Double Pass

by David Chill

  Since it would be a while before the freeways began flowing smoothly again, I decided to give my paying client a visit and provide him with an update. The benefit of visiting Earl Bainbridge's estate was that I was able to view one of the most magnificent homes around. A huge, Tudor-style mansion, set on a hill above the Rose Bowl, it was spectacular in every way. From the stone fence to the carefully manicured grounds to the view of not only the Rose Bowl, but also the lush green grass of the Brookside golf course, this was simply a splendid property to behold. The downside to visiting the Bainbridge Estate, of course, was having to interact with Earl.

  I parked my Pathfinder up the street and walked to the gate. Surprisingly, it was wide open, although I noticed what had to be a 50-year-old blue Ford Mustang warming up in the cobblestone driveway, getting ready to depart. It was shiny and refurbished, and looked as if a lot of care had gone into it. The car started to back up, but it stopped abruptly as I jogged out of its way. The driver's side window slid down.

  "Hey, sorry about that," said a very large fellow, who, upon, further inspection, was actually a teenager.

  "No problem. I always look both ways when I enter an estate like this. Say, that's quite a car. They don't make these anymore. It's a classic."

  "Uh, yeah, I guess. It could use a brake job, they're starting to squeal. My dad got it a couple of years ago, he'd been restoring it. But he's been so busy at his restaurant. Actually I think it might be my mom's car now. I don't know. They split up."

  "Sorry to hear that," I said.

  "Yeah. It's been tough. He still comes by, but you know. It's hard. Say," he said, his voice now clearly resembling that of a kid more than a man. "Didn't I see you at practice yesterday?"

  "Probably. I take it you're a football player."

  "Yeah. You're a college scout, right?"

  "Used to be," I said, getting a little tired of repeating the same old line. "I was coaching at SC for a few years. What's your name?"

  "Dash Farsakian."

  I nodded. "I guess you're friends with Austin."

  "Sure. I've known Austin my whole life. We used to play touch football on the back lawn here. That was when Austin was going to be a quarterback in the NFL and I was going to be his tight end. Funny how things worked out. Now I'm a lineman."

  "Well," I said, "not everything in life goes as planned."

  "We're both listed as three-star players on the Internet sites. I don't know how that happened. I'd like to play college football somewhere. Always been my dream."

  "Don't worry about those Internet sites," I said, dismissively. "Some of them are just amalgamators, they take other people's data and roll them together. I swear, a few of those sites are developed by people sitting in basements who've never even been to a high school football game. These people are about as qualified to evaluate football talent as a pastry chef."

  Dash chuckled for a moment. "I guess."

  "Look," I said, "when it comes to players, word gets around. And the St. Dismas program gets a lot of attention."

  "Yeah. I'm grateful we have Noah. He's like a lightning rod. Feels like the whole world is watching us."

  "They certainly were today," I observed.

  "Oh," he said, finally recognizing the reference. "Yeah. Bad scene today at school. Couldn't believe it."

  "Any thoughts on who might have been involved?" I asked as casually as I could.

  Dash thought about this, opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it. "No. I really don't."

  It didn't look like he wanted to talk anymore, so I reached into my pocket and handed him my business card. "If you think of anything, give me a buzz. Anything at all. You never know what might help."

  "Uh, yeah. Sure," he said, pocketing my card and giving me a brief nod as he backed out quickly and drove up the hill.

  I walked to the front door and, ignoring the doorbell, rapped on it. No one answered, so I wrapped harder. Finally, it opened. A tall, lanky teenager with dark brown hair layered with a bleached blond streak across the top opened the door.

  "Hey. Can I help you?"

  "Yes, my name's Burnside. Are you Austin?"

  "I am."

  "I'm actually here to see your dad. Is he taking visitors?"

  Austin laughed. "That's funny. That's actually something Dad's friends might say. But no, he's not home. You might catch him over at the club."

  "The club?"

