Double Pass

by David Chill

  "Know anyone who'd like to harm Mr. Fowler?"

  He didn't answer right away. We continued to walk.

  "It's okay," I said. "You can talk freely. Better to speak what you know."

  "Mr. Fowler," Colin finally said. "He's been pretty friendly with some of the girls. I've seen them talking together. Real close like, you know? I thought the whole thing was retarded."

  "Which girls?"

  "I don't really know. I didn't get a good look."

  "A good look at what? Just what do you mean?"

  He stopped and glared at me. "I mean, I heard Mr. Fowler screwing someone last night. In some office. Mrs. Swain's office, I think. It was late, well after practice. Like, right on top of a desk. They were going at it pretty good. I didn't get a look at them, the blinds were drawn. I walked away pretty quick. Didn't feel it was my place to stare."

  "Did you tell the police this?"

  "There's nothing to tell, man. Like I said. I didn't see who the girl was."

  Chapter 6

  Climbing quickly into my Pathfinder, I turned over the ignition and roared away from St. Dismas. No one was behind me, so after about fifteen blocks, I pulled over onto a side street and began to ponder what to do next. There was still some coffee in my Starbucks cup, and I lifted it up and took a sip. Under the glow of an unyielding Pasadena sun, it had remained warm and curiously soothing. I thought of returning and getting a refill. I thought of going back to the police and telling them about my conversation with Colin Holder. I thought about driving to the beach and going for a swim. Instead, I took out my iPad and looked up an address. Fortunately, her office wasn't very far. Nothing in Pasadena was very far.

  Dr. Stacy Greenland's practice was located off Colorado Boulevard, a few blocks from Old Town. There were some open meters on the street, but they all had one-hour time limits and I didn't know how long I'd be. I also didn't like the idea of having my Pathfinder in public view, considering I had just brandished a weapon and effectively held two men hostage for a few minutes, something the Pasadena police would likely take a dim view of if they got wind of it. Instead, I parked around the corner in an enclosed garage that advertised all-day parking for $10. I might be with the doctor for just a few minutes, but I might well be there longer. Turning into the garage, I handed the money to a bored looking man standing inside a kiosk, who pointed toward some open spaces in the back.

  Her office was in a stylish, nine-story Art Deco building, the exterior painted in various shades of gray, with burgundy accents. The interior was much the same. I scanned through the directory and saw that most of the tenants were medical or therapeutic professionals, podiatrists, chiropractors, or psychologists and the like. There was even a listing for an organization that called itself The Tranquility Center. Out of curiosity, I walked by their office, only to see a hastily posted sign in blue magic marker that indicated the occupants had been evicted for nonpayment of rent.

  I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and found Dr. Greenland's office, the sign on the door detailing that her practice performed marriage, family, and child counseling. I entered the waiting room and sat down on one of three plush, comfy chairs. It was a quarter to ten, and a few minutes later, a dour looking middle-aged couple walked in. Neither of them said hello or acknowledged my presence. The man clearly looked like he'd rather be somewhere else. The woman walked across the room and pushed a button, which turned on a small yellow light. At precisely 10:00 a.m., Stacy Greenland opened the door, turned off the yellow light, and invited them inside. She frowned as she took note of me.

  "May I help you?" she asked.

  "Yes. The name is Burnside. We spoke briefly yesterday."

  "I remember. What are you doing here?"

  "I was hoping for a few minutes of your time."

  "I'm sorry. I have patients all morning."

  "I can wait," I said, well aware that I didn't have a lot else planned today.

  She looked at me pensively. "I can give you a few minutes at noon. But I would prefer it if you didn't wait here," she said, and closed the door without bothering to inquire if that was all right with me.

