Nickel Package

by David Chill

  There is something about killing another human being that changes you. I experienced this twice before. The first time came after I had been on the job with the LAPD for five years. Our unit was called to a residential location along Crenshaw in South L.A., and a man, sky high on angel dust, was swinging a knife at passersby. My partner and I both drew our weapons and repeatedly ordered him to drop the knife. But he was so drugged out, he was just in another world, one where the two uniforms in front of him might well have resembled grizzly bears. All of a sudden he made a beeline for us, knife raised and screaming incoherently, giving us no choice but to open fire.

  The second incident happened about a year later. We were called to a disturbance outside a Mexican restaurant about a mile south of USC. Two men were involved in a fist fight. My partner and I broke it up, each grabbing one of the assailants. But before I could get the cuffs on him, my suspect tried to wrestle my service revolver out of its holster. In the ensuing struggle, the gun discharged and the man died immediately. He had apparently been drinking heavily that night and was obviously not in his right mind. But that didn't change the fact that by going for my gun, he put my life in jeopardy. As well as his own.

  Internal Affairs investigated both episodes as was the protocol, and declared each one to be a righteous shoot. But while I.A. cleared me, my conscience did not. Even though I knew in my heart that I did the right thing, it did not spare me from the agony that comes with ending someone's life. I spent many months reliving each shooting and had to endure countless nightmares. The department assigned a psychotherapist to me each time, one of whom gave me the clinical explanation of what I was going through. Post-traumatic stress disorder. She asked if I wanted to talk about it with her, and after a too-long period of deliberation, I gave her my machismo-laced answer, which was no, not especially. These were paths I felt I needed to go down on my own. I was angry at the men who got killed, these inebriates who might have killed me if I hadn't acted quickly. Or if my weapon failed to fire properly. A life-and-death situation is just that. But I knew episodes like this don't end when an assailant is engaged and taken down, or when the powers that be conclude their investigation. For me, that is merely one step on the trail. This was a journey that would inevitably last awhile. The best thing I could do for myself was to better understand why it happened.

  I drove to my office and began combing through the Internet. Mike Black had a colorful website promoting his agency, and touting his status as a "master detective." It was the type of website I had been thinking of developing, albeit mine would have more legitimate credentials. A further look into Mike Black's background revealed he was an actor by trade, although his last role listed was from six years ago. While there was no indication of his having ever been employed by any police department, he did work as a security guard for a number of private firms. His list of services included surveillance of cheating spouses, fugitive recovery and fraud investigation. It did not include kidnapping at gunpoint.

  Chucky Flange did not have much of an internet presence, I only gleaned that he lived in Van Nuys and had spent at least some time in the L.A. Country Jail. I was about to look up their most recent addresses when my cell phone rang. It was Gail. Her voice was muted and serious.

  "Hi. Can you talk?" she asked.

  "Yes. I'm at the office," I said.

  "Good. I wanted to speak with you about what happened. I wasn't in a good frame of mind to do that last night."

  "Me neither. Are you in a better place now?"

  "Maybe a little. I apologize for doing this over the phone, but we can't discuss this in front of Marcus. This whole episode scares me. A lot. What you do and how you do it. Sweetie, it's not what I signed up for."

  "You knew my history. You knew what I did for a living. You also know I'm exceptionally good at it."

  "I do know that," she said tersely. "But there are other things you should consider. You have a son now. It's not just the two of us. I don't want Marcus growing up without a dad. Or a dad who gets involved in gunfights. Even a fistfight makes me nervous."

  "I don't seek these things out," I said, and then stopped. What I told her was true in a way, but I did instigate confrontations. Sometimes I forced escalations to happen. Often it was to get people to reveal things they otherwise might not. Occasionally it was pride or stubbornness on my part. But yesterday was different.

  "Is there any way you could have avoided what happened in that garage?"

  I took a breath. "I honestly don't know," I said. "Once things were in motion, no. But was there a way to not let things reach that point? I have no idea. I'm not sure who was behind this. I'm not sure what their goal was, if they were trying to just scare me or if their motives were really sinister. To take me out."

  "This whole case was supposed to be a simple background check."

  "It was. But in the course of it, the Security Director at BMB got murdered. Was my involvement related? It's hard to see how, but I can't dismiss it. If I wasn't hired, if I didn't meet with Hector Ferris at the time I did, maybe nothing would have happened to him. But events unfolded in an odd way. At this stage, I have to assume everything was related somehow. I just don't know how."

  "And you're not going to rest until you find out how," she said.

  I sighed. "It's part of my makeup. Curiosity is what drives me. Why people do what they do. What they might do next. I don't like leaving stones unturned."

  "Even if it puts you in harm's way."

  "I try to avoid it. I'll try harder now. But this is what I do. When I was coaching football, I sometimes had sixteen hour workdays. That wasn't sustainable. I need to spend time with you and spend time with Marcus."

  "I know. There are tradeoffs in a marriage. But not in a family. Marcus needs you."

  "Okay," I said, not entirely sure what more I could say. "You've given me a lot to think about. But I love you and Marcus more than anything. And I want us to be okay. I'll do what I need to do."

