by Lee Bellamy
Who Killed Rudy Rio?
A Holly Keene Mystery
by
Shirley Kennedy
Desert Sky Publishers
Las Vegas, Nevada
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 2011 by Shirley Kennedy
Contact: [email protected]
ISBN 978-0-97692-381-7
Chapter 1
Fresno, California
Reece Barnicut laid my resume on his neat teakwood desk, centered it precisely, and snaked his manicured index finger down the front page. "So you're Holly Keene and you're looking for a job." He peered up at me with close-set eyes.
"Yes." I refrained from adding, desperately looking for a job.
The gaze he flicked at my chest was a waste of time. Today all the good parts were covered up, modestly hidden beneath a high-necked white blouse and a navy, dress-for-success, Adolfo suit. My blonde hair, which I usually wear long, loose and kinky, was woven into a dignified French braid atop the back of my head. "Have a seat," he said, his voice nasal. His thin lips had yet to crack a smile. "I can only spare a minute. I usually don't see people without an appointment."
I'll bet he didn't, except when someone determined like me walked into his outer office and practically demanded to be seen. The receptionist had caved in. "Thanks for giving me the time."
I checked him out as I sat down. Fortyish, five-feet-eight or so, maybe 150 pounds, wearing a three-piece suit and an elegant red silk tie. The spiffy outfit didn't help. Barnicut was about as unappealing as a man could be, with thick-lensed glasses, the beginning of a paunch bulging beneath his tailored vest, a narrow, sallow face roughened by old acne scars, and pinched cheeks that made him look as if he'd sucked on something sour. A strand of hair hung dark and lank across his forehead. On Tom Cruise it would look sexy. On Reece Barnicut it looked like he lost his comb.
"So why'd you come here?" he asked.
"Barnicut & Perez is one of the best detective agencies in the valley—" My eyes focused upwards and behind him to the rows of credentials and diplomas that festooned his wall. I took an extra moment to study them. "—so I wanted to discuss with you the possibilities of working here." That bullshit said, I crossed my navy pumps, dropped my matching leather bag to the floor, and rested my hands palms-up on my lap. I regarded him squarely—your quintessential well-poised applicant—confident, relaxed, well-fed. A person who didn't really need a job. Which, of course, was true. I could always be a bag lady down on the mall.
Barnicut's attention returned to the resume. "Hmmm," he went on, his finger still snaking, "graduated U.C. Berkeley, 2003."
"With a degree in criminology," I supplied.
"Yes, I can see that. And you worked at Sierra Electronics Corporation down in L.A., 2003 to 2008." The pointy part of his upper right lip lifted, almost imperceptibly. "Why'd you quit?" It was an accusation, not a question.
"I got married in 2005. My daughter, Ashley, was born in '07. I went back to work for a while, then decided to stay home with my daughter, just while she was so young." I gave him a reassuring nod, signaling clearly that never would I surrender to domesticity again. "We decided, my husband and I, that we could swing it financially."
"And did you?" Up went that pointy part of his lip again.
"No. We're getting divorced." That hadn't come out right. "We're getting divorced for a lot of reasons, not just finances."
"Too bad. But a pretty girl like you, uh—," he flicked his eyes to the page, "Holly. You'll find somebody else."
"I'm not looking for a man. I'm looking for a job."
"Hmmm." Barnicut's finger reached the pièce de résistance of page one. His bushy black brows arched in surprise. "You've got your private investigator's license?"
"That's right."
"New."
"I passed the exam in December."
"How many times did you have to take it?"
"Just once." You bozo. But no wonder he was asking. The State of California Bureau of Collection and Investigative Services gives a killer P.I. exam. It's in the same league as the one the lawyers take to pass the bar. I nearly became a hermit, cramming day and night for months in order to pass. I would not, however, share that tidbit with Reece Barnicut.