  "The Galley Hut Club. It's local. Mostly Pasadena people. Dad's usually there around now. Cocktail hour and all."

  I laughed. It did strike me as odd that a person who owned a breathtaking estate like this needed to spend a lot of time somewhere else. Maybe he was bored. Or maybe he didn't appreciate what he had.

  "Can you have your dad give me a call?" I asked and handed him my card. I'm sure Earl had my phone number, but people who traveled in Earl's circles often liked it when visitors left a calling card.

  Austin looked down. "Oh. You're the guy Dad brought in to look into the fundraising scam at school."

  "You know about that?" I asked.

  "Sure. Dad told me he was hiring someone. Actually, I was the one who let on there were some funny things going on with the football program. Didn't need to push Dad too hard after that. He hates the coach. I'm not so happy with him, either."

  "Uh-huh. I heard he replaced you at quarterback. I imagine that was tough."

  "I guess. Hey, look, I've seen Noah throw the ball. I don't have his arm, but I'm pretty good, too. Just won't get the chance."

  "You could have transferred," I pointed out.

  "Nah. St. Dismas is five minutes away. And Dad would have sent me to Westridge, otherwise. That's where he went. Same as my grandfather."

  "Got it."

  "So what's going on with the fundraising? You catch who did it?"

  "Not yet," I said. "Who do you think did it?"

  "Hey, I only know Dad wrote a large check to the school and the money's not being spent. No one's talking. Coach told Dad to mind his own business when he asked about it. You can imagine how well that went over."

  Knowing Earl Bainbridge, I could imagine indeed. And that was why I was hanging out in blistering Pasadena the past two days. I was discovering things, but not much about fundraising.

  "So let me ask you something, Austin. That incident at school today. With Jason Fowler. What do you make of it?"

  Austin cocked his head for a long minute in mock thought. It was a nice pose, but it was as fake as a three dollar bill. "Mr. Fowler seemed like a nice guy. But he really wasn't. He took advantage of situations."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I can't really talk about it. Other than to say I wasn't surprised."

  "Well, now you've got my attention."

  He smiled. "Look, I don't mean anything by it. I don't know who did it, I really don't."

  I took a chance. "Rumor had it he was sexually involved with one of the girls."

  He stared at me. "I ... didn't know that," he said. "Which girls?"

  "Not sure," I said. "I'm only going on scuttlebutt."

  "What's scuttlebutt?"

  "Gossip. Nothing substantive."

  At that point, a shiny white Mercedes pulled into the driveway. An attractive blonde woman in her early 30s got out, walking in an unsteady way. She was dressed stylishly, fitting neatly into a tight, little black cocktail dress. She looked mildly drunk.

  "Hi, Austin," she smiled. "Who's your cute friend?"

  "Oh, hi there, Mitzi. This is Mr. Burnside. He's a detective Dad hired."

  "A detective?" she said, the smile vanishing from her face.

  "It's okay. Dad's not doing another marital investigation. Someone else pissed him off. You're in the clear."

  "That's rude, Austin." she said and turned toward me, holding out her hand for me to shake. "I'm Melissa Bainbridge. Sorry we didn't get introduced appropriately."

  "No problem," I said, reaching over and briefly grasping her hand in a polite-yet-distant manner. "I'm ju
st leaving. I was here to see Earl, but it looks like I'll miss him."

  "He's working on his third gin and tonic, so yes, it may be a while."

  I smiled. "Funny, I had Earl pegged as a martini guy."

  Austin laughed. "I don't know how people drink those things. Give me a beer any day."

  Melissa gave him a look. "I don't think your father would like hearing that."

  "Coo coo ca choo," he mumbled.

  I took a breath and tried to figure out if it was better to stay or leave. Sometimes an interesting tidbit spilled out. Sometimes staying was a waste of time. But hanging around also meant getting seeped in another family's dirty water. Knowing Earl Bainbridge's history of multiple marriages and divorces, there was only so much I wanted to get exposed to.

