Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1)

by K. C. Reinstadler

  I chirped in, “Oh yeah, we know it: Richardson’s Lincoln Town Car.”

  Getting more excited now, Storm continued, “Well, I couldn’t help but notice Richardson and Blivins walking toward the Lincoln, so I kept watching. Just before Blivins got into the car, I saw him look around, and then it seemed like he was fiddling with that cast on his arm. He took the damn thing off. He took it off, Kevin. Clearly, they never saw me watching them.”

  Rachael was obviously upset. As she spoke, she was waving her hands around like an Italian choir director. All that flailing about unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, which I conveniently neglected to point out to her.

  “I knew they were running a hoax, and I told my editor as such. You know what Waxford told me? He said, ‘Come now, Rachael, it’s your job to report the news, not create it.’ He said that the jury would see through the bullshit and render the appropriate verdict. Leave it alone, that’s an order were his exact words. Well, I didn’t say anything; I left it alone. And I was totally blown away five days later when they found for the plaintiff. Earl was scared, and I was petrified. Holy shit. We probably should have said something, but now it would look like we did something wrong. He told me, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ The jury gave them fifteen million dollars of compensation in that judgment, Kevin. Fifteen million fucking dollars! They deserved nada. Waxford laughed it off and said Telford was so big they wouldn’t miss it. I’ve always regretted keeping my mouth shut. It wasn’t right. I just wanted you to know the kind of asshole and liar you’re dealing with.”

  My spidey sense was tingling. So Blivins was a fake, and his attorney and our victim, Marvin Redbone, knew all about the scam and ran with the bullshit story line anyway? Hmm. Fifteen million dollars, eh? I remembered Robert Richardson’s pontification after Ted asked him how much the judgment amounted to in that case: “Absolutely not, Detective! That information bears no connection to your murder investigation in my opinion.”

  Well, you lying gasbag, it sure does now.

  I eventually told Rachael her top was undone, and afterward, I spoke to the sarge about the urgency to find and reinterview Stanley Blivins along with that lying sack of crap Robert Richardson. A quick call to the Hilton confirmed that Blivins left no forwarding address when he checked out in a rush. Bob agreed we had to find him, but we were just too busy now to dedicate two investigators to spend hours, perhaps days, finding the lying little turd who we knew was in the wind. It was like the old Car 54 TV series:

  There’s a holdup in the Bronx, Brooklyn’s broken out in fights, there’s a traffic jam in Harlem that’s backed up to Jackson Heights…Car 54, where are you?

  We had no car 54, no one to spare. Biff and Louie were still working that robbery and had some good leads to run out. They would be serving warrants soon. Ted was testifying in another ADW (assault with a deadly weapon) trial, and I was the only one left. The Lone Ranger without Tonto. I suggested we send out Rachael Storm, but the sergeant wasn’t amused. Bob decided instead to pull out the big guns to help me hunt down Stanley Blivins. He got Will Phillips temporarily assigned to the detective bureau. Phillips would smoke…er…gas that shithead out.

  ***

  “What the fuck? The cops were just here, climbing all up into my shit, asking all sorts of questions about Redbone.”

  Ten days earlier, Stanley Blivins was squirming on the phone, just seconds after the cops had left his suite. “Why are they asking me about Redbone? I had nothing to do with gutting that fish…You know that, don’t you, Mr. Richardson?”

  Robert Richardson boomed back, “Of course, Stanley. They are just doing routine follow-up, and you have nothing to worry about. You didn’t kill the good doctor, did you?”

  Stanley blurted out, “Fuck, no! But I don’t need no cops sniffing around, since I want to live the good life now.”

  “You are still wearing the cast, are you not, Stanley?”

  “Yeah…sure, I still got it on. How long should I wear this piece of shit?”

  Richardson made it clear. “I told you, Stanley, you must wear the cast for up to a year. People need to see that you are still incapacitated. You were well compensated for your efforts. So, unless you want to give that money back, keep the cast on. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Richardson.”

