Done Rubbed Out Read online

  He wrapped up at about 7:30 or so, and after putting the towels in the dryer and starting a load of sheets, he tidied up his desk in the small back office, stuffing some things in his satchel to read over dinner. Then he turned off the lights, set the alarm, and left. He had locked the door. He was sure he remembered pulling the handle just to make sure.

  “So, why is the door unlocked? And why is the alarm turned off?”

  He walked in the door, already knowing something wasn’t right. He laid his satchel on a chair, and made his way to the bank of switches by the reception desk. After checking the front room, he turned the lights on in the hall, and checked the smaller treatment room, his own small office, and the breakroom. The washing machine was still going, which was weird, but the dryer had stopped. After discovering nothing out of place, he crossed the few steps to the larger room at the end of the hall, stepped into the room, slapped the switch to turn on the lights and… “Oh shit!” he remembered thinking. “Oh shit!”

  Toby curled up tighter on the sofa and – forgetting his earlier resolution – he closed his eyes. He saw Geri on the table and heard the sound of blood dripping to the floor. He struggled to open his eyes, but was so tired and cold. It must be the shock…his eyes were really heavy…must be the shock…he’d heard that shock could…

  “Mr. Bailey?”

  “Mr. Bailey?” This time, the voice was louder. “Mr. Bailey! Wake up, please. I need to talk to you.”

  With great effort, Toby blinked his eyes open and looked up at the woman towering over him. “Well, she’s not really towering. She’s not tall enough to tower. And what is that outfit she’s wearing?” He made an effort to sit up straighter, and eventually recognized the detective who’d arrived after the others.

  “Umm …yeah…sorry about that.” His mouth felt like sandpaper. He propped himself up with a partially numb arm, and uncurled his feet from beneath him.

  Reightman studied him for a minute, giving him a couple of seconds to pull himself together. “I have a few questions for you, Mr. Bailey.”

  “Okay,” Toby yawned, “but I already told Officer Jackson everything I know.”

  “Detective.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Detective Jackson.” She’d learned the hard way that it was important to establish a certain level of respect between the person reporting a crime and the person responding to the report.

  “Oh…right. I’ve already told Detective Jackson everything I know.”

  Reightman frowned slightly. Had there been an emphasis on the word detective? The last thing she needed tonight was sarcasm, unless it was her own. “I know you’ve already spoken to Detective Jackson, Mr. Bailey, but I need you to go over it again with me. I want to make sure that I have my own understanding of what occurred here tonight, and I need to get some additional background information.” Reightman waited for her words to sink in. “Why don’t you sit up, start at the beginning, and talk me through your evening right up to the point where you discovered Mr. Guzman?”

  For a minute, Reightman thought he was going to refuse to say anything more. He just sat on the edge of the couch, hugging his arms across his chest and staring up at her. For some reason, she was reminded of the photograph hanging on the wall behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to look at it again.

  “That’s me.”

  ”Pardon me?”

  “That’s me – I mean, it’s a picture of me. My mom took it a couple of years before she died.”

  Reightman wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s a very nice picture, Mr. Bailey.”

  Toby gave a small shrug, and tried to stifle another yawn. “I guess so. She called it “Time Out.” She took it one day when I’d been behaving badly. She made me sit in that old chair and said I had to stay there until I found a better mood to get into. She always used to say stuff like that. It was just her way and I guess it runs in the family. I remember her laughing after she developed it, and she told me one day I’d appreciate it as it deserved to be appreciated when I had kids of my own. She said to remember that pouting or throwing a big ol’ fit never did anyone any good.” He sat silently, contemplating the photograph, before adding, “She always told me that usually the only things that do any real good are pulling your pants up, uncrossing your arms, and getting on with what needs to be done, no matter how bad, or boring, or hard it is…” He trailed off. His odd blue eyes met hers. “Sorry for rambling, Detective.”

  Reightman nodded and pulled one of the arm chairs closer to the sofa. She unslung her monster purse and hooked it over the back and took a seat with a sigh. Her feet hurt. She reached into the purse and dug out her notebook and pen. “Mr. Bailey, I know this is hard. I know it’s been a big shock to you. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now. But, I need your help. The most important thing you can do right now is walk me through what happened.”

  Toby glanced back up at the big portrait and then back at her. “I’ll try.” He cleared his throat and she readied her pen. He cleared his throat again. “Water.”

  “Water?”

  “Yeah. Can I… I mean… I need some water. My mouth and throat are really dry.”

  “Certainly. You have some here?”

  “Yes, in the fridge in the break area.”

  “Jackson,” she called over her shoulder. “Can you grab us a couple of bottles of water from the break room? Mr. Bailey says there should be some in the refrigerator.”

  “Sure thing, Reightman.”

  She waited until the water was retrieved and handed a bottle to the young man, keeping one for herself. She noticed it was bottled with the name of the spa on the label. “Funny the things people will pay for these days.” She set the bottle down on one of the small glass tables and wiped her damp hands on the legs of her sweatpants. She picked up her pad and pen and waved her hand in front of his face to catch his attention. Once he focused back on her, she started from the top.