  Dr. Greenland may not have preferred it, but I chose to sit in her waiting room anyway. One never knows who one might meet. As it turned out, the only other patient was a sad-eyed young woman who arrived just before her 11:00 a.m. appointment. I spent two hours reading through the magazines Dr. Greenland subscribed to. The Atlantic and Architectural Digest were interesting, U.S. News & World Report and Psychology Today were not. I was debating whether to suggest she subscribe to Sports Illustrated, when the door opened and the Doctor ushered me in. I hadn't noticed the other patients leaving, so I assumed there was a special exit for them, or perhaps a trap door that sent them directly to the ground floor.

  "Well, Mr. Burnside, what is it you wish to speak with me about?" she asked. She didn't sit and didn't invite me to, either.

  "I'm doing an investigation of the fundraising at St. Dismas. I'm talking to a number of people. Teachers, coaches, parents, kids. Anyone who might be able to shine a light on what's going on there."

  "And just what do you think is going on there?" she asked.

  "A lot of the money that was raised for the team has apparently disappeared. Unaccounted for. One of the parents is concerned."

  "Oh. Well, I don't know how I can help you. We're not in a position to donate."

  I looked around Dr. Greenland's spacious office. There was some original artwork on the walls, an antique walnut desk in the corner and a pair of expensive-looking black leather recliners facing each other. Stationed nearby was what looked like a psychologist's couch. It wasn't exactly a couch, but more akin to an elongated chair that allowed patients to lie in a supine position, relax, and share their deepest, darkest thoughts. It looked comfortable and I wondered how many patients had fallen asleep on it.

  "I understand Noah is on scholarship."

  "Yes, the school has been very generous."

  I looked at her and said nothing. My experience with psychotherapists had been limited to a few instances, back in my LAPD days, when I had been involved in a shooting and the department mandated a few sessions. The therapists I saw were very good at eliciting conversation by saying little, if anything. And while these therapists weren't trying to pass on skills to me, I eventually incorporated some of their tactics. They often worked on suspects, and they were now working on Stacy Greenland.

  "You know," she finally said, a little wearily," I wasn't crazy about Noah's going there, and I'm still not crazy about Noah playing football. I'm very worried about concussions."

  Her concern was not unfounded, and the sport was taking some steps to remedy this, making changes to try and protect the players. I got the feeling that in a few decades, the game of football might be played very differently from the way it is today.

  "That's interesting," I commented. "Has Noah had any issues with that?"

  "No, fortunately not yet. But every time he gets hit on the field, I think I die a little."

  "That's a tough one," I said. "If you get this upset, why did you even let Noah go out for football? There are other sports he probably could have played. Baseball can always use pitchers with good arms."

  Her mouth tightened. "Noah insisted. Make that demanded. I let him play flag football when he was in middle school, but I refused to let him play tackle football. These coaches all saw what a great arm he had and were recruiting him. Bob wanted him to play. Obviously. He's totally seeped in the sport."

  "Of course," I said and then started being exceptionally nosy. "He's a football coach. Wasn't he a coach when you got married?"

  She stiffened. "He was a teacher. Bob didn't become a coach until later. But you don't choose who you fall in love with. It chooses you."

  I thought about that for a moment and decided to move on before I got a headache. "So you didn't let Noah play at first."

  "No. I put my foot down. We enrolled him in the local public high school. B
ob didn't like it, Noah didn't like it. He wasn't making friends. And then after his freshman year, Duke Savich offered him a scholarship to St. Dismas. I wouldn't budge. So Noah shut down on me."

  "Shut down?"

  "Yes, he shut down. Went on a speaking strike. Wouldn't talk to me all summer. And then when school began, he wouldn't get out of bed. Wouldn't go to school. Our house became one big battle zone. Noah felt I was manipulating him, not letting him have the life he wanted. I was only trying to protect him."

  "So you relented."

  "Yes," she said, shaking her head. "I had to. I was losing my son. We couldn't go on the way we were. Something had to give. As a parent, you don't have as much power as you think you do. I've reconciled with it. He gets to go to a good school for free."

  "And so you enrolled him at St. Dismas."

  "Yes. Noah was happy. At least at first. Then he started to recognize all the pressure that was on him. He had to win every week, or else he would shoulder the blame for losing."