He took his time examining page two. I kept myself from fidgeting and glanced around. He had an office to die for, if you lived in New York, San Francisco, or L.A. In Fresno it was just your standard ground-floor suite with parking practically outside the door. Airy and spacious, it had a glass wall overlooking a jungle of ferns in an inner courtyard. The plushy furniture was in earth tones; there was an acre of light sand carpeting, and a fake cactus standing like a green sentinel in the corner. Nice office. Barnicut & Perez were doing well.
Barnicut ignored page three, flipped back to one and read, "Sandy Wells Investigations, 2008-2010." He glanced up. "Thought you were staying home to be a mommy."
"It was part time." I paused, deciding what more to say. "Sandy and I worked together in Security at Sierra. She quit to open her own detective agency. Everyone thought she was crazy, but she wasn't. She cleared three hundred thousand last year."
At last Barnicut smiled, if you could call a superior smirk a smile. "You want to do the same, right?" He could barely mask his scorn. "You and every other P.I."
"Of course." No sense lying. I had a little girl to raise, a mountain of debts to pay, and an alcoholic about-to-be-ex-husband who couldn't be counted on for zilch, let alone child support. You bet I was dying to run my own agency. I was going to run my own agency. I had the name: Holly Keene Investigations; and the logo underneath: Tracer of Lost Loves. All I needed now was a little experience, a little luck, and a lot of money.
"So why did you move to Fresno?" Barnicut asked. "Must seem pretty tame compared to L.A."
"Fresno's my home town. I love it here. I'm happy to be back." I nearly blew myself away, listening to myself tell that one. I wasn't about to inform him I'd come running home to Mother dead broke, that Tom's drinking and gambling had put us in debt so deep I wasn't sure I'd ever get out, and that, divorce or no, I was still responsible for half of it. All of it, really. Tom lost his job and couldn't pay a penny.
Barnicut tapped an accusing finger on my resume and glared. "How'd you get your license? You've got your degree, but you still need four thousand hours of compensated investigative experience before you can even take the test. I don't see that here."
"I accumulated the hours working in Security at Sierra, checking out top secret and secret clearances, investigating security violations. Then, like I said, I worked part-time for Sandy."
"Doing what?"
"Mostly working on the computer. And I did a lot of—"
"Have you done interrogations? Do you know insurance lingo? How many stake-outs have you gone on? Could you handle the streets of central Fresno at midnight? Tell me, Holly, other than the electronic firm and your part-time job with Sandy Wells, what experience have you had?"
"Well, not much, actually I—"
"Not much?" Barnicut hunched forward, his eyes alight, nostrils fairly twitching for the kill. "You seem a very bright girl and you present yourself well, but you want the truth? The streets are swarming with licensed P.I.s looking for work—just like you, only with a lot more experience. So let's not waste each other's time."
"But there's something you've missed. If you read the whole resume—"
"Tell you what I'll do..." Sighing indifferently, Barnicut reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick a
pplication. "In case we have an opening, take this to the lobby and fill it out. Part of it's a test that gives me your psychological profile. I'll file it along with your resume, and if anything comes up…" He shrugged and let the sentence hang. Finishing it wasn't worth his time.
I took the application, scooped up my bag, and rose with dignity from my desert sand chair. From my five-feet-eleven-with-heels I looked down at him, contemplating my options. Several came to mind. I condensed them to two:
I could rip the application to pieces, throw them into that funky face and tell him to stuff them where his desert-motif sun would never, ever shine. Or...
I could smile politely, take the application to the lobby and fill it out.
So I'd bite the bullet. This was for Ashley. I couldn't afford to make enemies, not even Reece Barnicut.
"Thank you, Mr. Barnicut, for giving me your time."
Out in the lobby, the middle-aged receptionist with a bulldozer body and frizzy blonde hair sat like Mission Control behind her telephone console. Her nameplate read Tish Regillis. I could tell she'd overheard. The expression on her Kewpi Doll face oozed with sympathy. "Right over there, honey." She pointed to a table. "Have you got a number 2 pencil?"
