Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  It was Raiford’s turn to nod. “He’s hired us to look into threats he’s received. He believes someone’s trying to keep him from producing local wrestling matches.”

  “Lidke?” Chertok’s head slumped toward Raiford in disbelief. “Otto Lidke is trying to produce wrestling?”

  Raiford repeated, “And he thinks someone is trying to prevent him from doing it.”

  “I’m supposed to be the someone?”

  “That’s what he wants me to find out.”

  “Well, for Christ’s sake! Well, I’ll be goddamned!” The slender man leaned back in his tall chair and shook his head at Raiford. “Otto Lidke thinks I give a shit what he does?” Then Chertok leaned forward again. “Why in hell didn’t he just walk in here and ask me? I’d’ve told him he can do whatever the crap he wants—I don’t care! Why didn’t you come and ask? What, you’re running up his bill asking other people—my friends and associates—about me? Look, Raiford, Lidke is nothing to me. Not him, not his goddamn Rocky whatever—nothing!”

  “Someone threatened him and then torched his car. He says you and the FWO are the only ones who have any reason to worry about his wrestling plans.”

  The man’s dark eyes studied Raiford for a long moment, then his shoulders eased out of their fighting hunch as he drew a deep breath. “Look, let’s be reasonable here. You see that gal out front when you came in? Caitlin? A real looker—you can’t miss her, right?”

  “Very attractive.”

  “Attractive. You know what she is? Class. She’s class. Look around: real leather upholstery—go on, feel it. Carpet? One hundred fifty a yard. View—got any idea what this corner goes for a month? Class, all of this. Because I can afford it, Raiford. And the reason I can afford it is because I got world-class accounts. World class, goddamn it! Accounts that I don’t want you or any of your people fucking with and giving wrong impressions about me!” He didn’t wait for Raiford to reply. “All the time while you were waiting, Caitlin­ was on the phone, right? You know what she was doing? She was getting gate receipts. Daily gate receipts on productions I got staged from here to the California line.” His gaze dropped to the desktop and he paused a moment before looking up. “Mammoth Productions is too big to give a crap what a nobody like Otto Lidke does. I don’t care what Otto Lidke does. I got no reason to threaten him or torch his car or whatever, because I don’t give the tiniest squeaky fart what Otto Lidke does. You understand me?”

  “I’ll tell him you said that, Mr. Chertok.”

  “Do that, Raiford. Exactly how I said it. And tell him if he’s got any questions, he can come see me anytime. My door is always open. He can ask me anything he wants, and he don’t have to hire you people to sneak around behind my back. He walks in, we talk like gentlemen and settle this crap real quick, because whatever Otto Lidke does, is nothing. He is nothing!”

  7

  After Raiford and Julie returned to the office, Julie called Lidke and gave him a summary of what Chertok said to her father.

  “You believe him? I sure as hell don’t.”

  “He could be lying. But now we have his attention. Maybe that will make him back off.”

  “Yeah. Well, we’ll see. I don’t get a venue soon, it won’t make no difference if he’s lying or not.”

  Two nights later, Lidke’s stuffy voice told Julie, “Chertok was lying. And your idea about the son of a bitch backing off didn’t work.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Lidke?”

  “I mean Joe’s dead. My partner, Joe Palombino. Son of a bitch killed him.”

  “Where?”

  “The gym.”

  “Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m here—the gym. Son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  When she called her father to tell him what had happened, he did not want her to go to the gym alone. It wasn’t out of any sense of her being shocked by a homicide scene—he knew she could handle that. It was the fact that someone involved in Julie’s case had died violently, and Raiford did not want his daughter getting in the path of a killer. Better that a person so careless of human life and self-centered enough to kill someone would look toward him as the possible threat.

  “I can handle it, Dad.”

  “Julie, you haven’t worked a case involving a murder.”

  “But I won’t be trying to find the killer—that’s the job of the police.”

