Nickel Package

by David Chill

  "It was great," she said, looking up at me. "They were perfectly suited to be partners. Eric was the front man, he marketed the company, Jack ran the day-to-day. It was a marriage made in startup heaven. As I'm sure you know, the company did incredibly well."

  "How about your own relationship with Eric?"

  With that, she stopped being so effusive and retreated back into thinking mode. I waited. Finally she started to speak again. "It was all right as long as Jack was there as a buffer. With Jack gone, Eric and I ... had disagreements. Apparently the two of them had a secret arrangement where one would get control of the company if the other wasn't there. I had no idea they agreed to that."

  "Jack never told you about that detail."

  "No," she said tersely. "He didn't. Never said a word."

  "Do you think it was a legitimate agreement?"

  Darcy Beale's mouth grew tight. "I don't know."

  "And you confronted Eric."

  She peered at me. "How do you know this?"

  "It's on the police blotter. Matter of public record that he hit you. Did he?"

  "Of course he hit me. Didn't you read the report?"

  "Did you hit him first?" I asked.

  Her mouth opened in surprise for a brief moment and then she began to sneer. "Of course not. That's outrageous. That's incomprehensible. Why ... why are you asking me this?"

  "Eric filed a restraining order against you. Things don't usually work that way, especially if he were the one who hit you."

  "No, I suppose they don't. Eric ... we argued. I felt I should have a role at Laputa. Even just to secure Jack's legacy. But he wouldn't hear of it. Eric ordered me out of his office."

  "After he hit you?"

  "Yes ... I mean, no. I'm getting confused. He grabbed me and I hit him back."

  "Hit him back?"

  "Oh," she said wearily. "I don't know what good it will do to rehash all this. What's done is done."

  "All right," I said. "But one other thing. Were you aware of a woman named Wanda who worked at Laputa?"

  Darcy stiffened. "I was. That tart tried to ruin my marriage. When I got wind of it, she was gone."

  "You had her fired?"

  "No," she smiled cleverly. "I don't do those sorts of things. I heard she had overstayed her visa, so I reported her to the INS. She was deported back to wherever the hell she came from. Good riddance."

  "What about Eric's relationships with women at Laputa?"

  Darcy shrugged. "He screwed anything he could get his hands on. For him, Laputa was a candy store where he had a free account to snap up whatever he wanted."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  She shrugged. "No. He wasn't particular."

  I rose, thinking I had mined about all I could here, including Darcy's anger. I stood there for a moment, marveling at just how beautiful the house was.

  "You really do have a nice home. But I want to ask you one more thing."

  "What now?" she asked, some exasperation forming in her voice.

  "If Eric leaves, who would run the company?"

  Darcy shrugged. "Eric still has a controlling interest. He gets to decide that. Unless he sells his equity position. His stock."

  "Then what happens?"

  "Then," she said, her eyes shining, "things become interesting."

  *

  I thanked Darcy for her time, even though she probably generated as many questions for me as she did answers. I thought about what to do next, and the only thing that sprung to mind was getting a caffeine jolt. I arrived back at my office, armed with a venti cup of Starbucks Italian roast. It was dark and bold, and while it wasn't quite up to the level of French roast, it packed a nice caffeine wallop. For today, that's what mattered most.

  As I pulled into the garage beneath my office building, I noticed someone familiar, a young man about to climb into a nicely appointed car parked in one of the visitor's spaces. Adam Gee didn't notice me, so I tapped the horn. He looked up from the black BMW 740 and stopped.

  "You just in the neighborhood?" I asked.

  "Oh, Mr. Burnside. I was hoping to see you. I dropped a package off. It has the contract, as well as something else Mr. Taylor wanted you to look at."

  "Thanks," I said, giving his car the once over. "You drive in style."

  He looked almost apologetic. "At times. I own a 15 year-old Ford Explorer. This is my boss's car. One of the perks of the job. I get to take it out once in a while. But it comes at a price."

