Who Killed Rudy Rio? Read online

  Damn! How could he interrupt now? I told Rudy I'd be right back and left the room. Barnicut waved me into his office. He folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows. "So how far were we planning to carry this?"

  "How far?" I stared at him amazed. "The man was a witness to a terrible murder. I was just—"

  "It's none of our business."

  "But don't you want to know who—?"

  "No. We were hired to find out if Rudy Rio stole the trailers. That's all."

  "I know, but—"

  "Did he?"

  "Did he what? Steal the trailers?"

  He nodded.

  "Yes he was involved, but I doubt he did it alone."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  "That's all we want to know. Don't ask any more questions. Get him out of here."

  I started to utter more words of protest, then shut my mouth. Obviously, I'd be wasting my breath. Barnicut was as flexible as a slab of concrete, and he wasn't about to change his mind. When I stepped out of his office, Tish looked up from her telephone console. "He's gone."

  "Rudy?" I had a sinking feeling.

  "Yeah. What did you do to the little guy? He tore out of here like Freddie Kruger was after him."

  "Shit!"

  Tish giggled. "You're so ladylike, that sounds funny coming from you."

  "Screw ladylike."

  Trish burst out laughing, and I had to laugh too. "Better wait 'til you get to know me."

  "So what happened?" Tish asked.

  "Rudy got a little upset over one of my questions. He'll be okay."

  Would he? Because of the test, Rudy had dredged up some nightmare memories. I had a feeling Rudy Rio wouldn't be okay at all.

  Chapter 3

  After the debacle with Rudy, I wasn't too thrilled with Barnicut, but I pulled myself together, borrowed Perez's terminal, and wrote up the results of Rudy's polygraph. My report was concise, complete, and error-free. Barnicut could search with a magnifying glass and not find a mistake. I printed it out, put a copy on Tish's desk, and was about to leave when he appeared at his office door and crooked a finger at me. I braced myself. If he was going to inform me, in that snooty, superior way of his, that I'd botched Rudy's test, I would cut loose and tell him what I really thought—that I could have gotten the little man calmed down. That he, Reece Barnicut, was responsible for ruining the second test, let alone squelching evidence of a possible murder.

  Sitting across from him again, I waited while he examined his pencil, his lips pursed in thought as he carefully held the ends between his index fingers. "You finished your report?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "And he's guilty."

  "Absolutely, or at the very least involved. Why didn't you let me finish? Don't you realize Rudy Rio witnessed a murder?"

  "We don't know that for a fact, do we?" His eyes got steely. "Time is money, Holly. We don't waste time on the what-ifs."

  "You don't think we should call the police? Or maybe look into it ourselves?"

  "No." Barnicut forced his lips into his idea of a smile. "So moving right along, I'm going to put you on a case."

  Oh, great. Somehow, I wasn't clapping my hands with glee, maybe because Rudy's confession still filled my mind. Cautiously I asked, "A case? When?"

  "Tonight." He leaned back in his chair, turned sideways, and slung his feet on the desk—his pet position, apparently—and scrutinized his pencil again.

  "Doing what?"

  "Not a polygraph this time. Did you ever hear of Rosie's Bar?"

  "Sure. It's a bikers' hangout south of here on Highway 99."

  "The owner thinks the bartender is skimming. He wants us to check it out."

  "So you want me to—?"

  "Check it out. Dress like a biker girl—you know, in a tank top and maybe one of those tight little miniskirts. Go out there. Hang around. See what the bartender's up to."

  "Sure."

  He was disappointed by my answer, I could tell. He would like it better if I turned pale at the very thought of walking into a biker's bar. "Take a boyfriend along," he added, "in case you're leery of going alone. You've got one, haven't you?"

  I didn't. All my old boyfriends had gotten married or moved away. I had only been home a couple of weeks, so I hadn't met anyone new—hadn't wanted to meet anyone new. "I'll go alone," I told him curtly.

  "That won't be a problem, will it? You won't be nervous going alone?"

  Bastard. "I can take care of myself. I know karate."

  "Oh? You got a belt?"

  "Purple. I took a year at Buddy Quan's Rising Sun Karate School in Reseda."

