Butthole was pissed when Earl Waxford gave Rachael Storm the assignment to work with SBCSO on the murder case, and he began complaining immediately.
“Come on, Earl, you know I’m better for this! I’ll get you the ratings.”
“Maybe, Billy, but she’s a looker. And our viewers like to look at her. If she fucks up, you’ve got it. OK?”
Billy was now in charge of the KCMP Phantom case byline. Earl Waxford had called him into his office two days earlier, right after everyone saw Rachael Storm leaving, wiping her eyes.
“Look, Billy, Rachael is off the Phantom. You, my friend, are now on it. I should have given it to you in the first place. I expect something big, right away.”
Baxter was drooling. “Earl, you know I’ll come through. It will be my pleasure.”
Waxford ragged on about Rachael Storm. “Those detective fucks didn’t give that bitch Storm anything, and she took their bullshit without as much as a whimper. She’s useless, just like them. I’m telling you, boy, I hope you roast those sheriff assholes over this. You have my blessing to burn their office to the ground.”
This was the big one. Everyone was hyped up over it, and Baxter was already working on his story line for today: “Lackluster Investigation Allows Phantom to Petrify Solvang.” He had lots of great quotes lined up from many of the local street people, who complained to him on camera that they distrusted the sheriff’s office. One guy’s theory was classic: “They haven’t caught the guy yet, right?”
Pointing directly at the camera, the nut blurted out, “It’s ’cause he’s one of them, that’s why!”
Butthole had a five-minute piece ready to edit when he started catching wind of something happening in the sheriff’s detective bureau. By God, he wouldn’t let this one slip away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Murphy Wrote the Law
The freight train was rolling, roaring down the tracks. You could almost hear the klickety clack, klickety clack of the steel wheels going faster and faster. We were under the gun. Once you start a train like this rolling, you can’t stop it until it reaches its final destination. That destination was the arrest and successful prosecution of Robert Richardson and our Phantom.
Cheryl Howard spent most of the afternoon with us and our DA, Janet Swan. Uncharacteristically, she never asked for an attorney, never said she wanted to stop talking—well, except when we asked about what happened in the Cayman Islands. She was rather mum on that subject. I figured she didn’t want to vacation in a warmer climate. She would only say that she was blackmailed into committing our two murders by Richardson over what happened ten years ago on that island paradise.
She laid her actions out for us: the stalking, the preparation, and the deed. She said that when she slit Redbone’s throat, the sensation of his blood gushing onto her gloved hand felt warm. A slight smile slid across her face when she used the word. Creepy!
As arrangements were being made for the final “reveal” of our magic trick of arranging the fall of Robert Richardson, I made the mistake of going back to my office.
“Kevin…er…Rhino, wait up. What’s going on, man?”
It was Butthole Baxter, who snagged me walking down the hall. I’d asked Biff Corbet to keep the guy occupied today—keep him in his closet, so to speak. Biff had him sit by his desk while he worked on a robbery case, all the while feeding him meaningless details about our murder investigation. He even took him to lunch (Billy paid, of course). Biff possesses an unparalleled way of spinning yarns. He could launch into a colorful story about cops and robbers, guns and blood, at the drop of a hat. He had some really interesting cop stories from the past. In some of these tall tales, Biff played a part, and in other yarns he was merely the storyteller, intent on preserving the memories of by-gone years in law enforcement. Personally, I could listen to him for hours. But I digress.
Corbet kept Butthole occupied for a couple of hours, but the reporter was sensing he was being bullshitted by one of the best. He was being held back from reporting on The Big One. He grabbed the sleeve of my suit coat as I walked by. “Listen, I know something’s going on. I hear people whispering about something big, and most of you guys were gone all day. I see a lot of undercover cops walking around here, too. So, give it to me!”
I tap-danced around his question. “Nothing’s really happening, Bill, just some follow-up on older cases. That’s all. We do have other cases, you know. Those cases don’t go away, and the citizens we serve demand we pay attention to all our crimes. It’s no more than that, my friend.” My mouth tingled when I used the word friend.
