I stepped past him onto the balcony. What a view. I could see miles out to sea, which disappeared with the curvature of the earth. A couple of container ships and a cruise ship were in the distance, ready to tumble over the edge. Closer in, sailboats danced on the soft waves while cigarette boats slashed their way across the almost tranquil surface. Near the shoreline, people splashed in the water, their laughter drifting in the air. It looked like a giant Toyland on water.
I shook my head to remind myself why I was there.
“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Torginson said as he slid in beside me, bumping me as he did so.
My stomach jumped into my throat looking for escape as dizziness attacked. I flinched and stepped back, fighting to control myself.
“Are you okay?” Torginson said, staring at me. “Your face went all white.”
I swallowed and forced out words. “Acrophobia. Had it all my life. Give me a moment.” I steadied myself and then inched my way back to the railing. With effort, I looked down, my mind fighting my fear and creeping nausea as I pictured Whittaker tumbling through space.
A few seconds later I was in the doorway, my hands clenched to still their trembling, sweat dribbling its way toward my chin. “Thank you, Mr. Torginson. I'll leave you now to your evening entertainment. If I have further questions, I'll give you call.”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Yes, you do that.”
~*~
Stepping out of the elevator into the ground level foyer made me feel better. I cursed myself for my weakness, knowing I was wasting effort. Acrophobia had been my companion since I was a kid.
I started toward the front exit and then stopped. While I was in the building, I should look at young Whittaker's landing zone. It would have been cleaned and sanitized long ago, but I'd be able to tell his father I studied everything I could. I doubled back and went out the rear, blocking the door open behind me because I didn't need to get locked out. Who knew how many private beaches I'd have to cross before I could make my way back to the land of the average citizen?
At ground level, I couldn't see as far out to sea as I had from Torginson's unit, but it was almost as fascinating. There were a few people enjoying the water or beachcombing, and silhouettes of boats dancing at sea, but otherwise it was simply quiet beauty. So peaceful, I considered finding a lounge chair and spending the night. Nah, that wouldn't work. A place as exclusive as this probably had a rent-a-cop on duty. Though I tried, I couldn't imagine having enough money to live on a beach like this.
I walked out a way, aligned myself with the balconies above and looked up. Twelve stories. By counting and re-counting, I located Torginson's balcony. About all I could surmise was it was a long way. And that meant, an even longer and more terrifying way down. A picture of Whittaker tumbling through the air caused my stomach to repeat its earlier performance. I turned away, concentrated on the pavers, and swallowed hard. Gradually, my stomach settled.
Even in the shadowed lighting, I could see a section of the patio where the texture of the paving blocks was different. If I hadn't been looking for it, I might have missed them. Once I guesstimated the size of the area, I realized it must have been young Whittaker's landing spot. Whether the pavers were cracked by the impact or the gore was too much to clean, I couldn't tell. But it was obvious the HOA had opted to replace them.
At this point, the next logical step would be to look for witnesses. But there wasn't much point in interviewing the first floor inhabitants. The police had already canvassed them. What could they add? The files said some residents had heard young Whittaker’s screams as he plummeted to his death. They heard his body slamming into the pavers. Those who rushed outside verified that young Whittaker was dead on impact. That thought forced a shiver through my body. Even Superman couldn't have survived that fall. No, I didn't need to talk to them. Okay, I didn't want to talk to them. The blood and spatter must have been horrible, and I didn't want to hear about it. If I didn't know the details, I wouldn't feel compelled to describe it to Mr. Whittaker. And frankly, I didn't want to re-live young Whittaker's plunge and impact in a nightmare. I turned away and stared out across the ocean view again, breathing deeply, hoping to calm my queasy stomach.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you a resident of the building?”
Chapter 5
I turned toward the voice and saw a young man, maybe twenty to twenty-five, in a Rent-a-Cop uniform. That verified my expectation that the building employed security. “No, I'm visiting one of the residents, though. Mr. Torginson on the eleventh floor.”
