by Meg Lelvis
“Why just one ball?” Hector asked.
“Maybe in a hurry or figured that was enough to send a message. Perp was probably left handed, easier to slice the kid’s right one.” Jack shuffled several papers on his desk. Mason said Vince is on his way back, so we’ll get his take on it. You guys check the sex offender roll call. Don’t know how many are in our fair city at the moment. And tell Jill not to leak any of this to Benson.”
“You still going to the Olive Garden?” Moose stood up from his chair.
“Yeah, heading over there now.” Jack combed his thick hair, looking in a small framed wall mirror beside a file cabinet. Damn, he was getting grayer by the day.
“See you later, handsome,” Hector chided as he and Moose left the office.
“Up yours.” Jack unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. Why the hell had he quit smoking?
. . . . .
The Olive Garden was six miles from Main Street, and stood alone on Highway 59 near 792.
Behind the restaurant the Brazos Town Center sprawled out in all its glory, its tan facade housing the usual mid-level retail establishments. Jack had no use for malls, and only noticed the Cracker Barrel and JC Penney nearby. God, the entire place was a vast wasteland of consumerism baking in the desert.
Jack parked the patrol car where he damn well pleased and entered the imitation Tuscany portals of the Italian dining chain. An amiable, rotund Latino woman greeted Jack with a sunny smile, inquired after his health, and led him to a table for just one today, thank you.
The waiter soon arrived, and Jack bent the ‘no drinking on the job’ directive and ordered the house Chianti. When it was delivered, he chose a small portion of spaghetti and meatballs, figuring they couldn’t do much damage to that fare. He fished his cell from his pocket and called Vince, the CSI guy who witnessed the autopsy.
“What was your take on the results, Vince?” Jack listened, inserting several right’s and yeah’s every few seconds. “Okay, thanks. Catch you later.” Vince didn’t add much to Mason’s report, but speculated it was a gay thing, given the gunshot and crossing the wrists across the groin. Jack’s gut rejected that theory, but he wasn’t sure why.
Twenty minutes later, Jack finished his lunch, headed for the kitchen, and walked in.
A young black waiter said, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
Jack flashed his badge. “Where’s your manager?”
“Oh, ah, he’s right over there, sir.”
Jack walked between two long stainless counters toward a burly, balding man in his forties.
“Jack Bailey, RPD,” Jack told the man. ”I need to talk to you privately.”
“Sure, sir, let’s go in the office. I’m Dan Reed.”
They entered a small, neatly arranged office near the commercial refrigerator.
“Have a seat,” Reed said.
“I’m here to talk about Todd Kaplan. I know you were questioned yesterday, but I wanted to go over a few details and check the kid’s records.” Jack sat down across from a tidy light wood desk.
“Sure, I’ll get his file.” Reed pulled out the top drawer of a gray cabinet and retrieved a manila file folder. “It’s in the computer too, but I keep hard copies for five years.”
Jack opened the file and perused several pages. “I don’t see anything from his time in Lake Charles. You did a background, right?”
“Yeah, should have.” Reed sat down at his desk. “Like I told your guys yesterday, I’ve only been here a few months.”
“Hmm. Something here about an issue with black customers,” Jack mused.
“That was before my time too, but I saw it yesterday when I pulled the file. I asked a couple people about it.” Reed fiddled with a pencil. “Several black people complained about Todd’s treatment of them, that he purposely made them wait. Nothing was ever proven, but the manager talked to Todd about it.”
“Did you ever notice anything about his attitude or a hint at racial bias?” Jack asked.
Employers cringed these days at the slightest innuendo of race issues, and Reed might be tight-lipped about it, but Jack had to ask. Personally, he was fed up with society’s obsession with political correctness, but he couldn’t save the world.
“No,” Reed quickly answered. “Todd was nice to everybody no matter what they looked like.”
Interesting way to put it, Jack thought. He sensed Reed’s discomfort.
“Ever hear about Todd’s private life. Girlfriend, boyfriend?”
“Not recently.” Reed’s ears reddened. “I heard somewhere that he went out with some girls from work a while ago. Before I came. One still works here.”
Jack didn’t know if Moose and Tilford got the girls’ names, so he asked Reed for them.
“The one who still works here is Lindsey Marks. Part time, goes to Wharton branch here.
Reed straightened his white shirt collar. “I’ll ask Jena for the other names. She’s the hostess, been here quite a while.”
“Okay, let’s ask.” He followed Reed’s considerable bulk through the kitchen, noisy with barking orders and clanging utensils.
They approached Jena standing at the reception counter. After Reed asked her about the girls Todd may have dated, her ready smile vanished. She cleared her throat, hesitated, and spoke slowly.
“Besides Lindsey, I think there was someone quite a while ago.” Jack took his notebook from his pocket.
“Does she have a name?” He wondered why the woman appeared nervous.
“Uh. Brooke—Brooke Warner.” Jena fidgeted with the knot on her scarf.
Jack wrote in his notebook. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
God, pulling teeth would be easier than this. “Was she in school, or she moved, or what?”
