“Then what?” I said.
“Other cases kept coming. I tried to keep Whittaker alive, but there just wasn't time or anywhere else to look. Gradually, it faded into the background.” She looked at me and gave a phony groan. “Then I went to the break room yesterday for a bad cup of coffee, and Whittaker was front and center again.” She paused. “Of course, that gave me the opportunity to meet Mr. Jonathan Boykin, PI extraordinaire.”
“Will you reactivate the case? Breathe some fresh air into it?”
She looked thoughtful. “Sorry. I wish I could, but there is no valid reason. Photographs without faces won't convince the captain. Maybe, if you come up with something solid...”
Her voice trailed off, and I understood why. While detectives were given a lot of leeway in investigating a specific case, once they moved on, it was bureaucratically difficult to backtrack. The hierarchy wasn't fond of admitting they might have moved too fast.
“Okay,” I said. “I plan to meet with Mr. Whittaker tomorrow and lay out the options. He has to understand that the truth might not be what he envisions.”
~*~
At eight o'clock the next morning, with a partially finished cup of coffee in front of me, I was on the phone with Dolly Boomer, Whittaker's administrative assistant. “Yes, I need to see him today. You might recall he hired me a couple of days ago to look into the death of his son.” Yeah, it was sarcastic and probably unneeded, but my guess was she wouldn't recognize it.
“I recall quite well, Mr. Boykin. I also recall you did not show him the respect he has earned. Mr. Whittaker is the finest man I've ever worked for.”
Before I could respond, she continued, “I'll check his schedule. I have your number. After I've finished making his coffee, I'll get back to you.”
The phone clicked in my ear. Wow, I thought. Hero worship—or something else. None of my business.
I sipped from my cup. Yuck, cold coffee. After getting a refill, I reviewed the notes I'd made the night before. Not much there. Nothing to do but wait for a return call from Ms. Boomer. I considered whether I should apologize or not. Nah. Let her stew.
Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. As promised, it was Ms. Boomer.
“Mr. Whittaker will see you at three this afternoon. You'll have forty-five minutes. Don't be late and don't overstay your appointment.” The same click in my ear announced her hang-up.
I figured it was safe to assume she was not happy with me. If I stayed on the case, I would have to correct that situation. I didn't know how much influence she had on Whittaker—or how she achieved it.
If I walked away, I wouldn't have to care.
~*~
At two forty-five, I walked into Whittaker's outer office with a dozen white roses in my fist. I launched into the speech I had practiced. “Ms. Boomer, I apparently managed to get on your bad side. I hope you'll accept my apology, and these flowers, and we can start with a clean slate.”
She stared at me, dressed approximately the same as in our previous meeting. The blouse was a different color, but still covered about the same amount of skin—not much. The view of her cleavage was exquisite.
In a soft voice she said, “You may insult me all you please. I've dealt with men like you most of my life. But, if you don't show proper respect to Mr. Whittaker, I'll cut your nuts off.” In a louder, friendlier voice, she said, “Why, thank you. That's very sweet of you. Have a seat, and I'll let Mr. Whittaker know you're here—and get a vase for these.”
While I stood there, thoroughly humiliated, she took the flowers and walked to the door behind her. Opening it a few inches, she said, “Mr. Boykin is here. He's a little early. Should I have him wait?”
From inside, I heard, “No. Send him in. I can put this aside.”
She turned and flashed me a smile. In a perfect secretarial voice, she said, “Mr. Whittaker will see you now.”
Wow was the thought that jumped up. I had misjudged this woman. She wasn't a bimbo. She was a piranha.
I pushed through the door and met Whittaker striding toward me.
“Mr. Boykin,” he said, “thank you for coming in. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”
Uh-oh. I hoped he didn't think I had progress to report.
He returned to his chair, and I sat in front of him. He laced his fingers and rested his hands on top of the desk. “What do you have for me?”
