“I'm his admin assistant, not his pillow mate. He doesn't tell me much, but I know it's important. I heard him on the phone say you were the one he could talk to about the death of his son.”
“I see,” I said, in a bit of a stall. My mind swirled, trying to place his son. Nothing at first, then a tingle of memory dripped in. There was something in the news a few weeks ago about the son of a prominent lawyer dying, possibly suicide. That's it—all I could come up with. Was that the young Whittaker?
Ms. Boomer must have sensed my hesitancy and thought she could close the deal. “He said tell you Aaron Dunniker recommended you. I got you at five, okay?”
That shut me down. Why would Aaron recommend me to Homer Whittaker? Aaron and I were golfing acquaintances. Not social partners. We only associated on the golf course. Not surprising since our incomes were so different. I got along on my policeman's retirement and the money from investments made when I was younger. He—well, just say his income was far higher—maybe in the major six figures higher.
“Mr. Boykin? Five o'clock?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bit of white in the rough. My ball? “Yes. I'll be there.” Even as I punched the off button, I wondered why I'd agreed. Probably because I wanted to get on with my game. Hopefully that white sliver was my ball, and I wouldn't have to take a penalty. Most likely it was a dropped tissue, and I'd still have to look.
I shoved Whittaker out of my mind and concentrated on my game. Still didn't break one-hundred.
~*~
Later, with Larry, Curly, and Moe—that's how they introduced themselves—I sat in the clubhouse bar. They were looking for a fourth when I hit the first tee, and since I didn't have a foursome for the day, I had joined them. They were yukking it up, putting on a show—or an annoyance—but I couldn't concentrate on their act. First, I was annoyed that the tab was on me for coming in with the highest score, and second, Ms. Boomer's call raced around in my head. Whittaker was a well-known public defender whom I'd had the good fortune to never meet—in or out of court. I searched my mind, but didn't come up with any previous connection to him. By reputation, he was known for defending any drivel running afoul of the law. Those of my compatriots on the force, who had interfaced with him, never had a good word for him. It was rumored judges assigned him the worst defendants.
~*~
At five, Ms. Dolly Boomer, whose blouse appeared a size too small, especially across the chest, looked up when I entered Whittaker's office. It was a storefront in a rundown strip mall. I didn't count, but my suspicion was the ratio between occupied and unoccupied businesses ran no better than fifty-fifty.
The Administrative Assistant—a title I figured she held rather than a proper salary—yelled into the backroom, “That Boykin guy is here.”
A man appeared in the doorway and waved me in. “Have a seat, Mr. Boykin,” he said, pointing toward a straight-backed chair with a frayed cushion. “Something to drink? The sun is dipping toward the horizon.”
I chuckled, figuring it was expected. “I'll pass.”
“Hope you don't mind if I have one.” He lifted a glass filled with an amber liquid.
Scotch and water, I assumed, since I didn't see any fizzing.
He sipped, then said, “I hope you won't mind if we get straight to business. I have another appointment at six.”
“By all means,” I said, squirming to find a comfortable position.
“I understand from Aaron Dunniker that you have a current Private Investigator License.”
That was a strange opening, but one I could handle. “Yes, but I don't exercise it. I'm retired.”
“Yeah, that's what Aaron said you’d say. Doesn't matter to me. I need a good investigator, and Dunniker says you're competent, dependable, and good at keeping secrets. Is that true?”
Stranger and stranger. “Not sure where you're going with this, but I know how to keep a secret—if that's what you mean. However, let me reiterate, I'm retired, not looking for a job.”
Whittaker sipped his drink. “He predicted you'd say that, too.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Frankly, I consider your retirement an asset. I need someone who can operate under the radar, if you know what I mean.”
I had no clue what he meant, but chose to make sure he understood me. “If you'd asked Aaron a few more questions, you'd have discovered that if I uncover a crime, I will report it to the authorities. So, my secret keeping can swing both ways.”
