by David Chill
"Quite a scene here, huh?" I said, smelling that he had beer breath.
"You betcha. I can't wait for Eyewitness News to show up. I want to be on TV."
"You knew Hector?"
"Sure, he lived two doors down. Hector was the neighborhood asshole. Every block's got one."
"Oh, yeah?" I asked, wondering how this conversation would play out on Eyewitness News.
"Yup. Anyone got out of line, Hector was in their face. He once came over and told me I couldn't park on my own lawn. Guess he figured since he was LAPD he could push people around."
"Bet you didn't like that."
"Damn straight I didn't. It's my property. I should be able to park where I want to."
"Sure," I said agreeably. "You have any other problems with Hector?"
"Ah, he was just a typical cop. Telling people keep the noise down, don't water your lawn in the middle of the day. Stupid stuff," he said, peering at me. "Hey. You a cop?"
"Not me," I said, holding up my hand. "I just saw the commotion driving by."
"Yeah, well, Hector was a douche. No surprise he pissed someone off. Plus, he liked to strut. Dude drove a BMW, even bragged about this Rolex he got last Christmas. What a bunch of bull."
"How's that?"
"The BMW was 20 years old. And I took a look at the watch of his. It was a knockoff."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, uh, my cousin works in the business. Jewelry and, uh, that kind of stuff. He said there was a way to tell with a Rolex. The second hand is supposed to make a sweeping motion. Moves cleanly. Hector's moved a second and then stopped, moved a second and then stopped. You can also tell by the date magnifier, that little glass bubble on the side of the face. It's expensive as hell, so the counterfeiters don't put in the real thing. That's how you can tell a knockoff. It also has a loud ticking sound when it's fake."
"Interesting," I said, making a mental note to check this out later, and wondering what my new friend did for a living. "So Hector wasn't an honest guy."
"Like I said, he was an asshole. He just liked to show off."
"Hmmm. So you think it was someone in the neighborhood who did this?"
The man took a swig from his can and looked off in the distance, pondering this intriguing question with great thought. He took a deep breath and weighed the options. Finally, after a lengthy pause from which I hoped some well thought-out nugget of insight might arise, he spoke.
"Nah," he blurted, wrinkling his nose in the process. "I don't think so."
"You seem quite certain of that."
"Yeah, well, Hector was a jerk, but I don't see anyone around here doing this just because he gave them a hard time. And everyone knew he was a cop with a gun. Or former cop. He didn't let on to the neighbors that he left the LAPD. I knew, though. The mailman used to screw up regularly and deliver his mail to me by mistake. I once got his pension check, in fact. Jeez, but retired cops got a good deal."
"You opened his mail?"
"Sure, why not. It's my tax dollars, ain't it?"
I blinked a few times. "Right," I said, not feeling in the mood to argue with logic like his. "So someone ran him down. Who do you think did it?"
"Could've been anyone."
This was getting me nowhere. I suddenly had an idea. A long time ago I had heard a psychologist suggest a technique to allow kids to open up, and I wondered if it would work on inebriates. I raised up my fist as if I were holding a microphone.
"Let's practice your on-camera interview," I teased. "Pretend I'm a reporter with Eyewitness News. Okay sir, tell us in your own words what you think happened here tonight."
He chuckled and took another swallow of beer "Well, I'll tell you," he bellowed, obviously enjoying the role I had cast him in. "His name was Hector Ferris and he used to work in law enforcement. So naturally he was a man with a lot of enemies."
"Any you know of, sir?" I asked, moving my pretend microphone closer to his mouth.
"Not personally, no. But he was acting very nervous this week. I think he was worried about something."
I stared at him. "Worried?"
"He looked worried, yes. Something's been on his mind lately. Didn't seem the same."
"What's your theory about what happened?" I asked, starting to speculate what he might say if a real camera actually were pointed at him.
"Well, you know, Ferris put a lot of people away. Bad people. it's easy to think they hatched a revenge scheme when they were in the can. But that's the easy answer. Crooks usually scrap that sort of idea once they get released from prison. They're not crazy about going back in."
I looked at him curiously. This was a topic he might have actually thought through.
"Oh, no?"
"Nope," he continued, "I think whoever did this knew Hector. Knew him well. There's an old saying that to know someone is to love them. Well, in Hector's case, to know him is to want to kill him. I would think it was someone who knew him pretty well. Maybe someone he used to work with at the LAPD. I heard he ticked a lot of cops off."
I continued to gaze at him for a long moment before I slowly lowered my pretend microphone. I made a mental note to tell Gail she might need to revise her comment from yesterday. Children, as well as drunks, say the darndest things.
*
It took Roberto over an hour to walk back to me, and he and Juan approached me together. By that time, many of the neighbors had gone inside. Real police activity was exciting only at first. After that, the process offered very little in the way of action, and was not good entertainment value. The homicide detectives would spend the next few hours going door-to-door, interviewing residents for any morsel of information they might have. A little while ago, Hector's wife drove up. After she prodded every officer who would look at her, one finally directed her to Juan, who took her aside and broke the news. Her reaction was to put her hand over mouth and stand like that for at least ten minutes, motionless to the point of appearing almost catatonic.
