It was a mess, and Dave Lawrence was riding the crest of the wave to the top.

  “What, you ask, would blow the cover off of this case? Well, just stay tuned. I’ll be right back after these commercial messages with the answers you’ve been waiting for.”

  He leaned away from the microphone and his engineer hit the button to play the commercials. Some ex-Mariner baseball player was hawking trucks; a fly by night lender was trying to get people to refinance their mortgages.

  None of it mattered. What mattered was the piece of paper in his hand. It the God’s honest truth, or as close to the truth as he needed. He knew how to make it work for him and his show.

  His producer held up five fingers then four, three, two, one and pointed at Dave.

  “Ladies and gents, welcome back. I told you before the break that I had the answer to what happened to Richard Randall, owner of a chain of sexpresso stands. Well, here it is. This is so hot the police don’t even know it yet.”

  He paused for effect, seeing in his mind the TV show. If the summer replacement slot materialized as rumored, he would stare into the camera, hold his breath, let the audience wait.

  Wait for it, wait for it, okay, let ‘er rip.

  “I have in my hand a letter, a piece of paper, hard copy. Signed by Richard Randall and dated three days ago, posted fro
m Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  Another pause for dramatic effect.

  “And here is what it says:”

  Dear Dave,

  I’ve been a long time fan of Crime Beat. I think you do a great job of shining the spot light on criminal activity in the Puget Sound area the public would otherwise not know about.

  Dave stopped and cleared his throat.

  “The man obviously has good taste.”

  He cleared his throat again.

  “Now back to the letter:”

  I’m writing you to clear something up. I’ve been reading all the reports of my death. Well, I’m here to say that they aren’t true.

  Sure, I’ve decided to take a little time off. Things are a little tough for me right now. I decided to hole up in the Nevada desert for awhile to let things cool off.

  I want your listeners to know that I’m not guilty of the crime for which I was convicted. I can’t prove that in jail. I’ll be working full-time finding the proof to overturn my conviction. In the meantime, I think it best if I keep my head low. I know the police would like nothing more than to pull me in so that they can close their case.

  Well, I’m telling you now, they have the wrong guy. They aren’t interested in justice. They’re not interested in the truth. They’re just interested in closing cases and looking good. Well, I’m not going to roll over and play dead for them. I’ll do everything in my power to prove my innocence. When I do, you will be the first to hear about it.

  Dave Lawrence paused, wiped his brow and waited for it to sink in.

  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen; the letter is signed by Richard Randall and dated three days ago saying he’s alive and didn’t commit the crime of sexually exploiting a minor.”

  This stuff was too good to be true. Dave couldn’t make it up.

  “You have been the first to hear of this letter. I’ll call the police as soon as we’re off the air and turn the letter over to them. I expect that this will close the case.

  “Oh yes, and Mr. Randall left us a post script. It says:

  And, Dave, I’m glad to see all of the attention that the Fly Away Bandit is getting. With him receiving so much press, my story is going to fade from the headlines.

  Dave smiled.

  “Richard, Richard, Richard. Don’t be too sure. Your story isn’t going to go away until I have you sitting here in front of a microphone.”

  ****

  The Wednesday night meet up at Nuevo Chaparral had become a regular thing. Every week, after work, Ted, Chris and Maria headed to Hope’s restaurant. Hope kept a big table in a little private room off to the side open for them. They sat, noshed on Nachos and taquitos and rehashed their weeks.

  Maria pulled her yellow Subaru Outback into the parking lot overlooking Lake Union. The little SUV was Popo’s car; he only let Maria drive it.

  She selected it because it had a baggage area just the right size for a Great Dane and it was low enough to the ground that Popo could easily jump up into the back area. She kept the back seats folded down so there was plenty of room for him to stretch out.

  Her dad, Ricky Gonzales, had helped her buy the used car after flying to Seattle with Popo and her to get her settled. Dad was always supportive.

  Mom was the gringa, always logical. Dad was Mejicano¸ a hopeless romantic who saw how badly cupid’s arrow had stuck her. He pulled strings to get her the exchange professorship at UW so his hija could be happy.

  Maria hopped out of her car, saw Ted’s BMW and Chris’s Porsche. That meant she was the last one here. It seemed like Hope was always here.

  Nuevo Chaparral’s growing popularity was a source of pride for Hope, but also a huge millstone around her neck. She practically lived at the restaurant. Maria wished Hope would soon be able to establish some balance in her life.

  “Maria, querida,” Ted shouted as she came through the door.

  He looked good. In tight black jeans and a crewneck pullover sweater she could see his muscles flexing with each movement. Ted was her height, but with broad shoulders and a huge barrel chest, he seemed much bigger than she was and his body was so hard...

  “Hi, guys,” Maria said. “Sorry I’m late. I hope you haven’t started the party without me.”

  Ted stood and gave her a peck on the lips as she entered the little room.

  “We kept the motor runnin.’ What’ve you been up to?”

  “I had to stop and walk Popo before I came down.”

  “How is the big goof?” Hope asked.