“Not as much as you'd like, I'm sure. So far, I have found nothing to support your contention that your son was murdered. According to the police reports I reviewed, it could have been an accident or a suicide—no evidence of foul play. There were no witnesses, even though people filled the apartment. It was an open party with folks coming and going. While there were a few who remembered seeing him, there was no one with him that the investigators found.” I stopped and took a deep breath, allowing Whittaker to absorb what I'd said.
He simply continued looking at me.
After a moment, I added, “I spoke with the host and inspected the balcony from which Jack fell. The host said he put out flyers advertising the party and invited any and all to attend. He did not remember seeing Jack. In fact, he had no idea of how many people had gone through his apartment that night or who they were.” Again, I hesitated, wanting him to feel the hopelessness of the situation.
His left hand rubbed his forehead and then pinched the corners of his eyes. When he lowered his hand, sadness dominated his face.
It was time to wrap it up. No need to prolong the pain. “I also talked to the security guard who was on duty that night. He could add nothing worthwhile. He was on the opposite side of the building when Jack fell.”
“How about neighbors?” Whittaker asked. “Someone must have seen something.”
I stretched a bit with my response. “Nothing that the police found, or that I discovered. Simply put, no one saw anything.” I paused again, this time because I had nothing else I wanted to say. The disappointment that filled the room was almost palpable.
The door behind me opened, and I heard Dolly say, “Mr. Whittaker, here's the drink you asked me to bring. I'm sorry I forgot when Mr. Boykin arrived.” She carried a highball glass filled with an amber liquid over ice. “Can I get you something, Mr. Boykin?”
I stared at her, wondering how much she'd overheard. Had she been listening at the door, or did Whittaker have things set up so his administrative assistant could listen in—and maybe take notes? “No thank you. It's a bit early for me.” I hesitated. “Maybe a bottle of water if you have it.”
“Of course,” she said. “I'll be right back with it.” She gave me a bit of an extra glare as if to remind me my manhood was in danger.
Whittaker sipped his drink. “I understand. It's about what I expected. The police briefed me with pretty much the same line—a young woman detective as I recall. She said they had nothing to show anything other than an accident. At least she had the decency not to mention suicide.”
I wondered if that was an admonishment. If so, tough. Jack Whittaker could have dived to his death. Why not? It happened all over the country on an all too frequent basis.
“But nothing has changed,” he said. “I want you to continue. I must have the truth about my son.”
I glanced around his office and considered my next comments. Thoughts flashed through my mind, each of them saying he could not afford to keep me on the payroll. The last thing I needed was to invest a lot of time and get stiffed for the bill. “Mr. Whittaker. I understand your sadness and your consternation. While I don't have children, I can imagine the pain you're suffering. If I thought I could alleviate that, I'd say, Let's do it. But honestly, I don't have a lot of hope. I spoke with the chief investigator, Detective Jerri Sanders, and she's pretty much convinced they covered everything pretty thoroughly. In other words—”
“Enough of that, Mr. Boykin. My son did not kill himself. I know that as surely as I see you sitting there mouthing words not worthy of my slimiest clients. It could have been an accident. I co
ncede that. But even that is far-fetched. Balcony railings are at least waist-high. He couldn't have been so drunk he fell over it. However, the fact is I must know the truth.” He hesitated and then lashed out with, “And don't you ever say again you understand my sadness. Until you've lost a child, you will never comprehend the hole it creates in your life.” He leaned back in his chair and glared at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to insult you. If you insist, I'll stick with the case a bit longer. However,” I eyed his office, “I want to be sure you can afford me. My time is as valuable to me as yours is to you.”
He stiffened. “Not to worry, Mr. Boykin. You will be paid. Submit your bills, but make sure they are itemized. Now, if you're finished, I still have work to do today.” He flipped open a folder, thoroughly dismissing me.
~*~
I left Whittaker's office wondering what I'd gotten myself into. A father who refused to face facts—an administrative assistant who threatened to neuter me—and worse, a situation that appeared to have no outcome that would satisfy anyone. I had been a cop. I had investigated such crimes. I was convinced there was no solution that could be found beyond what the police had already determined. Yes, it was sad. But death always is.
