Nickel Package

by David Chill

  "Family hug," I said.

  "It feels good," she responded, and she smiled for what seemed like the first time in two days.

  We ate dinner, and afterwards I played catch with Marcus in the living room, using an extra-soft pink rubber ball. After a few minutes, Chewy got wind of what we were doing and bounded over. We quickly made her monkey in the middle. It took half a dozen throws before Marcus dropped one, giving Chewy the opportunity to grab the ball in her mouth and dart out of the living room. Marcus immediately began to chase her with me in tow, making sure he went for the ball and not the dog's tail. It mattered not. Chewy had changed the rules of the game and would not let anyone catch her. My phone rang, and after looking down to see who it was, I motioned for Gail to take over as referee. I sensed the LAPD would want my full attention.

  "Yes?" I began.

  "Burnside."

  "That's me."

  "It's De Santos. Listen. I have some good news."

  "That's always better than the alternative, Roberto."

  "Uh-huh. Hey, I wanted to give you a follow-up on Chucky Flange. He finally dropped his story that you pulled a gun on him and Black for no reason."

  "Good. You beat the confession out of him?"

  "That's a little too old-school for us. We got some video footage in the garage. It's grainy and from a distance, but it clearly shows you were the one with your hands raised, and Black pointing a gun at you. I swear, it looked like some kind of a gangster scene from an old movie."

  "And to think Danny Lee doubted I was telling the truth."

  "Yeah. Something else came out of that video. After you fired at Mike Black, he fell backwards and the gun flew out of his hand. Went right into a pickup truck next to him. We couldn't get a read on the plate, but I sent someone over to the Laputa garage today and they looked in all the pickup beds. Sure enough, it was in one of them, a .25 ACP. Owner of the truck works for Laputa, he didn't even realize it was in there."

  "So you got a match with the bullet you found in the wall?"

  "Yup. We gave both to Forensics and they confirmed it. Had Mike Black's prints all over them. Everything was just like you said. We have to review all this with the City Attorney, but it looks like you're off the hook."

  "Good. Anything you learn about Flange?"

  "He kept denying he was a party to this. Said he met Mike Black a month ago at the gym. Black hired him a couple of times. Mostly to accompany him when he needed to serve papers or just show some muscle. But he said this was the first time he was involved in anything criminal. Swears he wouldn't have done it if he had known."

  "He have much of rap sheet?"

  "Nothing to speak of. Got picked up for a DUI, couple of bar fights. Just a local meathead."

  "I don't suppose he said who contacted Mike Black and gave the order to grab me."

  "Nope. His story is that Black called him and said he needed some help right away. Black picked him up and the two drove down to Laputa together. It checks out. But we don't have much to hold him on. The City Attorney said there just wasn't enough to implicate him in a kidnapping case. I suppose we could charge him with lying to the police, but the jails around here are already too full. I'm sure we could charge a lot of people with that."

  "Sure," I said, not wanting to press the issue.

  "So we're going to let Flange walk. This case is wrapped up as far as we're concerned."

  I thanked Roberto and hung up. The LAPD was considering this a closed case. But for me it was far from closed. Someone wanted to send me a message. Maybe a stern warning. Or maybe they really wanted to murder me. Mike Black was gone, but the person giving the order was still out there. They knew me, they knew I was investigating Eric Starr and they sent me to Laputa to get kidnapped and possibly killed. And I didn't have any idea who they were. Or whether they would strike again.

  *

  I slept fitfully again that night, waking up a number of times, drenched in sweat. It was not because of any nightmares, but when I woke up at 2:30 a.m. I was wide awake all of a sudden. I went into the den and read a little, and then watched the highlights of Day 1 of the NCAA basketball tournament on ESPN. UC-Irvine's first-round matchup was unfortunately against top-seeded Duke, and the Anteaters were clobbered 88-49. I tuned in to part of an old movie before my body signaled it was willing to rest for a while. I snoozed until 6:30 a.m. when some tiny strands of sunlight began sneaking in through the bedroom window. I thought absently about who I needed to talk with today, when I suddenly remembered the preschool appointment Gail had mentioned. She had said Anna Faust would be there to provide the introduction to the Admissions Director. She had also asked me to try and stay very positive about all of this.