“I understand. I'm a lawyer, you know. I can live with it as long as you inform me first. If I choose to hire you, anything you discover will fall under lawyer-client privilege. I will be both the lawyer and the client. Do you want the job?”
Again, I felt like my face belonged to someone else, determined to give away my shock. He was either a nut or arrogant in the extreme. However, I swallowed and answered with what I thought a worldly, upscale PI would say—you know, the kind Humphrey Bogart used to play. “Excuse me. Aren't you jumping ahead a bit? You haven't mentioned what the job is.” I did a slow scan of his office. “How can I know if I want it? I gave up blind dates when I was a teenager.”
Whittaker frowned. He knew he wasn't dealing with a rookie. “Yeah. Guess I did get ahead of myself. It's just that I'm so...” He paused, swallowed, took another sip of his drink. “I need for you to find the person who killed my son.” He hesitated, watching to see if I reacted.
I didn't. Well, I don’t think I did.
“The police won't even label it murder,” he continued. “They hide behind the excuse of lack of evidence. I know someone pushed him, and I want you to find the one who did it. My wife and I must have closure. I don't care what you have to do to solve this.”
His words did not set well with me. I encountered that attitude too often when I wore the badge. I could appreciate his anger and anguish, but I wasn't about to let him think I'd been an out-of-control cop. “You need to slow down a bit. If I should decide to help you—still a long shot—I'll do everything by the book. However, that's putting the oak tree before the acorn. I have faith in the police. I was one of them. What makes you think I can do something they can't?”
“Because you're retired. I work with the police every day. They obey the laws, but I see the frustration they feel. In fact,” a half-smile jumped onto his face, “that frustration helps me on many of my cases. Aaron says you won't let yourself be handcuffed by the restrictions that favor the criminals. Since you took off your badge, you drive straight for the truth.”
“You're not impressing me, Whittaker. My goal, and the goal of all those I worked with, was to arrest the guilty. That has not changed. We left it to the media and lawyers like you to distort the facts.”
Whittaker jumped in. “Please, don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for policemen. If the politicians left you alone, there would be fewer crimes. People could walk the streets without having to look over their shoulders. However, cops can't hand out a parking ticket without consulting Internal Affairs, and probably a judge. Even then, they risk their careers if they happen to pick on the wrong person. I know, because I use those same laws every day on behalf of my clients.”
His attitude was getting to me. I shared his opinion of the odious rules governing police behavior. It was one of the reasons I retired when I did. I tired of making an arrest and watching the perp walk free before I could finish the volumes of paperwork. My supervisor, under prodding from above, called me in for several one-on-one counseling sessions, and IA launched investigations twice because thugs complained I had violated their civil rights. Of course, the media was quick to damn the police anytime an apprehension turned physical. I didn't make Page One, but a couple of snide articles appeared about me in the local section. After the second time it happened, I decided being a poor golfer would be more enjoyable. I had no urge to spend time in stripes with people who knew I'd worn blue.
Now my persona had returned to its natural state, with no qualms about speaking up. My mora
ls weren't for sale—especially to a bottom feeder like Whittaker—and he needed to know it. “Based on the little I know about you from hanging around the courthouse, your words and your actions seem to be at odds with each other. But no matter what you say, you must understand I am a law-abiding citizen. As I said, I'm retired and working on joining the Senior Circuit of the PGA. It's true I helped Aaron with a situation, but that was out of friendship. For you, we shall see.”
I did another slow scan of his office, insuring that my disdain showed, deciding to work this sleaze. “I don't work for charity. It'll cost you.”
“Mr. Boykin, Aaron Dunniker represented you well.” He slipped his hand into his center drawer, came up with a check, and pushed it toward me. He then removed his wallet, took out a credit card, and threw that on top of the check. From an inside coat pocket, he pulled a stack of cash and laid it beside the credit card and check. “Take whichever you prefer. They're each valid.” He leaned back and stared.
