by David Chill
"I don't know," she said, and I thought I heard the slightest hint of a sniffle. "I suppose I'll have to be."
*
The jets at Santa Monica Airport began warming up at 5:00 a.m. Our next-door neighbor told us that at one time there was a generally accepted rule that, apart from dire emergencies, planes did not take off or land before 6:30 a.m. or after 10:30 p.m. That rule, like many others in our society, has eroded, as the personal needs of some overwhelmed the slightest hint of consideration for anyone else.
I made a pot of French roast and began my day. Earl Bainbridge had sent me a text at 2:00 a.m. saying he wanted to speak with me, but he also indicated he'd be going to sleep soon. I made a mental note to call him around lunchtime. I combed the Internet and read through the stories about St. Dismas and Jason Fowler, which had indeed become national news. Teacher slain by a knife-wielding killer, no suspects, but vague mentions of an outside intruder possibly involved. Police had no leads, although they were speaking with certain individuals who were in the building at the time, ones who had no business being on campus. Fortunately, no names were given, and there was no leak that might indicate a certain private investigator's presence at the scene.
Marcus was up early, quietly sauntering into the office and climbing into my lap. I quickly minimized the news pages and brought up the Nickelodeon site. I handed him the mouse and allowed him to surf the Internet, which meant he was clicking on anything that was colorful and flashing. The upside was it allowed him to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. The downside was my computer might get a virus. Somehow he burrowed a trail to the Playboy en Español site, and I needed to show him that computers had a back button. I helped him navigate to an online coloring book that was more age appropriate, and we spent some quality time re-painting the Mona Lisa into vivid shades of purple, red and green.
Once Gail was dressed and cooking breakfast, I headed out to beat traffic up to Pasadena. I found another Starbucks, this one on Lake Avenue, and continued my online perusing over more coffee and a lemon scone. The Pasadena Star-News featured the Jason Fowler story in depth, although their article focused more on the school's storied history and went into greater detail about the now fragile state of the students and faculty.
At about 8:30 a.m., I decided classes had probably started at St. Dismas, and I might be able to continue whatever mottled investigation I was conducting. What started out as misappropriation of funds had morphed into homicide. While I didn't think the two were related, it was still coincidental that Jason Fowler was murdered less than a day after I spoke with him.
I pulled open the front door and approached yet another new security guard. But instead of getting a warm, lazy greeting, I was met with a grim-faced block of granite. He approached me with an outstretched arm, a motion that communicated I needed to stop in my tracks.
"Please state your business," he said curtly.
"I'm here to see Coach Savich."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"He's expecting me," I said, the fingers starting to cross on my hand.
"I need to see some I.D."
I handed him my driver's license and watched him paw over it, looking up at me and then down at the license twice. Then he picked up a phone and punched in a few numbers. After 30 seconds of nothing, he left a brief message and hung up.
"Looks like Coach Savich isn't around."
"Maybe I can wait in his office."
"Sorry, but we can't allow that. Not after what happened yesterday."
"I understand," I said. "Okay if I wait here until he comes for me?"
The security officer mulled this over for a minute before finally shrugging and pointing to a beige metal folding chair with a number of deep scratches on the seat. I whittled away the time, putting together my all-time list of the top ten USC running backs. I had secured most of the slots when a familiar body lumbered past. I almost felt a shadow wash over me.
"Well, if it isn't the pride of the USC Trojans," said Curly Underwood. He motioned to the security guard that everything was all right.
"Coach," I said, standing up and extending a hand. He reached over and grabbed it, and it felt like I was shaking hands with a hunk of tri-tip.
"Strong grip," I said. "I'll bet no one bullied you out of your lunch money when you were a kid."
"Nope. You Trojans need to work out more," he laughed and motioned for me to follow him. We walked down the hall together, and it resembled a person walking alongside a moving tree.
"So I sense a bit of hostility toward SC," I remarked.
"Maybe a little."