"Telling the spouse is tough," Juan said. "Toughest part of the job."
"They're normally the first one you suspect."
"Generally. But this was premeditated. Not some heat-of-the-moment crime. The driver had to be lying in wait. Doesn't mean it wasn't the spouse. Or someone she could have hired. But nothing we have indicates any marital strife. At least nothing out of the ordinary."
"Meaning?"
"Every couple fights about something. Usually it's about money. Inez is in too much shock to remember anything. My sixth sense tells me she's not involved here."
"So what other avenues are you going down?"
"Well, maybe," Juan said, "that leads us to you."
I gaped at him. "Oh. The suspicious private eye. Of course, I have a rock-solid alibi. Being in the company of an LAPD Captain at the time of the incident. Unless you have trouble recalling where you were earlier."
"Knock it off, will you?" Juan said, a little irritated. "It's going to be a long night here. And whatever we might have thought of Ferris, he was still a brother."
"Okay. So how does this lead to me?"
"You spoke with Hector yesterday. In his office. Let's talk some more about that conversation over at BMB."
"Let's."
"You knew Ferris from when we were at the Broadway Division."
"Knew him," I said. "Not well. But well enough to not trust him."
"Yeah," Juan sighed. "No one did. He'd was in good with I.A."
I.A. stood for Internal Affairs, the department that looked into police actions. It was mostly routine work, officer-involved shootings, but they also investigated cops who might be on the take, committing fraud or simply violating rules. I.A. was widely loathed among the rank-and-file, and their crew often looked to investigate any officer who gave off even a whiff of impropriety. Within the Broadway Division, which was in a poverty-stricken, drug-infested area off of 77th Street in South L.A., many officers suspected Ferris of feeding info to I.A. Ferris was an average cop who quickly moved up t
o the rank of Lieutenant, which meant he had friends in certain places. As well as enemies among everyone else.
"I heard Hector retired a couple of years ago," I said.
"Forced out," Juan corrected.
"And I suppose you can't discuss the details."
"Nope. But maybe you can discuss what you talked about with him. We already know about the Eric Starr investigation. What else?"
I shrugged. "Something about sexual harassment. I guess it happens a lot over at BMB. Hector wouldn't go into details, but I got the distinct feeling that was a big part of his job."
"Any names?" Roberto asked.
I considered this. There might be nothing to the Patty Muckenthaler situation. And then again, there might be something. Withholding information from the police was generally not a good idea. Unless I was working in their best interest. And the fact that I was already involved here meant I had access to people who might speak more openly with me than with the police. If my conversations didn't pan out, I could always pass the names to Juan and Roberto afterward. I thought about the ethics of this and decided to think about something else. What to have for breakfast tomorrow was sounding more appealing.
"None that I recall," I told him.
"Oh, he doesn't recall," Juan parroted. "Not that he doesn't have anything to share, he just isn't able to share it with us just yet."
"That's a little harsh, my friend," I said.
"You want to talk harsh? If you're withholding evidence, then don't think that football tickets are going to buy your way out."
Roberto looked down at the ground and whistled softly. I got the feeling he was seeing those opening day Dodger tickets begin to sprout wings and fly off into the distance.
"I don't have any evidence," I countered. Hunches are not evidence, although it was admittedly a gray area.
"All right. But I assume you're going to be continuing whatever it is you do. And if you uncover something, you better share it with us and I mean quick."
"Fair enough," I said.
"So who was the muckety-muck over at BMB that hired you? You recall that?"
"Name's Nick Roche. He's President of something or other there," I said and wrote down his phone number on the back of one of my business cards.
Juan took the card, looked at it and handed it to Roberto. "Give him a call tomorrow. Maybe even pay him a visit. Let's start putting a list together of people who might want to run over a former LAPD Lieutenant."
Roberto agreed and pocketed the card. Juan walked off to speak with the other investigators while Roberto waited until he was out of earshot. I shrugged at him.
"Sorry about that," I said. "I'll make sure you get your Dodger tickets, although I might have to slip them to you very surreptitiously."
"Do what you gotta do," he said. "I'm just hoping you'll still be walking around by then."
I peered at him. "You think I had something to do with this mess?"
"This?" Roberto said, pointing to the sheet that was still strewn haphazardly over the body. "No. But I picked up something from the Irvine P.D. this afternoon. They issued a warrant for your arrest."
I looked at him. "You've got to be kidding."
"I wish I were. Brandishing a weapon. Did you really threaten to shoot some rent-a-cop down in Orange County?"
Chapter 5
I was up early the next morning and so was Marcus. We watched a Baby Mozart DVD together, after which I offered him breakfast. He wanted waffles, and I convinced him Cheerios were the recommended choice on the menu today. If he agreed, I promised I'd take him to a magical place one night, where they served waffles for dinner. His eyes grew wide as he heartily agreed, and slowly went to work on his bowl of Cheerios. About half of the Cheerios went in his mouth, the other half wound up strewn on the floor.