Jena looked at the floor. The woman was fudging, and Jack grew impatient.
“She worked here for a few months almost two years ago. Todd was new, and I think he was interested in her.” Jena looked around, eager to help another diner waiting for a table.
“Go ahead,” Jack told her. “We’ll wait.” Jena scurried off, smiling at her new customer.
“She seem nervous to you?” Jack asked Reed.
“Not used to talking to cops. What happened to Todd has us all really distracted.”
“Right. Gonna have to talk to these girls. When does Lindsey come in?”
“Tomorrow night I think. I’ll check for sure.” Reed studied his phone as Jena returned.
She smiled wanly at Jack. “That’s about all I know.” Reed looked up from his phone. “Lindsey’s scheduled tomorrow night from 6:00 to 10:00,” he told Jack.
“Okay, good. One last question. Anyone work here now who knew Brooke?”
Jena stared at her long pink fingernails. “Derek might. They both went to Travis High.”
“Right, thanks for your time. Here’s my card. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
Jack closed his notebook, returned it to his pocket, and started to walk out. He stopped and turned around. “By the way, you might want to rethink the house Chianti. It’s thin. Lacks body.” He looked at
Reed. Couldn’t say the same about him.
Chapter 7
On the drive back to the station, Jack wondered about Reed and Jena. Why did they seem nervous when questioned about Todd’s dating history? What’s the big deal, unless there was a drug connection after all. Something was off. He was sure Todd wasn’t the nice guy he’d seemed to be.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack was back at the station. He stopped at J
ill’s desk on the way to his office.
“Anything new?” Jack asked as she ended a phone call. She placed the receiver in its slot.
“Roger Kaplan showed up about an hour ago.” Jill shuffled several papers. “We set him up at the Arbour.”
“Good. How did he seem?” Jack asked.
“Tired. Probably hadn’t slept much. Drove over alone from Lake Charles this morning.” Jill smoothed the back of her short gray hair. “He might be in his fifties, but has an old, worn-out look about him. Was pretty stoic about Todd’s death. Didn’t ask to see the body.”
“Interesting,” Jack mused. “Guess they weren’t close. What are his plans?”
“He wants to take Todd home to Lake Charles. Said something about a family plot.” Jill reached for a post-it note on her desk. “Here’s his cell number. Wants you to call him.”
“All right,” Jack said as he took the number. “Maybe I can get a handle on what Todd was really like when I talk to the dad.”
“Good luck. He’s pretty quiet.” Jill reached for her ringing phone. Jack turned to walk away when Benson from the Fort Bend Herald walked over and joined them.
Jack grimaced. “Benson.”
“Hello, Jack. How are you today?” The reporter smiled like a crocodile.
“I know why you’re here. Got no more information on Todd Kaplan’s murder, and Jill doesn’t know anything either. So don’t bother her.”
“You’re telling me you have no leads on the shooter or motive?” Benson had an annoying smirk; Jack wanted to punch him.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you, so if you’ll excuse us, some people have real work to do.”
“Think it was drugs?”
“For the last time, Benson.” Jack stood taller. “No leads.”
“Okay, I can take a hint, but I’ll be in touch.” Benson straightened his blue bow tie over a wrinkled striped cotton shirt. He adjusted his wire rimmed glasses and took his leave.
“What a pain in the ass,” Jack muttered. He looked at Jill. “Remember, not a word.”
“Of course not. Have a good afternoon, Jack.” She turned to her ringing phone as he walked away.
Jack unlocked his office door, grabbed his coffee mug, and headed for the kitchenette. On the way he ran into Moose. “See you in my office. Got an update.”
“Gotcha. I’ll get Hector.” Moose brushed his yellow hair from his forehead.
Jack returned to his office with his coffee and three glazed doughnuts on a paper plate.
Moose and Hector joined him as Jack put the plate on his cluttered desk.
“Gee, thanks, boss,” Hector said as he spotted the pastries.
“Yeah, downright thoughtful of you, Jack,” Moose said.
“You think these are for you? I’m taking them home to Boone,” Jack said.
“Come on, that mutt needs to go on a diet.” Moose reached for a doughnut. Hector retrieved another one, and Jack took the last. The three men sat in their designated chairs. For five years, Moose always sat in the chair closest to the door and Hector took the other chair by the bookshelves. No particular reason, just habit.
“Just talked to Jill about Roger Kaplan. He’s staying at the Arbour. That new place by Brazos Mall.” Jack bit into his doughnut. “A coincidence it’s so close to the Olive Garden. Don’t know if he’ll want to see where his son worked or talk to anyone who knew him.”
“Yeah, hard to say if he’d want to visit the kid’s workplace,” Moose said, brushing flakes of glaze from his green cotton shirt.
Jack continued to relay details of his Olive Garden interview with Dan Reed, including the names of the girls Todd allegedly dated. Jack added that both Reed and the hostess seemed edgy and uncomfortable.
“Something made them jumpy. Maybe girls and drugs.” Hector polished off his doughnut.
“Sure could use some coffee.”