  "They're really interviewing us, sweetie," Gail had said. "Anna told me we should hang on every word they say like it's the gospel. And don't give them a reason to think we're anything but completely supportive of their program. That's how people get accepted."

  "All right," I gulped, hoping I would have the temerity to say as little as possible. There was much about this process that I was finding distasteful.

  The Applewood Preschool was ironically located down the street from my old apartment building in Santa Monica. It was a small, colorful structure with a large play area; the sounds of happy children shrieking had become a staple of the neighborhood. But I recalled the most notable thing about Applewood occurred around 3:00 p.m. every day, when a long line of Mercedes, Range Rovers, and other luxury vehicles, some driven by celebrities, lined the alley to pick up their kids.

  "I am so glad you could be here on such short notice," Anna exclaimed as she led us into the Admissions Director's office. "Rachel, this is the wonderful couple I was telling you about. I'd like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Burnside. This is Rachel McAfee."

  Anna excused herself and said she'd speak with us afterward. A smiling college-aged assistant named Bethany led Marcus by the hand to take him on what she described as a "play date" with some wonderful children. We all smiled and sat down. Rachel McAfee was in her fifties, attractive, and wore dark slacks, an expensive pink polo shirt and a stone-washed denim jacket. She had the relaxed look of someone who was accustomed to being showered with attention.

  "I must admit," she began. "You're very lucky. We don't typically have openings for our middle-aged preschoolers."

  "Middle-aged?" I asked.

  "Yes, well, Marcus will be middle-aged next semester. It's a three-year program, and you're applying for year two. We normally begin the application process right after Labor Day, and within a week we've reached our limit. So you see, having an opening in March is highly unusual."

  Gail jumped in and lit up her million-dollar smile. "We're very grateful you're considering us. Steve Reinhardt and his wife say the most wonderful things about your program."

  "Yes, I see you work for the City Attorney. Their youngest is graduating in June. He's been accepted at Carlton Elementary for kindergarten. I'm sure you know that's a feeder school to Harvard-Westlake. We take pride in our students ending up at the top prep schools on the west coast."

  I listened absently as Gail turned on the charm offensive and Rachel responded positively. My role was going to have to be the strong, silent type, especially since my main questions were wrapped around what all of this would cost. As a well-paid football coach, the price of things had become secondary to pleasing my family. As a struggling private investigator, who just commissioned his first paying gig in two months, the cost of things had begun to rise in importance.

  "So is Marcus reading yet?" Rachel asked.

  "He's started to," Gail said proudly, and I looked to see if her fingers were crossed. "In fact, he's reading in English and Spanish."

  "Well, that's very good," she responded. "You know, some of our children are reading in Mandarin now."

  I considered this, realizing the only Spanish I could read was from what little I remembered from high school, and the only Chinese I knew was from the menu at Hunan Taste. I
picked up a brochure from the table next to me and began to skim through it. The cost of tuition was $2,500 a month, which was higher than our mortgage. On one page it listed all the parents who had donated to Applewood's charity foundation, and how much they had given. Some of the donations were well over $10,000. I tightened my grip on the brochure. I was entering a world totally foreign to me, one where I sensed that owning a summer home and jetting overseas for a long weekend was more common than not.

  "Interesting," Gail said and looked at me, her eyes narrowing as if to tell me to start paying attention and engaging. "We'll need to explore that."

  "Absolutely," I managed, wondering just what I was agreeing to. "It's a wonderful idea."

  "So tell me," Rachel asked. "How would you describe Marcus?"

