“Not bad.”
She charged on without hearing the answer which would have converted her to an ally—or so I preferred to think.
“Now you've recruited a public defender who won't face the fact his perfect son died in an accident or, worse for his ego, a suicide. The fact his son was attending a Halloween party with his identity hidden under a costume has nothing to do with his death. Plus, the autopsy showed a lot of booze in his system.”
“Detective,” I said. “You have it—”
“Don't try to soft-soap me. Frankly, I don't mind as long as you don't besmirch the integrity of the department. I suggest you remember your place—remember what you once were. Forget the Whittaker case and return to chasing your retirement dream. Papa Whittaker can go back to defending the gutter trash assigned to him. Nothing gives him or you the right to look over my shoulder. So, I ask again, why are you in my files?”
Ouch. She was more defensive than I'd have ever imagined. She didn't like me, and she didn't like public defenders. The second I could understand, but the first? Hey, I was old enough to be her father.
To defend myself, I could have told her she was only a little bit right about my background. I had a master's in criminology, earned while on the force, and had worn the blue for thirty years, working my way up to Detective One. My reason for leaving was that I simply got tired of the bureaucracy and the slippery slope of the justice system. However, I could see there was nothing to gain by saying it. She'd think whatever she chose.
“Interesting outlook,” I said. “Uh, I didn't catch your name.” I stuck out my hand again. “I'm still Jonathan Boykin.”
“So the Captain said. You can call me Detective Sanders.”
In a different world at a different time, I'd have given her specific instructions about where she could go, and there'd be no need to pack a lunch. Under normal circumstances, I only take so many insults. However, if I took the case—and her attitude was pushing me toward Whittaker—I'd need her cooperation. Revenge would come later.
She ignored my hand again so I withdrew it. “Nice name. As you surmised, I'm pretty simple and not much on big words. Your first name has three syllables, too many for me. I'll just call you Det.”
Her eyes flashed in what I hoped was shock, maybe admiration, so I pushed it home. “Did the Captain tell you I'd have questions for you, Det?”
“He said I should use my judgment on when to kick you out of here.”
“That's close enough, because I'll use my best judgment on when to leave.” I paused, giving her time to recognize I had a backbone. Then I decided to back step and try again. No one as lovely as she was could be that nasty all the time. Time to switch to tact. “I've only begun reading the interviews. I'm sure I'll have questions as I read on. I'd love to have your input.”
“My input is in those folders. I don't file incomplete reports.”
Oops. She'd done it again—beat my par with a birdie. It appeared my best move was to shut my mouth and return to the files. So far, I'd lost every round. “Ah, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do.” I turned back to the folder I opened before she arrived.
~*~
Two hours later, I flexed my shoulders and twisted my neck, trying to loosen the muscles. I had read every interview conducted in the case and learned little. Not that the reports were incomplete. They were complete, well done. They just didn't contain much information. Repeatedly, Det Sanders and her team had done a good job with their questions. The answers were the problem. I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything. I don't know anything. Therefore, I can't say anything. Reminded me of the three monkeys—see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
I'd seen enough photos of zombies, vampires, princesses, Stormtroopers, presidents, and about every other example of costume to keep me out of party stores for months—except for the harem girls, of course. The only common factor was that faces were hidden. Masks, shields, veils, makeup, etc. None of them could be picked out of a lineup.
I closed the last folder. “Good job, Det. You managed to interview fifty people who could neither see nor hear anything. Must have been frustrating.”
Her eyes said she was choosing her answer carefully. “We're paid to do a job. We do it. Sometimes the results aren't what others want them to be. No one knew why Whittaker went over the railing. End of report.”
Not giving an inch. My new friend remained a glacier.
I decided to try one more time. Perhaps there was a woman somewhere in that pantsuit. “It's close to lunchtime. Can I treat you to compensate for wasting your morning?”
“I brought my lunch. Are you finished? If so, I'd like to put my files away.”
Chapter 3
I walked out of the air conditioning of police headquarters into the eighty degrees of South Florida. Since November had settled in, we were beginning our cool season. It was also the time of the year when the snowbirds descended, traffic became more impossible, and dinner reservations were mandatory.
Lunch. Detective Sanders had turned me down flat so I'd have to eat alone. But that wasn't bad. It would give me a chance to compile notes on the interviews I read. I didn't have a photographic memory, but it was better than average.
Forty-five minutes later, I sat in a booth at Maxie's Burger and Whatever Grill. I had gambled and ordered a Whatever. After the first bite, I smiled and decided not to ask. One of those things I probably didn't want to know. Delicious. I studied the notes I'd recorded and the list of names Captain Sinclair had given me. Between the two of them, I saw little that provided any insight.
I stared out the window, letting my mind wander. The street was clogged with vehicles, some of them with Florida plates. I groaned, knowing it would be that way until mid- to late April. Another price of living in paradise.
I looked back at my notes, thinking there had to be a clue calling to me. Someone had said something that…
Wait, maybe not.