Baxter raised his voice to me in the hallway. “Bullshit! I know you guys are up to something on the Phantom case, and you’ve been ordered to work with me on it, see? Now, give it up or I tell my editor you’re fucking with me!”
I turned to look at the little weasel. “Listen, Billy, I mean Mr. Butthole, you and your editor will get what I give you, when I decide you need to have it. Do you understand? You are not my friend, and judging from the way you do your pieces, the only person you care about is yourself.”
Backtracking, he said, “Look, Kev, I was only kidding.”
I continued my onslaught. “Go back into your closet, little mushroom, and stand by. I promise that when we move on something big, you’ll be the first to know. Stand by your phone today, because it could be any time. If you don’t agree to back off and leave all of us alone in the meantime, you can shove off—right now. You’ll get shit for a story. Do you and I have an understanding?”
He looked at me and nodded. Baxter stormed off down the hall toward his closet. Now on top of a million other things I had to wet-nurse that little fucker. I planned to give Baxter his big story, and more, very soon.
I learned a long time ago in my career to concentrate on the details, on presenting the best case I could for prosecution by the district attorney. I always tried to cross my t’s and dot my i’s. That’s all any cop can do. Once the DA got our case, we are asked to stand aside. Sometimes, they listen to us as far as what to file as charges; many times, they don’t.
Janet Swan spent over an hour with her boss, the DA. We all wanted Robert Richardson, and that meant building a stronger case against the bastard. We only had Cheryl Howard’s word on what he did, and there ain’t no way Richardson would waive his rights and want to talk to us about anything. He was a crook and an attorney to boot. We couldn’t hang our prosecutorial hat on the word of an admitted killer after all. Case law dictates that police cannot use the admissions of one coconspirator as the sole probable cause for the arrest of the other. We needed corroboration.
As much as we hated to admit it, we needed Cheryl Howard, and the bitch knew it. She could provide the icing for the cake we wished to bake around the rotund lawyer. Therefore, the district attorney agreed to take the death penalty off the table in exchange for her full and complete cooperation. She signed an agreement with them declaring as much.
Howard was careful not to make any admissions about killing Troy Williams in the waters off Cayman Brac, so we let that sleeping dog lie. After all, how many life sentences, without possibility of parole, can one crook get? Besides, the Cayman Islands had no death penalty, and we figured Howard didn’t know that. I was hoping to go there, though, you know, to “investigate” how beautiful the coral reefs were.
By the end of the day, Sergeant Bob Roberts earned his pension by taking care of all the arrangements necessary to pull off the trap we had planned: a face-to-face meeting between the Phantom and her handler. Bob had to set all this up: ensuring the security of our in-custody suspect, installing the necessary equipment to monitor the meeting, and lining up all the staff needed to safely do all of it.
I heard it took some doing to get the sheriff to approve the operation in the first place. Sheriff Billingsly blasted Roberts. “Let me get this straight, Sergeant. You want me to allow a double-murder suspect to go uncuffed, walk around free, while all this is happening? Are you guys out of your m
inds?”
For a change, Chief Walters came through for us. He convinced the sheriff that we would use whatever resources we needed to keep Cheryl Howard in pocket while getting the goods on Richardson. It sounded good on paper, but honestly, I was scared shitless something would go wrong. I was a firm believer in old-man Murphy, who wrote the law, “Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.” I hoped Murphy wouldn’t pay us a visit the next morning.
Around 9:00 p.m., Cheryl Howard dialed the cell phone number for Robert Richardson from the recorded “cool” phone line at our Special Enforcement Bureau. The caller ID on his end would read Howard Home.
She delivered her lines calmly. “Robert, we need to talk. I haven’t had any more calls from that cop who called me a couple of days ago about Dan’s and my little spat. My asshole husband’s been in Manhattan for over four weeks now with his whore. I want to talk about how you’re going to take care of me for a change. Let’s talk about your handling of my divorce, shall we?”