By the time I arrived at my car, I had decided the only way I could extract myself with any dignity was to bring in Aaron Dunniker. He had turned Whittaker on to me. He needed to turn him off.
I dialed Aaron's office. When his secretary, Sharon, picked up, I said, “Jonathan Boykin here. I need some face-to-face with Mr. Dunniker today. Can you work me in?”
“Hi, Jonathan. Good to hear from you. And yes, my health is doing well. How about you?”
Ah, crap. Would I ever learn to play the kissy-kissy game over the phone? Be gracious, then be businesslike. “Sorry, Sharon. I'm thrilled to know you're doing well. Sorry for my abruptness, but I'm anxious to talk to Aaron. Can you forgive me and work me in?”
“Forgive you? Only over dinner. Work you into his schedule? Let me check.”
The line went quiet, leaving me wondering if I'd just gotten an invitation. I pictured Sharon—a lovely woman with an engaging personality who played this game with me often. Was it for real? Then I remembered jumping to conclusions with Jerri Sanders. Nope, no proposition there. Just one of those games women played with men—the old cat and mouse technique.
The line opened. “If you can be here in fifteen minutes, he has about a thirty-minute window. Will that work?”
“On my way.”
Chapter 7
I was in front of Sharon's desk in twelve minutes. In Creature's Cove, there wasn't much separation between the ritzy office areas for lawyers like Aaron and those occupied by bottom feeders like Whittaker.
Her dress was impeccable. A business pantsuit suitable for any boardroom in the country. Her hair looked like she'd come from the hairdressers, and what little makeup she wore was invisible to a bachelor like me. Her nails, which drummed on the desktop as I approached, were a muted shade of pink—nothing outlandish, just stylish. I couldn't help but compare Sharon to Dolly. Not fair to Dolly as she would never reach Sharon's status—she just did not have the breeding.
“Sharon, here I am. Is he available?”
“Yes, Jonathan. I'm doing fine. How are you today?”
“I did it again, didn't I?”
She chuckled. “The day you don't ignore the social amenities is the day I'll think aliens have taken over your body. When are you going to invite me to dinner?”
Uh-oh, I thought, quicksand ahead. “Why? So you can add insult to the injuries you inflict on me daily?”
“Only because I admire you so.” She hit a switch on her desk. “Jonathan is here. Should I send him in?”
Her desk replied, “Yes. But remind him I have to be out the door in twenty-five minutes.”
“He's on the way.” She flipped the switch. “Move it, handsome. The boss is waiting.” The smile she flashed would have melted a glacier.
I winked at her and moved off toward Aaron's office.
As I got close, the door opened. “Jonathan. Good to see you. What brings you in on a day we're not playing golf? Sharon said it's important.”
“It is to me.” He had moved behind his desk and, after he sat, I dropped into a plush chair in front of him. “Homer Whittaker. Tell me about him. Specifically, why you recommended me to him.”
He rubbed his cheek. “Homer called and said he needed a good investigator. I told him about you. It's that simple. Did you see him?”
“Yes. He wants me to prove his son's death was murder. That's a big responsibility, especially if it wasn't. I'm not sure he'll accept the truth.” I shrugged. “I also don't feel comfortable about his being able to pay me.”
Aaron leaned back and studied the ceiling a moment. He hit a button on his desk. “Tell my five o'clock I'll be running late. It might be closer to five thirty when I arrive.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dunniker.”
“Now, Jonathan, let me tell you a few things about Homer Whittaker. First, don't worry about his bank account. He's a wealthy man with numerous financial holdings. He might not have cracked the billionaire's club yet, but he has ample cash at his disposal.”