  At that point, I returned to my role of being quiet and letting my beautiful, articulate wife take over. She spoke expansively about the advanced social skills Marcus possessed, his ease with other kids and his love of performing. He was into oil painting and taking piano lessons. I listened with interest, wondering just how much I had missed during the past three years as an overly-involved football coach. I knew Gail didn't lie, but I also knew she had a lawyer's knack for stretching the truth until it could become distended beyond recognition.

  We answered a few more questions and Rachel McAfee appeared quite satisfied. At that point, Bethany returned with Marcus, and Rachel asked him how he liked the school.

  "It was okay," he said with a shrug. "Do I have to build pots?"

  Rachel smiled. "I'm sure you'll love our pottery-making class. We're the only preschool in the area that has one."

  Gail said that sounded so wonderful, and I had to repress the urge to suggest she herself might be the one more interested in attending Applewood. In fairness, I wasn't sure if she was simply extending flattery.

  We finished the interview and were told that all we needed to do now was fill out the application and they would make a decision in a few weeks. There were other candidates, but Rachel McAfee thought we would be an exceptionally good fit, and mentioned Gail's boss's name again. We left the preschool and saw Anna Faust sitting in her Mercedes, chatting with someone on her cell phone.

  Gail and I had driven separately, so we agreed to talk more about this in the evening and she took Marcus home. I waited for Anna to finish her conversation and then motioned to her that we needed to speak. I knew Gail wouldn't be pleased with what I was about to ask, but some things were more important to me than getting our son admitted into an elite preschool. And a certain proletariat part of me had a curious desire to blow the whole application process to smithereens.

  "So how did it go?" she asked.

  "Fine, it's a nice school."

  "Well, I just got off the phone with Rachel and she's duly impressed with you. I think you're in."

  "Great, great," I said, trying to figure out a way to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Listen, Anna. I need to ask you something. Unrelated to schools. It's about Laputa. It's a little difficult, but I need your help."

  "Oh?"

  "You mentioned you worked in HR there. Human resources. I'm doing on an investigation regarding Laputa. It's in conjunction with a law enforcement issue."

  "I'm not sure how much help I can provide," she said warily.

  "Let me ask you something. How much interaction did you have with Eric Starr?"

  "Not much. He wasn't usually around."

  "And his brother, Lanny?"

  "Thankfully, no. He wasn't much use to anyone."

  "And Jack Beale?"

  "Say, just what is this all about?"

  "A client of mine, a Fortune 500 company, is doing a background check on Eric. They're considering him for a very high level job, running a large organization," I said, eyeing her. "Does that surprise you?"

  "No, not in the slightest. I'm surprised he hasn't tried to get out of Laputa before this."

  "Why's that?" I blinked.

  "The company is living off of their reputation. Running on fumes, actually. It's only a matter of time before it falls apart. Eric's a prime reason."

  "Didn't he start the company?"

  "He started it, but Jack Beale's the one who built it. He was the brains, Eric was the mouth. Oh, look, I suppose there's a gift in being able to promote and market a company, and Eric had that talent. But all of his grand ideas were made operational by Jack."

  "So you might say when Jack fell into the water, the company went with it."

  "You certainly might," she said.

  "What else can you tell me about Eric. Or Laputa?"

  "Honestly, I can't share much more. I've been gone for a while, I left the company shortly after that incident with Jack happened. I was laid off."

  "Sorry to hear that," I said.

  "And the terms of my agreement prevent me from discussing certain things."

  "Oh?"

  Anna shrugged. "Let's just say the severance package was very nice."

  Chapter 11

  I sat in my Pathfinder and rolled Anna's comments around in my mind. She wasn't forthcoming with anything further regarding the boating accident, and no amount of prodding was going to dislodge anything more today. In fact, she told me she had probably said too much as it was.

  I opened up my iPad and turned my attention to Eric, and in particular, his equity position in Laputa. It took some digging, but I found a few websites that reported when executives were selling shares of company stock. This disclosure was required by law, but it often got pushed off of the front pages by more lurid news. One Wall Street analyst noted Eric had dumped a sizable number of shares, but also divulged that he was also about to buy an estate in Napa Valley. I guess Eric didn't have a spare $85 million lying around.