Richardson was cool. “I do not wish to discuss this further on the telephone. I will see you at the last place we met in Guadalupe, same time, next Saturday.”
Howard followed our instructions. “No! Goddamnit, Robert, you meet with me now. I’m tired of you fucking me around. You’ll meet me tomorrow morning, same place and hour as last time. Got it?”
Pausing, he appeared to be taken aback by her assertiveness, so the attorney relented. “Calm down, my dear. That’s just fine. I’ll see you there. Same time as last.”
With that, Richardson hung up. It was short and sweet, and Cheryl Howard had followed our playbook directions well. Time would tell if our killer would continue to follow our instructions as we laid them out for her. It gave me reason for concern. Crooks have a bad habit of doing the opposite of what you expect of them. Back when I worked dope, these little “detours” from the game plan made the job interesting. We wanted no drama now. We had no time or patience for detours at this point.
We transported Howard to the rear entrance of our satellite jail in Santa Maria, and she spent the rest of the evening in solitary confinement. In this small, backroom cell, she was away from the prying eyes of other inmates. We told her that we would return very early the next morning to prepare her for her big performance. She glared at me when I wished her good-night. “Sweet dreams, Cheryl.”
Bob Roberts took a fast trip over to Guadalupe. He met with the owner of Sally’s Place, who had agreed, for a price, to close the restaurant until noon the next day. He handed over the keys to Bob. Our tech services people and our special enforcement division then went into overdrive and into overtime. By four in the morning, Sally’s Place had been transformed into an undercover TV set, something akin to Big Brother. We had four video cameras and three dynamic microphones installed to cover the entire back area of the restaurant.
Most of our focus was on the rear booth, where we knew Richardson liked to squat. We cleared much of the kitchen equipment out to accommodate our video equipment and the arrest team. To ensure our bets, we had the owner cook up a couple plates of food, though, just in case we might need it. After all, Sally’s was a damn restaurant. That fat ass had ordered only coffee in the past, and we were counting on his past habits.
Our special-enforcement-division guys maintained a block-long perimeter starting the evening before, just in case the attorney decided to take a drive-by during the night. It was a boring detail. The only vehicles passing by were a couple of paper-delivery dudes.
About the time our tech team was finishing setting up at Sally’s, Ted and I were rousting our reluctant actor from her beauty sleep. She had about four hours of shut-eye and was not a happy camper. This high-society celebrity, Cheryl Howard, did not do mornings well. She needed a pretty party, badly. Her blond, recently dyed hair looked like a bird’s nest. She asked for her shampoo, moisturizers, comb, dryer, and makeup. Good thing we thought to bring it all the night before. We should have brought a damn makeup artist along with us, too. This girl was high-maintenance. I felt like telling her, “Get used to looking like shit, missy. There ain’t no L’Oréal in the big house.” I couldn’t afford to piss her off at this point, so I zipped my lip.
After an hour of primping and prepping, I needed her to hurry it up, so I said, “Shake a leg. It’s show time, lady.”
She turned toward me and gave me the same look she had given me yesterday as we were preparing to arrest her. Neither Ted, I, nor anyone in my crew trusted this murderous bitch any farther than we could toss her. We had put four of the biggest, baddest deputies we had on her security detail.
I pulled her away from Ted, and in a low, calm whisper told her, “Listen, lady, if you as much as fart out of line, the deal is off. I will make sure they give you ‘the juice’ for what you’ve done. If you make the idiotic mistake of trying to drive off or run, we will shoot you. You’re one killer no one will miss.”
As I said this, I stared directly into her intense brown eyes and gave that look right back at her.
At 5:00 a.m., the stage was set at Sally’s Place. We all stood by two blocks away. Everyone had moved to our tactical, encrypted radio channel to keep the newsies and nosey citizens away. Biff had driven Cheryl Howard’s minivan along with us. Once we began, the OPS (the operation) team would escort her as she drove the van the one-block stretch down to the restaurant parking lot. Our surveillance team would maintain the perimeter around the place and run interference with any would-be actual customers.