“Huh?” I said, proving my education had not been wasted. “But his office, the way he dresses—”
“By design,” Aaron said, cutting me off. “I queried him about that once. He responded by asking how I would feel if I were a down-and-out accused needing a lawyer and some guy with a fancy car wearing an expensive suit walked in? Or if I was indigent and sent to my attorney’s luxurious office? Would I expect that lawyer to fight for me? Or would he intimidate me? He decided early in his defense career he could do more good if he didn't flaunt his riches. So he found an office in a strip mall and bought a bunch of secondhand suits.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “I'll be darned. It must work. He sure fooled me. But the money. Where did it come from? I know he didn't earn it defending those down-and-outers.”
“From what I understand, part of it is inheritance and part of it comes from wise investments. Don't misjudge him, Jonathan. He's one of the sharpest lawyers in the area.”
“I certainly don't doubt you, but why is he bothering with public defender cases?”
“Let's get more comfortable.” He indicated his conversation niche, and then stood and walked to his sofa.
I followed and dropped into a well-padded leather chair.
Leaning forward, he pressed a button on the coffee table. “Sharon, please bring us a couple of waters.”
“Yes, sir.”
I wondered how many more connections Aaron had to the outer office.
“To give you the full picture, I need to roll the calendar back some forty years.” He paused as if reflecting on the past. “Homer and I hung our shingles in the same year. I was the most junior in a big office full of successful lawyers, and Homer jointed the State Attorney's office. While I spent most of my time in the archives, doing research and writing really dry, boring papers, Homer joined the prosecutorial fray. Then, like today, there was enough work for a staff twice its size. Anyway, Homer and I met at social functions and became friends.”
There was a tap on the door and Sharon entered. She carried a tray holding four bottles of water, two glasses, and an ice bucket. After she set it on the coffee table without a word, she turned and left the room.
Aaron watched her out the door. “It's hard to remember how I survived without Sharon. Sooner or later, some guy will come along, sweep her off her feet, marry her, and take her away. Then I'll have to start all over again.” He put ice in the glasses, poured water, handed me one, and leaned back. “And you stay away from her. Last thing I need is my golf partner having entrée into my office.”
I chuckled but refused to commit myself. “You were telling me about how you and Homer became compadres.”
“Yes. Perhaps it was because our legal paths were so different, but we became fast friends. I
didn't feel like I had to show off in front of him, and I suspect he felt the same. Whenever he could break away from the office, and I could get away from my legal obligations, we hit the golf course. Some of the most relaxing games I ever played—nothing but gold. No need to be anything except what I was.” He paused. “But I'm drifting. Homer's star rose fast. He won almost every case he touched. Within a couple of years, there was talk of his running for the state legislature. He told me, and apparently others, he wasn't ready for something like that. So, he waited—kept winning cases. It got to the point that defense attorneys would ask for a plea bargain if they knew he'd been assigned to prosecute.” Aaron stopped and took a drink of his water.
“Wonderful memories. I haven't thought of those days for a while.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess I'd better hurry this tale along. Next, Homer was asked to run for the state senate. Again, he said no. In confidence to me, he said he was holding out for the top job.”
“Governor?” I said. “Sounds like his ego was growing with his success.”
“Yes, I suppose you could think that, but you didn't know Homer in those days. He and I both knew he'd make a great governor. About that time, I received a significant promotion and with that came the expectation I spend more time in the right social circles—meaning with rich clients—so I didn't see as much of him. But the buzz in political circles said his reputation was growing. Some of the party's major contributors were mentioning him as the future executive. It seemed that everything was lining up and on track for him. Another year, maybe two, passed, and then boom, I heard he resigned from the State Attorney's office.
“Saying I was shocked is the major understatement. I called him, and we set up a golf game. When we met, I barely recognized him. He was hungover, needed a shave, and smelled of booze. His clothes looked like he'd slept in them for a week. We didn't play golf that day. Instead, I took him for breakfast and insisted he eat. The food and the coffee appeared to sober him, or at least spur him to tell me his story.” He sighed. “His integrity was his downfall.”
“Whoa,” I said. “You said he showed up drunk. Now you're saying honesty was his problem?”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 41