“Where the hell do you think you are, Starbucks?” Jack scoffed. “Anyway, I plan to question the two girls. One’s gonna be at work tomorrow night. Moose, you locate the other one.”
Moose wiped his sticky fingers with a napkin. “Right, boss.”
Jack gulped his coffee. “Hector, you find the roommate, Derek. I’m sure he’s crashing at his girlfriend’s. Want to question him more about Todd’s love life or lack thereof. I think he’s hiding something.”
“I’m on my way, right after I get coffee.” Flecks of frosting decorated Hector’s black mustache.
He hoisted his sizable bulk from the chair and departed with Moose.
After the detectives left, Jack updated the remainder of his team by email. He sent an abbreviated version to the captain and chief. He enjoyed the detective aspect of law enforcement, but hated the necessary, cover-your-ass stuff. Of course, who didn’t? Damn bureaucracy invented more ridiculous and time-consuming paperwork every year.
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. He sighed. “Come in.”
Jack’s expression soured. “Hell-o, Tilford.”
Tilford grinned widely. Damned if he didn’t resemble Newman. “Hello, Jack. Nice to see you.”
“What do you want?”
“Just got your email about the autopsy report. Hmm, very interesting.” Tilford continued beaming.
“You gonna stand there with that shit-faced grin and waste my time, or do you want something?” Was this jackass ever going to take his retirement?
“Now Jack, you know I just want to help. It’s the first sex crime we’ve had in a long time.”
Tilford plopped down in a chair across from Jack.
“An astute observation. I always like to be informed.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Go check with Hector. See what they got from sex registry and divide up the questioning. Have a nice day.”
Tilford stood and made an effort to tuck in his wrinkled plaid shirt around his ample gut. “Okay, Jack, don’t work too hard.”
Jack smirked. “I’ll knock off early, relax in front of the TV, and have a Guinness just for you.”
After Tilford left, Jack tapped in Roger Kaplan’s cell number. He answered on the third ring, and agreed to meet Jack at the Arbour’s lounge at 6:30. The man’s voice sounded tired and hoarse. A smoker? Jack pegged him for blue collar, probably refinery worker. He then chastised himself for judging the guy based on his preconceived notion of Lake Charles and its denizens.
Jack decided to do what he’d told Tilford. Knock off early and have a tasty Guinness. He’d scarf down Baumgartner’s leftover meat loaf and tend to Boone before meeting Kaplan.
Within ten minutes, Jack pulled into his driveway and parked his Beemer in the garage. Boone yelped behind the kitchen door, and Jack let the big mutt out. He jumped up on his master, full of joy at his arrival. “Come on, boy, let’s get the mail.”
Boone relieved himself under a sago palm, and Jack headed down the driveway toward the mailbox. He retrieved various ads and fliers, and then spotted Erna Baumgartner walking around the side of her house to her front porch. She noticed him and waved.
“Mr. Bailey, nice to see you home early again.” Her voice sounded like a wounded hen.
“Yeah, yeah. What are you doing outside in this heat, as if I didn’t know.” Jack walked toward the woman. Figured he’d be sociable for a change.
“Checking my roses, and ya, the heat’s awful.” She fingered the pocket of her frumpy blue house dress.
Jack watched her hand. “Got something in there, Baumgartner? A lighter maybe?”
“Now Mr. Bailey, never you mind. I’m a grown woman.”
“You can say that aga
in. By the way, what does your doctor say about you sneaking cigarettes?”
“Ha, Mr. Smarty. I’ll have you know he said, ‘Erna, you’re eighty-seven years old. You do whatever you want.’ So how do you like them apples?”
Jack snorted. “Wish my doc told me that. Sure miss those Camels.” He turned and headed for the garage. “Wiedersehn.”
“Ach, wait a minute.” She plucked a dead leaf from an azalea bush. “I ran into Father Joe at Kroger this morning. He wants you to come to Mass this Sunday. It’s a special service for new people.”
Jack kept walking. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Baumgartner, I’m not interested. Goodbye.”
After growing up in a large Irish household, and educated by nuns swatting his knuckles with rulers, he wanted no part of organized religion and a god who was never around when you needed him.
“We’ll pray for you, Mr. Bailey.” The woman took a white hankie from her pocket and wiped beads of sweat from her chubby red face. “Oh ya, how did you like the meatloaf? Hope you had it for dinner last night.”
“Sure did, and still got the heartburn to prove it.”
“Ha, very funny.”
Jack grunted and headed for his garage. Baumgartner was like a dog with a bone in her attempt to convince Jack he should return to the Catholic fold. For the last six years, she harped at him to at least give it a try. One day she’d corralled him into meeting Father Joe when he graced her with a visit.
He seemed like a nice guy, but Jack didn’t trust men of the cloth. Bunch of hypocrites. So he’d kept his distance from Sacred Heart Church. If people wanted to worship, let them, but leave him alone.
Religion sure as hell didn’t do squat for him when he needed it ten years ago.
Boone yipped and relieved himself one more time before Jack reached the kitchen door.
“Let’s have a treat.” Jack bent down and massaged the dog’s golden fur behind his ears. He groaned with pleasure.
