Double Pass

by David Chill

  I sat in my Pathfinder, unsure of whether or not to enter the premises. I felt decidedly more comfortable going in if Duke Savich was alone, knowing I could handle him. But it looked like he had a visitor, and that represented a big unknown. Risking another altercation in a quiet building with the wrong people could have deadly consequences. After about three minutes, the situation resolved itself. Chuck Mantle walked out of the school and started to unlock his silver rental car.

  "Hey there," I smiled, walking over. "Spending the weekend, I see. Doesn't that team of yours in Texas need you?"

  "Well, looky here. If it isn't the Trojan warrior. Nah, we're on bye week. You still sniffing around this place?"

  "Can't stay away," I said and shook his hand. "What'd you think of the game last night?"

  "Learned some things," he said crisply.

  "Don't need to worry about me stealing any intel. I'm out of that business."

  "Sure you are. Until you're not. Look, we're still pursuing Noah, but maybe not as much now."

  "Kid has some problems. They can be worked out. If he still wants to play football after this."

  "I imagine he does. Savich told me he spoke with the parents. They said it was all an accident, no intentional overdose. Kid made an innocent mistake, that's all."

  "Hope that's true," I said, doubting that it was.

  "And we'll still offer him. Not too many kids come along with a cannon for an arm and a big brain, too. I can't say as if Noah'll take us up on it, every school in the nation is after him. But I'm tired of recruiting quarterbacks that can't get out of single digits on a Wonderlic test."

  I shook my head. "Those tests don't mean much. Dan Marino had a low Wonderlic score. Wound up becoming one of the greatest QBs ever."

  "Yeah, well, there are always outliers. Anyway, Noah has a big upside, but like I said, he just comes with some baggage."

  "His father?" I asked, peering at him.

  "His father, his mother, his coach. I just got done with Savich. There's another kid on the team I'm looking at. But Savich keeps pushing himself into the conversation and I finally had to tell him I'm recruiting players, not assistant coaches."

  "How'd he take it?" I asked.

  "How do you think he took it? Guy's desperate. You go to the game last night?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then you saw him. All over Noah whenever he made one false step. Savich has no control over his temper. I'm not bringing on a coach with an anger management problem. That guy is like a bull who brings along his own china shop."

  I smiled. "Nice way to put it."

  "Yeah, well the trip hasn't been a complete waste. I'm also offering that kid from De La Salle. The one who bull rushed past his guy and slammed Noah to the ground. Great effort. Man, that kid is a beast."

  "He should have gotten called for a personal foul on that play. Helmet-to-helmet. Illegal hit."

  "Maybe. But it doesn't hurt to have a badass or two on the team. I don't mind a guy who breaks the rules once in a while. Sometimes that's what it takes to win. Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah," I said weakly, thinking I didn't want to look in the mirror right now. "I know exactly what you mean."

  "Look, you know the drill. This is why we fly around the country. Nothing beats seeing players with your own two eyes, the film only tells you so much. One time we signed this Parade All-American, a center that was destroying everyone he faced. Never got to see him play in person, so we didn't know that his competition was mediocre. When we got the guy enrolled, we found out he could barely move our third-string nose guard out of the way."

  "I know. I remember the life."

  "All right. Well, good luck to you. Let me know if you ever want to get back into this world," Mantle said, opening the car door. "And by the way, I hear you're not a guy to mess with."

  I stared at him. "How'd you hear that?"

  "Word gets around. Underwood told me, actually. Don't worry. Savich isn't filing charges. Coaches live and die by their image as tough guys. Hard to do that if everyone knows you got punched out by someone. Doesn't matter by who."

  I took this in and gave a quick wave to Mantle as he got in his car and barreled out of the parking lot. Taking a deep breath, I walked inside the building, down the narrow hall. I cast a shadow over Duke Savich's doorway. He was sitting at his desk, looking down at some papers. I rapped softly. He glanced at me and then jumped up and pointed a finger.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Savich demanded.

  "Only want to talk," I said, raising my hands. "I come in peace."

  Savich reached across his desk, grabbed a knife and held it up, gripping it in more of a defensive posture than in a menacing way. But his eyes were wide and he had that crazed look a person gets when they're scared. It's a look which communicates the person is capable of anything, and they are not rational enough to think deeply about the consequences of their actions.

  "Get out of here!" he barked.

  I looked over at a metal chair in the corner and sat down. Reaching down, I placed my right hand on my ankle holster. Just in case. I gave him a bored look.

  "Sit down and put that knife away," I said softly. "I'm not looking for a brawl. But if you come at me, I'm going to shoot you. I don't want to shoot you. I've got better things to do tonight than spend it explaining to the police why I had to shoot you."

  He stood there for a long moment before sanity began to wash over him. It took some time, but he finally seemed to realize just how foolish he looked. He tossed the knife on the desk, and then sheepishly sat down and slid back in his chair.

  "All right. Just what the hell do you want now?" he asked in a voice that was tinged with fatigue.

  I pointed to his desk. "You always keep a knife nearby? Is Pasadena that tough a place these days?"

