Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Slice of Greed

  A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery

  K. C. Reinstadler

  Copyright © 2016 K. C. Reinstadler

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1522829792

  ISBN 13: 9781522829799

  LCCN Rancho Cucamonga, California

  Join us at: WWW.BOLMYSTERIES.COM

  This, my first book, is dedicated to the memory of Detective Eliu (Leo) Ortega of the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Office. Leo Ortega was a friend, a mentor, and an inspiration to me and countless others. I miss his “bicentennial minutes” and dry wit.

  I would also like to thank my wife, Jill; her mother, Molly; and countless others who encouraged me along my journey. Most of all, I thank the many men and women with whom I had the pleasure of serving all my years, whose colorful personalities and professionalism made the years fly by and helped usher many bad guys into prison. Those were the best of times.

  Can you imagine knocking on a household door at 3:00 a.m., bearing the sobering job of notifying a husband and wife that their child is gone, murdered, a young life snuffed out by another? Imagine witnessing those parents’ grief, so intense that it knocks them to the ground at your feet. Envision watching them weep, paralyzed with unimaginable pain. Then you have to answer their never-ending questions about how and why this tragedy happened. They plead with you to find answers for them, to make some sense of it all. They ask you to make sure that those responsible for stripping away the future of their child will pay for the tragedy they have inflicted.

  This is not fiction. It happens every morning in places all across America. This is the life of a homicide detective.

  “No greater honor will ever be bestowed upon an officer, or a more profound duty imposed on him, than when he is entrusted with the investigation of the death of another human being. It is his duty to find the facts, regardless of color or creed, without prejudice, and to let no power on earth deter him from presenting these facts to the court without regard to personality.”

  —Homicide Investigators Creed, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department

  This book is a work of fiction, but it’s based on real-life tragedies, on personal experiences of mine and of others who investigate these horrors. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Although these facts are imagined by the author, similar circumstances have played out in cities across our nation.

  Now sit back and ride along with Detective Kevin Rhinehardt and his partners with the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Department as they hunt for an unknown killer terrorizing the central California coast—the Phantom.

  Chapter One

  The Stage Is Set

  The killer walked calmly down the wooded pathway, cautiously yet confidently past three other dark town-house bungalows nestled in the back of the upscale central-coast community. The wealthy residents living there paid top dollar for their privacy, and they enjoyed the quaintness of the overgrown, dimly lit sidewalk paths. The killer enjoyed them, too. The almost-overpowering scent of night-blooming jasmine permeated the evening air, punctuated by the pungent hint of freshly cut grass. At the back door to bungalow six, the killer paused to examine the immediate surroundings, and then ever so slowly, turned the knob. The door swung open on its hinges, making an almost imperceptible…squeak. The perpetrator knew it wouldn’t be locked. The killer had done homicidal homework and knew that normally it was left unsecured at night because the homeowner felt very safe living in the Commons—a practice that would soon prove costly. As the killer took slow, deliberate steps through the service area that led to the kitchen, the homeowner’s cat, lying in a nearby corner, looked up and stretched. Like most felines, it could care less what was about to happen. The man had no dog, which could definitely have put a wrinkle in the plan. The intruder had been in this home twice before and knew its floor plan by memory. Scanning constantly, the trespasser checked the living room, bathed in the subdued light of dying embers in the glowing fireplace. No Redbone? Where the fuck is he? He’s sitting right there almost every night! For the first time this fateful evening, panic flashed like fire through the intruder’s brain. Committed now, the killer pressed onward toward the hallway. He’s got to be here! The bedroom? Slowly pulling the steel from its scabbard, the shadow began creeping past the two open doors leading to the town house’s extra bedrooms. Good, no one else is here.

  The harbinger of death then approached the open French door to the master bedroom. On the bed lay two forms loosely covered by a disheveled sheet. Two people? What the fuck? The intruder’s adrenaline pounded, but the commitment had already been made. The target lay facedown on the right side of the king-size bed, his head snuggled deep into a satin pillow. The doctor peacefully dreamed of white-sand beaches on some lush tropical island.