  "What's that?"

  "I usually have to chauffer him around."

  "There are worse things than driving an expensive BMW."

  He smiled in agreement and waved.

  A parcel was indeed waiting for me. The logo for Celestial Productions was in the upper left-hand corner, and it had a Century City address. I slit it open and pulled out a couple of documents, one being a contract calling for me to be paid $10,000 for technical assistance and consulting. The other was a script for a movie called Day Watch. Oddly, there was no writer listed. I opened the script and turned to the last page to see how long it was. It turned out to be a healthy 119 pages, which, even to my amateur's knowledge, translated to a two-hour movie. I also noted the final scene had a guy named D.J. pointing his .44 pistol at an Officer Krumm and saying the words, "Goodbye, you punk," right before he pulled the trigger and splattered the policeman's brains along the outfield wall of Dodger Stadium. I tossed the script, along with the contract, into the trash.

  I sipped on the coffee and thought about my next visit. It had only been a couple of days since the tragedy, but I needed to speak with Hector Ferris's widow. This was a delicate situation. She might be very willing to talk, or she might be extremely offended, and I had no way of knowing. Nick Roche told me there would be no funeral, just a memorial service soon. I was not so keen on interviewing a grieving widow, and if she didn't want to speak with me, I'd respect that.

  Rancho Park was a few minutes away from my office. I turned onto the street behind the Westside Pavilion and parked in front of the Ferris house. It was a small, pleasant-looking home, painted an off-white with dark green trim. A jacaranda tree stood in the front yard, its branches still bare. Even in L.A., with its mildest of winters, the leaves didn't grow back until well into April.

  I knocked on the door and Hector's wife answered. She was a slender woman, close to 50, probably Hispanic, with black hair falling down past her shoulders. She had sunken eyes and wore a pale expression, not surprising, following a traumatic event.

  "May I help you?"

  "Mrs. Ferris," I said, handing her my card. "My name is Burnside. I used to work with Hector. A long time ago, down at the Broadway Division."

  "Oh. I'm Inez. I don't think he ever mentioned you."

  "Ah, yes. It was a big precinct. And I've left the LAPD."

  "As did Hector," she said, opening the door. "Would you like to come in?"

  I walked inside. It was a modest home but nicely furnished. The entryway led into a small living room with the kitchen off to one side. Through the window I saw a few people sitting on plastic lawn chairs on a patio, talking quietly. In the living room, an entire wall was plastered with photos and commendations, many showing Hector in uniform, along with various certificates of achievement. In one photo was a shot of the two of them on their wedding day. A few children's pictures were scattered about.

  "First, I want to express my condolences about Hector. Tragic. It was a horrible thing. I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you," Inez said. "Yes, it was horrible. I've spoken with the homicide detectives. They promised they would find out who did this. I hope they do. For Hector's soul to rest in peace. For closure."

  "Yes," I replied. "And that's part of why I'm here. I met with Hector the day before this happened. I'm a Private Investigator now. I was working on something with BMB. I'm wondering if Hector talked about his work there."

  "Some, I guess."

  "Do you think what happened to Hector might have had somethin
g to do with his work at BMB?"

  "I don't know. One of the detectives was thinking it might have been someone Hector had collared years ago. Maybe someone who had gotten out of jail and wanted vengeance."

  "That's possible," I said. "And I'm sure they're looking at who may have been released recently. But did Hector ever mention a person named Eric Starr?"

  Inez thought for a moment. "I don't believe so."

  "Hmmm," I thought. That removed a big reason explaining why I was here. Then I recalled something. "What about Patty Muckenthaler?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, yes. A number of times. It seemed like she was creating problems."

  "In what way?"

  "Hector said she would get people fired just because she didn't like them. Or to help her career. To make more money. She would say or do anything. Hector thought that woman was dangerous."

  This comment was a little odd, given that Hector had the same reputation at the Broadway division. Perhaps it took one to know one. "Did he mention anything specific Patty was doing? Any particular case he was working on with her?"