“Yes sir. But I saw him leave a few minutes ago. Are you waiting for him to return?”
I chuckled and stuck out my hand. “No. I'm Jonathan Boykin. I'm looking into the death of Jack Whittaker. He fell from Mr. Torginson's balcony.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “That's fine, sir. I remember what happened. But this is private property, and the police have already been here. I have to ask you to leave. The residents want to put that behind them.”
“Yes, I can understand their feelings, but I'm a private investigator hired to follow up on the police.” A bit of a stretch, but I figured I could get away with it. I stared at my hand, which was still extended, hoping he'd get the hint.
He paused and then shook. “Officer Jenkins, sir. I do shift work here. You said you're a PI?”
“Yes.” The tone of his question gave me a clue I hoped would open him up. “How long have you been a...ah...” I stumbled, not wanting to call him a Rent-a-Cop, but not coming up with a better title.
“It's okay, sir. I know what I am—a security guard to those wanting to hire me, a Rent-a-Cop to everyone else. It's only a stopgap though. I'm studying to either get on a police force or get my private license. Is it as exciting as I've read?”
Uh-oh. He had obviously read too many PI mysteries. This wasn't the time for the truth though. He might have information I needed. “Well, I don't have gorgeous women dragging me into bed—well, not often anyway.” I punctuated that with a sharing smile. “But I do enjoy my cases. Take this one for example. Young Whittaker's father thinks someone pushed his son. The police didn't come up with anything, so he brought me in to dig out the truth. I collect a fat fee no matter what I discover.”
“Wow,” he said. “Man, that's what I'm looking forward to.” He frowned. “Do you get beat up often?”
Oh, boy. I had a real dreamer on my hands. “Some try. Most fail. I'm pretty good with my fists.”
“Me too. I'm taking lessons. Gosh, man, I'm so glad I found you here.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, worrying about the future of PIs—and this young man's health—but I had a case to follow. “Were you working the night Whittaker died?”
“Yes, sir. I was right here.”
“Did you see him fall?”
“No, sir. I was making my circuit around the front of the building. We're expected to keep moving. If one of the tenants thinks we're malingering and reports it, we get docked. But I was here a few minutes after he fell.”
“What did you see?”
He blanched. “It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was terrible. Mr. Munson, he lives right there,” he pointed at the unit beside the fatal spot. “He heard the scream and called 911. Then he rushed out here. When I came around the corner, he was throwing up in the bushes.”
“Anyone else here?”
“Yeah, Ms. Blonstein came out about the same time I got here. She took a quick look and ran back inside. I didn't have to look too close to know the jumper was dead. His head...” He stopped and swallowed hard. “It was horrible.”
“Take it easy,” I said. “I don't need to know how he looked. Why don't you sit over here?”
He nodded, walked to a chair, and sat. “I pulled some lounges around him to keep...keep...I don't know. It seemed like the thing to do.”
“I understand. You did the right thing. What happened when the police arrived?”
“Nothing much. They talked to each of us, but no one knew anyth
ing. I told them about Mr. Torginson's party. Of course, it was still going on, and we could hear it. I said the man might have fallen from there. So, after they got our names and addresses, they went up the elevator. That's the last I saw of them.”
“Did they come back and ask you more questions?”
“No, sir. Nobody—until you showed up.”
I took a last glance at young Whittaker's landing spot, a longer look at the ocean, which was now covered in darkness. Then I stood and started toward the doorway. “I'd better be on my way, and I'm sure you have rounds to make.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Boykin. It has been a pleasure talking to you. If I can help—you know, snoop around for you, run a surveillance, interview anybody, or anything—you just let me know.” He took out a white business card and handed it to me.
It was obviously home-printed and read Joe Jenkins, Private Security Guard.