  "Purple, oh, jeez!" He cast that last remark at the ceiling, then asked, "Carry a gun?"

  "I don't need a gun," I told him in a voice that didn't invite discussion. This was no time to express my views on gun control. "How much will you pay me?"

  "Forty an hour, plus expenses."

  I nearly choked. "Surely you jest."

  "It's a hardball world, honey."

  "Down in Los Angeles you couldn't get your floor swept for forty an hour."

  A malevolent smile tipped the corners of his mouth. "But we're not in L.A., are we? Forty-five, and that's tops."

  The words, I'd get a least a hundred in L.A., sprang to my lips, but I kept quiet. Only two hundred miles to the north I was in a world where unemployment ran sky high and salaries, by Southern California standards, low. I got practical. Even at Fresno wages, a few hours' work would put a definite dent in next month's Visa and MasterCard payments. Tom ran them to the max on his last, drunken, marriage-breaker Las Vegas spree. Just thinking of it, I swallowed my rage for the thousandth time. "It's robbery, but you've got yourself a deal."

  "They want you there tonight."

  I checked my watch. Three o'clock. "Tonight? Fine."

  Tish appeared in the doorway. "Reece, Perez just pulled into the parking lot."

  Barnicut didn't move a muscle. "It's about time."

  "Hey, babe, I'm back!" boomed a male voice from the lobby.

  With the subtlety of a tornado, Gil Perez strode into the room carrying a motorcycle helmet under his arm, wearing black leathers over T-shirt and Levis, and ankle-high boots. He was thirty-five or so; lean and spare; around five-feet-nine; dark hair short in front, long in back, down to his shoulders. He had an even-featured face on the thin side and a two-day stubble of beard. He planted his boots firmly in front of Barnicut's desk and said, "My man! How's it going?" I detected the trace of a Spanish accent in his low, melodious voice.

  Barnicut scowled. "We haven't heard from you for three days. Where have you been?"

  "What's the matter, Barlycorn? You got a problem?"

  "I've told you before, don't call me Barlycorn. I take umbrage at that."

  "Umbrage!" Perez's face lit like a kid with a new Nintendo. He turned to Tish. "Did you hear that? Barlycorn's got some umbrage. Where do you suppose it is?"

  Tish giggled. "I don't know."

  "Are you standing on it?" Tish giggled again and shook her head. He stalked behind her desk and pulled open a drawer. "Nope, I don't see any umbrage here." He pulled open another drawer and frowned. "Not here either. So, Reece, where'd you put your umbrage?"

  Barnicut raised pained eyes to the ceiling. He remained silent, slowly tapping his pencil.

  "Not talking, eh? Well, we'll get to the bottom of this." Perez turned his attention to me. "Pardon me, madam, are you sitting on some umbrage?"

  That cracked me up. I hadn't laughed so hard in a long time. Hadn't laughed much at all lately, come to think of it.

  Only Barnicut remained unamused. He finally cut in with, "Gil, that's enough." Stony-faced, he continued, "Are you finished?"

  "Finished." Perez set his helmet on the desk and dropped into a chair next to me, flashing one final, flippant grin.

  Barnicut pointed at me with his pencil. "Gil, this is Holly Keene. She's working for us on a temporary assignment."

  He s
hoved my resume across the desk. Perez picked it up and read aloud, "Licensed P.I... Berkeley grad..." He looked up quizzically. "You live in The Fig Gardens?"

  Now they would think I was rich and didn't need the job. "That's right, Old Fig," I reluctantly confirmed, referring to the name the euphuistic real estate agents called one of Fresno's oldest and most prestigious neighborhoods. "I'm staying with my mother for a while." She wasn't rich either, but no way would I tell him that.

  "Ah, a touch of class, Reece," said Perez. "B & P can use her." He finished the resume, nodding approval. "Looks good to me. Pleased to meet you, Holly Keene from Old Fig." His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

  I asked, "Is that your usual entrance?"

  "Not always." His expression sobered. He looked me over—thoroughly up and down—and I saw that he wasn't entirely the buffoon, that he was checking me out with a detective's keen eye. "Has Reece put you to work yet?"

  "I'm going out to Rosie's Bar tonight to check on the bartender."