  His voice was patient but insistent. “You know that and I know that. But the killer might not. Let’s keep him confused, OK? We’re a team, remember? I’ll swing by and pick you up—I’m on my way.”

  They had to park half a block away. Police vehicles, unmarked cars bearing city license plates, and a television van cluttered the street. Yellow police tape cordoned off the metal building and its adjoining parking area. In the graveled square beside the building, officials in uniform and civilian clothes stood or kneeled to study the ground. A television crew’s lights glared down on an empty patch of gravel. Apparently, the victim had already been removed by the private service that carried away the remains of accident and homicide victims for the City and County of Denver. Near the metal wall of the gymnasium, and lit brightly by the television lights as if on a stage, stood Otto Lidke. He talked to a man who wrote on a clipboard to fill in the blanks of a witness interview form. Raiford identified himself and Julie to a uniformed officer guarding the tape who nodded and disappeared into the building. A few minutes later, a figure, short but with shoulders that fit a much taller man, walked toward them. Raiford recognized the bantam strut. He was a homicide detective who did not like anyone except other cops, and, from what Raiford heard, not many of them. But he was supposed to be good at his job, and Raiford was content that his tax money went for expertise instead of brotherly love. “We have to stop meeting like this, Detective Wager.”

  The short man did not return Raiford’s smile. Instead, he measured the taller man as if looking for a place to chop him down. “Mr. Lidke says the victim was one of your customers. I hope you got your money up front.”

  He should have remembered: Gabe Wager did not have a sense of humor; instead, he had a sense of sarcasm. “Mr. Lidke hired us to find out if anyone is trying to sabotage his business.” Raiford nodded toward the lights glaring on the murder scene. “How was he killed?”

  The other side of the small parking lot was a grime-streaked concrete wall that ended in a high mesh fence. Plastic strips laced the mesh and partially hid the heavy equipment stored beyond. A detective from the crime lab kneeled to stretch a measuring tape from something in the illuminated patch to a tiny flag that marked a reference point. His partner waited with his clipboard to note down the measurement. The uniformed cop who had stopped Julie and Raiford stood and watched; the fingers of his clasped hands tapped lightly behind his back. As the kneeling detective murmured the measurement to his partner, a man wearing a dark suit and followed by a cameraman made his way through the vehicles. Wager eyed the television reporter like a dog sniffing spoor, then turned back to Raiford. “Tell me more.”

  Raiford turned a shoulder to block his response from the TV team. “Mr. Lidke received a threat a few days ago and called us for help.”

  “What kind of threat? And when?”

  “A newspaper clipping about a bombing in New York. Came in the mail Monday. That night he had a phone call saying that’s what happened to people who caused problems. He hired us the next day. Tuesday.”

  “Did the threat mention Palombino?”

  “No, neither the clipping nor the note with it.” Raiford added as proof, “He gave them to Julie.”

  “Julie?” Wager glanced at her.

  “My partner—and my daughter. She took the case.”

  Wager wrote something in his small notebook. Then his flat brown eyes went back to Raiford. “Do you know where the note and clipping are?�
��

  “In our office safe.”

  “Bring them by homicide in the morning.”

  It wasn’t a request. Raiford nodded.

  “What have you found out about the threats?”

  “Not much. As I said, it’s Julie’s case. You’ll want to interview her. But Lidke’s car burned three nights ago.”

  “Arson?”

  “That’s the guess.” Raiford read from his copy of the case notes. “An Officer Paylor caught it. Here’s the case number. The fire inspector was supposed to be out a couple days ago. His findings should be in by now.”

  Wager finished writing and looked up. “You people better stick to industrial security. You’re not doing too good in the personal protection racket.” That might have been a twitch at the corner of the detective’s mouth. “Now tell me everything you’ve come up with.”

  Raiford and Julie told Wager of Lidke’s theory about the FWO, of Julie’s response to the burning of Lidke’s car, and of Raiford’s visit to Chertok. “The man swears he didn’t threaten Lidke—he says Lidke’s no challenge to his business.”

