by David Chill
"Yeah," I muttered. "That's just swell."
"Ah, relax. You just focus on finding out about my money. Now what did you say about working with the police on figuring this out?"
"Look, Earl. I asked the detectives for a favor. Sometimes they deliver, sometimes they don't. I'll keep working it, but it may be a dry hole here. The truth will come out eventually. I'm just not sure when. And I don't know that it's a good use of my time or your money for me to keep plugging away at this."
"My money?" he looked at me. "I've paid you a lot of money already, Burnside. I expect results. Don't tell me you're going to pad the bill now. Extra days?"
I was reluctant to remind him that a lot of his payment included a past-due bill that was almost a decade in arrears. "No, Earl. I'm not planning to charge you extra right now. But I've been putting in some long days on this, a good bit more than the four days you paid for up front. Your retainer's spent. Maybe we'll get some details out of this, maybe we won't."
Earl gave me a long, hard glare. "I didn't like how your work ended last time. That's why I didn't pay you then. And I'm not liking how your work is going this time, either. You remember that."
I stared at him. "Earl."
"Yes?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"Now you look here, Burnside. I'm just saying that I'm a man who's used to getting what he wants. And I want to know what happened to all my money. I know I won't get it back. But I have a right to know what hole it went down."
*
Not having been invited to lunch at the Bainbridge Estate, I made my way back to Colorado Boulevard, parked, and walked around for a while. The St. Dismas football game wouldn't kick off for another six hours, so I had ample time to kill. I didn't think anything positive would emerge from yet another visit to the Pasadena police station, and anyone I wanted to speak with would most likely be at the game tonight.
Earl's poached egg breakfast probably got me in the mood, so I found a nice little bakery called Euro Pane which specialized in egg salad sandwiches. It was good egg salad. Actually, it was great egg salad, although one doesn't normally classify as "great" something that is so simple to prepare. It reminded me of how certain Chinese food critics will judge a restaurant on its orange chicken. While orange chicken is hardly a sophisticated dish, the thinking goes that if a chef can't be bothered to perform the basics properly, there is little point in assessing their more nuanced dishes.
With an abundance of free time today, I did some window shopping along Old Town Pasadena, wandered around Vroman's Bookstore, took a much-needed nap in the back seat of my Pathfinder, and then had a six dollar cup of Rwandan coffee at a trendy cafe called Intelligentsia. It was a good cup of coffee, but not a six dollar cup of coffee. I wasn't sure what a six dollar cup of coffee would be like, other than I was convinced I'd know it when I'd tasted it. The cafe was fairly empty, and I lingered at my table, scouring through Internet sites for details on Rwandan coffee. I found little. Maybe I was paying for the atmosphere, although paying six dollars to sit in a near-empty coffee house with the interior painted black and the ceiling strung with over a hundred chartreuse colored radio bulbs didn't strike me as a good deal for the money.
I arrived at St. Dismas Field two hours before kickoff. The school was playing Bishop Amat, and the visiting team was already on the grass, stretching and limbering up. There were a few people sprinkled around the bleachers. I saw one who looked quite familiar. The last time I saw her she was wearing a skimpy white bikini. Today she was only slightly more covered, wearing a blue halter and shorts. Skye Farsakian looked up at me as I approached, but did not say anything. She looked forlorn. Or maybe forsaken. I sat down next to her, and we both stared wordlessly out at the field for a while. Finally I spoke.
"I understand the police took your statement."
"Yes. Among other things. Thanks to you," she said in a detached way.
"Me?"
"You told the police about Vicki Sailor. And after they questioned her, Vicki Sailor had the gall to accuse me of murder. And the police wanted to run a DNA test on me."
"Sorry. But I heard the police are looking at her as the prime suspect."
"They should be," Skye said. "But to divert things, apparently Vicki gave the police my name. Told them I was having an affair with Jason. And of course, after people have affairs, they always murder them, don't they?"
