by David Chill
"Speaking of keeping an open mind," she said. "We need to decide on Applewood. They said they can only save his spot for so long."
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
"It comes highly recommended."
"It comes with a high price tag, as well," I reminded her.
"You had a good pay day with BMB. And this position they're offering you sounds lucrative. I don't want to push, it's your choice. You have to decide if it's right for you."
"I know. And I think we might be able to swing paying for Applewood regardless. We have a lot of money saved up from my coaching years. The question is should we. I'm not so sure this is the best way to spend our cash. Whether we have a lot of it or a little. I don't know if Marcus needs to start learning Mandarin Chinese or how to design pottery. Or how critical it is to get him into a feeder school. I think that our decision needs to be more about the kid than about the school. I don't know how any school is going to mold him into a stellar human being. Applewood probably has some great kids, but my guess is they came in that way. It's how the parents raise them that counts the most."
"I agree with that," Gail said. "So it doesn't sound like you're so keen on Applewood. If we're going to do this, both of us have to be all in."
"You know, it seems as if these schools try and make you feel like inadequate parents if you don't spend a fortune on your kid. Whether your kid needs it or not. Look, I'm sure it's a very good school. But I think there are other good schools, too. We should look at them. Maybe even some in our own neighborhood."
"Okay," she nodded. "I'm fine with that."
"It's a funny thing. Making these types of decisions."
"How's that?"
"You don't have to talk yourself into making the ones that feel right."
"I understand," she said.
"Are you disappointed?"
"I don't know. Maybe a little. I want the best for Marcus. The world can be a tough place."
"Sure," I agreed. "But sometimes the story has a happy ending."
The End
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If you'd like to read an exclusive extract of Post Pattern, the very first Burnside novel, I've attached chapter one here.
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David
Post Pattern Preview
Chapter 1
The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.
"They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."
"Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.
"I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitting next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.
"You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."
Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."
Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.
I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."
"Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."
Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"
Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."
I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.
Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.
"So what are you doing now?" I inquired.
Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."
"Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.
But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slightly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.
Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of makeup including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.
"Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.
"The thought crossed my mind."
"As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."
"So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."
"Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."
I nodde
d. "All-Conference if I recall."
"Yes."
"You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.
He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."
"Then you graduated."
"I was a year older."
"Of course," I said.
"They changed around the offense after I left. Started using the Read Option. That was probably why Robbie didn't have a great senior year."
"So I gathered. I still follow the game."
"Sure," he commented. "I remember watching you when I was a little kid, Mr. Burnside. You played safety at USC, didn’t you?"
"You've got a good memory. But why don't we get back to why you're here."
"Oh yeah," he paused. "Well it was like this. I was driving Robbie's car last night. You see, our parents had an affair up at the house. I needed to leave early and Robbie's Honda was blocking my car in the driveway. So I just borrowed his."
"Sure. I do the same thing when someone double parks in front of me."
Norman gave me a confused look but continued on. "Anyway, I'm driving on the freeway when all of a sudden someone pulls alongside and fires a gun at me. Shot the side window clean out. I was really lucky they missed, the bullet got lodged in the head rest."
"And you think they were after your brother."
"Who would want to kill me?"
I decided to answer a question with a question. "Who would want to kill Robbie?"
He thought for a moment. "I don't know."
"Did you get the plate number?"
"No," he said sadly. "I was too startled. I can't even describe the car to you."
I asked if he had gone to the police, and both Norman and Ashley responded with concurrent nods. Norman had the perplexed look of a football player facing a Cover 2 defense for the first time. Ashley responded.
"The police took a report,” she said, “but they told us that without a license plate number there wasn't much they could do. They also seemed very busy."
"Business must be booming," I mused.
"Excuse me?"
I held up my hand. "Never mind,” I said, and turned back to Norman. “Before I start sticking my nose into your brother's business, have you talked to him about this?"
He nodded yes. "Robbie... Robbie told me not to worry about things. Not to get involved. He'd be very angry if he found out what I'm doing here. But I'm his brother. I care about him. And I'm worried for him."