  "Smartass. We use it to scrape the dried mud off of the cleats. Why else would we need it?"

  "I don't know," I lied. "Why would you have mud stuck on players' cleats in the first place? We haven't had rain here in six months."

  "Sprinkler system," he shrugged. "Someone fiddled with the timer. Goes off five times a day some days. Been happening for a while, I just can't get it stopped. And the Department of Water and Power is now saying we're liable for a big fine if we don't fix it soon. They say we're wasting water."

  "Uh-huh," I said and tried to steer him back to a more prescient matter. "Anyone else have access to that knife?"

  "Just what the hell are you implying?" he asked, his indignation starting to rise.

  "What else? Jason Fowler."

  He stared at me. "That's crazy. And no. Only the coaches and the team manager. Why the hell would anyone around here want to stab a teacher?"

  "Someone did."

  "Yeah, well, I can't imagine who. Had to have been an outsider. Unrelated to the team."

  "All right," I said.

  "That it? Anything else you want to accuse me of?"

  "Maybe. I'm still looking into where all the fundraising money went."

  Savich sighed. "Here and there. Earl should mind his own damned business."

  "He's not going to. And at this point, neither am I. This is sounding more and more like fraud."

  "You don't know what you're talking about. It actually has to do with that sprinkler system."

  "The one that's broken and you haven't spent the money to fix?" I asked. "I guess that's cheaper than installing field turf."

  "Couple of kids got hurt. Parents sued. We're paying their medical bills. Not something we want to fund out of the school coffers."

  "Why not? Doesn't the school have insurance?"

  "It's an out-of-court settlement. Plus, we need to keep it quiet. We still have to recruit new kids every year. Bad publicity for a school that has more than its share of kids getting injured."

  "That's where over a hundred thousand dollars went?" I asked skeptically.

  "I'm not going to discuss everything with you. I don't care if you have a gun or not. Some things are of
f limits."

  "Earl's not going to stop poking here."

  "Tell Earl to go fuck himself. I'm tired of his shit. Tired of a lot of things around here. Last night was so bad. National exposure against De La Salle. And we blew it."

  I looked at Savich slumping in his chair. He struck me as a man who was running out of options. And once Noah signed, all of his leverage would be gone.

  "Tell me about Skye Farsakian," I said, trying to keep him focused on the subject at hand.

  "Skye? What about her? She's a team parent. Helps out."

  "She was involved with Jason Fowler."

  Savich's eyebrows lifted. "What do you mean?"

  "I know she's been raising more than just funds."

  Savich glared at me. "You've got a dirty mind."

  "I wasn't the one who made reference to the size of her breasts. What's her involvement in all of this? I'm going to find out anyway. Why don't you just tell me."

  "Skye helps out. It's good for us and good for her. She's had it rough. Her husband left her last year, now he's wants back in. That poor woman's got to be confused as hell."

  "So you figure that's why Skye was having an affair with Fowler," I said, watching him closely. His eyes narrowed and his breathing became erratic. I took a quick glance at his desk to be certain where the knife was.

  "Really, I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "That's news to me. But if you're implying Skye Farsakian had some involvement in Fowler's murder, you're nuts. Skye couldn't hurt an ant."

  I got up. "So what's the future hold for you?"

  "I don't know," Savich said. "Tonight I'm going to curl up with a bottle of Bushmills and try to drink this weekend away."

  I didn't blame him. But I felt like telling him you couldn't drown your problems because they just learn to swim. Instead, I left without saying anything more because I doubted he'd pay any attention. I got in the Pathfinder and headed back to Mar Vista. On the way, I called up Al Diamond and told him about a knife sitting on the desk in Duke Savich's office.

  Chapter 10

  The Pasadena heat had finally drifted over to the Westside, and by 9:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, Mar Vista had reached 81 degrees. Gail and I decided this would make for an excellent beach day, provided we got to Santa Monica quickly. If we arrived early enough, we'd have our pick of beaches. But people tend to go back to where they know, the familiar terrain, and in L.A. that often means a place where you know you can secure a parking spot.

  The small lots next to the main beach were already full, so I drove up the California Incline and parked along the bluffs at Ocean and Montana. This was only a few blocks from where we used to live, back in the days when we were unencumbered, which was another way of saying childless. It was also where Rebecca Linzmeier still lived. Walking down the steps to the sand, I had the feeling that Marcus, excited as he was at the prospect of splashing around in the ocean, would probably need to be carried back up once his energy abated. I didn't relish the thought of it, but it was a responsibility that came along with being a dad. The joys, however, of seeing Marcus grow, and appreciating the wonders of childhood, were things that more than offset any inconvenience.

  We settled in and I led Marcus down to the water's edge. The surf was mild today, and we played a game of running toward the ocean until the wave was about to break. As the water slid quickly toward us, we darted back toward the warm sand. Occasionally, the wave would wash over our feet, and Marcus would giggle excitedly as the cold water raced under him. We played catch with a very soft mini-football, and I encouraged him to catch it with his hands and then nestle it against his body. Once in a while he succeeded, and I gave him a big round of applause. We eventually made our way back to Gail, and she set Marcus up with a pail of wet sand and let him begin making a castle. I collapsed into a beach chair and pulled out a Coke from the cooler.