  “Alright, Mr. Bailey, why don’t you start by describing your evening for me?”

  “It’s Toby.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Toby. “Mr. Bailey” sounds like someone’s dad. I never knew my dad so, please, I’d appreciate it if you’d just call me Toby.”

  “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” She intended to keep the boundaries between them firmly drawn, but then she caught the kid’s disappointed expression. “Would it really hurt anything to play along?” she wondered as she looked into his face. “Alright then…Toby. Tell me about your evening.”

  Reightman observed him carefully as she took notes. He described the events of the evening, from the point when the receptionist left for the day to the time he discovered the victim and called the police. Every once in a while, she’d glance over to her partner for confirmation, and every time, Sam gave her a nod in return. So far, the events being described appeared to align with the story he’d given her partner. That was a good start. She placed her notebook on her lap and just studied him for a minute, trying to decide where to head next. “How old was Mr. Guzman, Toby?”

  “He was about to turn twenty-eight, in November.”

  “And how long had he worked for you?"

  “Geri’s been here ever since we opened, about six months ago. He didn’t just work here, he was my business partner.”

  Reightman nodded at the clarification and continued. “Had he worked in another spa in the area?”

  She noticed the question made him hesitate for a moment. “That’s interesting,” she decided. “Maybe there’s something to dig into here.”

  “No. No, he didn’t,” Toby finally answered.

  From his voice, she knew she was onto something. His hesitation was a dead giveaway and experience had taught her to recognize the signs. Reightman settled an expression of polite disbelief over her features. “You hired someone with no previous experience to work in a place like this? I find that very hard to believe.”

  “He had experience, just not in anoth
er spa. He had his state license. We both did…I mean, do…I mean…” He looked down at the floor and she noticed his cheeks were flushed.

  “Toby?”

  He refused to look up, and the floppy hair hid his eyes. “He did private work,” he answered, sounding both sad and hurt for some reason.

  “Private work?" You mean he had personal clients?”

  “Yes.” He still hadn’t looked up at her.

  “What kind of personal clients?”

  “You know, the very private, personal kind,” he answered with a touch of bitterness.

  “I see.” She was, for some reason, almost embarrassed as she considered the implications. “So, Geri Guzman had a little side business.” She could feel a thin trickle of sweat underneath her bra and shifted a bit to try and get comfortable. “Did Mr. Guzman often visit the premises in the evening?”

  “No, not anymore. I mean, he did a couple of times before, but when I found out, I asked him not to do it again. I don’t like people here late at night. Besides, he wasn’t good at using the alarm. I’d always get a call from the company and have to come and turn it off.”

  “Toby, how long have you known Mr. Guzman?

  The boy kept his eyed glued to the glossy floor. Now she knew she was getting somewhere. “Toby?”

  He stayed silent, but his hands were gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

  “Toby?” Reightman tried again, on the edge of losing her patience. “Mr. Bailey!” she snapped. “Exactly how long have you known the victim? You need to answer the question.”

  His silence combined with her own discomfort was wearing on her last nerve. She rose to her feet and looked down at him. “How long had you known Mr. Guzman?”

  “Years,” he whispered to the floor. He looked up at her with his unusual eyes and answered, “Ever since the summer, right after I graduated high school. Ever since he moved to my hometown.”

  “So, there’s a story here and I was right after all.” She settled back down into one of the cushy chairs. “Tell me about your relationship.” She picked up her pen and started to write, careful to show no expression as he answered all the questions she could think to ask.

  ♦♦♦

  Melba Reightman paced the floor, her agitation plain to anyone observing. She was pretty sure everyone in the vicinity was observing. After all, four months of her change in life irritability had already provided every cop in the city tons of amusement. “Funny how the start of my irritability coincided nicely with my divorce.”

  She halted in mid stride, flicking her eyes up to catch the quickly hidden grins of amusement around the room. She really didn’t give a damn. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing was a little heavy, and she was overheated, again. Every once in a while she stopped, read from the notes she held clutched in her hand, and swore under her breath before starting to pace again. Her feet really hurt now.

  Mr. Toby Bailey had just been escorted to the small office in the back of the building and was there now, with an officer stationed at the door.

  Reightman paced some more, thinking about her interview with the young man. She finally came to a stop in front of the portrait of the little boy in the chair. She looked up at it and gave a disgusted snort. She could barely restrain herself from shaking a finger sternly at the photo.

  “Melba, I know you’re frustrated, but you need to simmer down. You’re frightening the children,” Sam waved to the observing officers. She caught his referral to the slogan on a coffee cup he’d given her a couple of months ago following a particularly grumpy and vocal day.

  Not at all amused by his banter, she wheeled around and shot him a glare. “Frustrated, Sam? You think I’m frustrated? I am not frustrated. For your information, I passed frustrated quite a while back, and right this minute I am about just a half a mile from plain pissed off!”

