Page 40 of Stand By You
“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 toexplain 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 hourlater 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.
