The .22 Caliber Homicides: Book 1 of the San Diego Police Homicide Detail featuring Jack Leslie

by William Barrons

  Taxi drivers always got such a large fare in advance of the trip and it had to be in cash. Often, they would take the precaution of depositing the cash in the cab office so as to avoid the dire prospect of being robbed at the end of the trip as the passenger was dropped off.

  Leslie considered going to the Border Patrol office and talking to someone about looking for McCoy as he came across from Mexico. But with so many tens of thousands of folks going through those gates every day – both on foot and by car – ordinary-looking McCoy would be the tiniest needle in a whopping haystack of needles. Anyway, they would have the bulletin issued by Captain Noffsinger although there was but slight chance of them making the connection.

  The Department’s PT Cruiser was still in the Jack-in-the-Box parking lot so Leslie jumped in and headed north up U.S. Highway 5.

  Within twenty minutes he was in the office of a storage facility on Pacific Coast Highway, near Perry’s Breakfast Place.

  He showed the man at the desk his badge and the picture of Donald McCoy. No, the man had never seen him. No sir, they never had had any cabs of any color stored there. No sir, never.

  The man double-checked the records and found no mention of a Donald McCoy.

  Well, well, there was a hunch gone to nothing, Leslie thought. But he was used to that; it happened all the time in his business.

  He drove down the street to Perry’s and parked. While still in the car, he called Detective Charles Fredericks.

  “Chuck, what’s happening at the Orange Cab office?”

  “Nothing much Sergeant. I’ve been able to talk to three drivers who knew McCoy a little. Seems he’s something of a loner and no one knows much about him. No one so far knows where he lives now or where he is.”

  “Very well Chuck, you’re doing good work. Come over here to Perry’s parking lot and we can talk. You know Perry’s, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve eaten there from time to time and they must think everybody’s a truck driver, the way they feed people. I’ll be right there, Sergeant Leslie.”

  Fredericks was there in minutes as the restaurant was just down the street from the cab office.

  He parked his department-issued Chevy next to Leslie’s PT and climbed in next to the Homicide Sergeant.

  Leslie quickly gave him the run-down of his good luck in finding a cabbie that knew McCoy, what he found out and how the hunch had so far come to nothing at the storage yard.

  “I’ll call him now; his phone is probably turned off if he’s in Mexico. Let’s see.”

  The two could hear the phone ringing and then a voice announced, “I am unable to answer my phone just now so please leave a message.”

  “It will be mighty interesting if he sees that number on his phone and actually calls me to find who called,” the Sergeant said.

  “You and I, Chuck, have got to try getting into the head of this fellow McCoy. He has a winning personality and people like him; at least at first. Yet he’s something of a loner. I think he just could very well be a Jekyll and Hyde type of man.

  “I want you to use your imagination and look for a storage yard which is somewhat close to a trolley station and perhaps near a restaurant that sounds like ‘Harry’s’ or ‘Fairy’s’ or something. That’s a tall order, I know.

  “Chuck, if you’re methodical about it, you’ll possibly find that darn cab and if we can get our hands on that, I firmly believe we’ll be able to find interesting things in it.”

  “Sergeant Leslie, that’s a tall order indeed. But I have a yellow pages in my trunk here and even if I don’t find that cab, I’ll doubtless learn a lot about the town for I know there’s lots of storage yards,” the subordinate Detective said.

  Fredericks left and Leslie went inside Perry’s where he often ate, despite it being a bit of a trip from his downtown condo.

  The place was only open from six in the morning until two in the afternoon.

  Years before, they had also stayed open for dinner for a short time but the late father of the present owner, a great guy named Costa, had told Leslie that it seemed much of the profit went out the door when he wasn’t on the job; so he reverted to only those eight open hours.

  Leslie ignored the dozen or so folks outside, waiting for their names to be called to a table or booth. He went right on in and sat down at the counter, next to the register.