  “Chertok.” Wager stared down at his notebook. A thumb rubbed a small scar beside his mouth. He glanced toward the reporter who had moved closer. “I’ve heard that name.”

  Raiford guessed what crossed Wager’s mind: it was a name with connections all over Denver—acquaintances who owed favors, friends who could make discreet phone calls to city officials, to police commanders, judges. He knew Wager would not be intimidated by that—the homicide detective never seemed to care about anything or anyone except a little bit for the victim and a hell of a lot for the perpetrator. But no detective wanted his case tangled by political garbage.

  “Officer Wager, can I ask you a few questions?” The television reporter, whose name Raiford could not quite recall, leaned toward them. His hair was swept back in sprayed and sparkling waves, and a light dusting of powder stifled any gleam from his forehead and cheeks. Beside him, the cameraman swung his lens from Wager to Raiford to Julie. Raiford stepped back, tugging Julie with him as the camera’s spotlight glared.

  “We’re not prepared to issue a statement yet.” Wager struggled to look pleasant.

  Raiford figured the police department’s public relations office had been talking to its minions.

  The reporter angled to face the camera and hold the microphone closer to Wager. “Can you identify the victim for us?”

  “No. We don’t have a positive identification from the next of kin.”

  “Is this another gang-related killing?”

  “We can’t rule that out. But it doesn’t look like it.” Wager’s good nature began to ebb.

  “Do you have any suspects at all in this, the city’s latest murder?”

  “No.”

  “But I understand the victim had received death threats. Do you have any idea why someone would threaten him and then carry out that threat?”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  The reporter stepped away from Wager and addressed the camera lens whose light followed him closely. “John, from what this reporter has learned through his own investigations is that the victim and his associates did receive death threats. What we do not yet know is why, and of course, who. But we do know that Denver has one more statistic in the rising tide of violence that is blowing across the metropolitan area.” He paused to stare grimly into the lens. “This … is Garvey Henshon … reporting live from the thirteen hundred block of Umatilla Circle.” The hot lights flicked off to a dying red glow, and Henshon handed the microphone to a soundwoman. “Wrap it and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  They watched the crew follow the reporter’s quick strides to their Channel Five Alive van and pull away down the street.

  Wager puffed a disgusted sigh. There were a few people he liked, a great number of people he neither liked nor disliked, and then there was a third population that included reporters. “Maybe I should join you and Julie in the private sector.”

  Julie asked sweetly, “Are you qualified in industrial security?”

  Raiford asked quickly, “Are you going to talk to Chertok?”

  The homicide detective’s eyes shifted from Julie to her father. “What’s going to happen is the human meatball over there will make a statement about the threats, the car fire, and who he thinks is behind it. So, yeah, Chertok’s name will be in the file and I’ll have to go talk to him” A shrug. “I hope this case doesn’t get ugly. I hate ugly.”

  Raiford agreed. “I’d appreciate knowing what the fire inspector found.”

  “Check with me tomorrow. And, Raiford, any more threats to your clients—yours or Miss Julie’s, here—you call me immediately if not sooner, right?”

  “You got it.”

  Raiford and Julie waited in the darkness beside their car until the uniformed officer finally escorted Lidke away from the crime scene. The barrel-shaped silhouette, elbows out in a muscle-bound stride, ducked under the yellow tape. Raiford spoke his name.

  “Yeah? Who wants me?”

  “Jim Raiford.”

  He squinted against the darkness and leaned forward to make out Raiford’s face. “Been a long time.”

  “I’m sorry we have to meet like this.”

  “Yeah. Joe was a good man. Thanks for taking me on again. You and your daughter, here.”

  “We’ll do what we can, Mr. Lidke,” said Julie.

  “Thanks.” He gazed off into the night. “Joe didn’t deserve this.”

  “Were you here when it happened?” asked Raiford.