"Anything I've done? I mean, besides insult your nickname."
"I'll get over it, I've been dealing with that nickname my whole life. No, I got nothing against you personally. But we had a player last year that was offered a scholarship to your school. Demarco Ferguson. Good tight end. He wanted to go there, too, Lord only knows why. But it turned out Cleary managed to sign a couple of blue-chip tight ends after that. So SC pulled the offer. Kid's playing at Colorado State. Not a bad school, but it's not what he had his heart set on."
This was not an uncommon story. USC, like most top-tier college programs, offered a lot of kids scholarships. Not all of them would accept. We had only 25 scholarships a year to dispense, and needed to parse them out in the way that was best for the team's future. If we offered five tight ends, maybe one or two might accept and we'd take both of them. In this case, there was one too many tight ends who wanted to come aboard. And when that happens, tough decisions need to be made. In some cases, we delayed admission for a semester, something called a gray shirt, meaning the kid's scholarship would count toward the following year's class. But in other cases, keeping the offer just wasn't workable, and disappointment, or in this case, lingering hostility on the part of the high school coaches, was the result.
"Sorry about that," I said. "Recruiting is sometimes a numbers game."
"That what you told Demarco?" he asked sarcastically.
"I don't know. But it does work both ways. Some kids pop quickly and commit to one school, but then at the last minute, they change their minds and switch. So the college is left scrambling to fill a hole."
"Mmm-hmmm."
"So how's preparation for De La Salle coming? Tomorrow night's a big game. Eyes of the nation will be on you."
"I'm well aware. But we didn't need all that drama yesterday. I couldn't believe there were guys from CNN on campus."
I took a breath. "A murder at a high school is big news."
"Yeah, sure. But it's also a big distraction. We need to get these kids ready to play."
I didn't quite know how to respond to such deep sensitivity, so I didn't say anything. I wanted to ask Underwood about the fundraising issues, but sensed I should first talk to Savich. No sense poisoning the well just yet. We reached the athletic offices, and sure enough Coach Savich wasn't there.
"You can have a seat," Underwood said. "I'll go find Duke. He can't be too far."
I sat down in the small office, which wasn't much bigger than a cubbyhole and smelled distinctly of sweaty socks and body odor. Scattered about the office was some knockabout furniture, which might have been procured from a garage sale. A far cry from Principal Mularkey's plush office, Savich's had a small desk piled high with files, and an assortment of photos and Notre Dame memorabilia. I looked out the window and saw one of the equipment managers sitting on the grass, working at removing mud that had caked up inside some of the cleats. A pile of athletic shoes sat next to him.
"Well, looky here. The pride of USC. Or former pride I should say," boomed Duke Savich as he strolled into his office. I thought of getting up to shake his hand, but something about his tone kept me planted in my seat.
"You guys really have a thing about SC. Underwood told me one of your kids had an offer pulled last year. Wasn't personal. Wasn't my doing either."
"Nah," he said. "That ain't it. I just don't like you Toejams. My Fighting Irish background and al
l."
"You take this stuff too seriously," I said, glad I hadn't brought along any doughnuts, and trying to hold back a few observations about his maturity.
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"Yeah, right," I said dryly. "Look, Coach, I only came here to ask you a few questions. On behalf of a parent."
"Yeah, yeah. I heard from Mularkey. Old Earl has his panties in a bunch again. He's been ticked at us since we gave the QB slot to Noah and pushed Austin to receiver. Earl always needs something to rail about."
"So the principal talked with you," I said slowly.
"Yeah. And even if this were any of Earl's business -- which it isn't -- I'm not about to share confidential information with some half-assed gumshoe who's been wandering around the school unimpeded."
"Meaning?" I peered at him, wondering how he knew the definition of unimpeded, and thinking I'd like to throw an unimpeded left hook into his big mouth.
"Meaning I'd be curious to know where you were when Jason Fowler was killed."