“I will, Joe. I will.” I fumbled in my wallet, pulled out my card, and handed it to him. “Call if you remember anything.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, do you mind if I ask around a bit? The practice would help me.”
“Be my guest,” I said and winked. “Be sure to let me know if you find anything.” A wide grin split his face.
~*~
Back in my car, I reflected on my day, what I'd learned, or more importantly, what I hadn't learned. The sum total of learned—virtually nothing, unless I counted the absence of faces in the pictures in the police files. The sum of unlearned—nothing justified my continuing to pry into young Whittaker's death.
Every way I turned, it looked like a lose-lose. I would lose time I could be working on my golf game, which badly needed it. And Mr. Whittaker would lose the money he paid me while I chased his rainbow. I don't consider myself the type who takes advantage of people, but I hate enigmas.
And today’s enigma was, What really happened to young Whittaker—accident, suicide, or murder?
I decided to give it one more day. What's one more day in the life of a retiree? First thing in the morning I would contact Detective Sanders and ask about the pictures. Besides, it would give me an excuse to try to make a better impression. On second thought, I couldn't do any worse than my first attempt. Even a pie in the face would be an improvement.
~*~
At seven thirty the next morning, I called the stationhouse and asked to speak to Detective Sanders. I tried to get away without identifying myself, figuring she might duck my call, but I was unsuccessful. She surprised me with her pickup.
“Well, Mr. Jonathan Boykin, what can I do for you today?”
I frowned, trying to translate her words. Friendlier than yesterday, for sure. I opted for a light approach. “I just happened to remember how bad the coffee is at the station and thought I'd offer to buy you a cup.”
“Really?” she said. “It's not the best line I've heard, but it shows originality. Okay, where? I assume you'll surprise me with a few questions about the Whittaker situation.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is this Detective Sanders, Detective Jerri Sanders? I must have reached the wrong extension.”
She laughed, a full-throated sound, not sexy, but honest. “Yes, you have the right person. Now, quit stalling and tell me where we're going for coffee? No, I'll pick the location. The corner of Ocean and Third—Hack's Beanery. Best coffee in Creature's Cove.”
“Good choice. It'll take me a half hour to get there. That okay?”
“You're on.”
The line went dead, so I pushed the power button on my phone while a frown puckered my forehead. This was strange, very strange. Yesterday, she treated me like week-old pizza and today...well, she was friendly. Kind of.
~*~
I parked across the street from Hack's and saw Detective Sanders through the front window. She waved as I crossed over. I pushed open the door and the wonderful aroma of coffee flowed over me. I smiled, couldn't help it. One of the finest things in life—the morning smell of coffee brewing.
Detective Sanders joined me at the counter. “You made good time. I was afraid I'd have to start without you.”
I eyed her while she placed her order. I did the same. As we waited for the coffee, I said, “Are you by any chance related to Dr. Jekyll?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Hyde's counterpart. You know, Robert Lewis Stevenson's creation.”
“What are you talking about?” She looked perplexed.
“Yesterday, I thought I had met the grandniece of Mr. Hyde, but today, you could be a descendent of Dr. Jekyll. I'm just confused. That's all.”
She smiled and chuckled softly. “There is a logical explanation, but I need my latte first.”
We took our coffees to a table in the back, the area used by couples holding hands or people not wanting snooping ears nearby. We fit the latter group. The former crossed my mind, but I shoved it away. Not a chance.
After we sipped our beverages, I said, “Yesterday, you treated me like mold in a refrigerator. Today, you're far friendlier. Did I do something right without knowing it?”
She leaned back. “You caught me off-guard. I normally have time for a quick look at anyone I'm meeting. The Captain's order in the lounge to babysit you didn't give me that opportunity. However, I played catchup after you left. Usually, my first impressions are pretty good. This time, I discovered I bombed big time. You're not the bottom feeder I expected. In fact, if I were a naïve young woman, I'd be quite enamored. Your record while wearing blue was extraordinary. Well, except for those times you needed counseling. You rose through the ranks as quickly as the system allowed, which tells me how good you were. After everything I learned, I'm sorry you decided to leave the force.” She paused. “And I'm sorry I treated you badly.”