  "All right," she said and sighed. "How are you holding up with all of this?"

  "It's hard. Being around death is strange. I don't know how some people do it for a living. Cops who work homicide have a type of gallows humor. It allows them to do their job without getting caught up in the horror of death. It's a coping mechanism. Basically, they use humor to help them ignore the tragedy that's staring at them."

  "I think I understand. A little anyway. Let's talk more about this. Oh. One other thing. I hate to bring this up, the timing's horrible, I know. But Anna Faust set up an appointment for us with the Admissions Director at the Applewood Pre-School. There was a last-minute cancellation and she got us in for tomorrow morning. It's short notice, but people say Applewood's the best."

  "Okay," I said blankly.

  "You think you'll be up for doing this?" she asked.

  "Yeah. I'll just let you do all the talking."

  "Love you."

  "Love you, too," I said and hung up. I looked down at the phone and then looked around my sparse office. I didn't have any good answers for Gail. I didn't have any good answers for myself. Mostly I had a lot of questions, ones that were still hovering, poking at me whenever my mind moved to a different subject. And as I thought about all this, I heard the doorknob turn slowly and the door began to creak. And my heart began to race like crazy, and a huge dose of adrenaline kicked in.

  Scrambling haphazardly, I reached into my desk drawer. I knocked over a few things like a stapler and a paper clip dispenser and yanked out my spare .38. I pointed it at the visitor as he came into view. He was short and well-dressed and looked vaguely familiar. He put his hands up quickly when he saw I was armed.

  "Whoa," he shouted. "I come in peace."

  "I don't know that," I shouted, not lowering my weapon. "Tell me who you are."

  "I think you know me," he said in a loud, nervous voice. "Or at least you should by now. I'm Eric Starr. You've been looking into my background."

  "You're Eric Starr?" I said, dumbfounde
d, the gun starting to feel a little silly in my hand.

  "Yes. I am. And I'll show you my I.D. if you want. But can you please put that damn thing away?"

  *

  The photos I had seen were admittedly a few years old. His hairline had receded a bit and a slight paunch had developed across his middle. But the intense expression was still there. Had I not been shaken by the previous day's events, I doubt I'd have provided him with such a hostile greeting.

  "Sorry," I said, putting the gun back in the drawer. "Occupational hazard. I'm not used to visitors. Or surprises."

  "Okay. Mind if I sit down? Promise you won't shoot me?"

  "Sure, scout's honor," I said, gesturing to one of the cheap chairs facing me. "Have a seat."

  Eric Starr pulled up a chair. "So. Do you mind if I ask who hired you."

  "I don't mind. But I'm not going to tell you. Confidentiality and all."

  "I'll pay you a million dollars," he said.

  I thought about this for a moment. Eric Starr was someone who could actually afford to do that. But he was also a shrewd businessman and the information was hardly worth the price.

  "You're a liar," I told him. "You wouldn't pay up."

  He took this in. "That's right. I just wanted to see how you'd respond. I know BMB hired you."

  "Oh, do you now?"

  "Yes. I've got a few contacts here and there."

  "Did you pay them a million dollars?"

  He shook his head, although I doubt it was in response to my question. "Why did you come see me yesterday? Out of the blue. Did you really think I'd fall for that line and talk to you? That someone called and said I wanted to see you?"

  "Well, someone did call. And now, here you are in my office. Wanting to see me."

  "Yes, I suppose I am."

  "So what do you want?" I asked, eyeing him carefully.

  "What do you think I want?" he said, using my trick of answering a question with a question. I decided to play along. It wasn't every day that a rich and famous guy stopped by my office to shoot the breeze.

  "I think you want to know what I've learned," I said. "About you. About your family, your company, your dead partner. About why I shot someone to death yesterday inside your nice, clean parking garage. But mostly, I think you want to know what I'm going to do with all that information going forward."

  Eric Starr processed this slowly before responding. "Yeah. That about covers it. Maybe you can tell me about what happened in the garage yesterday."

  "It was all over the news. Probably on your internet site. Or don't you bother to read what's on Laputa's home page?"

  "I know the public version. I'd like to know your version."

  "One and the same. A couple of goons approached me. One pulled a gun and ordered me into his van. I disarmed him."

  Starr frowned. "How'd you do that?"

  "By shooting him in the chest. And by the way, if someone brings a .25 caliber pistol to your lost and found department, would you kindly let the police know?"

  "Man, you're a real smartass," he said dryly. "All right, look. What are you going to do now?"

  "Take what little I've learned, piece it together and try and make sense of it all. Or at least make things somewhat understandable."

  "Do they pay you well to do this stuff?" he asked.

  "How should I put this. I'm overpaid for the service I'm providing. I'm vastly underpaid for the risks I'm taking."

  "I could pay you more."

  "I know you could. But we've already established that you're a liar."

  For the first time, Eric Starr gave what appeared to be a genuine smile. I got the feeling he wasn't used to people talking to him like this. I also got the distinct feeling that it didn't bother him. Most wealthy people I've met are impressed with themselves. Usually more than they deserve. I think back to that old line about the guy who was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. Eric Starr may well have been born on third base. But it also struck me that he might not be thinking much about how he got there, only where he was going next.