I didn't bother informing Skye that I was the one who mentioned her Jason Fowler affair to the police, in exchange for the remote possibility of some information on what was, by comparison, the trite issue of some missing funds. Passing along scuttlebutt from an unreliable teenage source wasn't something I was proud of. But when a murder happens and the suspect is still at large, keeping confidences is not always a wise move. I turned to look at Skye. A few glistening tears were forming in her blue eyes. One tumbled out and rolled down her cheek.
"If you didn't do it, you shouldn't have anything to worry about," I said and instantly regretted it. The St. Dismas team was slowly making its way onto the field. I caught a glimpse of Dash Farsakian, suited up but walking slowly. Even if Skye Farsakian had nothing to do with murdering Jason Fowler it was only a matter of time before others would learn of their affair. And though she was separated and had every right to be romantically involved with whomever she chose, she still had a son at the school. For a teenager, the loss of respect and the whispers about his mother's private affairs could be devastating.
"I liked Jason," she said, not looking at me. "It wasn't an intense relationship. But I liked him. And I liked the idea of being with a man again. This has been such a rough year for me. And it just keeps getting worse and worse."
By now she had started to openly weep. A few parents in the stands turned to look at us. None came over to find out what was going on or to comfort her. I wanted to put my arm around her, but that could have easily been taken the wrong way. Finally, she reached into her bag and took out a few tissues.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be. This is a very bad time. Understandable."
"I'm just afraid this nightmare is going to get worse."
"How so?" I asked.
"Whoever did this," she sobbed. "They're still out there. I'm petrified they'll strike again."
She made a good point. Whoever killed Jason Fowler and Bob Greenland had to have been furious with them. They wanted them to die in a very painful and personal way. Killing someone with a gun can be dispassionate and coldly efficient; it could also be done from a distance. But killing with a knife is an act of passion, the product of emotional rage and fury. Stabbing someone to death involves a closeness and an intimacy. To do so twice in one week bordered on the pathological.
I didn't have a response to this, but I did have another question. She might or might know the answer, but it was worth asking.
"Have you heard how Noah is?"
Skye wiped some tears away. "Managing. Coping, I guess. Losing your father this young and in this way? Horrible. I haven't spoken to Stacy, but I heard other parents have. Devastating for her, obviously. Losing her husband, and almost losing her son a few days earlier. I don't know how she can handle it."
People slowly began filing into the stands. I quietly said goodbye and moved away from Skye, up to the top of the bleachers. The crowd was subdued for the most part, parents acknowledging one another with a short wave and a few brief conversations. I also saw a few familiar faces, college scouts who nodded to me. One turned out to be a guy I had known for decades, Toa Latui, a gigantic offensive tackle who began playing for USC the year after I graduated. He weighed over 350 pounds when he came into college, and he might be even heavier now.
"I don't believe it," he said, his breathing a little unsteady after climbing all the way up the bleachers. "Man, if it isn't Burnside. What's the matter? Don't like sitting at field level?"
"Toa, you're looking fit as always," I chuckled.
"Ha! The kids keep me young."
&nb
sp; "What are you doing these days?"
"Coaching the O-line down at San Diego State. Good gig, this is my second year. I was up in Utah for a long time, but, hey, you know. This place is almost home."
"Almost," I said. "How come you're not coaching where you grew up in Hawaii?"
"I'd love to," he said. "But everyone wants to coach there. Then they go into semi-retirement. Rainbows haven't had a good team in years."
"Who are you looking at here?" I asked.
"Ah, got my eye on a few linemen. Couple of guys on Bishop Amat. Would've loved to get that Greenland kid, but he'd have been a long shot for us. Plus, with everything that's gone on, that kid's a huge question mark right now. But this Farsakian guy here might be a good fit for us."
I smiled and pointed about eight rows down. "There's his mom. Name's Skye Farsakian."
Toa looked down and licked his lips. "Nice. Kid just took a step up toward getting an offer."
