Double Pass

by David Chill

  "What did they check out?" I peered at him.

  "Looks like this Greenland was getting his pud wet this afternoon. Right behind the bleachers. Geez, is everyone at this school getting their ashes hauled on campus?"

  "Charming language."

  "Ah, don't rain on my parade. The M.E. techs found stains on Bob Greenland's drawers. Someone had a little afternoon delight with him. Then decided to slit his throat. Won't be hard to see if there's a DNA match with Vicki Sailor. I think we're dealing with a black widow spider here. I'll bet she did Fowler, too. Looks like we're gettin' close to the finish line."

  *

  I decided against returning to Pasadena the next day. The police would take a dim view of my showing up at St. Dismas, and I could not imagine I'd be granted access to the campus. And perhaps as importantly, the school had a clear need to mourn. Capital crimes have been occurring on high school campuses more frequently these days, but it was almost unimaginable that a school would have to go through this nightmare twice in less than a week. The tragedy of having a teacher murdered on school grounds, regardless of the reason, followed by the murder of a parent soon after, was a jarring and frightening situation. Even in today's hardened media world, teenagers are still impressionable, and the blinding spotlight of the national press could be almost as overwhelming as the incidents themselves. And staying away would also let me focus on my other case.

  It was right before 5:30 p.m. when I pulled up at Shutters Hotel, and I handed the neatly dressed valet the keys to my Pathfinder. I knew I was an hour ahead of Doug Trueblood's scheduled arrival, but I wanted to become more familiar with the surroundings. I rode the elevator up to a few of the floors, and they looked identical. The hallways were spacious, the decor was beautiful, and the carpeting was plush. I found the emergency stairwells in the event I needed to use them. I noticed a door open in one of the guest rooms and a housekeeper was in the midst of cleaning the room. I strolled in, looked around, then effusively apologized for entering the wrong room. It was a nice room, large, but no different than any other nice hotel, except that these windows looked out onto a panoramic view of Santa Monica Bay, the glistening Pacific shimmering under a late afternoon sun.

  Back down into the lobby, I seated myself in a comfy chair facing the front door. There was the usual pre-dinner activity, and a few people were seated, either chatting with a companion or awaiting one. People came, people went. Finally, after about 45 minutes, Doug Trueblood sauntered in. I watched him carefully and was ready to get up and follow him. But he didn't head toward the elevator this time. Instead, he scanned the lobby, a quizzical expression on his face. Then he smiled knowingly and walked over to a young woman seated about 20 feet away.

  It was an understatement to say she was young and beautiful. She was also tall and had a shapely figure. Her golden blonde hair cascaded halfway down her back. She had sparkling green eyes, drawn out by a low-cut Kelly-green top and a gold necklace. She wore white slacks and managed to pull off the difficult trick of looking both elegant and casual at the same time. And to my keenly trained investigator's mind, she looked as if she were all of, but no more than, twenty-one years old.

  She stood up and they embraced. They gazed into each other's eyes. He smiled and she smiled. I decided to wait until they turned toward the elevator before following them, my goal being to avoid the hint of suspicion it might bring. But they did not journey to the elevator and up to one of the hotel rooms. Instead, they walked across the lobby and up the short set of stairs into the dining room. I slowly followed, maintaining a good distance before stopping at the entrance.

  After they were seated at a table facing the ocean, I walked into the spacious restaurant and headed toward the bar. It was an impressive room. The vaulted, high-beam ceiling was painted white, and there were black wrought-iron light fixtures hanging down over each table. The hardwood floors positively gleamed. Easing onto a stool, I picked up a menu and scanned it absently. Everything looked sublimely interesting and extraordinarily expensive. This was the type of place I might have taken Gail when I was making a robust income as a football coach, and paying for a babysitter was easy. These days, date night was more likely to be dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, and occasionally we would include Marcus. I set the menu down on the bar and ordered a passion fruit iced tea. The young, overly-friendly bartender smiled brightly and told me today was his first day on the job. He tried to be chatty, but I just smiled and looked the other way. After he moved on down the bar, I pulled out my phone.