  "Don't go alone."

  "I know how to defend myself."

  "She's got her purple belt, Gil." Barnicut's voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Perez ignored him. "Don't go alone," he repeated.

  I shot him a challenging glance. "Why not? I'll just slip in and sit inconspicuously in a corner."

  His gaze swept over all five-feet nine of me again. "You," he observed, "would be as inconspicuous as Mother Theresa at a cock fight."

  I gave him a look. "Thanks for your vote of confidence."

  "Want some company?" Perez appeared amused. His fingers brushed the leathers he was wearing. "I'm already dressed for it."

  Well, that was for sure, but no, I did not want his company. Perez might be amusing, but he was crazy—way too far out for me. I was framing my reply when Barnicut suddenly got alert, dollar signs in his eyes. "Well, hell, if you're going to go, Gil, then we don't need Holly."

  Thanks a lot, cheapskate. "Look," I said to Barnicut, "I don't need a chaperon. If you want me to go, I go alone. If you don't—" I flashed a lofty look at Perez, "—then your partner can handle it. Either way, it's fine."

  Barnicut looked surprised, like large-breasted blondes weren't supposed to act assertive.

  Perez got out of his chair and scooped up his helmet. "The lady goes alone, Reece. I've got better things to do." At the door he gave me a mock salute. "So long, Mother Theresa. Knock 'em dead tonight. And be careful."

  I got the details of the case from Barnicut and left. Out in the parking lot, I climbed into my Camaro, started the engine, and just sat there, head bowed, hands clutching the steering wheel. My thoughts were so boggled they bounced from one topic to another like a Ping-Pong ball.

  I thought about Jay Champion, war hero, risking his life in Afghanistan while some rotten, unpatriotic thief stole his trailers.

  I had a job. It wasn't much, but maybe I had managed to get my toe in the door of the best detective agency in town. Not that it would pay much. I recalled the money Tom and I had squandered back in our yuppie existence. How I could use it now! There was a time when I had thousands in savings. Now I had barely enough in the bank to cover the February bills.

  Mostly, though, I couldn't get my mind off Rudy Rio. His confession had been off-the-wall, totally inconceivable, not worth a second thought, yet it kept nagging me. Could there really be anything as awful as a snuff movie? Did the masked biker really cut the throat of the girl with the long black hair? No! Rudy was a liar. He made the whole thing up. He was trying to shock me, and yet, his story had a ring of truth. I could not get that haunted look in his eyes out of my mind. But I'd have to. Like Barnicut said, don't waste time on the what-ifs. Forget Rudy Rio.

  Only I couldn't.

  I wanted to hurry home so I could rummage through my closet and pull my biker girl outfit together. That would be fun. But first I had to talk to Rudy again and see if he was okay, and see if what he'd told me could possibly be true...

  Yes, I had to do it.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and got on Freeway 41, heading south towards Champion's Commercial Trailer Yard. I was in the midst of Fresno’s 5 o'clock traffic, but even at its worst, 41 was a wilderness road compared to the gridlock of Southern California. This was one of the good things about coming back home. Johnny Carson used to call Fresno the armpit of California, back when it was—depending on the season—a fogbound, sun-baked, mostly-white little town. When I was younger, I thought so too. I couldn't wait to head for the bright lights of L.A. Now Fresno is a fogbound, sun-baked big city with a half-million, multi-national population of Hmongs, Mexicans, Vietnamese, Filipinos, you name it. Whites are a minority now.

  Either way, for some inexplicable reason, it was good to be home.

  Fresno's industrial area, what there was of it, is located south, out by Highway 99, which cuts through the west part of town. The streets are choppy and not well marked. I had to drive around for a while before I finally found Champion's trailer yard. It was located between a big trucking company and a small plastics manufacturing firm, in the middle of a bleak, treeless block that was definitely not the garden spot of Fresno.

  I pulled to the curb and parked in front of the long, gray, one-story office building that butted against the sidewalk. An eight-foot chain link fence, topped by a continuous concertina loop of barbed wire, surrounded the yard behind and to the sides. Beyond, long rows of commercial trailers, all painted the same dull gray, seemed to stretch to infinity. Everything was shades of gray—monotonous, hum-drum gray, except for a few green weeds poking through the sidewalk.