Perhaps that was the problem. It wasn't what had been said, it was what didn't appear. What was missing? I pictured the last party I'd attended. It was an older crowd, compared to the twenty-somethings who were present for Jack's demise, but I figured there had to be similarities. What had we done? How had we entertained ourselves?
We chatted, told jokes, laughed, lied about our golf games, flirted with the ladies, and floated from group to group. Pretty much the same as every party I ever attended. People enjoying one another, or at least pretending to. I looked upward, closed my eyes, and concentrated, picturing the gathering. Nothing. That was it. If someone had walked out the door or gone outside to fall over the balcony railing, would I have noticed? Being honest with myself, probably not. But that didn't prove Jack Whittaker wasn't murdered. It only served to say it could be done with anonymity. Someone could have walked onto the balcony, pushed him over, and come back to the party, and I wouldn't have known.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
My waitress stood by my table. I'd been thinking so hard I hadn't seen her coming. “Another beer, please.”
“Killian's and a frozen mug. Anything else?”
“No. That'll do it. Bring a check with the beer.”
“Of course.” She turned and wiggled away.
I looked at my notes again and heard, “Miss? Would you take our picture, please?”
I glanced at a table across the way and saw a man handing a waitress his phone. Then he scooted around and sat beside the woman with him. They put their heads together and big smiles split their faces.
The waitress took the phone and said, “On three. One, two, three.” After she looked at the screen, she handed the phone to the man. Just another day in the public service business.
“Thank you, miss,” he mumbled, showing the picture to the woman.
A question kicked into my head. These people were anxious to have their images captured. Why not the people at Torginson's party? None of the pictures I'd seen had faces that could be recognized.
/>
“Your beer, sir,” my waitress said, sliding the familiar brown bottle onto the table, followed by a frozen mug. “And your check.”
I guessed her to be under thirty, same as the Jack Whittaker crowd. “Miss, have you been to a party recently where no one wanted to be recognized in their pictures?”
She gave me a duh look. “That's a line I haven't heard before. Quite original. Why do you ask?”
“Humor me,” I said. “I'm curious—and it's not a line.”
She appeared to think for a moment. “No. My friends and I are always clicking away, full face to the camera.” She pulled a phone out of her apron pocket. “See. I'm never without it. Want to see my albums?”
“No, thank you,” I said, smiling. “Like I said, I was just curious.”
She gave me a strange look and walked away, not realizing she'd doubled her tip.
There were no faces in the Whittaker file. I wondered why. Perhaps Detective Sanders wasn't as proficient as she claimed to be.
~*~
I finished my beer while I wrestled with the memory of the files I'd seen. I was not an expert on the age of technology, where everyone carried phones with more power than the computers I broke in on. However, I did know everyone used their phones for many purposes other than a simple call to a friend. So why were the pictures from the party so limited? I needed an uncluttered environment where I could kick back and consider the possibilities.
After placing a forty percent tip in my waitress's hand—I always wonder what happens to the money when left under a cup or put on a credit card slip—I headed for the exit.
I hadn't convinced myself to take Whittaker's case, but I had decided it was worth a chat with the party host, Lamar Torginson, before firming up my decision. Perhaps he could explain the strangeness of the pictures. If he could do that, there might be other pearls of wisdom he could share with me. And if there were...
~*~
I spent the afternoon on the computer, researching Lamar Torginson. Although he had a busy presence in social media, it was pretty repetitive. He was a thirty-year-old bachelor, a counselor at the local university while he worked on his PhD in history. I already knew he lived in a high-rise on the beach.
Other than that, his profile reminded me of others I'd read over the years. He liked candle-lit dinners, romantic movies, long strolls on the beach in moonlight, and strong women. He was five-ten, 175 pounds, worked out daily, and while not a vegetarian, depended on greens for the majority of his diet. I had to chuckle reading it. It was clearly written to attract ladies, unless he was a one-in-a-thousand type.
After learning all I could about Torginson, I drove to his apartment building and parked in a Visitor's spot. Describing his digs as nice would not do it justice. His building was the center of three identical ones, built at the same time by the same developer. My mind leapt to the question, how could a student afford such a crib? Something else I'd have to ask him.
I dialed the number for Torginson I'd pulled off the Internet. It went to voice mail, so I left a message. “Mr. Torginson, my name is Jonathan Boykin. I'm a private investigator hired by Jack Whittaker's father. I have a few simple questions about the night he died. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call.” I added my phone number and hit the off button. I hoped I'd given him enough to pique his curiosity, but not enough to scare him away. If he didn't call by six, I'd ring him again and continue to do so every hour until we had an appointment.
At five-fifteen, my phone rang, bringing a smile. Torginson, returning my call.
“Jonathan Boykin here.”
“Mr. Boykin, this is Lamar Torginson. I got your message. Can't imagine why you want to talk to me. I told the police everything I know.”
Nothing surprising in that. Witnesses always tell the police everything they know. “Yes, I'm sure you did,” I said. “But, different ears hear different things. Maybe I'll hear something the cops didn't—or hear it in a different way. Whatever, I'd really like to talk to you. How does seven o'clock sound?” Better to be positive and set the time than wait for him to think about it.
