Ochoa tried not to make eye contact with Raley, but peripherally, he caught his partner turning away to mask a chuckle. “Esteban Padilla is dead, Mr. Strong. He was killed several days ago.”
“Wrongful death, I hope? Was he operating any machinery?”
“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.”