The Phantom had a loose script we provided for her to follow in her verbal exchange with Richardson. She went over it several times with us until we were confident she understood what was required of her. It was geared to elicit incriminating statements from the attorney regarding his participation in the homicide. She was told that once she knew he had made sufficient admissions to her, she should just stand up. That was the bust signal: just stand up.
The arrest team in the kitchen would take over from there. All she had to do afterward was what they told her to do. It would be over, and she would have accomplished what we and the DA had asked of her. She would have avoided a potential death sentence. Maybe afterward we’d take her to Disneyland to celebrate…Right.
We had a nearby booth filled with Hispanic deputies, dressed like farmworkers, led by Luis Ocampo. The waitress was one of our female detectives (Beverly Stiles) who happened to be a server in her former life. The cashier was played by Will Phillips. Ted and I would be listening in to the conversation from inside our van out back, calling the shots for our personnel. We had audio in the van but no video feed. Hell, we had nearly thirty cops working on this operation. We had it all, minus the fucking partridge in a pear tree. No matter how prepared we were, though, my gut was knotted up like taffy in a pull. I was popping antacids like they were friggin’ candy.
We had Cheryl with us in the van, and all our containment teams were parked just outside. There was no chitchat going on inside. She didn’t like us, and the feeling was very mutual. As we sat there, tucked away, a black Lincoln Town Car rolled down Seventh Avenue toward Sally’s.
One of our guys made a quick broadcast. “The primary is inbound in the seven hundred block of seventh. He’s in the black vehicle.”
Shit, he was early. Richardson parked his car in the lot and lumbered inside the front door, past Phillips standing at the register. He looked around and then made his way to the back booth, sitting down right on his mark. We handed Cheryl off to the “kill squad,” and Ted drove our van close to the restaurant, where he parked it with a window view of the back booth. I was happy we had an eyeball on the action. It was finally show time, folks.
Listening in on the action inside, I could hear Beverly Stiles talking to our Mexicans and the clinking of coffee cups nearby. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and I would’ve killed for a cup of joe. I then heard our waitress approach Richardson and saw her standing at his table.
“Coffee, hon?”
Richardson looked at her for a
moment and replied, “Where, pray tell, is my favorite waitress, Flora?”
I was listening to all of this, and turning to Ted, I said, “Damn, Ted, he’s asking where the other waitress is. I Hope Bev’s quick on her feet.”
She was. “Flora, the poor darlin’, had the poops this morning. She called in. I’m just fillin’ in. My name’s Bev.”
Our faux server extended her hand, and the ever-so-gracious Robert Richardson shook it. In his usual bellowing tone, he responded, “Very nice to meet you, my dear. Yes, coffee with cream and sugar, please.”
Beverly poured the cup and told him she would be back to take his food order.
My thoughts raced. Oh, Christ! Take your time, Bev. No food. No food!
We had instructed the containment crew with Howard to get her into her van and to escort her to the parking lot right around six in the morning. We had about thirteen minutes to kill—lots of downtime left on our hands. Sure as hell, about two minutes later, I heard Richardson calling Bev to come back over.
“My dear, I need to order breakfast now. I need you to take my order.”
Like pros, Bev and Will had discussed this possibility, and without hesitation, Bev fired back, “Hon, sorry, but we had a grease fire this morning, and the kitchen is down right now. We could probably do Mexican eggs and toast, but that’s about it for a half hour or so. Will that be OK?“
Way to go, Bev. The owner had made up a couple of plates for us: a breakfast burrito plate and huevos rancheros. We could just pop ’em in the micro.
Richardson inquired, “Well, Bev, what’s in Mexican eggs?”
Oh, crap. Back on her tiptoes, Bev replied, “Hell, I guess eggs, of course, and some other Spanish stuff.” She chuckled nervously.
Richardson found this amusing as well, and said he’d order the “Spanish stuff.” Ted and I couldn’t help but laugh our asses off in the van. “Spanish stuff…”
As soon as Bev walked off, I keyed the microphone button: “Start the OPS.”
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 17