Chapter 12
The phone rang, waking detective Simons from a deep sleep. “Your car had better be on fire, McIlroy,” he told the undercover officer.
“Sorry to wake you, detective but you said to call anytime if there is something that comes up that seems to be a problem,” McIlroy defended hastily.
“I gathered or you wouldn’t be calling me at two in the morning,” Simons said leaving his bedroom before the call woke his wife, Connie. She at least deserved to get a full night’s sleep. “So out with it.”
“I was following Robert and Judy Reyes this evening like I was ordered. I was on their tail when there was a sobriety check point. They got through easy enough, but I didn’t because the woman in the car in front of me got out and was being a real ass about the check point.
I tried to get the officers’ attention, but they had their hands full.
I swear that woman couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds wet, but boy did she take three officers to get her back in her car and out of the way. ”
Simons wasn’t liking where this was going and a knot formed in his gut.
“So, you lost then? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes and no,” McIlroy said. “Once I got through the check point I did finally catch up to a car that looked to be the same make, model, color, and it even had two passengers. I stayed the required distance behind, but I realized when we were nearing the Georgia line that it wasn’t the Reyes’ car. The plate was wrong.”
“Georgia! Christ. McIlroy, did you just graduate from the academy or something? I’m going to bust you back down to desk duty for this screw up.” Simons leaned his head against the wall. “Tell me you have circled back to the Reyes’ house to see if they are there?”
“I did. And they are,” he said. “At least both cars. The house was dark, and I couldn’t verify who was inside without committing a B and E.”
“Did you at least check in with Willard who was watching Geneva to see if she stayed in all evening?” Simons asked, running a hand over his now aching head.
“Yes, sir. And she did.”
“At least that’s something,” Simons barked. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”
Ending the call, he banged his head against the wall a few times grumbling about incompetent underlings. When he looked up, he found Connie standing there in her bathrobe, frowning at him.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault you got that call,” Connie said, coming to give him a hug. “Come back to bed before we wake the boys and no one gets any sleep tonight.”
He nodded. When his phone rang again before they made it down the hall, he swore under his breath until he saw it was Kohl calling. Preparing himself for the worse, he hit the accept and asked, “What’s happened?”
“You better meet me at 345 W 25th Court. A man’s been shot.” Kohl’s voice was grim.
“Damn. And we’re just the lucky detectives who are up to catch the next case?” Simons didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.
“No,” Kohl said. “Those two bike messengers we’ve been looking for in connection to Travis McGinty found this man and showed up at the precinct blabbering all over themselves.
It took the desk sergeant over an hour to calm them down enough to figure out it was our case and then he started calling.
He just lucked up and reached me first and I told him I’d call you. ”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the crime scene. Put those two in one of the interrogation rooms on ice.”
“Will do,” Kohl said. “Do you want me to call Nick and Jillian?”
Simons thought for a moment. “We’ll be at the crime scene for a while. Let them sleep for now. Someone should get to sleep tonight.”
Connie patted him on the back. “Should I make you coffee while you dress?”
“Extra strong if you don’t mind,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks, hon.”
He was dressed and out the door, coffee in hand, in ten minutes, heading across town to the address that Kohl had given him trying to recall what his partner had said.
Maybe it was the hour, but he couldn’t remember what the two bike messengers were doing to stumble across the dead body, but he’d find out.
He was sure going to find out before the night was through.
Lights were flashing and a yellow crime scene tape was draped to keep unwanted onlookers from entering the area when he arrived at 345 W 25th Court.
The coroner’s van was parked out front so that meant a time of death may be possible already.
He parked and hurried to the officer on duty, flashing his detective’s badge so he could get inside.
Kohl saw him and hurried over. “The coroner believes the victim, Carlton Delvecchio, died a little before ten tonight from a GSW.”
“That’s pretty exact timing,” Simons said. “Normally he gives us a two to three–hour window. What makes him believe it was that time?”
“Delvecchio’s watch stopped at that time,” Kohl said.
“What about fingerprints?” Simons asked.
“CSI has done their preliminary dusting, but it doesn’t look like there are any, other than the victims, and possibly the bike messengers on the door handle,” Kohl said. “There were two unknown prints.”