I told her no, so she brought me one, clucking softly, her eyes telegraphing how sorry she was her boss was such a jerk.
I sat down at the table, noticing I could see into Barnicut's office, and he, to my discomfort, could see me. I spread out the application, then sat staring, unseeing, at Name (Print only). Lucky my head was bent. Tish's pity had gotten through to me like Barnicut's brusqueness never could, and I felt the pressure of tears someplace behind my eyes. There was no job here, this was a farce. Funny, through all the mess with Tom, I never cried. Now I felt such frustration. So many times these past few months I wondered could this really be happening to me? Here came the tears again, pressing to be released. Cut that out. Barnicut can see me. I should get some counseling, but I didn't have the money or the time. Ashley needed new clothes, but at the moment I could hardly afford a pair of socks from K-mart. I didn't need a shrink nearly as much as I needed a job.
"Are you all right?"
Oh, great. Tish was staring at me. I emerged from my dark moment, answered, "Just fine," and told myself to get with it. I picked up my number 2 pencil and wrote my name, then erased it when I remembered the directions said to print.
The telephone warbled. Tish answered and put the call through to Barnicut. His door was wide open. I could see him leaning back in his oversized chair, shoes propped on the desk, puffing on a cigarette, enveloping himself in a cloud of smoke. With a minimum of movement, he punched a button on his speaker phone. "Barnicut here."
A woman's voice, brisk and business-like, came through the speaker. "This is Doris Trusdale. I'm the office manager over at Champion Commercial Trailer Sales. You don't know me, but you know my boss, Jay?"
"Sure I know Jay Champion. I've done business with Mrs. Champion. How are they?"
"You mean you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"I'm sure you know Jay's in the National Guard. Well, he got sent to Afghanistan."
"You're kidding."
"No. Isn't this awful? No sooner are we finishing up with Iraq, now we’re back to Afghanistan. As we speak, Jay's sitting over there in the province of Kandahar where the action is. His unit left five months ago. I'm running the office while he's gone." Doris Trusdale's voice quivered. "Something terrible has happened."
"Yeah?"
"We were robbed last night. They took three dry freight vans and three reefers."
"What's the loss?"
"Roughly $300,000 worth of trailers," her voice rose, "just gone!"
"How'd it happen?"
"They came right in here, not breaking the lock on our gate, but opening it. They must have had a key. They had their own trucks, too. They just hitched the trailers up and hauled them away."
"You called the police?"
"Certainly I called the police, and they're investigating. They took impressions of some tire tracks—"
"Waste of time. Tire tracks are useless. A mile down the road your thieves drive over a piece of glass, or through a pot hole, and what have you got? Different tire tracks."
"Well, tracks or no, I want action now. Jay's in Afghanistan, ready to give his life—" Doris nearly choked, "—and those rotten thieves took his trailers."
"Hmmm." Barnicut bestirred himself and butted out his cigarette. He leaned back again, both hands behind his head. "This happened last night?"
"Sometime." Sarcastically she added, "We don't know exactly when. Our great night watchman was sleeping, or so he claims."
"Doris, I've got bad news. Your trailers are down in Tijuana by now, probably stripped. If not, they're already repainted and sold. Better just call your insurance—"
"That is not the point," Doris broke in fiercely. "Velia—Mrs. Champion—and I want the thief caught, and caught now. Imagine, stealing from a war hero! It's not right."
"But you don't know—"
"Yes I do! I know very well who did it. I told the police, but they said it'd be hard to prove."
"So who do you think it was?"
"Rudy Rio."
"And who is Rudy Rio?"
"He's an old friend of Jay's. Or to be more exact, one of Jay's charity cases. The little worm lives here in the yard, in a trailer out back. He's supposed to be the night watchman." Her voice filled with scorn. "Some night watchman."
"Look, Doris, I'll be honest with you, okay? You can spend a lot of money and hire a private investigator like me, but you're just as well off with the Fresno Police Department. They'll do a good job for you."