  The attorney reiterated, “Stanley, you have a lot of cash now. Become scarce. Leave and enjoy your spoils somewhere out of the way, where you do not have to answer any more prying legal questions, where our local law enforcement will not think to look for you. Agreed?”

  Stanley Blivins knew he’d lied to his attorney. He took that nasty-ass cast off well over a week ago. It was hard to party with and downright impossible to fuck in. Besides, he had the money now. All four million bucks of it. He had earned it…no, he deserved it. No more creditors, no more holding back. He had enough to do what he always wanted to, and he started right away.

  First, it was buying that Mercedes SLS GT. It was a beauty, too—convertible, jet-black, with a tan soft top, titanium spokes, and leather interior. It came with a Bose stereo in it, for Christ’s sake. It had all the bells and whistles on it. Fucking A. It had only two seats, but who needed more than one extra spot for a good-lookin’ piece of ass to sit next to you in? With all the extras, the ninety-six-thousand-dollar price tag was a pittance for a multimillionaire like him. Fuck the insurance company, too! Those ass wipes wouldn’t insure it because of an accident and a couple of tickets he managed to get a year ago. He thought, Shit! Who doesn’t have a couple of fuckups?

  Stanley told himself, No problem, assholes. If I crash it, I can afford to fix it. Or better yet, fuck you! I’ll just buy a new one.

  Stanley threw a victory party just a couple of days after winning his judgment in court and invited his close circle of friends down to the Bonaventure Hotel in LA. He wanted to get away so he could let his hair down and take that uncomfortable cast off. His buddies wouldn’t rat him off either, and of course they stayed quiet. Their silence was costly, though: one hundred ten thousand dollars to cover the presidential suite for four days, the subsequent damage to it, the food, the booze, the drugs, and of course, the hookers.

  Mr. Stanley Blivins was officially asked never to return to the Bonaventure. Blivins also placed a number of high-stake bets on the Lakers game while in the Los Angeles area. Go, Lakers! Problem was, it was the season after they won the championship, and this year, they weren’t doing so hot. Kobe sprained an ankle, and Stanley lost fifty thousand. Stanley cut his losses and traveled back to Santa Barbara, booking the suite at the Hilton.

  He told himself he needed to tighten the old belt. In the two weeks he stayed there, with the help of a few choice acquaintances, he racked up another hundred grand for all of their fun activities. Stanley had a taste for cocaine but never before had the cash to enjoy much of it. He did now, and that shit can get expensive. Especially so when you smoke it and go through ten grand in one night with your good “buddies.” He tried to come off the marathon coke buzz with grass and alcohol, but good bud doesn’t come cheap either. Stanley Blivins was never a prime physical specimen. Standing just five feet six inches tall, at thirty-six years old, the bald patch on the back of his head was slowly meeting the receding follicles left on the front. His ruddy complexion and pockmarked face told the tale of a man with a passion for alcohol and drugs.

  By the time Stanley Blivins checked out of the Hilton, he had already gone through almost a million dollars. Upon the advice of the esteemed Robert Richardson, JD, he then went on a road trip to make himself scarce.

  Who knew that the Chicken Ranch, that famous house of ill repute outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, had a premium hotel in it? Stanley Blivins roared into the parking lot in his black SLS at 2:00 p.m. with a boatload of cash, an ounce of blow, and a full bottle of Viagra.

  Twenty-four hours later, he had dropped more than twenty-five grand in sex, drugs, and booze. Hell, he threw some rock ’n’ roll in for good measure. He
was throwing hundred dollar bills around like everyone else flushes toilet paper. He was actually paying women to watch other women watch him having sex. All that “watching” cost Stanley a pretty penny.

  After a few days, he had an entire wing of the ranch named in his honor. Well, he actually paid for a wall plaque with his name on it. The Chicken Ranch must have erected it there (no pun intended) with a plan to take it down the second he left. Stan was well on his way to spending his second million when there was a little glitch in the festivities.