  Like rolling mist, the intruder walked silently up beside the sleeping man, and reaching downward, ever so slowly…The killer quickly jerked Dr. Marvin Redbone’s head upward by a handful of hair and deliberately slipped the blade under his exposed neck. One forceful, quick upward yank—one fast pull of the razor-like steel across the throat—and the victim’s head dropped, flopping sideways. Crimson life juice spewed heavily onto the satin. The killer could feel the warm gush of red on the hand that had carried out the execution. Ahhhhhh.

  Raul Diaz awoke to a thump beside him and heard the eerie gurgling of Redbone’s last gasp through the bloody froth. Immediate horror propelled him almost vertically off the bed in a shot, but the killer had anticipated this move and was already at the foot of the bed, rushing toward the unsuspecting second target. Diaz didn’t try to struggle with the attacker; he just stumbled toward the exit in utter terror. He was at the doorway before he felt the stinging fire in his left side. His legs suddenly folded under him, because the blade had incised his liver as he ran blindly past the intruder. Falling forward and then feebly attempting to stand, he stumbled awkwardly toward the living-room door. He suddenly felt a hard push from behind. Dropping straight to his knees, unable to move, Diaz was dead before his face hit the ornate parquet floor. The second hard, forceful stab of the murderer’s weapon had penetrated the center of his heart. It’s done!

  The ocean was a translucent turquoise as I drifted slowly over the sandy sea floor. The lateral visibility today was unparalleled in my experience of scuba diving in the Channel Islands. I had made the right choice traveling to Santa Rosa Island today. The white sand seemed much brighter than usual, with small flecks of black and gold peeking out between the red-and-green algae that painted the rocks on the bottom. It looked like the manicured floor of some aquarium in a dentist’s office. I almost expected to see bubbles wafting out of the top of a pirate’s chest.

  I never got tired of this. The jade-colored kelp rose like tendrils of smoke toward the sun on the surface. Kelp bass and bright-orange garibaldi played hide-and-seek with me as I cruised just above the bottom of the sea.

  Suddenly, like the reveal in a magic trick, a ten-pound lobster moseyed out from its lair, right smack in front of me. I prepared for battle, working my fin tips back and forth just enough to propel me slowly forward and above my prey without spooking it. I was ready to pounce. I hadn’t been diving for almost thirty years to blow this grab by acting like a damned guppy. Steadying my hand, I poised myself, preparing to strike. Grabbing a giant lobster by hand is akin to swiping at a Ben Franklin blowing by you in the wind…It’s like Chuck Norris taking out a bad guy—fast and furious!

  The big bug suddenly began drifting away, disappearing as quickly as my REM sleep had produced it. The water in my
dream was now cloudy and getting darker, almost turning to black. My gut started to knot up. Déjà vu. Not again! Anxiety crept over me like a cold, wet fog on a winter night. Suddenly, I felt a tugging on my fins. Tug…Tug…Then a push to my head…a hard shove. “Kev…Kevin…it’s the phone…Get the goddamn phone!” As my wife shoved me, I startled awake, sitting upright in my bed. I was soaked with sweat and shivering.

  “Shit! Where is it?” I spit out the words as I fumbled for the handset on the nightstand, knocking it off its cradle and onto the floor. I’d moved the phone to my side of the bed some time ago, after I’d been promoted to detective and began getting those late-night wake-up calls. I always tried to grab the phone before the second ring to save Julie from getting her sleep screwed up, but I messed up this time. I picked it up off the floor and jammed the receiver to my ear hard; it hurt.

  “Hello, Rhino. Good morning. This is Bob Roberts. You awake?”

  I knew something had happened—something bad. Bob Roberts was my sergeant in the Detective Bureau, and he never called this early to chat.