  Rebecca Linzmeier answered on the first ring and dispensed with any hint of formality or greeting. It was strictly business at this point.

  "Are you there?" she said almost breathlessly.

  "I'm here," I answered.

  "What room are they doing it in?"

  "They're not doing it in a room."

  "What are you talking about?! What are they ... doing it in public?!"

  I sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. And calm down."

  "You calm down," she snarled. "My life is falling apart. Tell me what's going on."

  "They're having dinner," I said. "In the hotel dining room."

  "Shutters?"

  "Yes, Shutters."

  "I'll be right there."

  "Rebecca."

  "Yes."

  "Remember our agreement," I said.

  There was a long pause and then the line went dead. I shook my head and put my phone back in my pocket. I double-checked my ankle holster and took a long drink of iced tea. I briefly thought of ordering a shot of Jack Daniels, but decided that would have to wait. I tried to avoid staring at Doug Trueblood and his companion, occasionally shooting a glance their way to make sure they hadn't left, without making it seem obvious that I was spying. Or leering. I didn't know how Doug Trueblood came to know a girl like this, but she was impressive. He might indeed be committing infidelity, a show-stopping violation of his relationship, but I couldn't prevent myself from considering the fact that the man seemed to have remarkably good taste.

  Rebecca Linzemeier appeared at the entrance of the restaurant and spoke briefly to the maître d'. He waved her on in, and I slipped off my barstool and hurried to intercept her. I moved directly into her path and put out my hands.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  "Trying to keep things civil."

  "I need to confront him. He's right there. I see what he's doing."

  "Don't make a scene," I said, adding an admonishment I would occasionally employ with Marcus. "Remember, you promised."

  She took a breath. "All right."

  "I'll be right behind you," I said, wondering if I should also remind her to use her inside voice. "But I'm not afraid to jerk you away if I see even the hint of anything ugly about to happen."

  "All right," she snapped.

  Rebecca pushed past me and approached the couple. They had just finished their appetizer. It looked as if he had ordered the fried calamari and she had had the kale salad. I wondered if they were worth $18 apiece.

  "Doug," Rebecca started, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "So nice to see you here. I hope your business meeting is going well."

  "Sweetheart," he said, putting his napkin on the table and getting up. "I wasn't expecting you."

  "I'm sure you weren't," she said, her voice beginning to crack and her hands balling up into small fists.

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  "Why do you think?" she responded and began eyeing the young woman. At that point, I stepped forward and placed myself in-between Rebecca and the couple.

  "Hello there," I said with a smile. "I'm Burnside."

  Doug Trueblood reached over and shook my hand. "You look familiar."

  "I get that a lot."

  "You used to live in Rebecca's building."

  "I did. About three years ago. Good memory."

  "Where are you now?"

  "Over in Mar Vista. We bought a house."

  "I hear that's a nice area."

&nbs
p; "Yeah, we like it."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" exploded Rebecca. "Are you two going to be best buds now?! I want to know what the hell's going on here! Who is this woman, Doug?!"

  "Sweetheart, look ..."

  "Is this how it ends? After six years in a relationship? This is what happens?"

  The beautiful young woman tried to speak. "I don't think you quite understand. It's really ... "

  "Really what?!" Rebecca screamed, some tears starting to stream down her face, as people at other tables turned to watch the spectacle. "Tell me what it really is?"

  "Sweetheart, I didn't know how to explain it to you," Doug said.

  "You could have been a man and just said so," she sobbed. "You didn't have to run around behind my back."

  "I'm not," he pleaded. "Honest, I'm not. I want to explain."

  I put my hand on Rebecca's arm. "Let him speak."

  "This isn't some girlfriend," he said, raising his hands for emphasis. "She's much more than that."

  Rebecca stared. "More?!"

  "It's ... well ... "

  "I'm his daughter," the beautiful young woman broke in. "One he didn't know he had until a few months ago."

  "What?"