"I'll tell you the same thing I told the police," I said, beginning to fume. "I was with Principal Mularkey."
"That's just when they found the body. Fowler had been knifed earlier in the morning," Savich sneered.
"Funny, you seem to know a lot about the facts of this case. I'd be curious where you were yesterday morning. Sharpening your switchblade?"
Savich pointed a finger at me. "I'm warning you. Don't start anything with me. You don't know me. Or what kind of guy I am. I have a short fuse with people that mess with me."
"I know all about guys like you," I said evenly. "Guys who wear the same socks every day when their favorite team is on a winning streak. Guys who think it's cool to wear a football jersey when they take a girl out on a first date. Guys who think it's okay to bust someone's chops just because they think they can."
"You've got a real big mouth," he said, taking a step toward me.
"Sure I do. And I'll bet you have big spending habits. You gamble the fundraising money away? Or just steal it outright and wire the money to an offshore account."
"You're making some nasty charges, you prick."
"And I'm making them to a very small man."
"I'm warning you," he snarled, taking another step, his breathing starting to deepen like a rhino building steam. "Shut your trap."
"You already warned me. Did you forget already?"
"Maybe you got a hearing problem."
"Maybe you have a speaking problem."
"Oh, you're really asking for it," he said, the slightest of smiles forming on his face.
"Am I? I'll bet Notre Dame wait-listed you before you got accepted. I guess they have different admission standards for the local South Bend kids. Which is most likely, none at all."
And with that, his eyes bulging out and his nostrils flaring, Duke Savich reared back and threw an overhand right at my head. I knew it was coming and raised my left arm high to block it. I drove my right fist deep into his stomach and heard the air go out of him. I let go of his right arm and slammed my left fist into the right side of his face. He crumpled over and went down on one knee. Proper ring etiquette might have been for me to step back and wait for him to catch his breath. But people like Duke Savich would demonstrate their appreciation by getting up and taking another swing at my head. I did take a step back, but only to line up and deliver a nasty kick to the left side of his face. He went sprawling onto the ground and let out a yelp. Apparently it was loud enough to draw attention, the type of which was not what I wanted.
It took about five seconds for Curly Underwood to come racing in. Seeing Savich on the ground holding his head, he turned to me.
"This is what you came here to do?" he demanded.
"No," I said, continuing to step back. "Things, um, got a little out of hand."
"I'm going to escort you out," he said, grabbing my left arm and yanking me toward the door. I jerked my arm back and instinctively reached down into my ankle holster. Out came my .357 Magnum. I put my hands together in case Underwood decided to try and grab it. He was certainly strong enough to pull it out of my hand, but not when I had both hands wrapped tightly around it. At least not until I had time to pull the trigger.
"Step back," I ordered. "Now. I mean it."
Underwood raised his hands in a defensive posture and started moving away from me. "Hold on there, cowboy. Take it easy now."
I pointed to a chair and told him to sit down. He sat. I locked the office door and we waited for Duke Savich to gather what was left of his wits and pull himself up to a kneeling position. You could practically see little blue jays flying around his head, chirping merrily. It took almost three minutes before he was composed enough to speak. It wasn't worth the wait.
"You fucking prick," he managed hoarsely.
"That's not very nice," I said and briefly debated whether to use the butt end of the .357 to smack him again. Had Underwood not been sitting there waiting for an opening, I might have been tempted.
"Uh-huh," he managed.
"Let's start by you answering some questions," I said.
"Get lost," he responded.
"Hey. I'm the one holding the gun. I'm the one that gets to deliver the insults," I told him. "And if either of you decides to get brave and take a run at me, I'm shooting both of you."
Underwood and Savich eyed each other nervously, as if they had been reading each other's minds. Savich finally shook his head. "Look, I don't know how we can help you."