Marcus actually was far more interested in my cup of French roast. I vaguely considered giving him a sip to provide a firsthand account of how strong black coffee really tasted. But then I recalled the time when Gail's parents came by to babysit one Saturday evening, so we could have a long overdue date night. Her parents gave him part of a can of Pepsi, and he was up well past midnight, wired in a manner we had never seen before. Marcus would undoubtedly hate the taste of coffee at this age, but I was a little more concerned about my wife's reaction to giving our toddler another dose of caffeine. I offered him a couple of red flame grapes instead, and he was marginally okay with that option.
My work day started at 7:30 a.m. After presiding over my son's power breakfast, I headed out for my own. Across the street from the Rancho Park Golf Course was the John O'Groats restaurant. Many years ago, this had started out as a small, family-owned coffee shop, but it had evolved into something akin to the BMB commissary. It was not unusual to see company executives, agents, and the occasional celebrity schmoozing over plates of blueberry pancakes.
I made it there on time, but my breakfast companion was a good 20 minutes late. Her arrival came in a form not dissimilar to a chaotic whirlwind. She simultaneously chatted on her phone, smiled at the hostess, and managed to wave to a few other patrons in the restaurant. She was able to juggle all of this deftly, even ordering a cup of coffee while finishing up her phone conversation, which ended precisely as she sat herself down across from me.
"Well, good morning, detective!" she exclaimed with a bright smile.
"Call me Burnside. It's easier."
"I can certainly do that. And I was so pleased to hear from you. And so soon! Do you have a script written already? If not, no biggie. I can hire a screenwriter to do that. Tell me some stories about cops and robbers!"
I laughed and took a sip of some coffee. It wasn't French roast, but it wasn't bad either. "I could tell you a few that would make your hair curl. Some of them even relate to me. But that's not why I called."
"Oh?" she said with a smile. "Well, now I'm really intrigued."
"Let me tamp your enthusiasm down a little," I said. "It sounds like you haven't heard about last night."
She shook her head and began talking a mile a minute. "I had a late dinner with an actress who might or might not be right for this film we're casting. I don't know. She has a steep price tag, and we're already going over budget. But I had to fire someone yesterday, they just weren't getting along with the director. So I need to get a body and I mean quick. We started shooting last week and it's already a nightmare. You know how some pictures just seem jinxed?"
"No, but I'm not in the business."
"Oh well," she said. "I knew this would happen. Mercury went into retrograde last week. Never fails. Always a ton of screw-ups."
"And to think people believe making movies is fun."
"The fun part is in the beginning. Everything is possible. But yeah, the reality can be messy. Things move at breakneck speed. Too much stuff going on. It's a miracle some of these films even get done at all. And then last night my six year-old goes and wakes me up at 3:30 a.m., said she had a bad dream. Single parent, you can't imagine. My nightmares happen when I'm awake. I barely got her to school on time. I'm stretched a little thin. Oh. So what happened last night?"
"Hector Ferris was murdered," I said. I normally didn't deliver bad news this bluntly, but I needed to get her complete attention.
Patty Muckenthaler's jaw dropped and she blinked a few times. Maybe she was trying to wake up. A waiter poured a cup of coffee in front of her, but she didn't so much as look at it. The blank expression on her face told me she was trying very hard to comprehend what I just said.
"Who did it?" she finally asked.
"The police don't know yet," I answered, thinking this was an odd question. Nine times out of ten, people simply asked what happened. In her case, she wanted to hear the ending first. Maybe that was what a person did when they made movies.
"Oh, my," she said, still looking like she was in a daze. "I just saw him yesterday. He looked fine."
"Yes," I said, trying to figure her out. "Murder tends to happen suddenly."
Patty gazed down at her phone again and began scanning through news feeds frenetically. Some light touches of makeup graced her face, but not enough to hide the bags under her eyes. At a certain age, the many long nights catch up with us all.
"Here we go," she said excitedly. "But wait. It just says a former LAPD officer was run down. It doesn't say anything about BMB."
I looked at her. "The media. You know. They never get it straight," I said dryly.
"Isn't that the truth," she said, still working the phone. "Oh, okay. Yeah, I have a few texts about it. People asking if I heard about what happened. Something tragic."
"Right," I said as I studied her carefully. The idea that a senior executive would be unaware that her company's Security Director had been killed more than 12 hours ago was implausible. Yet here she was, putting on an act. And it was a good act. Nothing in her face or voice or mannerisms gave her away.
A waitress came over to take our order. I told her we weren't ready yet, but Patty broke in and waved a dismissive hand. Without bothering to look at a menu or even look up from her phone, she ordered a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. I shrugged and ordered some applewood smoked bacon, eggs over medium and buttermilk biscuits.
"How well did you know Hector?" I asked.
"Not well. But no one at BMB knew Hector well. Nick, maybe. But I think Hector wanted it that way. You know, every company has a Hector. He's there to protect the organization. Just like HR. Employees think Human Resources is there to help them, but they're not. They're there to minimize the company's risk."
"Can you tell me why you were meeting with Hector the other day?"
She paused for a moment, seemingly wondering how much she should reveal. "It's complicated. And I'm not sure it concerns you."