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 plantation in Savannah-Miss St. Clair."
"I thought we had an agreement," came the voice behind them. They turned to see Jess Ripton storming down the steps toward them. Toby's manager was still a good ten rows away, but he continued barking as he approached, speaking as if he were right beside them. "Didn't we have an understanding you'd contact me and not ambush my client?"
He was closing in but still far enough away for Rook to mutter an aside to Nikki. "See, this is why I never go to ball games. The element."
"Afternoon, Mr. Ripton," said Heat, putting some lightness on it. "This didn't seem like anything to bother you with. Just a quick question or two for Toby."
"Nuh-uh." Ripton stopped at the rail and they both turned to face him. He was huffing a bit from his effort and had his suit coat draped over one arm. "Nobody messes with him. This is the first day he's had cleats in the grass since the injury."
"You know," said Rook, "for a pitcher, he's got one helluva swing."
"I know all about what he's got." The Firewall bit off the words. He spread his arms wide, symbolically blocking them from his player, living up to his nickname. "Talk to me, that way we can work out your access."
Nikki put a hand on her hip, a pointed gesture aimed at drawing back her blazer, letting him see the badge on her waist. "Mr. Ripton, haven't we already been through this? I'm not ESPN dogging for a crumb. I'm in a murder investigation and I have a question for Toby Mills."
"Who," said The Firewall, "is trying to come back from an injury that has shaken his confidence. You see a sweet swing? Tell you what I see. A kid who may have to put his foot on the rubber in game one of the World Series and he's crapping himself because he's worried he's not a hundred percent. Plus he has to bat. He's so pressured that an hour ago I pushed back an endorsement meet-and-greet with Disney World. I'm not trying to be uncooperative, Detective, but I'm going to ask for some slack here."
Rook couldn't resist. "Wow. You told Mickey and Minnie to chill?"
Just then Toby Mills called over from the on-deck circle. "Everything OK, Jess?"
His manager showed teeth and waved as he hollered back, "All good, Tobe. I think they have money on the game." He laughed. Mills nodded thoughtfully and went back to his swings. Ripton turned back to Heat and dropped his smile. "See what's happening? Why don't you just tell me what you need."