  "Well, apparently some people at BMB were engaging in, ah, inappropriate behavior. Patty would complain, Hector would investigate, and then the people would get fired. After a while, Hector told me he thought Patty might be making stories up. Just to get rid of people."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because Patty would get promoted or take over their work after they left. Things always panned out very well for her. Hector did not trust Patty."

  "Did you tell this to the detectives?"

  "No, they didn't ask. And I honestly didn't think of it until now. Until you asked specifically about Patty. Hector never mentioned a problem with anyone at work. I talked to the detectives again, a few days after Hector was ... was killed," she said, her voice choking. "I couldn't speak about things with anyone right away. It hurt too much. It was too much of a shock."

  "I understand."

  "As I said, the detectives were more focused on people Hector had put away while he was on the job. And also about other officers in the LAPD. Ones who might have had a resentment."

  "A grudge?"

  "Hector did not tolerate poor behavior among his officers. He was a Lieutenant. He took his job seriously and he felt not all the officers did. That might have been his Achilles' heel. He reported some of them. Naturally those officers disliked him. One of the other detectives I spoke with thought it could have been another police officer."

  I had been considering this. It was not an implausible theory, and I thought back to my interview the other night with Hector's beer-swilling neighbor. Hector had been out of the LAPD for a couple of years. People do hold grudges, but normally not this long. And it would often take a more recent incident to set them off. Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but not this cold. And a cop, someone well versed in criminal behavior, was unlikely to take someone out in such a gruesome manner, one where the chances of getting caught were exponentially high. Whoever did this had to have been very angry, unhinged at the very least, and wanted Hector Ferris to suffer. It might have been a cop, but I was having serious doubts.

  "Any other names of people from BMB you can think of? Not necessarily people you think could have done this, but maybe those who might know something?"

  Inez shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Again, Hector didn't speak about many people there, Patty was the exception. I can't even imagine who would do something this heinous. No matter what the issue."

  To that I agreed. I thanked her again for her time and apologized for the intrusion. Once outside, I climbed into my Pathfinder. The BMB Tower was only a few minutes away, but it was getting close to lunch and I sensed I wouldn't find Patty Muckenthaler at her desk now. As I considered how I'd go about approaching her again, my phone rang. It was Roberto.

  "Burnside. Listen, I'm here at the Malomar Hotel near Westwood. I figured you'd want to know about this before it hits the news. I also need to speak with you about it."

  "What's that?"

  "Homicide. We think it happened sometime last night, maybe in the early evening. Housekeeping found him this morning. Jay Strong. Used to coach over at SC, we talked about him the other day. Someone shot him to death. Multiple gunshot wounds. Close range, looks like there was a struggle."

  Chapter 12

  The Malomar Hotel sat along the Wilshire Corridor, an area teeming with one beautiful high-rise condo after another. Driving eastbound, this was a two-mile artery that connected Westwood and Beverly Hills. It was mostly residential, with the occasional hotel or upscale senior citizen residence tucked in. The Malomar's entrance was fronted by a semicircular driveway for valet parking, and a number of flags flew near the front door, trumpeting the hotel's corporate parent.

  I used the valet, for no other reason than restricted parking in the neighborhood often made it difficult to find a space nearby. Local residents had long ago declared war on visitors who dared to park in spaces on their streets. For people living near shops and restaurants, this was actually a legitimate issue. For people living in less trafficked areas, the reasons were less than noble. Often, residents simply wanted to use their garages for storage and didn't want to park down the street if an itinerant guest claimed the one space in front of their home.

  The Malomar was a boutique hotel and that meant cool furnishings and small rooms. The lobby was beautiful, with an series of gold chandeliers providing indirect lighting. There were some comfy chairs sprinkled about, and a Persian rug covered much of the dark wood floor. A few blue-and-green striped glass vases were filled with fresh cut flowers. Colorful paintings hung on the walls. The decor was heightened sophistication, elegant without trying to be.