"I can introduce you if you like."
"Nah. I'm not shy. But thanks for the tip."
"Anyone else you're looking at here?"
"Mostly from Bishop Amat. I wish Greenland was playing tonight. Kind of tough to evaluate the team without him. Everything changes when the starting quarterback's out."
I nodded. We made a little more small talk and Toa went off. I noticed the two blonde girls I met the week before, Ivy and Jasmine, seated themselves about twenty feet away from me. I tried to talk to a few parents, but most didn't want to be bothered. I didn't even make an attempt at approaching the two girls. I got the feeling people were beginning to wonder why I kept coming around here. I was starting to wonder the same thing.
The game began and it quickly turned into a lopsided affair. St. Dismas got the ball first, and the newly appointed quarterback, Austin Bainbridge, went back to pass on the first play. Within seconds, the blocking collapsed and Austin was buried under a sea of white jerseys. An audible groan was heard from the crowd. I noticed Dash Farsakian limping badly and needed to come out of the game. The next play was more of the same, and by the end of the first half, St. Dismas was behind 28-7, with Austin completing only a couple of passes. Their lone touchdown came when Austin was forced to scramble and raced up the sideline, showing surprising speed. The game eventually became a rout, with Bishop Amat winning 55-14.
The St. Dismas fans filed out dejectedly. I saw Duke Savich lecturing the team on the sidelines, but the players all had their heads down and I doubt they were listening to him. They shuffled their feet and a few looked away. As I walked past the team, Curly Underwood noticed me and motioned for me to come over.
"Tough game," I said.
"Not going to get much better for a while."
"Is Noah coming back?"
"Maybe. I spoke with him yesterday. Says he's feeling good, but we'll need a doctor's okay. And the mom needs to okay it, too."
"That might be harder."
"Might be," he said. "So how come you still coming around these parts?"
I shrugged. "Well, like I said from the beginning, a certain someone wants to know what happened to his donation."
Curly Underwood shook his head. "Look, I can't tell you much," he sighed. "But if it will make you stop coming around here, I can assure you the money wound up going to a good cause."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said."
"That's not a lot to go on," I said.
"It's all I can tell you," he responded. "And I may have even said too much as it is."
I gave him a long stare. He stared back. Finally, we both went our separate ways.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Gail and I took the opportunity to treat Marcus to pancakes at IHOP. He especially loved the ones where they painted a smiley face on the top pancake, using whipped cream and chocolate chips. One time I had made the mistake of bringing him to John O'Groats, a more sophisticated restaurant. In addition to listening to him complain that blueberries had no place inside of pancakes, he asked why there weren't any kids like him eating there. I tried to tell him this was more of a grownups' place, but with the plethora of entertainment executives at nearby tables, I wasn't fully convinced this was true. I finally recognized that while Marcus occasionally liked to feel special by going to some of our restaurants, what really made him happy was going to places that were more welcoming to people like him. And that meant places that had the wisdom to put chocolate chips on their pancakes.
We got home and played a few board games with Marcus, but by mid-afternoon, I grew a little antsy and went off to sit at my desk and brood. I had yet to solve the puzzle that Earl Bainbridge had paid me to solve. The Pasadena detectives hadn't delivered the paperwork I had politely requested. And despite Curly Underwood's insinuation that Earl's money had been well-spent on a worthy and noble cause, I still harbored doubts. The two cases might not be linked at all, but I continued to cling to the fading hope that if I solved one of them, the other would somehow wondrously fall into place. After a while, Chewy walked in with a stuffed toy dinosaur in her mouth, and pushed it against my hand. We played tug-of-war for a while, and I remembered to let her win most of the time. Then she pressed her cold nose against my hand for a long second, her signal that it was time to eat. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was after 5:00 p.m. The afternoon had somehow disappeared. I gave Chewy a bowl of kibble, and Gail and I made plans for dinner.