  He asked only for coffee, from a waitress named Colleen. She was an interesting woman, this waitress. Her mother was of some Indian tribe or another and her father was an itinerant Irishman. She was an amazing bundle of energy and quite attractive. He had known her working in several restaurants over the years but she had stuck with Perry’s for a long time by then.

  Colleen usually called him “You long drink of water”, saying that was “Injun name for heap tall man.”

  The mother of the pretty young owner, Margaret, was at the register, this being a weekend day. Perry herself ran the place the other five days of the week.

  Leslie nodded to Margaret between ring-ups. “I’ve got a mug shot for you to look at when you have a minute.”

  “Sure thing Jack,” she said and took the sheet.

  She studied it for a second. “Sorry Jack, I don’t recall that face at all. Maybe Perry will.”

  “Thanks Margaret. How’s business?”

  “Usual Sunday Jack; always busy. Seems people like the huge proportions we feed them.”

  “Oh now, it isn’t just the quantity; it’s your very high quality as you very well know,” Leslie smiled up at her.

  Finished with the coffee, he climbed back in his car just as his Blackberry rang.

  “Hello Miss McCarty,” he said, having entered her number in his very smart phone.

  “Sergeant Leslie, I was just wondering if you’ve found out anything more about the case.

  “Mr. Stevens called to tell me of your visit and he was especially impressed with you.”

  “Thanks for calling. So you’ll know, so far it’s been found that Mr. Williams was killed with a single shot from a .22 caliber bullet that ripped his heart up badly. The department is notifying his wife and teen-age children right now, but I don’t know anything of his parents and others.”

  “Oh! He really was married then. I guess I sort of suspected that so I’m not terribly surprised,” she said.

  “Interestingly Miss McCarty, we haven’t been able to find Mr. McCoy and he hasn’t lived in the Buckner apartment house for about five months. He may be down in Tijuana but he sure couldn’t take his cab down there. We’d like to find it and look it over. Miss McCarty, if he should happen to phone you, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know what you find out,” he said.

  “Yes of course. I still cannot imagine why anybody would want to harm Jay. I never did ask him if he was married; it just didn’t come up. Oh, by the way Sergeant Leslie, do you work simply all of the time?”

  “No Miss; in fact I was about to check one more thing then drive home and take a nap. My hours are rather flexible. Gee, you and your Little Anne have been through some trauma there and I was just wondering….I was just wondering if maybe you’d like to join me for dinner some nice place. Maybe we could have dinner at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse Restaurant on Harbor Island. What do you think?”

  “Well now, that’s really nice of you. I’ve heard of Tom Ham’s but we’ve never eaten there. Wait. Wait and I’ll ask.”

  The phone was silent for some seconds and then she said, “In case we don’t recognize the driver, what sort of car might you be driving, Sergeant?”

  “If it’s not beneath your dignity, young lady, I’ll be picking you up in front of your place in my Ford Freestyle. It’s a big, light green wagon that my dad and I made to look like a Woody. How about around five o’clock?”

  “Oh. Oh, I guess our dignity can take it if your car is actually a Ford. Fine! We’ll be out front at five, sir!”

  On the way to downtown, he stopped at the India Street firing range. Except for a man at the front desk, it w
as devoid of people. The firing range’s records showed McCoy hadn’t shot there in almost five months and his address was listed as the Buckner. The place looked to be about to go out of business.

  Leslie drove home and parked in his condo garage, had a sandwich and napped.

  At four he was in the shower and then he dressed. Because they would be eating by the San Diego Bay, he thought his dad’s “yachting uniform” might be appropriate. Since he and his late father were the exact same size, he hadn’t given any of his dad’s clothing away; not so far.

  He had called in the Goodwill thrift store to take all his mother’s and wife’s clothing about a year after their demise, but not his dad’s.

  His ex-Marine father had never owned any sort of boat and neither had Leslie. But his dad had intended to go boating someday, so he had worn a few times the crested blue blazer, white trousers, shirt and shoes and a nifty yachting cap.

  Leslie absolutely always wore his gun, badge and armored vest when he left the apartment, even to go grocery shopping a mere couple of blocks away.