  A sickly looking miniature palm tree struggled for life in a red brick planter by the front door.

  In the front, the fence was broken by a wire mesh gate, chained and padlocked. Not very hospitable. If Rudy lived here, he was, if nothing else, secure. I hoped the office was still open. It was my only way in.

  I found the door unlocked. Inside, a long counter faced me. Behind it lay a big room filled with several desks, computer terminals, filing cabinets—the usual small office trappings. On a TV set in the corner a CNN announcer was describing a Taliban attack on government buildings in Kandahar. I thought of Jay Champion. Was that where he was?

  Stepping to the counter, I nearly bumped into a man hurrying towards the door. He stopped and I stopped, and when I got a good look at him, something in me went plink! I love tall men, and this one was at least six-four, with beautifully styled brown hair, a tanned face with the chiseled features of a male mannequin, and a physique as powerful and well-muscled as Hugh Jackman's. His slacks had a razor-sharp crease. I could see his hairy chest through the open collar of his Pendleton plaid shirt.

  "Hi there!" He smiled as he spoke, and his even white teeth glittered and flashed. "How can we help you?"

  "I'm looking for Rudy Rio."

  "Sure." He pointed towards the rear door. "Rudy lives in a trailer at the rear of the lot." His gaze dropped to the front of my jacket. What he thought he could see, I didn't know. When he found my face again, I detected a glint of lechery deep in his eyes. He asked, "Haven't I met you somewhere before?"

  Clever. "I don't believe so."

  With an easy motion, he held out his hand and flashed his smile again. "I'm Bill Hatcher, charge of sales. And you're—?"

  "Holly Keene, private investigator." I shook his hand briefly.

  "Holly Keen, P.I.," he repeated. "Hey! That's got a nice ring to it. You could be a TV star with a name like that."

  Oh, please. So much for the plink. I had just met my first post-divorce frog. It was like opening a beautifully wrapped present and finding an empty box inside. I backed away. "Pleasure to meet you. Must go."

  A woman's voice—cross and impatient—interrupted from behind the counter. "Go home Bill, I'll handle this." I turned. A slender woman of about thirty-five peered at me over one of the terminals. She had a big mop of peroxide blonde hair. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses rested halfway down her nose. She was frowning. />
  Bill shot his eyebrows up in a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with expression. He gave me a killer smile that brought out a darling dimple in his chin. He barely nodded at the woman. To me he said, "See you around, honey," and was gone.

  The woman arose from the terminal. Of medium height, she wasn't very attractive, what with those ugly glasses and those blonde bangs that hung too heavy and too low on her forehead. A fashion plate she was not, and if she thought her cotton turquoise blouse went with her baggy green wool skirt, she was sadly mistaken. Ditto the brown cardigan sweater slung over her shoulders June Allison style, fastened with a circa 1955 gold sweater chain. The whole outfit she could donate to the Smithsonian. "Rudy's not home." Still frowning, the woman cast a meaningful look at the wall clock. "We're about to close."

  "Mind if I make sure? This is important." I put on my Little-Miss-Charm smile. "Maybe you could phone?"

  "Rudy doesn't have a phone." Her eyes grew wary. She drew herself up and glared. "What is this about?"

  I realized I should have found Rudy on my own. Now I'd have to watch it. I could lose my license if I wasn't careful what I said. "It's something personal. He was at Barnicut & Perez today. Something came up. I want to talk to him."

  "Oh, really?" She immediately grew alert, and keenly interested. Not more friendly, though. She had an air of aloofness about her that would be hard to penetrate. "You work for Barnicut & Perez?"

  "Let's just say, I happened to be there."

  "I'm the one who called Reece Barnicut. I'm Doris Trusdale."

  I would not have guessed. Doris had come across as a lot more personable on the telephone. The hostility hadn't come through. "I was there when you called."

  Her face clouded. "Jay champion is a war hero, ready to give his life for his country, yet some lowlife had the nerve to steal from him." She lowered her voice and hissed, "I know Rudy's a part of this. He couldn't have done it by himself, he's not that smart. But I know."

  I shrugged noncommittally. "The police will sort it out."