  “Kevin, around four a.m., the patrol guys were asked to check the welfare on a doctor living in the Village Commons…you know those hoity-toity town houses on the east end of Solvang? His answering service had a hospital call for him, and he was supposed to be available at home, but he didn’t answer. Our guys entered the place and found two dead males inside. They say it’s a real mess. I got you, Ted, Biff, and Luis coming. How soon can you be there?”

  I managed to blurt out “Probably forty…I’ll be rolling soon.”

  Let me introduce myself. My name is Kevin Rhinehardt.

  Most people called me Rhino for short. I met Sergeant Bob Roberts a few years into my law-enforcement career, when he supervised me as a patrol deputy in the Solvang Station of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office (SBSO). Solvang was the smallest incorporated town in Santa Barbara County, and it was known for Danish pastries, the nearby Indian casino, and lots of wealthy residents and celebrities. I cut my investigative teeth there at the start of my career. Along with learning how blockheaded and stubborn some of the older members of the Danish population were, I managed to get the reputation for being the go-to patrol guy when it came to solving local crimes. I was hungry to excel; some call that ambition.

  There wasn’t much violent crime in Solvang, but boy, too many thieves and drug users called it home. Early on, I knew that along with being a bit of a smartass, I was good at turning a snitch, and I loved busting burglars. You see, for every burglary solved, there were thousands that went unsolved. So when I got to slap the cuffs on someone I proved was a sneaky thief, I got a certain measure of satisfaction. It was like an addiction for me. With each arrest, I wanted more. Fortunately for me, Solvang was a sleepy town, a sleepy tourist town. There were dozens of shops and stores. And if someone sold high-end merchandise, thieves would come. Many of the crooks were born in Solvang, too. It was a relatively safe community, though—or so most people thought.

  One of the best ways to solve a property crime was to turn a snitch. I often thought of the saying “There’s no honor among thieves.” Well, that’s a fact, Jack! Any thieves facing jail time would turn in their best friends, lovers, or mothers for a break. I learned the fine art of snitch development early in my career. Most thieves were also dopers, so along with busting these crooks for thefts, I made a crap load of narcotic arrests. Thanks to all the druggies, after just eighteen months on patrol in Solvang, I was transferred to the narcotics task force for the next five years. I had finally made detective.

  I did well working dope and made hundreds of arrests. I also perfected the fine art of the search warrant. I produced the most search warrants out of anyone in my unit. Sometimes it seemed like I could just fart one out. I was so good at writing them that I was assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division (CID) during a homicide case in the late 1980s. The homicide dicks were on the hunt for a killer, out of town, and they knew how quickly I could whip out a telephonic warrant. Bob Roberts was now the sergeant in CID, and he asked permission from my lieutenant for me to tag along with his crew to handle any warrants they might need along the way. I got the bug to become a criminal investigator after that case, because my work helped bring the suspect in. I got my wish a few years later and wound up right back where I had started: as the detective handling the Solvang City caseload!

  I had worked investigations long enough to be accustomed to early morning telephone calls, but this one was different. Although I had investigated my share of burglaries, rapes, assaults, and child molestations, this was far different: a murder, a double killing, to boot. Most importantly, it had occurred in Solvang—my city. I knew that I would be expected to run lead on this case, so as I quickly sprang out of my bed, my gut started knotting up. I hadn’t gotten much sleep either. That part was normal, way too normal. Getting eight hours of sleep was a luxury my mind wouldn’t afford me lately—too many bad dreams.

  I labored quickly, getting the three s’s out of the way: shitting, showering, and shaving. I already had a small overnight bag packed and ready in the trunk of my detective car in the driveway. All too often, these kinds of cases required a night or more out of town. My experience in working dope was invaluable in many regards, and being prepared for the unexpected road trip was routine for me by this time. There’s nothing quite like having to recycle underwear on a marathon case! I tried my best to be quiet around the bedroom, but my wife, Julie, was now wide awake. Leaning down to her side of the bed, I whispered, “It’s a murder.” And she could tell I was in my zone. It was hard to admit it, but I tended to lean toward being a type-A personality. Julie mused on more than one occasion that the a sometimes stood for asshole. I had to confess that I was usually a bit anal, too—OK, maybe more than just a bit. It worked for me. I always got the job done. But as Julie watched me get ready to leave that early morning, she could feel the tension in the air of our bedroom.

