Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5)

by Renee Pawlish

  “You need to go now.”

  I smiled politely. “It’s been nice chatting with you.”

  He glared at me as I slid from the booth and left. I felt his eyes boring into me as I walked out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I went out to the parking lot and called Detective Iles.

  “How’d it go?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his tone.

  “I didn’t get much from him,” I said. “I want to keep the tail, though, see what he does next.”

  “My shift ends at ten. There’ll be another guy for the night. We’ll let you know what Marko does.”

  “Great, thanks.” I sat in my car for a moment to catch my breath and mull my next move. I’d been running all day. Then Spats called.

  “Hey, quick touch-base,” he said. “I got with Hernandez. Nice guy. He’s having some trouble with Nakamura’s phone recs. The phone company’s giving him the runaround. I’m going to see if I can help.”

  “Good. We really need to compare them to McCleary’s.”

  “Right. Speaking of phone companies, I got Olivia Hartnell’s phone recs. I don’t see that she had any contact with McCleary or Nakamura. She’s talked to Victor Marko a few times this last week. I can give you the dates and times if you need.”

  “Not at this point. I just talked to Victor, and he says he and Olivia are friends. What I need is to find out what they’re talking about.”

  He laughed. “I can’t help you there. Anyway, she also received a call from the prison.”

  “Her brother Felix, I would assume.”

  “Yes. And again, we don’t know what they talked about.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I feel like I’m spinning my wheels, so I’m going to head home.”

  I filled him in on what I’d been doing. “I hope to head home soon, too.”

  “So far we haven’t been able to find anything unusual in McCleary’s recent trials. It’s taking a lot of time to go through those files, though.”

  I let out a big sigh. “I hope we get a break in the case.”

  Another laugh, one with frustration. “You got that right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’ve got another call coming in. I’ve got to get this.”

  “I’m off,” he said.

  I swiped my phone screen to switch calls. “Spillman.”

  “This is Cory Fuller, from Uber. A Detective Hernandez requested some information about a driver.”

  “Yes, thank you.” I put the phone on speaker and reached for a pen and notepad on the console between the seats. “Were you able to get the driver’s name?”

  “Yes. I apologize for the delay, but we needed to get the request cleared. The driver is Elias Abid.” He spelled it. “I’ve talked to him, and he said he would speak to you. Do you want his phone and address?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He rattled off the driver’s address and phone number, and I thanked him.

  “Sure,” he said. “We’re happy to assist you.”

  “That’s very helpful.”

  I thanked him again, ended the call, and immediately dialed Abid. It rang a couple of times, and then a soft voice with a trace of an accent answered. I identified myself.

  “Oh yes, the police. About the man I drove the other night. What do you want to know?”

  “Would you be able to meet me somewhere to talk about it?” Even though it would take more time than a phone interview, and I’d be even later getting home, I prefer in person interviews much better to see a person’s reactions.

  “Yes. I live at the Harmony Apartments.”

  I nodded. “I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “That would be fine.”

  I ended the call and glanced back at the restaurant. Marko was still inside, and he’d been joined by a man with long brown hair. They were leaning into the table in earnest conversation. I wondered what they were talking about and I was tempted to go back inside. I quickly dismissed that idea; Marko wouldn’t tell me anything. I shrugged and drove out of the parking lot.

  “Hello, Detective,” Elias Abid said.

  I stood in the hallway of his apartment building, and I heard a calming music – something with wind and string instruments – coming from inside. He stepped back and gestured.

  “Would you please come in?”

  I thanked him and stepped into a short hall. The apartment was small, one of many in a ten-story high-rise near Colfax and Federal Street. He had me follow him. I passed a tiny kitchen to the right, where a tall woman was cooking something that smelled delicious. The hall opened into a living room sparsely decorated with an old couch and a TV on a table. Elias gestured toward the couch, where I sat down, as he turned down the volume on a small radio that sat on the table. He settled onto a wooden chair and looked at me expectantly.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me,” I said. I glanced toward the kitchen. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

  He shook his head. “It is fine. I drive all day, and I stopped for a little rest. After you leave, if I get more calls, I go back out.”

  He had dark hair, a thin mustache and beard, and dark eyes. He seemed warm and genuine. I hoped I wasn’t costing him a client.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Iraq. I left several years ago.”

  Some Middle Eastern countries suffer from rampant government and police corruption, and their citizens, understandably, are inherently distrustful of law enforcement. But I was relieved that I didn’t feel any hostility from him toward me. I returned the smile.

  “I’m particularly interested in someone you gave a ride to last Wednesday night,” I said. “He was an Asian-American man, with salt-and-pepper hair.” I described Judge Nakamura as best I could. “I’m not sure where you picked him up, but you dropped him off at a ranch-style house in the Bow Mar neighborhood.” I described where Nakamura lived.

  His eyebrows raised. “Salt-and-pepper?”