I tugged at my ear, before picking up the check. The amount was impressive. I laid it on top of the credit card. “Do you have access to the police files?”
“I've seen them. There's not much there. Just interviews with people who say they know nothing. Most of them claim they didn't know Jack was there. It was a Halloween party and everyone was in costume.”
“I'll want a copy. Arrange it. Was there an autopsy? If so, did you see the results?”
There was silence, but I waited it out.
“Yes. All it proved was Jack had been drinking. No surprise there. It was a party.”
I took a hard look at him, sitting there in his sub-average office in a dying strip mall and wearing a suit that had seen its better days. True, he'd chosen to give legal representation to some of the worst of our society, but shouldn't I admire him for that? After all, our Constitution guaranteed equal treatment before the law, and the Supreme Court interpreted that to mean every person must have an attorney. If not people like Whittaker, then whom?
The check that lay on his desk probably represented what the state paid him per case several times over. I felt myself leaning toward him. I felt sorry for the guy. “Okay, here's what I'll do. I'll look at the police files and snoop around a bit. If I'm convinced they got it right, I walk away. If I see something that piques my curiosity, I'll hire on. You pay for the time I actually spend on your behalf.”
“Don't you want to hear what I think about it?”
“No. I prefer to start with what the police found. They investigated. You weren't there.”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Fair enough. I'll ask that the files are made available to you.”
Chapter 2
Two days later, at nine a.m., I was in the Creature's Cove police station talking with Captain Bill Sinclair. I can't say he was thrilled to see me, but he hadn't bounced me down the front steps. He appeared to struggle with being a tolerant host.
Bill and I went back a long way. He joined the force after me, but he had the right credentials to move up in a hurry, a Master's Degree in Criminology and a nose for rooting out the guilty guy. Plus, he made a great witness and was good in front of the cameras. His advancement went by the book, and I wasn't upset when he vaulted past me. Soon, he was a Lieutenant with future captain figuratively written on his forehead.
He sat behind a cheap government-issue desk in a chair that didn't look all that soft or comfortable with a pile of folders in front of him. “Jon, I'm glad to see you,” he said. “Although I would not have chosen these circumstances. I can't believe you've gone over to the dark side.”
“No, Bill. That's not true. At least, not yet. At this point, all I've agreed to do is look at the files. That doesn't mean I'm buying Whittaker's ideas.”
“As I understand it, Jon, you want to see everything we have on Jack Whittaker's death. Is that correct?”
“Pretty much. I've been asked to continue your investigation, but I won't agree until I play catchup with your results.”
“Uh-huh. You're retired. Why stick your nose into an active case?”
Uh-oh. I hadn't expected to be greeted like a long-lost lover, but this felt more like the captain's opinion of icebergs a few minutes after the Titanic hit one. “Sorry, someone has misled you. I don't see it that way. I understand the pressure you're under to solve or move on. Criminals never stop. They don't even slow down. I can give all my attention to this one crime, giving me an edge—if I decide to take the case.”
Bill threw me a skeptical look. “Not buying it. Obviously, you're being recruited by the kid's dad, and he has you convinced there was malfeasance. My people didn't find any evidence of such. That's why we placed the case on hold—not closed, mind you--but on hold. Unless something new comes along, we have to assume young Whittaker either committed suicide or tumbled over the railing in an accident. Totally logical. It was a Halloween party with loads of people, lots of drinking, and no one paying attention to anyone else.”
I gave him my sincere smile. “Again, you're misjudging me. I make no assumptions. That's why I need to see the files. After reviewing them, if I'm convinced you're right, I'll walk away. Mr. Whittaker will have to accept your work or find someone else. I am not here to second-guess anyone.” I hesitated and then did my smile bit again. “May I have access? Mr. Whittaker said he okayed it with you.”
Bill Sinclair frowned, making me think I might have moved too fast.
“Listen, Jon. I earned this job. I came up by being better than those around me—you included. I'm a good cop and don't play politics. The city can fire me, but if they do, I'll find another position before their lawyers finish the paperwork. I've spent my life building my reputation as one who plays no favorites.”