  "You'll tell Earl I stopped by?" I asked, looking back and forth at the two of them.

  "Sure," Austin said. "And about that other thing?"

  "Yes?"

  "I think Mr. Fowler had it coming to him," Austin said, glancing at his stepmother before looking back at me. "At least that's what a few of the guys on the team are saying."

  Chapter 5

  The Dodgers were in the 4th inning of their game with the Cardinals at Chavez Ravine, finally enabling me to sail easily through downtown. The absence of traffic also allowed me to catch glimpses of the sparkling high-rises that had sprung up on either side of the Harbor Freeway. Not long ago, downtown L.A. consisted mostly of a small cluster of skyscrapers surrounded by a large swath of poverty. Raging development had led to the construction of countless office towers and slick condos in the area, although pockets of poor neighborhoods still remained, intertwined within the soaring growth.

  The temperature had cooled off as I pulled into our driveway in Mar Vista, the evening air of the Westside offering a break from the sizzling temperatures of Pasadena. In some parts of the country, the hot weather lingers continuously in the summer, regardless of whether it's day or night. But In L.A., the sun going down is normally a sure sign that the heat will abate soon.

  Our house was eerily quiet even though it was only 8:30 p.m. A child in the home means frequent noise, at least in our household, and the absence of such typically indicates the child has gone to bed. I walked into my office and immediately took my brand new .357 pistol out of the ankle holster and stowed it away in the safe. I used an ankle holster in the summer because, without a jacket, there was no other way to hide my gun. Openly carrying a pistol was illegal in California, and worse, it made people uncomfortable to see an armed man casually walking around in public.

  I strolled into the kitchen and the whiff of garlic gave me a reminder of the remnants of dinner. A pan on the stove held some tube-style pasta, sausage, and marinara sauce. But with the pastrami dip from The Hat still lingering deep in my stomach, there would be no room for any more culinary delights tonight.

  "Hi there."

  I turned and saw Gail, her hair falling past her shoulders, wearing sweats, makeup off, but still looking extraordinarily pretty. I went over and gave her a hug. She hugged me back.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For whatever. Any transgressions past or present. Or future."

  She gave a small smile. If there was one more thing I loved about Gail, she didn't hold grudges. Disagreements were like tissue paper, used and then discarded.

  "All right," she said and gave me a kiss. "I'm lucky in one respect."

  "How so?"

  "With you and Marcus, I only have to live with two men. Snow White had to live with seven."

  I laughed. "I guess I know what movie you two watched tonight. Maybe The Lion King would have been a better choice for him."

  "Or for you."

  "Perhaps. Speaking of which, I assume our little guy conked out early?" I asked. Seeing Marcus when I came home made my day. Hearing him trumpet my arrival was better than having the P.A. announcer shout my name to 90,000 fans as I ran onto the Coliseum floor when I played for USC. Marcus was the validation that I had fully become an adult, a parent with responsibilities. I didn't have a dad growing up, mine died before I was born. So the fact that I could become a father myself was a very big deal for me. But it also meant I had no role model for being a dad, and it sometimes felt as if I were operating in the dark.

  "Yes, Marcus didn't even make it to the end of the movie. He was tired. They run them pretty ragged at that pre-school."

  "I figured as much," I said with a sigh. "Any more bumper tag issues?"

  "No," Gail said. "And it looks like Marcus and Ricky are becoming friends. All it took was a scuffle."

  "Boys," I smiled. "Part of the bonding process. Starts at a young age."

  "So I'm learning. How are you holding up?" Gail asked, stroking my arm. "I heard about what happened at St. Dismas this morning. It was all over the news."

  "I was in the school building when it happened."

  "Oh, my. How close?"

  "I was with the principal when the body was discovered, but it could have happened hours before. Coincidentally, I was talking with that teacher last night. "

  "That's strange."

  "Indeed. And the Pasadena Police were a tad skeptical of my story. And of me as well. One of them got a hold of the Judy Atkin file and decided to rake me over the coals with it."