  I smiled. “Darker hair but with gray in it.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember that man.”

  “You do?” I couldn’t contain my surprise. I had wondered if he would recall a specific fare, given how many people he must’ve driven since then.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I picked him up at a restaurant south of here, on Federal. I don’t remember the name, but it’s a little one, where all the Asian businesses are.”

  I knew the area he meant. Several blocks on South Federal have a large concentration of Asian businesses, primarily Vietnamese.

  “At the Far East Center?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “About a mile farther south. Next door to a barber shop.”

  “What made you remember that particular customer?”

  A kettle banged in the kitchen, and he glanced that way with slight embarrassment, then looked back at me.

  “I remember because when I drove up, I see that man and another one outside the restaurant, and they are yelling at each other.”

  “Yelling?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I think it was something bad, so I park and get out. I think that the one man is going to hurt the other one, the man with the … salt-and-pepper hair. I ask if there is trouble, and the Asian man say it is okay.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The first man hold up a hand to me, and he say there is no problem. Then the man I am picking up –”

  “His name was Warren,” I said.

  He nodded. “Warren. He say that everything is okay, and ask if I can give him a minute. A young man comes out of the bar and tells the two that if they don’t stop, he call the police. The other man, he seems to calm down, and they both smile at me, and say it again that everything is okay. I get back in my car and wait. The two men, they talk for a minute, and now they are not angry. Then the other man, he backs off, and then Warren gets into the backseat of my car.” He loo
ked at me, his eyes squinted with confusion.

  “What did the other man look like?”

  “Uh.” He frowned. “I don’t remember. Maybe dark hair. He is older, maybe fifties.”

  “Was he Asian?”

  “No, he is white.”

  Not much of a description, but I wasn’t surprised.

  I thought for a second. “How did Warren seem to you?”

  He looked at me with a question in his eyes. “Seem?”

  “Was he sober or did he have too much to drink. Was he angry, depressed? How was he acting?”

  “Oh, he had too much to drink. He was …” he motioned with a hand as if to find the words. “I couldn’t understand him.”

  “He was slurring his words?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “He was slurring. He give me the address of where he wants to go, and then he mutters something to himself.”

  “What did he say?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, but he is upset. He apologize to me about the fight with the other man, and he says it is okay, but it isn’t. He is not happy. I ask him if he is okay, and he says that he is fine.”

  “Did you see where the other man went?”

  “No. I look in my rearview mirror once. The man who comes from the bar is talking to the other man. I don’t know what happens after that.”

  “Did you hear what Warren and this other man were talking about?”

  He smoothed his beard as he thought about that. “Warren says something about having to do something; they have to do something. And the other man says they would.”

  I smiled casually. “Did you drive straight to Warren’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he act? Did he call anyone?”

  “No. He sits in the back seat, and he looks out the windows. Once in a while, he say something, mumbles, but I don’t understand. Then he asks me if we are being followed.”

  “He thought someone might be following you?”

  He blinked a few times. “He is worried.”

  “Did anyone follow you?”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “And then what happened?”

  He shrugged. “I drive the man to his house and park in the driveway.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  He started to shake his head, then stopped. “Oh yes. As he gets out, he asks me again if we are followed.”

  “You’re sure no one followed you?”

  He shook his head. “No. I see no one. I think that man, Warren, was just … how do you say … “

  “Paranoid?”

  “Yes.” He smiled and nodded. “Paranoid.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “Anything else?”

  “He thanks me and he walks into the house. I check my app. He gives me a very nice tip. I didn’t see anything, no cars. I leave there and drive back this way, toward my apartment, and then I get a call for another ride.” He looked at me carefully. “That is it.”

  “Did Warren say anything about a man named Felix Robinson?”

  He shook his head.

  “What about Olivia Hartnell or Victor Marko?”

  His brow furrowed. “No, I do not think so.”

  “He was scared of someone following you. That was it?”

  He nodded. “I am sorry, Detective, I do not know anything else.”

  I stood up and thanked him for his time.

  “I am happy to help,” he said. “If I think of anything else, how do I get in touch with you?”

  I handed him a business card and thanked him again for his helpfulness. He led me to the door, and my mouth watered again at the smells coming from the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Elias Abid had said he’d picked up Judge Nakamura at a restaurant on South Federal. I was tired, and I wanted to go home, but I also wanted to know who Nakamura had met last Wednesday night. Someone at that restaurant might know, so I wasn’t going to stop just yet. And, Chief Follett was already putting on the pressure. I frowned and started the Escape. It was almost seven as I got onto Federal and drove south.