Time to backtrack and take another approach. “How about we compromise? My goal is not to undercut anyone. You can assign someone as a liaison to work with me. That person can watch as I go through the information. If I decide to take the case, he can accompany me while I do my digging, or I'll stay in close contact with him, whichever you prefer.” I paused for emphasis. “Bill, please understand Whittaker's position. He believes someone murdered his son. All he wants is to eliminate doubt for him and his wife. If it was an accident or suicide, he only wants it confirmed.”
Again I paused, before delivering what I hoped would be the coup de grâce. “Put yourself in his position. Would you act differently?”
Bill Sinclair stared at me, his expression hard, as a change began around his eyes and continued over his face. “Okay.” He looked at the folders. “I'll test drive your compromise.” He opened the top folder. “Here is a list of the people who were interviewed. You may keep this.” He handed me a paper. “You can read the reports but not take notes. While you get started, I'll find an officer to look over your shoulder. If I find out you're violating my trust, you're out on your backside, and I'll do everything I can to revoke your pension. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said and reached across to shake hands.
He stared at me a moment and then we shook. “Don't cross me, Jon.”
~*~
After thirty minutes, I'd read five well-written witness statements. However, the gist of each was I know nothing—reminding me of John Banner playing Master Sergeant Schultz in the TV series Hogan's Heroes. The most definitive thing I'd learned was it was an open door Halloween party, costumes required. People apparently wandered in, mooched on the freebies, and left without being seen. Lamar Torginson was the host; it was his apartment.
Jack Whittaker was one of those unseen guests because he wore a Star Wars Stormtrooper costume.
As I laid the fifth file aside, the door behind me opened. I glanced to see who had come in, and then I did a double take. She was gorgeous, reminding me of the high school sweetheart I still lamented letting get away. Nicely coifed red hair, well-proportioned body, somewhere between five-two and five-five, dressed in a blue pantsuit, white blouse, and low heels, maybe in her forties. Even the scowl she wore didn't dimini
sh her attractiveness.
“Well, hello,” I said. “If you're looking for the Captain, he stepped out a few minutes ago. Not sure when he'll be back.”
“I saw him in the lounge. I'm looking for some lowlife ex-cop named Boykin. Would that be you?”
Oops. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. I could admit who I was and earn her scorn, or lie and hope to make up for it later. Truth won out, especially when I realized she had to know who I was. I mean, the Captain must have briefed her that I was in his office reviewing files. “Yes, that would be me.” I stood and stepped forward, my hand out in greeting. “I'm Jonathan Boykin. And you are...”
She gave me a look that made me feel like cheap wine sampled by a connoisseur. “Cap'n says I'm your babysitter. What are you doing that you need one?” She walked behind the Captain's desk and sat in his chair.
Her looks and attitude flustered me. “I...ah...just reviewing a case, learning how the investigation went down.”
“What file?” Her eyes were a shade of frozen blue and had taken on the coldness of Artic ice.
I realized my hand was sticking out, waiting for a greeting that was not coming. I let it fall to my side. “The Jack Whittaker file. His father wants to hire me.”
“That's mine. I was the lead on it. It's as complete as it could be with what little we had to go on.”
Uh-oh. Captain Sinclair had outfoxed me. While I sat reading files I found less than informative, he'd rounded up the author of that info as my liaison. I suspected that whatever I asked, she'd chop me off with a glare. Before I could change the subject, she continued to decimate me.
After smoking me for another moment, she said, “I'm curious. What makes you think you have the right to second-guess my investigation? I'm a pro who came up through the ranks just like you did. I do everything by the book and make determinations based on facts.
“You're a retired cop who grabbed the early out and got bored with gardening and playing golf. You grabbed a PI license—I understand they're up to fifty-cents a dozen—and want to get back in the game. How'm I doing so far?”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 38