  “Why are you so upset, Melba?”

  “I don’t know.” She deflated a little while she tried to figure out what was causing her agitation. “It’s the heat I guess, and this situation. Plus, you know my temper is a little jumpy these days.”

  “Yes. I do know, Melba. Now that you mention it, I recognize all the signs.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass, Sam. You wouldn’t be nearly so glib if the good Lord had plumbed you differently.”

  “I’m perfectly happy with my plumbing, and I thank the Lord for it every day.”

  “From what I hear, Mrs. Jackson is pretty happy with it, too.”

  “Oh, she is. She surely is.”

  Reightman finally grinned, and rubbed the back of her neck. “Sam, I hate to admit it, but I find myself more than a little bit embarrassed by Mr. Bailey’s outline of his relationship and history with Geraldo Guzman. Being embarrassed pisses me off even more. I didn’t realize I could even be embarrassed anymore.” Sam wisely didn’t say a word. “Dammit, Sam! This murder is one of the worst we’ve had on our hands in the last few years and there’s a lot of unanswered questions back in that room.” She met his calm brown eyes before turning back to contemplate the photo. She finally shook her head and sighed. “At least I finally got somewhere with Mr. Bailey, although it took a while to get the whole story. This…this kid…young man – whatever – and his good friend, Geraldo Guzman, worked their way through vocational school by way of the usual run of part-time college jobs. Nothing unusual about that, right?” Sam shook his head in agreement. “While doing so, they hope and dream and plan for the future. Somewhere early on, they engage in a little romance with each other and I got the distinct impression it was pretty hot and heavy for a while. Don’t ask me how I know – just woman’s intuition, I guess. Somewhere along the way, they decide to just be friends, although Mr. Bailey wasn’t real informative about that part of his story, no matter how hard I pushed. I have the impression their split occurred not too long ago. I have to get to the bottom of that, and I’m probably going to get embarrassed again. Just thinking about it makes me flushed, and Lord knows I’m not a prude.”

  Reightman took a couple more calming breathes and ordered her thoughts. “They work an assortment of odd jobs for a couple of years, until for some reason – maybe job loss and tight funds – Guzman engages in some off-the-grid activity offering private massage services to some very well-heeled clients. Guzman indulged in this money making activity more than Bailey. In fact, I’m not sure Mr. Bailey much to do with it. I need to get more clarity around that as well. Anyway, they successfully graduate, pass the state boards, get licensed, and so forth. Bailey works in a couple of other spas – similar, but less fancy than this place – to gain practical experience. Through it all, the two of them stick together and pool their resources to eventually open this place.”

  Sam indicates he’s taking it all in, makes a couple of notes on his ever present pocket notebook, and motions for her to continue.

  “Mr. Bailey apparently had some money stashed away from his deceased mother’s insurance and from the sale of her house, and Guzman contributed from…some other source I guess – I’m going to have to dig around some more to get to the bottom of that.” Reightman paused to appreciate the cool colors of the room and, more importantly, the cool air blowing from the vents. “Less than nine months after opening this place, they have a pretty impressive clientele, made up of some of the most socially prominent and powerful men and women in the city. In spite of the almost, but not quite questionable neighborhood, all indications are they’re even turning a profit. A small one I grant you, but a profit, nonetheless. How often does that happen in real life, Sam? Tell me, in what kind of fairy tale does that happen? And no, there was no pun intended in that last bit.”

  She ran her fingers through her frizzy curls, figuring it wouldn’t make much difference since her head probably looked like a rat’s nest anyway. She retraced her thoughts and continued, “Then one hot August night – tonight in fact – Mr. Bailey locks up, goes to grab some grub, realizes he’s lost his cell phone, returns here at 8:45 PM and steps in i
t. Literally. He puts his white leather shoes, which probably cost more than the monthly rent on my apartment, right in a big, nasty puddle of blood – blood belonging to his friend, former lover, and current business partner.”

  The rattle of gurney wheels sounded down the hall, interrupting her train of thought. Reightman turned and caught sight of the heavy, sweating coroner and his assistant steering the bagged body. At the sight of Dr. Lieberman, some unformed idea pinged in the back of her brain, but didn’t quite make it to the front. “Dammit!” She hated it when that happened. She pursed her lips for a moment and tried to get back on track, tugging on the straps of her damp bra. “We now have one well-built Hispanic, part-time hustler, former lover and current business partner of the young Mr. Bailey, murdered in one of the most violent ways we’ve seen in years and all we have are more questions.”

  “And you know what else we have, Sam?” she asked as she watched Lieberman. “We have a wormy coroner who shows up late to the scene, although that’s getting to be the norm. He’s also acting kind of weird.” She looked out the front window onto the street and gestured at the small mob gathered outside. “We have half the residents of the downtown neighborhoods lined up to view the latest entertainment. They’re like a flock of vultures, bless their hearts.” Sam dutifully acknowledged her assessment of the crowd as she continued, “But you know what we don’t have?”