  On day six of Stan’s sexual road trip around the world at the Chicken Ranch, another high roller cruised into the parking lot. Tyrone “Bubba” Jackson was one of the largest dope dealers on the Las Vegas strip. He had thirty runners slinging dope throughout the greater metro Las Vegas area. He didn’t like Mercedes-Benz, so his man drove him around in a cherry-red Cadillac STS with gold-plated rims and spinners. He had a wet bar in his ride, too, which contained the 9-mm pistol he kept in the hidden holster under the counter. Black as the ace of spades, Jackson was the physical opposite of pasty-skinned Stanley. Standing six-feet one-inch tall and weighing two hundred thirty pounds, he maintained his low profile by keeping his head shaved bald. He sported a 1.5-carat diamond stud in his left earlobe and a soul patch. He looked like an evil version of the genie in The Arabian Nights.

  Bubba reserved a room down in that special wing of the hotel, right next to Stanley Blivins’s suite.

  Jackson liked his sex rough, and the Chicken Ranch girls he paid for knew about his predilection and catered to that kind of clientele. He also liked to hear his bitches talk dirty while he screwed them. Stanley Blivins liked heavy metal music and played it loud while he had his fun. This proved to be a bit of a problem. Bubba preferred rap and couldn’t hear the sweet “nothings” his bitches were uttering in his ear, and this really pissed Jackson off. “That shit’s too fuckin’ loud!”

  Mr. Jackson gave Stanley one chance to turn down the music. He sent his man over there to not-so-politely request Stan’s compliance. Bubba thought that was mighty big on his part. But when Stanley thought it would be cute to turn the volume up louder, that stirred big Bubba up. Jackson personally went over to Stan’s room and promptly kicked the door in. Wearing only his birthday suit, complete with a drooping condom seated on his still-erect member, he ran in and body-slammed one call girl against the wall. The poor thing had made the mistake of trying to run interference for her diminutive mark.

  Stanley Blivins was flying high on crack by now, and he picked up a three-foot-tall glass bong sitting on a nearby table. He cracked it over Bubba Jackson’s head. Stinky brown bong water sloshed all over the behemoth dope dealer, and now Bubba’s nine millimeter pistol was pointed squarely at Blivins’s pockmarked face.

  Fortunately for Stan, the Chicken Ranch had its own security force. Big Bubba was tazed from behind by a guard, and he dropped the pistol as well has his hard-on. How ironic was it that Mr. Jackson would be doing the “chicken” at a ranch of the same name? Of course Stanley was so loaded by this time that he thought the security guards were with Jackson, so he kicked one of them in the nuts. One of his own hookers tried to get in between the two, so Stan broke a beer bottle over her head as well, cutting her head and face up pretty good.

  Well, things got even better from there on, because the Ranch called the Nye County Sheriff’s Office, which sent four deputies out to clean up the mess. When one of them tried to escort Mr. Blivins outside, Stan coldcocked him. Stanley ended up spending his evening at the Nye County jail, after being treated at the local hospital for facial injuries sustained when he “resisted” arrest. Poor Stanley. No bitches, no money, no mo’ time.

  Three days after being temporarily assigned to the detective bureau, Will Phillips came striding in with a teletype in his hand. “I sent out an NCIC BOLO (be on the lookout) asking for info on the whereabouts of our pal Stanley Blivins. Well, he’s in custody in Las Vegas.” Will explained how Stan got picked up at the Chicken Ranch. “Blivins was fucking and fighting at the Ranch. He assaulted one of the hookers and punched a deputy. They found almost two ounces of coke in his room, and they jacked up his bail to try and hold him for us. The guy has some big bucks left from that settlement, you know, so I thought he still might make bail. I took care of that, though.”

  “What the hell did you do, Will?” Ted queried, thinking our wannabe detective had done something we might regret later.

  “Well, I knew he got this multimillion-dollar settlement, right? So I did what any law-abiding American citizen would do. I contacted the IRS and the California Franchise Tax Board. I ratted him off to the tax cops about it. I found out that Blivins hadn’t paid any taxes for the two years prior to getting the settlement, and he had tax liens outstanding on him for those years. He also conveniently forgot to pay his estimated tax after winning the multimillion-dollar judgment. That asshole owes a shitpot full of money to the state, too. So, the Franchise Tax Board placed a hold on his bank account. No more big bucks to make his big bail.”