  "Yes," the young woman said with a sad smile. "I looked him up. In fact, I went and hired a private detective to find him. I always wanted to find my birth parents. To find out about who they were. To find out about who I am."

  The expression on Rebecca Linzmeier's face was a mixture of shock and disbelief. She brushed away the tears, and for a moment I thought I saw her face relax. "That's just ... so ... I had no idea."

  "I was adopted," she continued. "Dad said they had me when they were very young, didn't think they were ready to be parents."

  I took a glance around the dining room. A few patrons were still staring, but most had gone back to their meals, the drama having been alleviated as far as they needed it to be. I cleared my throat. "Were your adopted parents wealthy by chance?" I asked.

  "Oh, no. Middle-class. Wonderful people, but not rich. They were insurance agents, actually. We had a nice house, but nothing fancy."

  "So then how'd you wind up staying at Shutters?" I asked, sensing this was none of my business, but curiosity was an ingrained trait I would never shed.

  "I'm an actress," she smiled. "I landed a part in a TV series. They fly me out here to L.A. a lot when we're shooting. The studio puts me up. The side benefit is I get to see Dad."

  I looked over at Rebecca and she was still blinking away tears, but they no longer seemed like tears of rage. She fell into Doug's arms and hugged him for a long time. I sensed this would be a good time for me to exit, as my work here was done. I gave everyone a little wave and headed for the door. As I quickly walked down the stairs, the young, overly-friendly bartender came flying after me. He did not look so friendly any more.

  "Sir!"

  I turned back to him. "Yes?"

  "Are you going to pay for your drink?"

  I gave him a blank stare. I had forgotten all about that.

  "I don't want to have to call the police," he said sternly.

  "No," I said, reaching into my wallet and wondering how much the police would laugh if they were called about a petty matter like this. "I wouldn't want you to call the police. And I doubt the manager of this hotel would want you to, either."

  Chapter 12

  I spent the better part of the next few days basking in the glow of a closed case. There was no betrayal and no cheating, and the initial tears of rage managed to evolve into tears of joy. The only thing that could have upended Rebecca Linzmeier's relationship with a good man was Ms. Linzmeier herself. Fortunately, she caught herself in time, and I liked to think I played a role, small perhaps, but undeniably necessary. Had I not been around, Rebecca might well have thrown a drink at her boyfriend before either he or his daughter could explain things.

  The few messages I left for the detectives in Pasadena yielded not even the courtesy of a returned phone call. It was hardly a surprise, detectives are often busy, and keeping a lowly P.I. in the loop is relegated to the bottom of their to-do list, if it even is on the list at all. But on Friday morning, I did get a call from Pasadena, not from the Police department, but from a representative of an upstanding member of the community. Earl Bainbridge, a woman's voice on the phone told me, would like me to pay him a visit. She asked me to be there at noon, which meant there was a good chance I would arrive in that narrow window between when Earl was fully awake, but had not yet imbibed his first cocktail of the day.

  Pasadena was no longer beset by the scorching heat of the past few weeks, although it was still plenty warm by the time I arrived at Earl's. But whether it be the height of summer or the dead of winter, the estate always looked the same; the pine trees were always full and the grass was always lush. No matter how many times I visited, I could not help but be taken in by the Tudor design and the colorful landscaping, all surrounded by that regal stone fence. Earl had remarkable taste, or more likely, someone in his lineage did. He might have been the bane of my existence the past few weeks, but having access to the Bainbridge Estate at least provided me with a glimpse into this privileged world. It was a world in which I couldn't afford to reside, might not even want to, but it was intoxicating just to be able to visit it occasionally. I pressed the button next to the intercom in front of the gate, but instead of being required to identify myself, the black gates simply opened, and I slowly drove inside the grounds, parking carefully on the cobblestone driveway.

