'I know you have a lot of clients, Mr. Strong,' offered Raley.
'You bet,' said the lawyer. 'And they all get personal service.'
Raley continued, 'I'm sure they do. But let us refresh your memory. Esteban Padilla was a limo driver who got fired last spring. He came to you with his complaint.'
'Right, right, and we filed a wrongful dismissal.' Ronnie Strong tapped a forefinger on his temple. 'It's all in here. Eventually.'
'Can you tell us what the grounds were for the case?' asked Ochoa.
'Sure, give me a sec. OK, got it. Esteban Padilla. He's this good kid from Spanish Harlem. Making a nice living, an honest living, driving stretch limos for years. And he did it all, the long ones, the town cars, the Hummers… Those stretch Hummers are awesome, aren't they, fellas? Anyway, eight years of loyal service to those rat bastards and they just can him without cause. I asked him if there was some reason, anything. Was he stealing, was he schtupping clients, did he give his boss the finger? Nothing. Eight years and, bam, done.
'I told this kid, 'You've been wronged.' I told him we'd sue them to their socks, clean them out so he'd never have to worry another day in his life.'
'What happened to the case?' said Ochoa.
Strong shrugged. 'Never got anywhere.'
'What?' said Raley. 'You decided you didn't have a case?'
'Oh, I had a case. We were ready to rock and roll. Then all of a sudden Padilla comes to me and says drop it, Ronnie. Just drop the whole deal.'
Roach made eye contact. Ochoa's nod to his partner told him he could ask it. Raley said, 'When he came to you and said to forget the whole thing, did he say why?'
'No.'
'Did he seem nervous, agitated, fearful?'
'No. It was weird. He was the most relaxed I'd ever seen him. In fact, I'd even say he seemed happy.' Roach's visit to the Rolling Service Limousine Company in Queens was not as entertaining or half as cordial as the one they had just paid to Ronnie Strong. The surroundings, however, were about as refined.
They made their way through the service bays, past rows of black cars getting buffed and polished in the huge warehouse, until they found the manager's office. It was a squalid glass box in a back corner, next to a toilet with a grimy door sign that had an arrow on it that could be twisted from 'occupied' to 'occupeed.'
The manager made them stand and wait while he took a complaint from a client who'd been left stranded at the curb at Lincoln Center during one of the Fashion Week events and wanted restitution. 'What can I say to you?' said the manager, looking right at the detectives, taking his time while he talked. 'This was weeks ago and you call just now? And I checked with my driver, and he said you were not there when he came. It's your word against his. If I listened to everyone who said this, I would not have money to do my business.'
Ten minutes later, the passive-aggressive tyrant finished and hung up. 'Customers,' he said.
Raley couldn't resist. 'Who needs 'em, right?'
'I hear that,' the little man said without irony. 'Total pain in the ass. What do you want?'
'We're here to ask you about one of your former drivers, Esteban Padilla.' Ochoa watched the skin tighten on the manager's face.
'Padilla doesn't work here anymore. I have nothing to say.'
'He was fired, right?' Roach was going to get their ten minutes back and then some.
'I cannot discuss personnel issues.'
'You just did with that client,' said Raley. 'So give it up for us. Why was he fired?'
'These are confidential matters. I don't even remember.'
Ochoa said, 'Hold on, you've got me confused. Which is it, confidential or no memory? I want to have this right when I go from here to the Taxi and Limousine Commission to get your operating permit reviewed.'
The manager sat in his chair, rocking, processing. At last he said, 'Esteban Padilla was let go for insubordination to passengers. We made a change, simple as that.'
'After eight years, the man was suddenly a problem? Doesn't wash for me,' said Ochoa. 'Does it wash for you, Detective Raley?'
'Not even a little, partner.'
The detectives knew the surest way to make a lie cave in under its own weight was to go for the facts. Nikki Heat had told them it was the subheading for her Rule #1: 'The time line is your friend.'-'When you get a whiff of BS, go for specifics.'
'You see, sir, we're involved in a homicide investigation, and you just gave us some information that one of your clients may have had a grudge against your driver, the murder victim. That's something that sounds to us like cause to ask you who the clients were who complained about Mr. Padilla.' Raley folded his arms and waited.
'I don't remember.'
'I see,' said Raley. 'If you thought about it, might you remember?'
'Probably not. It's been a while.'
Ochoa decided it was time for more facts. 'Here's what I think will help. And I know you want to help. You keep records of your rides, right? I mean, you're required to. And I even see you have the one on your desk from that complaint call you just took, so I know you have them. We're going to ask you to give us all your manifests for all the rides Esteban Padilla booked prior to his dismissal. We'll start with four months' worth. How's that sound to you versus a nasty inspection from the TLC?' Two hours later, back at the precinct, Raley, Ochoa, Heat, and Rook sat at their respective desks poring over the limousine manifests for Esteban Padilla's bookings during the months leading up to his dismissal. It was slightly more exciting than screening Cassidy Towne's reused typewriter ribbon days before. But it was the donkey work, the desk work, that got to the facts. Even though they didn't exactly know what facts they were looking for, the idea was to find something… someone… that connected to the case.
Ochoa was refilling his coffee, rolling his head to loosen his cramped shoulder muscles, when Raley said, 'Got one.'
'Whatcha got, Rales?' asked Heat.
'Got a name here for a ride he gave to someone we've talked to.' Raley pulled a manifest from the file and went to the center of the room. As the others gathered before him, he held up the sheet in front of him, under his chin, so the others could see the name.
Chapter Thirteen
In the new Yankee Stadium, on an off day for the Pinstripes, a trainer and a hitting coach stood a few yards behind Toby Mills, watching him make slow swings with a bat weighted by a donut on its barrel. It was an oddity to see Mills holding lumber. Pitchers in the American League seldom appear at the plate-the exceptions being occasional interleague contests like the Subway Series, and, of course, World Series games played at rival parks. With the Bombers on pace to clinch another pennant and invade a National League park soon, it was time for their star pitcher to get some BP. As he made slow, easy arcs, the staff studied him, but not to assess his skills. They wanted to see how his weight was transferring on his legs after his hamstring pull. All they cared about was if he was healthy, if he would be ready.
Two other pairs of eyes were also on Toby Mills. Heat and Rook stood in the first row of seats above the Yankee dugout. 'For a pitcher, he's got one helluva swing,' said Nikki, not taking her eyes off the player.
Rook watched him take another cut and said, 'I don't know how you can tell. I mean, if he hits the ball, fine. I can say, 'Yeah, good hit,' but this… To me, it's just mime. Or shadowboxing. How can you know?'
Now she did turn to him. 'Rook, did you ever play Little League?' When he answered with a dopey grin, she said, 'Ever go to a game?'
'Give me a break. I was raised by a Broadway diva. I can't help it if I'm more Damn Yankees than real Yankees. Does that make me less of a person?'
'No. What it makes you is a romance writer.'
'Thanks. So glad you're not going to needle me or anything.'
'Oh, if you think this is going away, you're living in a dreamworld. A dreamworld set on a turn-of-the-century