  “Just what that cop asked. I was and I wasn’t—I went out to pick up a pizza. Joe stayed behind to start cleaning up. I was going to bring it back and we’d eat and then finish cleaning. I pull into the parking place over there and my headlights …” He rubbed a hand across the slabs of his face. “I didn’t know what it was at first. I mean my eyes told me what it looked like, but my mind couldn’t believe it. I must’ve sat there two, three minutes, just staring before I could get out of the car.” He shook his head again. “I could see the blood—I could see who it was. I knew he was dead from just the way he looked, you know? But even then I said, ‘Joe, what the hell you doing?’”

  “Did you see anyone around? Hear anything?”

  The shadow of large, round head wagged. “All I could see was Joe.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Ten minutes. Fifteen at most. Just long enough to pick up the order and come back.”

  “They don’t deliver?”

  “Not at night. Not down here. I phone in the order and pick up a six-pack on the way.” He added, “They don’t deliver beer even when they do come.”

  “Was Joe threatened?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m the only one. I figure they came looking for me and found Joe instead.” The round shadow wagged once more. “They mistook Joe for me in the dark.”

  Raiford thought he might be able to find out more after Detective Wager pulled together the forensics reports: whether Palombino had put up a struggle, how many shots the victim received, probable weapon. Things like that could help clarify the man’s last minutes of life. And the homicide detective would sift methodically through the rest of Palombino’s life for any other possible motives for his death.

  Julie asked, “Has his wife been notified?”

  “I called. But I couldn’t tell her he was dead. I didn’t have the guts. I just told her he was shot … and it was serious … . And they were taking him to Denver Health.”

  Where the hospital staff would inform her. “Have you called home?”

  The stock silhouette’s head jerked up. “No—Jesus!” He turned and half-trotted toward the building, the uniformed policeman quickly coming up to him as he crossed the barrier into the light.

  Raiford and Julie went as close to the bu
ilding as they were allowed. Through the partly open door the wrestling ring looked dim in the ill-lit space. Through a brightly lit doorway that Julie knew was Lidke’s office, the man’s rasping voice could be heard. “I’m OK, pun’kin. Yeah—I know. It’s terrible. No, she’s probably at the hospital—Denver Health. Yeah—yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

  There were a few more murmured words, and then Lidke turned off the desk light and, followed by the policeman, came back into the shadows where Raiford and Julie waited. “She’s OK,” his silhouette said. “She’s going down to Denver Health to be with Nancy.”

  “We think you should consider moving to a relative’s home or a motel for a few days,” said Julie.

  “You think they might come back? To my house?”

  Detective Wager had commented on Raiford’s lack of success at the bodyguard business; he wasn’t exactly blaming Raiford, but he easily could have—and maybe should have. “Why take a chance, Otto? We’d feel more comfortable if you and your family changed routines for a while.”

  “My kids got to go to school. And I got to go to work.”

  “It shouldn’t be too long, Mr. Lidke. And it might be best if the children missed a couple of days of school. Ask their teachers to give them homework to keep up.” Julie added, “At least until we see what the police come up with.”

  “Yeah.” He waited for a long moment, watching the police and detectives make one last sweep across the parking lot, watching the uniformed cop click shut the padlock on the gym’s sliding door. “I guess that’s the safe thing. And I ought to close the gym for a couple days anyway. Out of respect for Joe.”

  8

  When Julie reached the office on Monday morning, she found a message from Lidke on her voice mail: “Me and the family moved first thing this morning. We didn’t want to go to my sister-in-law’s—too many kids in one house. It’s cramped here, but there’s a kitchen so we don’t have to eat out all the time, and it ain’t that far from the gym. I can walk so Joanna can have the car.” When she returned Lidke’s call, she found that “here” was a Residence Inn on Denver’s west side, almost directly across the shallow valley of the South Platte River from Touchstone’s LoDo office. Through her window that glimpsed the mountains brought close and bright by the morning sun, Julie could just about make out the bell tower that advertised the Spanish-style inn. “I don’t advise walking to work, Mr. Lidke.”