  I sighed. It's an issue with the quarterback position. They get too much credit when the team wins and too much grief when the team loses. Quarterback is the most important factor in a team's success, but it's still a team game. And people watching from the stands won't recognize when a play gets botched because a receiver runs the wrong route, or when a lineman fails to make a key block. Fans just see a quarterback throwing what looks like a bad pass that gets intercepted. And it's easy to label someone a failure, even when the outcome of a game is not their fault.

  "So is your husband still involved in football?" I asked.

  "Yes. He runs a clinic for elite quarterbacks now."

  "Probably a lot of demand."

  "Maybe. I don't know. There are a lot of people doing that sort of thing. He'd like to get back into coaching at a school. Start getting a regular paycheck and put us onto a decent health insurance plan."

  "I didn't think things would be so tough for a doctor," I said.

  "My practice is down, but we're managing," she said. "But what is this about fundraising? That's what you came to talk about. Sorry. Every time I think of Noah and football, I get sidetracked."

  "I'm sorry about what you're going through. But regarding fundraising, something's going on at the school, and no one's talking. I'm asking questions and getting nowhere. I figure the more people I speak with, maybe someone can provide some insight."

  "I see."

  I tried another tack. "Are you friendly with Dash's mother? Skye Farsakian?"

  "I know her, of course. She's the team parent. She does a lot of the organizing. She has the time."

  "What do you mean she has the time?"

  "Oh, nothing," Stacy Greenland said with a wave of her hand. "Skye's been a stay-at-home mom. She doesn't work outside the house. Or at least up until now. Her husband owns a restaurant in town, the Valley Steakhouse. It was popular for a while, but I guess it hasn't been doing so well lately. I heard he had to reduce staff and give his employees a pay cut."

  "I imagine that didn't go over well," I said.

  "I wouldn't know. But Wally moved out, took up with a younger woman, a waitress, I'm sure you're familiar with that type of story. You can only imagine how devastated Skye was. Poor thing. But I heard the girl dumped Wally, so he's trying to get back together with Skye. If she'll take him back, that is. I sure wouldn't."

  I listened quietly, although I didn't quite know what to do with what I was hearing. "I'm sure that's been rough on her."

  "Yes. She's not quite the same person these days. It's hard to be ... abandoned like that."

  "How so?" I asked.

  "That should be obvious, Mr. Burnside."

  It was, but it never hurts to ask, I thought. "You think she has a lot of anger?"

  "Of course. I mean, we all do."

  "Are you and Skye close?"

  "Not really," she responded, oddly looking past me. "But our boys are friendly and they play on the team. She's not my type of person, she only has a high school degree, so there's limits to what we can talk about. But when you have children, you tend to associate more with the parents of the friends they make. For better or worse."

  "All right," I said, an involuntary sigh coming out of me. "Thank you for taking a few minutes to speak with me. Would you mind if I talked with your husband?"

  She paused for a moment. "I suppose, but he's traveling today. He'll be at the game tomorrow night. I'm sure you can catch him there. Although you'll probably have to fight your way through a dozen college recruiters. They always manage to surround us."

  I didn't bother to tell her I was pretty good at fighting my way through a lot of things. As I turned to leave I asked her a final question. "Where do you think Noah will wind up? College, I mean."

  "Stanford wants him," she said crisply, and I thought I saw a hint of exasperation cross her face. "I'm pushing him to go there. A full scholarship to Stanford would be phenomenal. But Bob wants to explore other options. I gather Stanford recruited another top quarterback last year, and he's already the starter. Bob thinks Noah can play in the NFL and make a lot of money, but it means going to the right college with the right system for him. And getting to be the starter right away."

  "I'm sure it's not an easy decision."

  "No. And the thought of him continuing to play football and risk a serious injury tears me up inside. It is making me a nervous wreck."

  At that point, she turned away from me, and I sensed, without needing to be told, that our time for this session today was up.