  “Have I got a story for you.” Maria proceeded to tell about her encounter with the would-be rapist at Gas Works Park.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Ted shouted. “Going to Gas Works by yourself? After dark? You were just asking for trouble.”

  “First of all, I didn’t go to the park after dark. It got dark while I was there. It gets dark so fast here in Seattle. Second, you’re not my dad. I don’t have to answer to you.” Anger smoldered in her eyes. “And third, I wasn’t by myself. I had Popo with me. He’s better than carrying a gun. I feel safe anywhere with him.”

  Ted seemed to calm down a little. “I guess you have a point. I sure wouldn’t try anything with a girl who had a monster dog with her.”

  Chris and Hope exchanged a glance and smiled.

  “So, how’s your case going?” Maria asked.

  “Crappy. We still don’t know what happened to Randall. Is he dead or alive? We’ve found evidence he was stashing money away in Puerto Rico, maybe he was planning to disappear. But it isn’t that much. Certainly not enough for him to live on.”

  Ted reached for a Nacho. “Cat’s contact in San Bernardino says they have forensic evidence that a crime may have occurred. They’ve determined that it was his blood they found at the crime scene. They pulled a .45 slug from the back seat. But they still don’t have a body.”

  “They can’t prove Randall was killed?” Hope asked.

  “They can’t prove that anyone was killed. It’s all circumstantial. Without a body, they don’t have anything to go on.

  “We did have one fun piece of news though. Cat interviewed his ex-wives. What she calls the ex-wives club.”

  “Yes,” Maria said.

  “They’re all Barbie Dolls. All tall, blonde, thin with big boobs. Cat said that if you put them all in the same room, you couldn’t tell which was which. Our Mr. Randall definitely had a type.”

  “So where do you go with it?” Chris raised his empty beer bottle for the server to see.

  “I don’t know. I guess we keep running down leads. As long as his wife is willing to keep paying us, we’ll keep looking.” Ted took a pull on his Dos Equis. “How about you, Chris? How’s your Fly Away Bandit?”

  “The little punk had the nerve to call me. Wouldn’t tell me where he was, but said it was out of the state.”

  “So do you have any idea where he could be, Chris?” Maria asked.

  “Hell if I know. All I know is he’d stolen a plane and cleared out of Washington. He’s started a Facebook page. Ted told me that there’s been over a million hits. A bunch of high school girls started The Fly Away Fly Away Bandit Facebook page.”

  “The guy has some ego.”

  “Yeah, and get this, he’s posting pictures all over the Internet. I told him that he’s digging his own grave by giving the state evidence to use against him.”

  “What did he say?” Hope nuzzled into Chris’s shoulder.

  “He says they’ll never catch him, says that he’s going to be bigger than Justin Bieber. The idiot’s heading for a big fall.”

  “What did he call you about?” Ted asked.

  “Get this. He wanted to know about movie rights, said he’d been watching ‘Catch Me if You Can’ and thinks his story would make a better movie. He wants me to contact Hollywood producers and shop the movie rights.”

  “Jesus,” Ted said. “That kid certainly doesn’t suffer from a lack of confidence, does he?”

  ****

  “Thank
you, Tom. I don’t know how this plays into the case, but you’ve been really helpful.” Catrina was done with the conversation, ready to go on to other things.

  Tom wasn’t.

  “How about Saturday night?” Tom had tickets to a Broadway touring company’s production of Chicago. “Maybe a nice steak at the Met before the show?”

  Catrina tolerated musicals. She was more a classic rock kind of girl. If the tickets had been to a Bon Jovi concert, she’d be eating out of his hand. “Great. The Met sounds good.” She had to toss him a few crumbs now and then. Their relationship couldn’t be all one-sided.

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up at six. Can’t wait.” Tom hung up.

  Catrina put down the phone and thought a moment. She had accomplished her objective. She got the information from forensics that she needed. But what did it mean?

  “Abiba,” she shouted through the open door. “Can you come in here a minute? And bring fresh coffee. For two.”

  Catrina and Abiba had a code. She knew that Abiba would come in prepared to discuss the case. She didn’t know what it was, but Abiba had an almost mystical power of sorting through a pile of seemingly unrelated facts and putting them together into a coherent whole. If she never did anything else, she was worth her salary for that alone.

  “Two coffees. Just as you like it, black like me.” Abiba came through the door with her silver tray in hand. “What’s bothering you this time, Mrs. Flaherty?” she asked as she poured the steaming black liquid into the stemmed cups.

  “I just got off the phone with Tom. He had information for me about Dick Randall’s supposed letter to the radio station.”

  “Um-hm.” Abiba handed Catrina her cup and sat in the chair across from her desk.

  “That weasel, Lawrence, turned the letter over to SPD. Tom called to tell me that their crime lab was done examining it.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Abiba adjusted herself in the too-small chair. “Nothing to go on.”

  “Bullseye,” Catrina said, touching her nose with her forefinger. “No finger prints on the letter. The envelope only had prints from the carrier. No DNA on the seal of the envelope. Whoever sent it must have sealed it with a sponge because he or she didn’t want to leave any traces for the police to follow.”