  I met Julie twenty-one years ago, before I was hired by SBSO. I had a toothache, so I made an appointment with a new dentist in town. When I checked in, the cute brunette receptionist with a low-cut peach dress caught my eye. After my eyes managed to work their way up from her cleavage, I spied her beautiful face. I was hooked. We had so much in common it was almost scary. We married a year later. When I started my career in law enforcement, she told me she would always worry but would never hesitate to support me. She’s always been my biggest cheerleader. Over the years, we have known some downs, but life with her has mostly left me high on the mountain tops. She’s my soul mate. Julie gave me two fine sons: Tom my oldest, who’s now a marine corporal stationed in Louisiana, and Jimmy who’s still living with us and is an honor student at Santa Barbara High. Jim constantly reminds me that he’s the smarty pants of the family. Now at forty, I’m fifteen pounds heavier, and I have less hair on top (OK, a lot less), but my Julie is still that hot chick in the peach-colored dress…

  “So, what’s up, Kev?” she asked as I threw my clothes on.

  I muttered, “A murder…and it’s in Solvang.”

  She watched me silently. As I turned the light off and walked over to kiss her good-bye, she leaned in close and whispered, “Kevin, are you OK? You did it again last night. Another bad dream? I’m worried. You were sweating so much that the sheets are drenched. Please be careful. I love you, babe. So go arrest the bad guys…but be safe.” I didn’t have time to deal with this now, but this nagging issue had bothered me for far too long.

  I walked out to the driveway and threw my duffel bag into the trunk of my unmarked Ford Taurus. I clicked on the radio as I sped out of the driveway.

  “David fifteen, ten-eight, in route to Village Commons.”

  I lived in Lompoc, twenty-five miles from the city of Solvang, and needless to say, I laid a vapor trail down the highway toward the east. At that early morning hour, there was little traffic. Best of all, the CHPpies (that’s slang for the California Highway Patrol for all you civilians)
were tucked away in their bat caves, writing their paperwork…or napping with their radios turned up so they’d hear the alert to go back to work. I made it to the town houses on Village Lane in just about fifteen minutes. You do the math. I was flying.

  Chapter Two

  A Matter of Overkill

  I pulled my unit down Village Lane, the main street for the Commons, and had no trouble at all finding the crime scene. Down in front of bungalow number six was a sea of amber taillights. Cops love to leave their damn parking lights on and stop in the middle of the street. Our training officers did it, and we instinctively did so…maybe because it was the best way to find our cruisers when we were tired and a bit groggy. It was not so great when we wanted to stay low-key, and this was one of those times. About twenty-five neighbors were now fully awake and milling around the black-and-whites parked and glowing in the middle of the roadway. Hell, one unit had its rear amber flasher on, for God’s sake.

  It was like hanging a neon sign that said Shit happening here, people! Come on over and ask the cops unending, repetitive questions. Don’t worry, we won’t mind.

  In a way, this was a good thing, because any close neighbors or possible witnesses would require interviewing, and they just might join the gallery to be easily identified. I stopped my Taurus and instinctively clicked on my parking lights. Old habits really do die hard.

  I grabbed my flashlight and briefcase and weaved through the crowd to the deputy who stood as a guard at the yellow crime scene–tape barrier. He looked formidable in front of an ocean of yellow-and-black tape, and he was doing a great job of keeping the looky-loos out. It was easy for him because he was six feet, two inches tall, and weighed the upper side of three hundred pounds. John “Randy” Randolph and I used to work patrol together, and I could tell from his red face that he wasn’t a happy camper.