  Young Will Phillips had earned his bones. This kid just might make a good detective after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Worm Turns

  As soon as Robert Ethan Richardson hung up the phone after speaking to Stanley Blivins, he sat back in the ornate high-back chair in his office, pondering to himself.

  Blivins is an idiot! No question, he is the weak link in my plans. Why couldn’t I have picked a smarter man to run this con with? He just better lay low for a while, or else…

  Leaning forward, the rotund attorney pushed the intercom button on his phone handset. “Martha, call my wife and tell her I am coming home. Then book me a flight for tomorrow morning to Miami International—the usual first-class seating with a kosher meal.”

  The secretary asked, “Mr. Richardson, will you need a rental car? Should I reserve one for you?”

  “Martha, you know my associate always picks me up, but thank you anyway.”

  An hour later, Richardson pulled his Lincoln into the driveway of his home in the sprawling hills outside of Camarillo. Driving past the two three-foot-high marble swans standing guard at the gated entrance, he exited the car and removed his black suit coat from its hanger in the backseat. Folding it carefully, inside out, he draped it over his arm, like a waiter serving an expensive meal. Entering the foyer through the ornate front door with the brass lion-head knocker, he was greeted by his Mexican maid. She obligingly took his coat. Striding through the long hallway toward the back of the house, he saw that Jolene had the flat-screen TV tuned to channel forty-three: The Hour of Reckoning with Reverend Tommy Stiller. Robert knew the reverend all too well.

  Jolene Richardson was one of the Stiller network’s biggest supporters, having donated over twenty-five thousand dollars in the first quarter of this year alone.

  Charlatans and thieves! Richardson’s thoughts blared as he walked outside to greet his wife. Jolene sat in her usual overstuffed chair inside the patio, overlooking the koi pond. She sat there stroking her fat Angora cat, Precious, which was curled up on her lap. She looked up and smiled upon his approach. Jolene Richardson was a homely woman. From a young age, she had realized that even though she was not given a pretty face, the Lord had other plans for her. In her mind, God had given her a husband, a fine life, and the means to help others. She was content.

  “Oh, Bob, dear, I see you came home early today. Martha called. She said you would be coming soon.”

  Richardson bent over and gave his wife a peck on the forehead. “Good afternoon, my dear. I came home to pack. I must fly again to Miami tomorrow to oversee an important deposition.”

  Jolene frowned. “You’ve got to slow down, darling. Your incessant trips down south seem to be increasing, and I worry that you’re working way too hard. I do worry about you so.”

  Sarcastically now, Robert chided her while pointing at the television. “Jolene, you know I need to work hard to keep the good Reverend Stiller on the air. Mus
t you listen to that charlatan?”

  “Now, Robert, you know he gives me purpose. His ministries help the poor and the downtrodden. I hear testimonies every day from young and old parishioners alike whose lives have been changed by Tommy Stiller and his worthwhile ministries. Be happy I don’t contribute more. I am thinking about becoming a Stiller Ministries founding member, you know.”

  Enraged, Richardson approached Jolene, his face crimson. “What? Are you crazy, Jolene? You know how I despise these religious bastards who prey on naïve philanthropists like you—women who have nothing better to do all day than to mumble Bible verses and hand over the content of their wallets. I won’t have it, Jolene. Don’t make me discipline you again, I swear. Don’t make me.”

  The cat shot off her lap, and Jolene Richardson recoiled deeper into her chair. She knew better than to anger her husband.

  Robert Richardson had met Jolene Tisdale twenty years earlier, just after passing the bar in Florida. He was a cocky, ambitious young lawyer back then. She was eight years older than he, an only child of wealthy parents made rich through stocks and real-estate investments in Miami. She provided Robert with a dowry of future wealth, and he provided her with legitimacy. The homely debutante had wed the young, aspiring lawyer. They deserved each other.