  "Ouch. Sorry you have to keep reliving that."

  "It's a part of my history, for better or worse. As long as I'm in this field, someone is going to bring it up. It's funny how your past never quite lets go of you."

  "That's what psychologists say."

  I smiled. One of the items on my to-do list was to speak further with Noah Greenland's mother. I had the feeling she would be analyzing me as much as I'd be assessing her.

  "Hopefully I won't need to be on some psychologist's couch any time soon," I said. "If I have any head issues, they're probably related to a concussion or two from back in the day."

  "I guess that's hard to avoid, having played football," she winced. "And it's a big concern I have with Marcus. He idolizes you. I could see him wanting to follow in your footsteps."

  "Is that bad?"

  "No, sweetie. But Marcus is so bright. I don't want to risk things like head injuries. Do you know what I mean?"

  "I do," I said. "We have a lot of years ahead of us before this needs addressing."

  "Yes," Gail said, and then her head perked up. "Oh. I just remembered. Speaking of someone in need of psychotherapy, you got a call tonight. From that wacky neighbor of ours in Santa Monica. The woman who lived downstairs. The one with the, er, loud lifestyle."

  "Ms. Linzmeier?" I frowned.

  "Right. She told me she tried to reach you on your cell, but it went straight to voice mail. Said it was urgent. I didn't know you had taken her on as a client."

  While I normally told Gail about all of my cases, I hadn't quite gotten around to looping her in this one, our tiff last night taking precedence over candid conversations.

  "I had my cell phone turned off when I was in the police station. Didn't think it would go over well to take client calls while they were grilling me about a homicide. But I never gave her our home phone number. I'm a little concerned she could access it. I had our address and phone numbers wiped from most of the internet sites."

  Gail sighed. "Maybe the apartment manager gave it to her."

  "I guess. Ms. Linzmeier showed up in my office yesterday. Thinks her boyfriend is cheating, wants me to look into it. My favorite type of case."

  "Yuk. Not much good comes from those things. I'm sure you suggested she confront him about it."

  "Yeah, but she doesn't trust her boyfriend to tell her the truth. Wouldn't believe him if he told her he was being faithful. Anyway, I said I'd help her. Shouldn't take much time. Let me give her a call now. If I don't, she's the type who'll call back at midnight and wake Marcus up."

  Gail kissed my cheek. "Some people have no boundaries."

  "She's just nervous," I said and walked into the
den. I pulled out my phone and found her number. My long day was unending. She answered on the first ring.

  "Burnside. Thanks for calling. Listen, I have some information. It's all set. Doug told me he's got a business dinner tomorrow at Shutters. He had the same expression on his face, just like before. Wouldn't look me in the eye. He's hiding something, I know it, I just know it. It's so obvious. We need to catch him in the act. I am so ... "

  "Okay, okay," I said, trying to mask my exasperation. "I get it."

  "So you'll do the sting tomorrow?"

  "It's not a sting, Rebecca. It's a stakeout. I'll be there and I'll find out what he's doing."

  "Okay. Let me know where you'll be."

  I took a deep breath. This was the worst of all scenarios. If someone catches their partner cheating on them, it can only lead to bad things. There are no upsides to this type of confrontation. I calculated what I was going to charge her and realized that no matter how high I upped my rate, it would never be enough to compensate for the pain and suffering, which is to say, my own.

  "That won't work," I told her. "At all. You can't be there. Non-negotiable. In fact, unless you promise me right now that you won't show up, I'm pulling out of this."

  "I can't even see for myself?"

  "Absolutely not. Do you trust me to tell you the truth?"

  A long moment ensued. "Yes," she said quietly.

  I waited a moment before I asked the next question. This was the most critical of all. Because as much as someone wants to know whether their partner is engaging in illicit activities, a certain side of them might actually prefer to remain in the dark.

  "Do you want to know the truth?" I asked. "Are you sure you're ready for it? Really sure?"