  *

  I stepped out into the blistering heat, and then quickly ducked back inside the air-conditioned lobby. The temperature had shot up past ninety degrees and the air was now dry and still. I had felt my phone vibrate at least three times when I was talking with Dr. Greenland, but decided she would be offended had I bothered to answer. Looking down at my phone now, I saw who had been calling. I punched the button to call back. He answered on the first ring.

  "Burnside. It's about time."

  "Hello to you, too, Earl."

  "My wife said you were here last night. I didn't expect you to drop by."

  "I was in the neighborhood. Sorry I didn't call first. I'm like that sometimes. Do you want to meet now? I'm in Pasadena."

  Earl hesitated. "I have a tee time in an hour," he said slowly. "Nah, let's just do this by phone."

  "All right. Terrible thing that happened at St. Dismas yesterday. I'm sure you've heard."

  "Yeah, of course. Tragic. But the world doesn't stop," he said, barely missing a beat. "So you find out who's been skimming my money over there?"

  I moved the phone away from my ear and looked at it. The degree of sympathy being exhibited was eye-opening. "No," I said, returning the phone back into position. "Not yet."

  "What have you learned? Remember I told you I wanted to know everything about everything."

  "I remember. And it's obvious Duke Savich knows something, but he's not about to talk. Same with Curly Underwood. Add in the principal of the school, too, Mularkey. They're all pretty tight-lipped."

  "Damn school's a bunch a thieves is what I figure. What else you got?"

  "Look, let me ask you something. How well do you know Dash Farsakian's mother?"

  "Skye? Oh, hell, everyone knows Skye. Wait a minute. You think she has something to do with this?"

  "I don't know. What do you think?"

  "Can't imagine. She's too honest. Or maybe too dumb. But Wally's got a restaurant. Pretty successful at one time. Hell, I wouldn't have thought they needed the money. But who knows, you know? Anything's possible, I guess she could have skimmed off the top. She ran the fundraisers, after all. You never know."

  I thought about this for a moment. Having money doesn't exclude someone as a suspect when it comes to theft. Some people steal because they have a secret habit, usually gambling or drugs. Some steal because their stream of income has been temporarily cut off. And some do it, well, just because they can. In my freshman year at U
SC, stereos were being swiped out of rooms in my dormitory. At least half a dozen students were victimized. The campus police surmised it was someone from the surrounding area, a blighted district near downtown L.A. The school limited access to the building and posted a security guard in the lobby to ward off anyone from the neighborhood. But as it turned out, the culprit was a kid from Newport Beach, a fellow student who lived in the dorm. His parents owned a multimillion dollar home, and they sent him checks every month for spending money. He didn't need the cash; he was stealing for the thrill of it, the adrenaline rush that comes with sneaking into someone else's room and grabbing property. He was doing it as a test, simply to see if he could get away with it. But when he was finally apprehended, the kid ended up being kicked out of school mid-semester. He then had to find a new college to transfer to, one that wouldn't object to a student with a freshly minted criminal record.

  "I spoke with Skye briefly the other day," I said. "The more I poke around, the more I get a sense she's involved in something that's not so terrific. I don't know what that is yet."

  "Ah, look, she's a good ol' gal," Earl said. "I honestly think you're barking up the wrong tree. I can vouch for that family. They're good people. You look into Noah Greenland and his family? That bunch always bothered me."

  "I have looked into them. They're ... a little unusual," I managed. "I haven't met the father yet, but they're not your typical football family."

  "They're a bunch of nut jobs," Earl declared. "Something's wrong with them."

  "I wouldn't know," I said.

  "You keep poking around," Earl ordered. "I want some answers here. I want to get something more for all that money I'm paying you."

  And with that, he hung up. I hadn't bothered to tell him about my altercation with Coach Savich, or that Jason Fowler was rumored to have been sexually involved with someone, possibly a student, and it may have cost him his life. How all that was tied to some missing funds was a mystery, but I was keenly aware that murder is frequently tied, however tangentially, to either money or sex. Sometimes both.