I watched Norman's face to see if it would reveal anything more than golden boy looks. He spent most of his time talking with his gaze aimed at the floor. That might have meant either he couldn't look me in the eye or that my linoleum was developing serious wax build-up. Trial judges often instruct their juries to consider a witness's body movements during testimony, but I've concluded that theory doesn’t always work well in practice. People can tell the god's honest truth with a drooped head and slumped shoulders, while others are able to commit blatant perjury while looking someone dead in the eye.
"I understand."
He continued to fidget. "So will you help me?" he finally asked.
"I doubt I'll be able to find the guy who took a shot at you last night."
A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at least find out why?"
I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”
Norman nodded. “Okay.”
"Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"
"Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it."
Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."
Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.
"Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."
In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.
*
Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.
So now I had two paying clients: Norman Freeman and the Differential Mutual Insurance Company. The Differential, as they were so fond of referring to themselves, had hired me to investigate one of their claimants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy Wachs. She lived in Carson, a smoggy, blue collar suburb about twenty-five freeway minutes from my office on Olympic Boulevard in West Los Angeles.
It was a warm day in the Southland with the mercury rising to the mid-seventies. This summer was very typical so far in the basin: warm days followed by cool evenings. As was my custom in the summer, I spurned the button-down look and wore a red knit shirt with a little tiger crouched over the heart, dark slacks and black sneakers. My hair was short and black, and parted on the right side. While I’d never be in football condition again, I still was lean and strong. I left the windows open as I navigated the San Diego freeway, the warm winds lapping at me as I drove.
Mrs. Wachs lived in a modest, working class neighborhood lined with stucco homes that featured pickup trucks parked inelegantly on the front lawn. A few of the local gentry sat on the curb and sipped refreshments contained within surreptitious brown paper bags. A couple of ten year olds were carefully playing with matches in the middle of the street.
I pulled out my file from the Differential and examined it once again. Mrs. Wachs was about forty years old and had been involved in a rather curious car accident. While stopped at a red light, her Plymouth Fury was rammed on the passenger door by a van which had rolled mysteriously down the embankment of a driveway. Despite being on the other side of the vehicle, Mrs. Wachs complained of a stiff neck and an aching back. Her doctor happily provided an exhaustive battery of medical tests and physical therapy to the tune of forty-two thousand dollars. Mrs. Wachs herself had filed a multi-million dollar lawsuit against the Differential, the van owner's insurance company, of which two thousand dollars was for vehicle damage and most of the remainder geared towards compensation for pain and suffering. To say the least, the Differential was not pleased.
My client’s person of interest had yet to arrive home, so I parked my black Nissan Pathfinder across the street and awaited her arrival. I used to own a Jeep, but after spending a few evenings tailing a wayward wife through a series of torrential winter rainstorms, I decided to invest in a vehicle with a permanent roof. Unpacking the camcorder, I played with the zoom lens and pretended I was directing a documentary about the other side of Los Angeles. I inserted a George Winston CD into the tray and used it as a soundtrack. My career imitating Ken Burns lasted ten minutes. Mrs. Wachs had arrived home.
Cindy Wachs may have been forty, but she looked every bit of fifty-five. She had a stocky build, a pug nose, brown hair combed without much attention, and an enormous brace wrapped around her neck. She parked her car in the driveway, exited it gingerly, and went to unlock the pa
dlock on her garage door. All the while, the camcorder whirred and picked up her every movement. After opening the door, she walked back to her car and drove it into the garage, and my work day had come to an abrupt conclusion.
Driving up to Santa Monica I took Vista del Mar, the coast route, and watched the sea gulls mingle among the surfers and the hang gliders. A pair of bikini clad girls wearing baseball caps tapped a volleyball back and forth. It was June, sweet June, and the golden sunlight would linger past eight o'clock. I would have time for a leisurely dinner at The Lobster, and if the clams didn't fill me up, the crab cakes certainly would. Afterwards, I might sip on a Mojito and help the sun fall below the sea. Summer was here, and the climate was warm and pretty. Life seemed good right now and I was eager to take advantage of it. I knew things wouldn't stay that way. They never do.
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