Surveying the scene, I briefly considered how I arrived at this peculiar moment. At the start of the week, I was merely planning to do a simple investigation for a cranky client. Now I was in the unenviable situation of trying to squeeze the details of fundraising discrepancies out of two high school football coaches at gunpoint. Unfathomable, perhaps. But here I was.
"Tell me why Earl Bainbridge hired me," I said.
Savich sighed. "It's complicated."
"So's having a .357 pointed at you."
"Hey. There are some things that are confidential. Private business. You know and I know you're not going to shoot us."
I knew that, too. But sometimes a bluff can be worth it. "If I shoot one of you, I'll have to shoot and kill both of you. No witnesses. You attacked me, my life was endangered and I defended myself. Open and shut case."
They stared at me. "You're joking," Savich said.
"I wouldn't push that. You're the one who attacked me in the first place. All because you couldn't handle a couple of insults."
"I don't like you," he said.
"I don't like you, either. But that doesn't mean I get to act on every feeling."
"Look," Savich said, his voice starting to get annoyed. "There's no stealing going on here. I'm not getting rich off of this, I can assure you."
"Someone is," I pointed out. "Unless you think over a hundred grand isn't a lot of money."
Underwood shook his head. "This is L.A. Maybe it's not."
"Okay, look. Let's say I believe you're not stealing. I'll pretend for a minute the money is going to a worthy cause," I said and stopped for a moment and listened to my own words. "Okay. Maybe not so worthy. But I'll assume for a minute it's not going into your pocket. What is the big secret then?"
"If word gets out," Savich insisted, "we have a lot of problems with a lot of people. We'd get smeared, so would a few others. And the money? It's not going anywhere evil. That I can assure you."
I shook my head and looked at the pair. A gun pointed at them, veiled threats, and they still weren't going to talk. I decided to try a different tack. "How is this tied to what happened yesterday? The murder of Jason Fowler."
"I don't know that it is," Savich said. "Fowler had nothing to do with the football team. It's unrelated."
At that point, a loud knock came on the door. "Hey, Coach?"
The two of them suddenly looked up at me in unison. I put my index finger to my lips and lowered my voice. "Not a word about this," I whispered in my most threatening v
oice, which may not have come off as all that threatening, but when you have a gun in your hand, people tend to pay attention. I had no intention of shooting them, but threats can work wonders on behavior. "You hear me? I can come back, you know."
They both nodded quickly. A little too quickly perhaps, but I didn't have much of a choice. There was now another person potentially involved, and I wasn't about to keep them all hostage. I holstered my weapon and stepped back. I motioned to Savich to go over and open the door, which he did, although he was walking unevenly.
"Hi, Coach," said the equipment manager, a kid who looked as if he were barely sixteen. "I'm almost done with the cleats. But I have Biology in a few minutes. Can I finish up later?"
"Sure," said Savich.
The manager walked off. Without looking at Savich and Underwood, I left the office and trailed him down the hallway. I shot a glance behind us, and we weren't being followed. Nevertheless I quickened my pace.
"What's your name," I asked.
"Colin. Colin Holder."
"You're the team manager?"
"Equipment manager, mostly. You?"
"Interested observer," I said and flashed my fake gold shield. This was a plastic imitation of a police detective's badge which spelled out "Private Investigator" in navy blue lettering, in front of a design resembling a sunburst. Most people never got close enough to read it, nor were they able to easily do so in the one solitary second in which I presented it for viewing. But in that one second, I got their attention, and even though I wasn't a part of any legitimate police department, the badge evoked the very clear impression that I was.
"Oh, wow," he said, his eyes widening.
"What were you doing out there?"
"Just cleaning dirt out of the cleats, sir."
"I was wondering about that. You usually don't see dirt trapped in cleats unless it's muddy. We haven't had rain here in six months."
"I know. Big drought. They need to get field turf. The practice field is weird here. It's always wet."
I frowned. "Seen anything else strange around here lately? Maybe related to what happened yesterday?"
He looked at me in a different way. "What do you mean?"