  I strolled through the lobby, past a number of uniformed police officers. When I reached the elevator, a dour-looking man in a sharp blue blazer and pinkish tie inquired if I was a guest at the hotel. I countered by asking if he was with the police.

  "No, I'm the assistant manager of the hotel," he said. "And you?"

  "I'm here on official business."

  "And what business is that, sir?" he asked.

  "The business of trying to figure out why someone was shot to death in your hotel."

  He looked askance at my comment. I flashed my fake gold shield at him and crisply directed him to kindly step aside. Not entirely sure of what to make of this, and not wanting to cause a scene, he moved back. I walked into the elevator and pushed the button that said six. He was still looking quizzically at me as the elevator door closed. I never saw him again.

  Room 644 was at the end of the hall, and it wasn't hard to find. There were people going in and out of the room, with half a dozen uniforms, a few plainclothes officers and a number of people from the Coroner's office moving languidly about. Glancing inside, I saw a lamp had been knocked over, a glass coffee table shattered, and dark red blood stains were evident on both the blanket and sheets. A detective wearing a legitimate gold shield asked what I wanted, and I told him Sergeant De Santos had sent for me. He told me to wait down the hall. A few minutes later, Roberto approached.

  "Burnside. Thanks for coming."

  "Sure. What do you know so far?"

  "As far as we can tell, the room was rented by Jay. Reservation was in his name for two nights. The problem is the desk clerk distinctly remembers a woman checking in, using Jay's credit card."

  "That didn't arouse any suspicion?"

  "Jay could be a woman's name, I guess. Not every hotel requires ID when someone checks in. We're running the credit card number to see if it had been stolen and used elsewhere recently."

  "What did the desk clerk say the woman looked like?" I asked.

  "Blonde, late thirties, attractive," Roberto said, eyeing me carefully. "Sound like anyone you might know?"

  "Sounds like half the women on the Westside," I muttered, before providing Roberto with what he was looking for. "I've only met her once or twice, but it could have been Kitty. Jay's wife."

&n
bsp; "Okay. That's one reason why I wanted to talk to you. You knew Jay pretty well, so I figured you might know the spouse. I sent a detective over to their apartment in Brentwood. She might not have done it, so we have to inform her of what happened. But you know as well as I do, the spouse is the first suspect. And those domestic disturbances are making it look obvious. But you never know. They'll bring the wife over to the station for questioning."

  "Any idea about time of death?"

  "The maid found him this morning, we think it probably happened last night, rigor mortis had already started to set in. But no one around here heard a thing. We already found shell casings, looks like a .357 was the murder weapon. I'm sure he was dead right away, that's a gun that means business. Say, let me ask you something."

  "What's that?"

  "When you stopped by the station earlier this week, Jay's name came up. When's the last time you saw him? You said you had lunch with him that day. Seen him since?"

  I took a breath "Yeah. On campus."

  "And?"

  I looked down at the hallway floor. It had thick carpeting, charcoal gray, with geometric patterns to it. There was a side table nearby with a beautiful glazed pot sitting on it. I'll say this for the Malomar. They didn't cut corners. Everything here was first rate.

  "Jay was troubled," I said. "Marital problems. He was convinced his wife was having an affair. Thought it was with someone at BMB. He didn't know who, but the whole thing was consuming him."

  "So that leaves us with two likely suspects. The wife or her lover. Maybe both."

  "Or maybe some girl Jay was having a fling with. Unlikely, but possible."

  "True. That might explain the credit card. He could have handed it to her and told her to check in."

  "Maybe," I sighed. "You guys find anything in the room?"

  Roberto said they had. "They're dusting it for prints, but in a hotel room that won't give us much. Jay had some scratches on his face, so it looks like there was a scuffle. We'll see if any DNA turns up, but I'm not counting on much there. If it wasn't the wife, the other party would need to be in the system."