  He struggled to get the flamboyant red “Windsor Tie” around his neck just right and then strapped on his shoulder holster with the .45 Colt Army Pistol under his coat; for “Cops never know when they’ll need their weapon.”

  Leslie thought he looked rather spiffy in his yachting get-up.

  He drove up First Avenue, then right over onto Juniper to see the sun shining brightly on abundant red hair and on blonde hair, too. Mother and daughter wore matching white slacks, white shoes and modest powder blue blouses.

  Jumping out of the car to open the doors for them, Leslie just had to comment.

  “I’ve never seen two nicer looking girls in my life! Welcome aboard!”

  “You own a yacht, sir?” the girl asked.

  “Nope. This was my dad’s outfit and since we’re going to a nautical place, I thought I'd dress up in it.”

  As he started the car, the girl in back asked, “I see on the steering wheel it’s a Ford. But I never saw one like this before. It sure is big! Is it really made of wood, sir?”

  “Not at all, Little Anne. Years ago, some cars and station wagons really were partly made of wood and my dad and I bought woodie kits to add a nostalgic touch to this one.

  “We installed that chrome plated eagle on the hood and the wood trim both outside and inside, so I do believe there is not another car exactly like it in the whole wide world. Little Anne, as quick as Ford put these on sale in October of 2004, I grabbed this beauty. It’s the Freestyle SEL model and has nearly everything on it.

  “My dad and I used to haul boards and such for my him as he had only a Dodge Charger. But he drove this car more than I did. Ford had the actress Brooke Shields advertising the Freestyles for a few months on TV and since have kept them secret, it seems.

  “I guess they don’t make much profit on such a perfect car since they’re built in Chicago by union labor. The color is called Titanium Green although that metal is actually gray.

  “This year they’re calling them the ‘Taurus X’ instead of Freestyle and I don’t know why. Darn, they could have called it the ‘Thorobred’ after the Mustang, Bronco and Pinto. Seems to me that’d make a whole lot more sense instead of the nothing name of Freestyle,” he said as he drove on.

  “Well, we love our Mustang sir and mom says it’ll be mine when I turn sixteen; I let her drive it ‘til then,” the youngster said. “I met Brooke Shields in Hollywood. Really I did. She’s like, real nice.”

  “Well now, isn’t that something?” he said to the girl in back. “How’d you happen to meet Miss Shields?”

  “Oh, we go up there now and then. Mom’s been told she could make good money modeling or doing commercials, but she always says ‘No’. She says she’s leaving the glamour life up to me.”

  “Well now, I could make some comments but I’ve been warned to lay off the baloney, as your mother told me. So I’ll be quiet.”

  “Mom, are we like, on a date?” the youngster asked.

  “On a date? I’m not sure. Sergeant Leslie, are we on a date with you?”

  “Gosh, I sure do hope so. By the by, why not just call me Jack? May I call you Veronica?”

  “Okay, if you’ll call me ‘Ronica’. That’s what my friends call me. And I like calling you Jack because that’s such a manly name.”

  Leslie turned right on First Avenue then left on Laurel Street which joined Harbor Drive beside the airport.

  Soon they were on Harbor Island, driving slowly so as to let his passengers appreciate the pretty scenes.

  He turned right along San Diego Bay and at the end of that road, they went into the parking lot at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse Restaurant.

  As he opened the car doors for them, he pointed out the revolving light atop the building. It really did serve as a lighthouse, he told them, helpful to hundreds of boaters coming into the adjacent marina. There were obviously many thousands of yachts in San Diego Bay.

  “I might very well take up yachting myself some fine day,” he said.

  As they walked to the front of the building, he noticed an older Honda, similar to the one his mother had owned. It was parked in front of the place, nearly blocking the drive. The engine was running and the passenger door was hanging wide open. Someone was behind the wheel.

  An employee had run in to get his paycheck, Leslie reasoned.

  Before he opened the front door into the lobby for them, he pointed out two old iron ship’s cannons.