It was still warm out, and warm weather in Los Angeles meant it was barbecue season. It didn't matter if it was mid-September or mid-February, the siren call of the grill was always near. Gail went over to Costco and picked up three thick rib-eye steaks, sensing I would probably be called upon to help Marcus finish his. I grilled them over charcoal, as was my preference. If you're going to be old-school, you need to be old-school all the way. The hickory marinade which Gail had soaked them in dripped down onto the coals, and the occasional orange flame sparked upward over the meat. After flipping them a few times and getting a nice char on their surface, I estimated that they were medium-rare. Gail assured me that she wasn't questioning my culinary judgment when she sliced one open and inspected the color. She merely wanted to ensure Marcus would be able to eat these comfortably. This, of course, was code for not wanting to be up with Marcus in the middle of the night, in case his process of peristalsis didn't move through the appropriate stages.
As I started cutting into Marcus's steak, I began to come upon some obstacles. The knife was far from razor sharp, an especially knotty problem since I needed to cut the pieces very small. A three year old does not have a large mouth or throat. So whereas it would not have been a big issue for me to bite off more than I could chew, this was not a burden I could put on a young child. Providing Marcus with what he could handle was always a pre-eminent concern. I struggled with the knife, but was finally able to cut his well-marbled rib-eye into tiny, bite-size pieces that he could manage. As was his routine, he picked a piece up with his fingers, chewed it for an inordinate time before swallowing, made a gesture of approval, and then reached for another one.
"These knives seem a bit dull," I commented as I continued to work on cutting some more miniscule pieces.
"They were a wedding present," Gail said as she began cutting into her steak. "The Fishers gave these to us."
"I suppose they could use some sharpening," I said. "It's been four years since we got married."
"Time flies," she said as she took a bite and smiled appreciatively. "This is wonderful. You did a great job. The master griller."
I smiled and swiped a few more tiny pieces onto Marcus's plate. He happily picked another one up, continuing to chew slowly and thoughtfully.
"You like?" I asked.
"Uh-huh," he replied, savoring the morsel. "This is great."
I cut a piece of mine, albeit with continued difficulty, and tasted it. Nice. Tender, smoky, flavorful. Looking down at my knife, I began to examine it. I stopped eating and took a closer look. The blade wasn't that old, but
it certainly wasn't very sharp. I thought about which steak knives might be sharper. I leaned back in my chair and held the knife up to the light.
"What are you doing, Daddy?" Marcus asked.
"Yes, sweetie," Gail chimed in. "Just what are you doing?"
I looked at them and smiled. "Detective work."
"You can do that at the dinner table?" Marcus asked, eyes wide.
"I think I can."
"I want a job like that!" he said.
I smiled at Marcus. Gail looked a little apprehensive. "You can have any job you set your mind to," she told him.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Marcus?" I said, putting the knife back down and smiling broadly.
"Have you finished your detec ... what did you say?"
"Detective work," I said. "And yes. I think so. I think I may have just solved the case."
"Really?" he asked. "Just like that? Just by eating steak?"
"Yes," I smiled. "Just like that."
*
As difficult as it was to cut, I certainly enjoyed my steak. And I was finally starting to enjoy my weekend as well. While I briefly considered driving back to Pasadena that night, I knew the thing I was after would still be there the next day. So Saturday night was spent playing more games and watching a movie with Gail and Marcus. I did slip away for a minute to call Al Diamond and confirm he would be punching the clock on a Sunday afternoon. I suggested he might want to come in by lunchtime. He suggested I better have something darned good for him.
The Valley Steakhouse had been around for many decades, and was famous for something called a culotte steak. This was a top sirloin cut, a piece of meat that more closely resembled a softball then what one would normally think of when ordering a restaurant steak. The online menu proudly pointed out that there were only two culotte steaks on the steer, and while this might suggest a rare delicacy, I also considered that there were only two ears on the animal as well, and I certainly had no intention of eating those.