"No, no! I want you to give Rudy Rio a lie detector test. Now, today. Can you do that?"
"Hang on." Barnicut punched his hold button, muttering, "Bitch isn't going to go away." He bellowed, "Tish, where's Perez?"
Tish shrugged and held out her palms. "I'm supposed to keep track of Perez? Come on!"
Barnicut punched the button again. "Doris, I'd like to help, but our polygraph guy is unavailable right now..."
A million wheels spun inside my head, then they all fell into place and I knew what I had to do. It was crazy, but when you're down to pounding the pavement looking for a job, you don't have much to lose. I scooped up my resume. In a flash I stood in front of Barnicut's desk again, holding up my hand, wiggling my fingers, whispering urgently, "Excuse me?"
His brows furrowed as he looked up at me. "Excuse you what?"
I turned to the last page of my resume and plunked it down in front of him. "Take a look." I tapped page three with my finger, right where it said Exeter Polygraph School, Certificate of Graduation, Holly Keene.
Barnicut took a look, got Doris Trusdale's phone number and said he'd call her right back. He straightened in his chair. "You do polygraphs?"
"Hundreds." A slight exaggeration, but how was he to know?
"You're certified?"
I sank back into the chair again, all confident this time. "Sure I'm certified, just like it says, and I'll make you a deal."
"Like what?"
"Like you consider hiring me, or at the very least, throw some work my way, and I'll do your Rudy Rio for half price."
Barnicut's sharp eyes lit. Down in L.A. a good polygrapher got three hundred dollars a pop. I didn't know the going rate in Fresno, but whatever it was, he was getting a bargain. He asked, "You're sure you know what you're doing?"
"I know what I'm doing."
Barnicut reached for the phone. "I'm making no promises, but we'll get the guy in here." He squinted at me, still questioning. "You're sure now."
"I'm sure," I answered, and I was. Maybe my marriage was a failure, maybe I was broke, but if there was one thing I could do and do well, it was give a polygraph test.
For sure, I could handle the likes of that little worm, Rudy Rio.
Chapter 2
I returned to the lobby and asked, "Where do
they keep the polygraph machine?"
Tish stabbed her letter opener towards a closed office door. "Through there. That's Gil's office. He's not around so you might as well use it."
I opened the door and stepped into an office the same size as Barnicut's, with the same tropical jungle view. The resemblance ended there. No desert sand motif for Perez. Except for the computer terminal, his decor resembled a cross between vintage Sam Spade and U.S. Government Surplus from World War II. Scratched wooden desk—battered vinyl chairs—a couple of dented gray steel filing cabinets. Books and papers stacked up everywhere, not totally haphazardly. There appeared to be some kind of loose organization to the clutter. Unlike Barnicut's showy display, no credentials decorated Perez's wall, just pictures of cars, airplanes, and motorcycles, some framed, some torn from magazines and stuck up with Scotch Tape.
A big framed picture of a Harley hung beside a door on one side of the room. That had to be... I walked over and tilted the picture. It hid a one-way window. I peered into the room beyond. It was carpeted, sparsely furnished, with a couple of pastoral prints hanging on two of the walls. Toward one end, the polygraph machine sat on an otherwise bare desk. The subject's chair—wooden, straight-backed, with one long arm—was centered against the front of the desk, facing outward towards the blank wall. Perfect. I took a close look at the machine. No problem, I knew I could handle it. Feeling confident, I returned to the lobby.
While waiting for Champion's night watchman to show, I completed Barnicut's multiple-choice, moronic test. It was pretty awful but, if nothing else, brought me to one of those defining moments in our lives that we never forget.
I'm not talking about graduations, weddings, funerals, major accidents, or any of the other standard memorable stuff. I'm referring to the everyday, uneventful events of our lives which every once in a great while prove to be significant. Perhaps it's simply some words, or a deed, or some random thoughts which in some way reshape us although we didn't realize it at the time.