  "I have a problem," he told me.

  "Don't we all."

  "My problem," he continued, "is that BMB is ready to offer me the top job. But something's stopping them. I need to know if I'm in any trouble."

  "What trouble could you possibly be in?" I asked.

  "Nothing serious," he replied, albeit grimly.

  I rolled my eyes. "Look, when a billionaire walks into my office and asks if he's in trouble, my guess is it's something serious."

  "I'm not a billionaire. Not even close. And I can't talk about it."

  "Because if you did, it might cost you the job with BMB. But here's a question that's been puzzling me all along. You've built something amazing in Laputa. Why give it up just to take on a corporate job where you'd be an employee, not an owner."

  "A CEO of a Fortune 500 company is close to being an owner. Or maybe a king."

  "Not when BMB changes CEOs every year or two," I said. "The attrition rate is staggering."

  Starr shrugged. "Malcolm Taylor only lasted a year and he wound up doing all right."

  "Look. Something else is going on here. If you've done your homework on me, you'll know I'm not going to let up until I find out. And if you were behind that incident in the garage yesterday, you know I don't go down easy."

  He jolted upright in a hurry. "That wasn't me," he protested. "I had nothing to do with that. I'm not in the murder business."

  "Tell me what happened to your partner. Jack Beale."

  His eyes flashed. "That wasn't me either. I wasn't even on the boat. All I know is it was an accident."

  "Convenient."

  "Is that what you're thinking? That I had my partner killed, and that I made sure I was 3,000 miles away at the time? Nothing could be further from the truth."

  "I don't have anything else to go on," I shrugged.

  "You need to take a good look at something," he responded.

  "What's that?"

  "Who stands to gain if I don't get the BMB job?"

  I thought about it for a moment. A few names sprang to mind. So did the nagging suspicion that Eric Starr was suggesting a path for me to go down. He had his own agenda, and maybe something he wanted kept quiet.

  "Tell me something," I said. "Are you married?"

  "No. Why would I be?"

  "Why not?" I responded.

  "I'm having too much fun being single."

  "Okay. But whenever I bring up the name Eric Starr, a lot of people make it sound like you're a womanizer. Why is that?"

  "I've seen how women act when their guy's rich," he shrugged. "They spend your money and then try and mold you to their liking. If you don't give in to them, they go and make your life miserable."

  "So your mantra is use them before they use you?"

  "Something like that."

  I looked hard at Eric and wondered what woman led him to this point. Probably his mother, this all usually starts at an early age. He had a character flaw, probably not a serious one, the question was whether the people who ran BMB would think it's serious enough to keep looking for a new CEO.

  "I don't think I can help you at this stage," I said.

  "Fair enough," Starr responded, and got up and walked out.

  I tried to think about what I should do next, but nothing obvious crossed my mind. Sitting in my office didn't seem productive. There was one place I thought I should visit, even though I doubted my LAPD friends would approve.

  It is the rare community that is named after an action hero, but Tarzana had that distinction. A suburban community located in the San Fernando Valley, it was a nice enough place to live. When Edgar Rice Burroughs chose to buy a ranch there a century ago and name it after Tarzan, it might have been a cute gesture. Why the community decided to keep the name after the author sub-divided, sold the land and departed California was not so cute. It was strange. But there were many strange things in L.A., and this would not make the top ten, or even the top
hundred. And at this stage, I doubted most Angelinos even took the time to wonder about it.

  Mike Black's office was located in a shabby 3-story walk-up building on Ventura Boulevard. There was a flower shop on the ground floor, adjacent to a liquor store. The directory next to the stairwell listed a real estate agency, a funeral parlor, an adult film production company called Woo Woo Productions, and a detective agency called Black Investigations.

  There was no yellow police tape across the door, so LAPD had not bothered to send anyone here yet. If they planned to at all. Approaching the office door, I slipped on a pair of latex gloves. I tried the doorknob, and, not surprisingly, it was locked. What was surprising though, was the absence of any frame or shield. There was nothing inhibiting me from simply sliding a credit card into the latch, lifting the door slightly and jimmying it open. It was Burglary 101 and the entire process took less than three seconds and made virtually no noise. If anyone else was in the building they hadn't heard. Even if they had, my guess was they wouldn't have cared.

  Mike Black's office had a reception area with an empty desk. The office door was open and I walked through. His desk had a few papers on it and a docking station for his laptop, which was missing. Next to the desk was a gray file cabinet with four drawers. It was locked, but the key was lying in the top desk drawer. Security was obviously not a priority for Mr. Black.

  I went through the entire file cabinet and couldn't help but notice folders labeled with the names of various large companies, as well as a few with some famous celebrities. I finally found what I was after in the bottom drawer. A manila folder with the name BMB on the tab. The folder showed signs of wear, but when I pulled it out, the folder contained nothing. No invoices, no photos, no notes. It was wrinkled sufficiently to indicate that at one point it had been very full. Apparently someone had gotten here before me.