  "Mmmm," I sighed, closing my eyes as I took a sip. "That tastes better than you can imagine."

  "You've had a long week," Gail said. "I hope Earl is paying you overtime."

  "I got a four-day retainer, but I've blown past that. The investigation has sailed beyond merely embezzling funds, it's now murder. I don't know that I can charge Earl for looking into that, too."

  "Will the murder investigation help lead you to where the missing funds went?"

  I thought about that. "Maybe. I'm working an angle."

  "Then it sounds like you've got a reasonable argument."

  "If he'll cough up this time. I don't care to wait another eight years for payment."

  Gail smiled. She was wearing a black one-piece bathing suit and looked good. She always looked good. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was busy squirting sunscreen into her hand and rubbing it onto Marcus's back as he worked diligently on his project.

  "People can evolve."

  "Sometimes. I'll show you the extra check if I get it. You'll need to help me spend it."

  "I can work with that," she smiled. "So we've barely had time to talk this week. How are things going on this case?"

  I took another long pull on the can of Coke and looked out at the distant horizon. It was a perfect horizon. The ocean was a dark blue, almost purplish in fact, and there were no clouds in the sky. The forecast was for Santa Monica to reach the high 80s, which meant most everywhere else would be in the high 90s at least. I imagined Pasadena would surely hit triple digits.

  "Things are going quite slowly," I sighed.

  "What have you uncovered so far?" Gail asked.

  "There's a woman who has a role in both of these events, although it may be peripheral. Her name is Skye Farsakian."

  "Now that's quite a name."

  "Yeah. She was the parent helping to chair the fundraising drive for the football program. But she doesn't seem to have played any part in where the money went after that."

  "And how is she connected to the murder?"

  "She was sleeping with the victim," I said.

  "Ah. The plot thickens. A team parent having an affair with a teacher."

  "Not quite what it seems. Her husband left her for a younger woman. They were separated. Nothing ostensibly wrong with her having a fling, although doing the deed in the teacher's office wasn't using good judgment."

  "How did you find out about this?" she frowned.

  "One student told me he was walking by the office one day and heard it. Might or might not have meant anything, but a second student said she actually walked in on them. In the act. She sounded honest. Didn't seem like she played any role in this other than as a brief and unintended observer."

  "Did either student tell the police?"

  "No, I doubt they understood the implications of all this."

  "Ouch."

  "Teenagers," I reminded her. "Probably don't plan to go into law enforcement."

  "It's not a career for everyone," Gail said and reached into the cooler to pull out a Coke for herself.

  "And then there's this guy named Noah Greenland, who's got a national reputation."

  "Principal?"

  "Quarterback. He's one of the most sought-after recruits in the nation. Johnny got him to commit to SC last year, but Noah decommitted when Johnny left for Chicago. Seems like everyone wants to grab a piece of this kid's success. He's having a bad time of it, and senior year in high school is one period where you're supposed to enjoy yourself."

  "How is he related to this case?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he isn't. His father used to coach at St. Dismas. But Noah played poorly in Friday night's game. Then he went home and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills."

  "He obviously has more problems than simply having a bad game."

  "May have been an accident. But something's not right there. I'd say he needs to see a psychologist, but he already has one in the family, his mother. And his father not only was the former coach, but he got fired from the school to boot. It's complicated."

  "Quite a combination he has for parents, a therapist and a foot
ball coach."

  "I guess. Sometimes an odd combination works. In this case, not so much. I thought I'd seen it all. But I'd never had a parent blatantly ask for cash to get their son to commit to a college. That's apparently what his father was doing."

  Gail sighed. "Parents these days are becoming more like career managers, not the traditional moms and dads of the past. And those are the ones who technically operate within the law. My goodness. I just finished prosecuting a father-son burglary team."

  "Don't see that every day," I said.

  "No. Apparently the father would go to one of the long-term parking lots near the airport. He'd break into the cars, but he was only after two things. The owner's address, and their garage-door opener. Then he'd give both to the son."

  "Ah. Bonding through crime. So the son didn't have to worry about picking the front-door lock."

  "Exactly. They knew the people were traveling and unlikely to be home, so the son would go and burglarize the house."

  I had heard about this trick many years ago. "And since the victims weren't congregated in one neighborhood, the police didn't notice a pattern."

  "Yes. Some of the victims posted vacation pictures on Facebook, but not everyone did. It all seemed random."

  "How did they end up getting caught?"

  "One of the houses they broke into. Turns out the wife was on a business trip, but the husband was home. And he had a .44 lying around. He heard the garage door open, and when the son started to enter, well, he got a nasty surprise. He got shot in the foot."

  "Not a good day for him. Did the police get him to turn in his father?" I asked.

  "No, the homeowner did. Shot him in the other foot and said he'd keep shooting until he told him how he got ahold of the garage door opener. He gave his father up pretty quick."