  “You see they are chained in place so you don’t pick up those thousand pound pieces of artillery and run off with them,” he told the two gorgeous ones.

  The girls thought that was amusing.

  Just as he opened the door to enter the place, he heard a deep male voice from the main floor above roaring out, “GIMME THAT FUCKIN’ BAG, BITCH!”

  “Stay here!” Leslie ordered his companions, instantly realizing the Honda was a get-away car and a robbery was surely taking place.

  He ran up the three short flights of angled stairs to the second floor restaurant level he had been to for dozens of dinners.

  As he took three steps at a time, he managed to pull his .45 out and slam back the slide to load a cartridge into the chamber.

  As he looked over the railing at the top, he could see a terrified young woman handing over the counter a bank money bag to a large muscular black man, dressed in blue jeans and a tight, thin black tee shirt with a hood over his head.

  Another move and Leslie was a single step behind the robber.

  “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” Leslie shouted.

  “I’m a San Diego Police Officer and I want you to put your pistol on the counter. Let’s be calm and do it nice and easy. Let’s do it right now so nobody gets hurt here. I’ve got my Army Colt .45 with a hair trigger on you and I have no wish to hurt you. No sir, not at all,” Leslie said with all the calm he could muster.

  The man became frozen. He didn’t turn around.

  “YOU AIN’T NO FUCKIN’ COP!” the robber shouted. “I’M A HOLDIN’ MY GUN ON THIS BROAD! IF YOU GOT A ROD YOU’D BETTER PUT IT DOWN OR I’LL BLOW THIS SHIT-FACED BITCH ALL TO HELL!”

  Leslie could see the fellow was a large bomb with a lit fuse, hardly expecting interference with his perfectly planned little robbery.

  “Now, now! Please watch your language!” Leslie said, trying to calm the man down. “There are ladies around and I just brought a lady and her young daughter here for Sunday dinner and I know you don’t wish to offend their ears! Just lay your gun on the counter right there and nobody will get hurt.”

  The man stood rigid as a coiled spring, the money bag in his left hand with his gun pointed at the girl only a few feet away. She was whimpering uncontrollably. Others – waiting customers, no doubt – were crouched to one side in terror.

  “SON OF A FUCKIN’ BITCH!” the man roared at the girl cowering in front of him. “IT AIN’T MONDAY? AIN’T I GOT THE MUTHA FUCKIN’ LUCK?”

  “Hey mister
, take it easy!” Leslie pleaded. “There’s nothing to do but lay your gun on the counter right there in front of you. You can do it. You know the drill. Come on, do that and everything will be okay and….”

  “OH WHAT THE FUCK!” the robber hollered and swung the bag with his left hand to try hitting Leslie and came around with his right to fire his revolver!

  But the man got only half way around when Leslie’s .45 sent a very large bullet plowing through the robber’s left arm! The big fellow was knocked over as he twisted and fell on his back. The pistol in his hand fired and then both gun and bag flew out of his grip.

  Leslie felt a sharp blow to his upper left thigh! But he leaped over to the man’s side to grab up the .38 Special revolver and put it in his pocket.

  Blood was pouring from both arms and both sides of the robber! The man was staring up at him as though in utter disbelief. His lips were moving, trying to say something; but no sounds came out.

  The detective whirled around and saw the McCarty woman standing on the stairway and staring over the floor at him.

  “Miss! Get the license number of that car out front!”

  She disappeared from view.

  He returned his pistol to its holster and whipped out his Blackberry.

  Scrolling numbers from the bottom of the alphabet, he touched “Noffsinger”.

  The magic of electronics was at work for in a few seconds he heard, “Noffsinger here. Oh Leslie, what d’ya want this time?”

  “Captain, I just interrupted a robbery at Tom Ham’s Lighthouse Restaurant on Harbor Island. Robber’s shot; maybe dead already. Couldn’t calm him down. Send an ambulance please and a detail. I’ve been hit but I don’t see any blood. And – oh, wait a second,” he paused upon seeing the redhead coming up.

  “Jack! That car’s left!” she said. “I could see it going down the street!”