  I drove a few blocks away from the Applewood Preschool. The neighborhood north of Montana Avenue was an exclusive one. Wide, spacious streets were lined with beautiful homes, fronted by well-tended lawns. Healthy-looking joggers trotted along the sidewalk next to well-dressed people walking well-coiffed dogs on retractable leashes. But in the years I lived near here, I had been inside just one of these stellar homes, and that was only because of my friendship with Crystal Fairborn. I had no regrets about buying a small house and moving to Mar Vista, but I still looked ever-so-fondly, and occasionally wistfully, back on my life in Santa Monica.

  Darcy Beale lived in a Craftsman home that was probably constructed a century ago, but it had since been tastefully, and expensively, updated. There were seven steps leading up to the front door, and the house was framed by a wraparound veranda. The exterior featured an intricate collection of small teakwood slats forming a patchwork design. A series of low-pitched gabled roofs topped both the first and second stories. It was the type of home you might see pictures of in an issue of Architectural Digest.

  I rang the bell, and a woman in her early 30s answered it. She was tall, blonde, pretty and athletic. Wearing a white cotton top and black spandex, she looked like she was about to go work out. Or maybe she had just returned.

  "Yes?" she asked, leaning forward inquisitively.

  "Darcy Beale?" I asked, flashing my fake gold shield. "May I have a word with you?"

  She blinked a few times. "What is this about?"

  "Strictly routine," I said in my most officious voice. "It concerns Eric Starr."

  The name got her attention and her eyes darkened. But she apparently had a sufficient amount of curiosity, enough to invite me inside.

  "Nice place," I said as I walked into the stunning living room. Polished oak floors, high beamed ceilings and a limestone-rimmed fireplace would grab any visitor's attention. Wide bay windows allowed a flood of light inside. I decided this was the type of house I would buy if I ever won the lottery.

  "Please have a seat," she said coolly. "What's your name?"

  "Burnside," I responded, moving onto a couch facing the fireplace. "Sorry. I guess I was distracted by your home."

  "It is lovely, isn't it?" she said unsmiling, a
s she sat in a chair next to me. "But what is this about Eric?"

  "I'm doing an investigation. I have a client who's interested in hiring him to head up a large company. They want to learn more about him before they offer him the job."

  "Really?" she said. "Who?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say yet. But I can probably tell you at some point. What do you think? Eric being a CEO of a Fortune 500 company?" I asked, figuring an open ended question might elicit some venom. Which might lead to some hidden details. But none were forthcoming. Darcy Beale looked across the room. She was either deep in thought or trying to figure out how best to phrase something.

  "I think it sounds like a great move," she finally said. "Eric is eminently qualified."

  Now it was my turn to stop and think. This wasn't quite the answer I was expecting. "I'm a little surprised by that," I admitted.

  "You needn't be," she said. "Eric and my husband took Laputa and nurtured it into something. Something big. It's not surprising Eric would want to move on. This is what people like Eric do. They need new challenges. I think it's healthy."

  Maybe it was. But it felt odd coming from Darcy. And it did not feel genuine. Having served with the LAPD for 13 years, I had developed a strong inkling for when people weren't telling me the truth. It was something of an innate job requirement, the type of sixth sense that can sometimes save a cop's life.

  "How involved were you with Laputa?" I asked.

  "Behind the scenes, mostly. Helping Jack with advice. His success was my success."

  "I'm sorry about what happened to him," I said. I would have liked to have probed her on what indeed happened that day on the yacht, but I doubted it would bear any fruit. And I already had doubts about Darcy Beale's honesty.

  "Of course," she said, looking down. "I miss him greatly. He was a saint."

  I nodded, albeit warily. When a loved one passes, it's true that the hard times are often forgotten and the fond memories are the ones that linger. "Can you tell me a little about Jack and Eric's relationship?"