Who Killed Rudy Rio?

by Lee Bellamy

  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 application. "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 new
s. 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.

  My defining moment began with the first questions. Question One: "My friends see me as: (A) Tough; (B) Average; (C) Weak and subservient."

  Get out of here, Barnicut! Did you think I'd pick C?

  Question two. "I think of myself as: (A) Self-confident; (B) Adequate; (C) A victim.

  "A" again. But "victim" set sirens screaming in my head. Was I a victim? How had I come across in my interview just now? I wanted to appear tough and self-confident, and probably had, on the outside. But inside where it counts? I thought about it. The good news was I'd been grandly assertive about giving the polygraph test to Rudy Rio. The bad news? When I filled out that application, I got all teary. My spine turned to marshmallows.

  Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman at the airport saying goodbye. "We'll always have Paris." Did Humphrey cry? Did Humphrey wish he could afford a shrink?

  At that instant I decided that the vestiges of my boo-hoo, poor-little-me act had to go. My defining moment. I didn't have a husband to rely on anymore. I wasn't Daddy's little girl anymore, either. From now on, no matter what, I would have emotions of steel. I would be strong, inside and out, and I wouldn't be a victim. If that meant I ended up collecting cans down on the mall it could be no worse a fate than groveling for the sake of a job with slime bag Barnicut. In the future, I would cut him no slack.

  At least the test kept me occupied. I was getting increasingly jumpy. Barnicut was right about P.I.'s swarming the streets. I'd danced a waltz with nearly every agency in town already, to the tune of "Don't call us, we'll call you." Now I had a chance.

  Tish Regillis looked impressed when I handed her the test, along with my resume. "Wow," she said, "how come you decided to be a private investigator?"

  "I like it and the money's good—sometimes." Someday, if I knew her well enough, I would tell her about those last miserable years with Tom, when I knew the marriage was over, when I vowed I wouldn't work 8-to-5 for some heartless corporation until I ended up a moldy old lady. That's when I decided to get myself in gear and be a P.I.

  Tish asked, "When did you learn to do polygraphs?"

  "When I worked for Sandy Wells. She showed me how. Right away I got hooked and signed up for Polygraph school. Not everyone can give a Polygraph. You need a lot of training to be any good. Even then, it's not that simple. You've got to know people—be a good psychologist."

  Tish made a face. "Yeah, but the trouble is, you can't use a lie detector test in court."

  "Not in California, but in some states you can. Don't believe all that negative garbage. Polygraphs are so accurate it's scary."

  "Hey, you don't have to convince me," Tish said. "I've seen Gil do his stuff. He's good."

  "Who exactly is
Gil?"

  "Guillermo Rivera Perez." I noticed how she rolled the name lovingly off her tongue. "He could get the truth out of the devil." Tish sliced an envelope open with extra vigor and lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's the other partner, the good one." She jerked her head towards Barnicut's office. "As opposed to numb nuts in there. Gil's crazy, but he's okay, if you know what I mean."

  No, I didn't know, and didn't have time to find out because just then the outer door opened and a man's bald head peered in. "Barnicut & Perez?" he asked in a tentative voice.

  "Yes, sir," Tish answered brightly, "come in."

  A dapper little man in his fifties stepped cautiously inside. He wore neat gray slacks, a green open-collared shirt, and a natty tweed sports jacket. A diamond big enough to cover a couple of mortgage payments flashed on his pinky. He was maybe five feet five, with a tough, street-wise face and wary eyes. He hitched up his trousers and gazed suspiciously around, kind of like he expected an ambush. "I'm Rudy Rio." His accent hinted Chicago.

  This was a night watchman? So much for stereotypes. I'd expected some slump-shouldered old guy in khaki work clothes with shuffling steps, a flashlight, and a bunch of keys dangling from his belt. Rudy Rio was none of the above. Instead, he had a gambler's look about him, like a race track tout about to slip you a hot tip out of the corner of his mouth.

  I turned on my Mizz-professional-but-friendly demeanor and held out my hand. "Mr. Rio! We've been expecting you."

  He took my hand reluctantly, glared up at me, way up, and scowled. "I'm getting a raw deal here. I don't need a lie detector test."

  I noticed his hand was clammy, probably from nervousness, so I backed off a little. No sense towering over him like a lady Rambo. "I know exactly what you mean. Come on in my office, and I'll tell you what we're going to do."

  He stood his ground. "I didn't have anything to do with any trailers getting stolen."

  "Then you have nothing to worry about." I tried to sound as non-threatening as I could. "Most people think all a polygraph test does is prove you're lying. That's not so. You have to look at the other side. It can prove you're telling the truth."