I was stunned. There is no better way to say it. There were several explanations I could have recorded if given time to make a list, but her apology would not have made it, even in last place. To cover my consternation, I took a gulp of coffee, burning my mouth, and bringing on a fit of coughing.
While I coughed and hoped I didn't spew coffee out my nose, Detective Sanders wore a contented smile, as if waiting for an errant child to settle down. At least she didn't rush around the table and pound me on the back or attempt a Heimlich maneuver.
After recovering and wiping the tears from my eyes, I said, “In case you haven't figured it out, that was quite a surprise.”
“I believe in being upfront with people. Now, how much is this latte costing me? Before you ask though, remember that I love my job and the people I work with. I won't say anything that slurs either.”
Her sincerity made me feel cheap. She was embracing the profession I'd abandoned. Made me think of rushing down to re-enlist, a thought I quickly pushed aside. “How do you put up with the hypocrisy...the revolving door that has replaced justice?”
“I don't see it that way. My job is to build a solid case. What the system does with it is not part of my oath. Once the paperwork is finished, it's up to the State Attorney's office. I don't look back.”
I studied her with new respect. Was I really sitting across from a detective who had adopted tunnel vision and concentrated on a case without resenting how the world misused or ignored her efforts? It appeared so. “Detective Sanders, uh, may I call you Jerri? You just made Tier One on my scale. If I'd had your ability to compartmentalize, I'd still be on the public payroll.”
“Hmm, moving rather fast, aren't you? I can't be snowed that easy.”
I laughed, proving the burn in my mouth had improved. “Not my intent, ma'am. I'm just a harmless old retiree.”
“I'll bet.” She grinned.
My head spun. I'd made a phone call an hour or so ago expecting the worst, and now I had a beautiful woman coming on to me—or was she? Maybe it was only another opportunity for her to park me in the dugout. Or had life taken a strange turn?
Chapter 6
“Jonathan,” Detective Sanders said, “I really don't have much time to kill. Maybe we'd better move on to your
questions. What have you discovered about the Whittaker case?”
“Fair enough,” I said, and then sipped my coffee. “When I reviewed the files yesterday, there was a feeling of incompletion that I couldn't put a finger on. Then I did. You interviewed numerous people in attendance at the party. Yet, none of the picture they’d taken showed a face. Not even one. My limited research says you can't get a group of young people together without egos taking over the evening. So the question is, why are there no faces in the pictures?”
Detective Sanders frowned. “Sorry. You must have overlooked something. We downloaded snapshots from several of the people we interviewed. They didn't add much, but they did document many of the attendees. Maybe you should look again.”
“Sorry, Det. You may have collected them, but they are all wearing masks, or other disguises. As you discovered, I'm a pretty decent investigator. I wouldn't have missed something as obvious as that. I would like to see faces. They must have been taken.”
She tucked a loose hair behind her ear, while looking perplexed. “Strange. I'll check. It's hard to believe we'd have missed something like that. Anything else?”
“Not now. Please understand that I'm not disagreeing with your findings. His death could have been an accident, maybe even suicide. But there is a distraught father who deserves to know more.”
“I know. I remember him. I met him with a chip on my shoulder.”
“Oh? Is that a common condition with you?”
She smiled. “Believe it or not, I don't usually lead with a sneer. But Whittaker is a public defender, not one of my favorite creatures. Their job is to make me look incompetent. However, after talking with him for a while, his sadness and his absolute faith in his son won me over. I felt sorry for him. But that didn't change the facts, which were such that I didn't have anything to prove his son died by anyone's hand except his own. When I told him that, he broke down, begged me to look further, dig deeper.” She paused, a sad look capturing her face.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 40