“Let me get this right. There are only three sets of prints in this whole place?” Simons said, making a circle in the air with his index finger. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Like someone had to have cleaned the place from ceiling to floor before the killing?”
Kohl frowned, placed his hands on his hips, pushing his suit coat away from his body. “I don’t see where you are going.”
“The killer obviously wanted the victims prints to be here, but nothing else, so he had the place wiped clean before the man was shot or possibly even came into the office, meaning the killer was lying in wait for the victim to arrive,” Simons rattled off stepping over to the trash can by the desk.
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket then lifted up the open food container.
“Perhaps our victim had been visiting one of the food trucks that frequent the neighborhood in the evenings. When he returned there was a confrontation where he was shot. Then our not so bright bike messengers show up, find the body, and high tail it to the police station.”
“But how would the killer get in?” Kohl asked.
“That, I don’t know, unless they had an arrangement made for a meeting,” Simons said.
“Of course, this is just a theory to explain why there are only three sets of prints at the scene. If this is Delvecchio’s office, he’d conduct business here on a regular basis and would have had people in and out of here daily. ”
“One would imagine so,” Kohl agreed. “His business card shows he was a private investigator.”
“But only one office, no secretary or receptionist it looks like. Do you think this guy did it all for himself?” Simons returned the pen to his pocket.
“Maybe,” Kohl responded. “It isn’t impossible if his clientele isn’t huge.”
“It still doesn't feel right,” Simons said. “Even small P.I. offices have a receptionist to handle the calls and appointments. Was this guy on the up and up?”
“I guess that’s something we are going to have to figure out.” Kohl made a note in his small notebook. “I’ll begin looking into his background and follow up with you.”
“You do that while I go have a chat with the coroner to see what else he might be able to tell us at this point. Then let’s head to the station to have a chat with our messenger boys,” Simons said. “I have many questions for them.”
Half an hour later they were entering the station where the usual night riff raft had shown up to fill the holding cells.
They stopped by the desk sergeant and picked up the folder on the two bike messengers.
The place smelled of burnt coffee and microwaved food as they headed back to the bull pen and the interrogation room where the night sergeant had been keeping an eye on the two messengers.
“What are these guys names again?” Simons asked Kohl as they walked down the corridor not bothering to look at the file.
His partner pulled out his note pad and flipped through the pages. “They answer to Wizard and Slick, but their legal names are Will Sanders and Jack Davenport.”
“Right,” Simons said. “I remember having the phone conversation with their supervisor at Hot Miami Messenger Service.”
He reached for the door handle of the interrogation room prepared to enter when Kohl stopped him, putting his hand on his shoulder.
“I think they were high when they came in earlier,” he warned. “They smelled like weed and sweat.”
“Great. Just great,” Simons muttered before he sucked in his last clean breath and pushed the door open.
Inside, sitting at the table, the suspects were slumped over, fast asleep, their heads on their bent arms. He waited for Kohl to enter then slammed the door shut, causing the young men to jerk upright.
“Good morning, gentlemen, I’m detective Simons and this is my partner who you already met, detective Kohl.”
“Dude, that wasn’t cool,” one of them said while the other rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“And you are?” Simons asked, taking his place at the table and slapping the manilla folder down.
“Slick,” one of the young punks said.
“Right. Does that make you Sanders or Davenport?” Simons asked, sitting down in the chair to look at them at eye level.
“Davenport. Jack Davenport,” he said and then began to snicker. “Bond, James Bond.”
The other one snorted as well.
Yeah, they were still high.
“What have you been smoking?” Simons asked.
“Vaping. Prescription THC,” Slick said. “You can check with my doctor. It helps calm my anxiety.”
“And what do you have to be nervous about?” Simons asked.
“Life, dude. It’s a bitch,” Slick replied. “I always had anxiety in school.”
“Me too,” Wizard piped up. “My doc gave me the same advice.”
“Tell us why you came in tonight?” Simons said.
“We found that body, dude,” Slick said. “We had nothing to do with it.”
“But you knew him, right?” Simons asked.