  A maid in a frilly black and white uniform led me inside, through a foyer featuring a spectacular crystal chandelier, then down a deeply carpeted hallway lined with dark wood. We wound up in a spacious breakfast nook, where Earl Bainbridge sat at a mahogany table, wearing a maroon robe over his pajamas. In front of him was a cup of black coffee and a plate containing what looked like two brown eggs inside thin silver egg cups. The servant took a device that looked like a cross between a pair of scissors and a cigar cutter, and used it to neatly slice the top sections of both eggs. The soft orange yolks oozed slightly out of their shells, and a couple of drops slid down the side. Earl motioned for me to sit down as he picked up a small, neatly cut, rectangular stick of toast and dipped it into one of the eggs. He didn't offer any to me and I didn't bother asking. It was very plain; Earl was the lord, I was merely the hired help.

  "So Burnside," he began as he took a bite.

  "Good morning, Earl. Or good afternoon, as the case may be."

  "Yes, I suppose it technically is after noon. Thanks for coming by. I was hoping you'd call with an update on the case."

  "Nothing to update right now. I've hit a dead end on the missing funds. No one's talking. I might have a chance at getting some help from the police, but not yet. I think it might be a long shot."

  "Well," Earl said between bites, taking a lace napkin and wiping some errant yolk from his mouth. "I had a feeling you were going to come up empty. I've actually learned a few tidbits myself. Not about the money, I'm still holding you accountable there. But I've found out some interesting things about all that other unpleasantness that's been going on."

  "By unpleasantness, you mean the murders," I said, feeling a need to clarify.

  "Yes, yes, one of the boys down at the club has a grandson who works in the prosecutor's office. The Pasadena cops did some DNA testing. Preliminary results, mind you. The detectives said you were barking up the right tree after all."

  "How so?

  "Vicki Sailor," he said, picking up another stick of toast. "Student at the school, I guess. She was friendly with that history teacher, what's his name again?"

  "Fowler. Jason Fowler."

  "Yes, Fowler. So the cops picked her up this week. They've been trying to get her to confess. No murder weapon was found yet, but they've got something on her. I guess the detectives found her underwear and tested it. You know they found it in Fowler's office in the school? Guess she forgot it. Or maybe he wanted a souvenir. Trophy or som
ething like that. Anyway, the DNA came back positive, those panties were hers. Preliminary, I'm told, but they think it's solid. Now they're trying to tie her to Bob Greenland. Be nice if they could wrap both of them murders up before the game tonight."

  I shook my head. "A little too neat. And they'd still need to establish a motive."

  "Oh, the cops'll figure something out. This town has a good police force. They'll yank it out of her."

  "Lovely," I said.

  Earl smiled an ugly smile. "It all fits together, doesn't it? Two people get stabbed within a week at that same damned school. They'll piece together a motive. The cops are convinced she's the one, anyway."

  "Something doesn't add up here. Bob Greenland have any enemies you know of?"

  "Besides me?" he cackled.

  "Come on, Earl," I said, starting to get very weary of him.

  "Oh, there was that guy Bob took apart, the parent of some player a few years back. Stan Weekes, I think, yeah, that's who the parent was. Back when Bob was coaching at the school. Weekes was mad that his kid was riding the bench, so he gave Bob a piece of his mind. Guess he said the wrong thing and really set Bob off. Stan wound up in the hospital. Cost Bob Greenland his career in the end."

  "You know this Stan Weekes?"

  "Nope, they weren't a Pasadena family. Oh, they might have lived here, but they didn't run in our circles. They weren't part of our crowd."

  "Know where I might find him?" I asked.

  "Heard he moved a while back. Arizona. Health problems. That's all I know. Why?"

  "Just curious. Obviously someone did this. I'm just not sold on Vicki Sailor."

  "Yeah, well, I have to tell you, this thing, these murders? It's really messing up the team. Just when Austin gets his big break, he gets to start at quarterback tonight, but now this nastiness with Bob Greenland happens. You know, Austin told me Dash used to have a thing with that Vicki. The girl's trying to pin the whole thing on Dash's mom. Can you believe that? Girl said she walked in on Skye screwing the teacher, but no one's paying much attention to that. The cops are convinced it's Vicki. Thanks to you. I guess you're the one who gave them the tip."