  Denver has a large Vietnamese population, many who came after the Vietnam War and settled on the west side of town due to cheaper housing. South of Alameda, Federal Boulevard is packed with mostly Vietnamese restaurants, supermarkets, herbal pharmacies, and gift stores. Viet Café was in a long strip mall next to a barber shop, just as Elias Abid had said. I almost missed it, as the only sign for the restaurant was on the door. The parking lot was tiny, large cars squeezed into small spaces, and I had to park on the street around the side of the building. I shoved my badge in my pocket, grabbed my purse, and got out. The night was lit by streetlights and some neon signs over some of the business doorways. A few Asian men stood outside the barbershop and watched me as I walked past them. I didn’t blame them for eyeing me; I was the only white person around. A mother and two small children walked out of a pharmacy, and I got a whiff of something citrusy. When I entered the restaurant, a tangy smell hit me, and my mouth watered, just as it had at Abid’s house. I realized I was famished. I looked around. The restaurant was crowded, the clientele Asian, the chatter of voices speaking Vietnamese, I assumed, filling the room. A short Asian man in slacks and a white shirt came to the door. He spoke to me in broken English.

  “You want table?” He motioned with his hand at all the occupied tables. “Nothing now. You wait?” Then he pointed to a tiny table in the corner by the kitchen. “You eat there? Not very quiet.”

  I nodded. “That’ll be just fine.”

  We slipped down an aisle between tables and stopped at the table, and I took a seat where I faced the room. He handed me a small menu and backed away. I kept my eyes on the menu, then glanced up. Several of the patrons were looking at me. The menu was in Vietnamese, with English as well. I decided on Bun Cha, Vietnamese meatballs. When the man came back, I ordered.

  “You like drink?”

  I smiled. “A Coke and some information.” I reached into my pocket and carefully showed him my badge under the table.

  His face clouded with suspicion, and he blinked at me. His eyes narrowed warily. “I know nothing. I get you Coke.”

  Before I could ask him anything, let alone order food, he whirled around and darted into the kitchen. I waited, and when he returned, I thanked him for the Coke.

  “No one’s in trouble,” I said quietly. “I’m following up on a murder investigation.” I hoped that if he knew the serious nature of my inquiry, he might help. I was wrong.

  He glanced around, then smiled politely at me as he pulled a pen and paper from his pocket. “What you want?”

  “I’m working a murder investigation,” I said softly. I hoped the din of the restaurant conversation would keep people from hearing our conversation. “Last Wednesday evening, two men were here. One was Asian, with dark hair streaked with gray. I don’t know who the other man was, but he was probably in his fifties. He also had dark hair going gray.”

  He pointed with his pen at the menu. “You order?”

  “Were you working that night?”

  He shook his head, then nodded. He couldn’t decide how much he wanted to get involved, or how much he wanted to tell me. Or not tell me. “I work, but I don’t remember. What you eat?”

  “Bun Cha, please.”

  He wrote it down and backed away quickly. “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for, but I appreciated his politeness. I did, however, need more information from him. I sipped my Coke and listened to the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, and the din of conversation, none of which I could understand. I watched the host bustle about the restaurant, serving food, chatting with people, all the while careful not to look at me. The restaurant was popular, and as people left, more came in. The host was helped by a tall teenage boy, both in the kitchen and the dining room, bussing tables, taking payments. Finally, the host went back into the kitchen and returned with my Bun Cha. He set it down on the table,
and I quickly tried again.

  “No one’s in trouble,” I said quietly. “I just need to know about the two men. They ate, and when they left, they got into a fight outside. Did you see them? Please, it’s important.”

  The man shook his head. “I know nothing. I have to work.”

  He whirled away again, and I desperately wanted to grab his arm, to stop him, but I didn’t want to make a scene. My food smelled wonderful, and so, despite my frustration, I began to eat. I heard loud voices, and I glanced toward the kitchen and saw the man talking to the teenager. At one point their conversation became animated.

  I finished my meal, and I had to admit, it was delicious. I made a mental note to tell Harry about this hole-in-the-wall place. He’d probably enjoy coming here sometimes. My host was careful not to stop by until he noticed I’d finished eating. Then he returned and set a bill down on the table. As I pulled out my purse, I tried one last time.

  “You might remember the two men. It’s very important.”

  He gave me a blank look, picked up the bill and credit card, and backed away.

  “I get this for you.” He scurried to the front and ran my card, then came back with it, and a pen. “Good meal?”

  I nodded. “It was delicious.” I signed the credit card receipt and handed it to him. By the look on his face, I could tell I wasn’t going to get anything from him. I was disappointed. I thanked him again, got up, and left. As I went out the front door, I looked around. The night held a pleasantness I did not feel. I had come up empty-handed. I walked past the other businesses and was walking to my car when I heard a voice.

  “Hey!”

  I spun around to see the teenager from the restaurant. He emerged from the back of the building and walked toward me. He peeked around to the front of the strip mall, assured himself that we were alone, and approached.

  “You have to understand my father,” he said as he jerked a thumb toward the building. “He’s not always the most trusting guy.”

  I leaned against the Escape and nodded. “I understand that. I just need some information.”