“Let's do it now, over the phone. I have plans for tonight.”
Nope, not a good idea. I needed to be face to face with him while he talked. Lying is much easier over the phone. “Mr. Whittaker wouldn't accept that. I promise to keep it brief and not mess up your evening. See you at seven.”
I hit the off button as he was saying, “No, I—”
He would either be there or not. If not, I'd keep tracking him.
Chapter 4
At six fifty, I rang Torginson's apartment from the locked building entryway. He answered as if he was standing beside the phone.
“Jonathan Boykin here. Can you ring me in?” There was a click and the gate popped open.
He met me at the door. “Come in, Mr. Boykin. Thank you for coming early. We have thirty minutes. I have to be out of here no later than seven-thirty. Believe me, she's a lot better looking than you are.” His grin said he was looking forward to the evening.
I followed him in. The place was expensively furnished in a macho style—lots of leather and dark wood. Paintings of seascapes and mountains adorned the walls. A thick rug softened my steps as I approached and dropped onto the couch. Across from me, a huge television screen occupied most of the wall. So big, I figured you could see razor scrapes on the faces of actors.
Torginson followed me but stopped in the middle of the room. “What can I do for you, Mr. Boykin?”
Apparently, he didn't intend to play the good host. No offer of a drink, even a beer. He was ready to rush me out the door. I was equally determined to get him talking. He had to have something he hadn't told the police. “Nice place you have here.”
“Yes, I'm comfortable living on the beach.”
“Is this an apartment building or a condo?”
“Condo. Mr. Boykin, I'm in a hurry. Ask your questions.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “How can you afford this place? You're a student, aren't you?”
He sighed and dropped into a chair. “Okay. I see where you're headed. Yes, I'm a student. I'm working on my PhD. I do not own this place, nor do I rent it. At this point in my life, I could never get near a piece of real estate like this. It belongs to the foundation, but I'm allowed to live here as long as it's not needed for some important visitor. Call me the caretaker, if you will. Does that answer your question?”
“Foundation? What Foundation?”
He leaned forward, letting his frustration show. “The clock is ticking. If you want to spend your time this way, it's fine with me, although I don't see what it has to do with Jack's death. I'll answer your question, though. Before my father died many years ago, he established an educational foundation to benefit underprivileged students and ex-military. It hands out scholarships to deserving high school graduates and to veterans finishing their obligations. This apartment became part of that effort with the stipulation that Dad's family could live here when it was not otherwise occupied. When I graduated from high school and enrolled at the university, I moved in here. Since then, except for those occasions when needed by the foundation, this has been my home. Does that fulfill your curiosity?”
I leaned back, digesting what he'd said. It made sense—and it made him one lucky young man, apparently born with a silver spoon up his butt. “Yes, thank you. Now tell me about your Halloween party the night young Whittaker died.”
“Same as I told the cops. People were coming and going all night. It was noisy and crowded. I didn't know anything had happened until a couple of policemen showed up at the door. At first, I thought they were two more guests in costume. They said someone fell off a balcony, perhaps mine. Later, they determined he fell from here. That's it.”
“How many guests did you have? Do you have a list of those attending?”
“Time is slipping by. Maybe if I start at the beginning, it'll save us both some time.
“Good idea,” I said, leaning forward. “Hi
t all the high points.”
“It was my thirtieth birthday. I decided to celebrate the milestone by throwing myself a huge party, and Halloween was the perfect time. Much better than a small gathering in a restaurant somewhere with a few friends. So, I put out the word that it would be an open party and anyone and everyone was invited—costumes with masks mandatory. I scattered flyers around campus, in some of the bars I frequent, and, of course, invited everyone in the building. I hoped enough of my neighbors would attend to hold down the complaints about noise. It kicked off at seven and would have gone most of the night. However, Jack's death dispersed the crowd early. I can't begin to tell you everyone who came. A few I can name, of course, and I did so for the police. But, there could have been more than a hundred who came and went. No one kept count—especially me.”
I scratched my chin, thinking my way through his story. “Must have cost you a fortune. Same question as before. How could you afford it?”
“You seem to have a fixation on my money. Simple. It was BYOB—and BYO everything else. Most people brought more than they drank. Plus, others showed up with snacks—chips, dips, fruit plates, sandwiches, all kinds of things. When it was over, I had much more than I started with.” He looked at his watch. “Seven minutes.”
“Good answer. I'll have to remember your technique.” I stood, deciding to honor his time limit. I might want to talk to him again, and I didn't want him hiding from me. “One last question, then I'd like to see the balcony. One look and I'll be out of here.”
“Of course—as long as it's quick.”
“Did anyone take pictures?”
He gave me a funny look. “Of course. Everyone with a phone takes pictures. I've learned to be careful who I'm seen with or what I'm doing. The wrong picture on the Internet will kill you.”
“Did you snap away, and did the police ask about them?”
“Time's up. You said one more question. That was it. I'll show you the balcony.” He walked to a set of patio doors and slid them open. “Here it is. Not very unique. Like every other one in the building.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 39