by Chill, David
"Or," I added, "someone that cared about Nina. A boyfriend, perhaps."
Hairston nodded. "Women that look like Nina always have boyfriends," he said. "Whether they want them or not."
"That's a bit sexist, Virgil," I said, smiling at him.
"It's true," he shrugged.
I kept smiling without taking a stand on the issue. Politics wasn't hard, I thought. The job amounted to simply not saying the wrong things. Or at least giving yourself room to wiggle. "There's one other possible scenario we haven't explored," I pointed out. "Killing out of fear."
"Fear? Like being trapped?"
"In a way. If Wayne caught somebody doing something they weren't supposed to, that person might have panicked and shot him. If they had time to think about it, pulling the trigger might seem ludicrous, but they might not have had the time to think."
"Like surprising a burglar in your home?"
A light bulb went on over my head. "Exactly."
"So let me see if I've got it. Your experience is that people kill due to one of a few basic motivations. Anger, fear or jealousy."
I thought back to my conversation with Wayne the night before and shivered.
"Maybe all three," I said softly.
*
It was nearly nine o'clock by the time I pulled in front of the Wayfarer Hotel in Venice. A few people out front eyed my Pathfinder with curiosity. I made a big production out of activating the alarm with the remote switch on my key chain, sending two piercing beeps into the air and making the headlights flash twice.
The gum-cracking day clerk was replaced by an elderly man wearing a grayish green sweater and a nylon golf shirt buttoned to the top. A visor that advertised Lucky Strikes adorned his head. Next to the desk was a sofa that had seen better days, and a pair of rickety folding chairs. The filthy carpeting had cigarette butts sprinkled liberally about. I looked around at the seedy lounge and wondered how low a person had to fall before he hit this level. Or if there was anything lower, besides the gutter.
"Help you?" the man asked, in a gravelly voice that had probably been eaten away by too much cheap wine.
"I'm looking for a guy named Raff. What room is he in?"
"Raff?" he peered at me, scratching his head. "I can't remember no Raff."
I sighed and pushed a five dollar bill at him. "Put your thinking cap on."
He snatched the bill eagerly and pocketed it. "Room six," he said. "Go down the hall to your right."
The hallway was dark, which served the purpose of masking the hideous surroundings from my view. But nothing could hide the sharp, acrid odor that filled my nostrils. A radio blaring hip hop music was audible from outside of room six. It was turned down immediately when I rapped loudly on the door.
"All right, all right. I'll keep it down!"
I frowned and rapped again, softer this time. The door opened a minute later and a hard looking man wearing jeans, a black shirt and a pair of black framed glasses, opened the door. "Yes?"
"Hi Raff. How are you?"
He squinted at me for a moment before recognition swept across his face. A smile didn't follow it.
"Yes. I remember you. The fellow from the Center."
"Right. Name's Burnside. We met at a workshop a few weeks ago."
"Yes. A few weeks ago," he said, still squinting at me.
"Uh, Raff, I need to talk with you for a minute. Can I come in?"
He looked back into the room at his belongings strewn about the floor. Clothes, towels, books, newspapers and boxes were spread haphazardly here and there. Finally deciding it wasn't too atrocious, he motioned me inside.
"I'm sorry for the appearance. I have not had the time lately for cleaning."
I held up my palms. "A man should not be judged by the amount of clutter on his floor."
He tilted his head. "Confucius?"
I shook my head and smiled. "More like Oscar Madison."
The squinting continued. "I've never read his work," he admitted.
"Few have," I said.
Raff took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "These are my new glasses. I suppose the prescription isn't exact. Not that I really need them now for the work I do as a janitor. It's not what I've been training for."
"I heard you were a student."
"At UCLA. I was in the PhD program. Political Science was my field, Methods to be exact. I was doing my dissertation on the shrinking middle class. I had no idea I would get a practical lesson in that subject, but a few months ago my fellowship was discontinued. Not enough money I was told. Without the funding I could not continue my studies. Nor could I keep my apartment."
"I understand. It's happened to a lot of people, but at least you're trying to get your life together. You're a bright guy. What happened to you could have happened to anyone. You'll find another path soon."
"Of course," he said bitterly. "Perhaps one day I can supervise janitors. Earn enough to afford an apartment in a better slum than this. While the rich get richer."
I nodded sympathetically and lifted a couple of books from a desk chair to sit down. "Raff, I'm a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions."
His face tightened and his lips scrunched up. I looked at his hands and they were balled up into fists. This was clearly a candidate for a stress management seminar.
"I don't have to answer anything without an attorney present," he said. "I know my rights."
"Yes, I imagine you do. But let me assure you, I'm not a police officer. If you haven't done anything wrong, you have no reason to worry. Did you hear what happened at the Center last night?"
"There was an orientation meeting."
"After the meeting."
"I don't know anything."
I paused. "Wayne Fairborn, the Center's founder, was shot to death last night. Did you know that?"
"I do not know anything about a shooting," he said in a mechanical way. "Not one thing."
"An eyewitness says you left the premises before the orientation ended. That would put you in the clear, wouldn't it?"
He froze for a moment. "Yes," he finally said. "Yes, it certainly would."
I tried a new tact. "Another eyewitness said they saw you upstairs at the time of the shooting." "That is a complete lie," he retorted, although his eyes were fixed someplace other than on mine. The muscles in his face tightened.
"You know Raff, a person's been murdered. You may have seen something, heard something perhaps. Nobody's accusing you, but it would help me inordinately if you remembered anything about last night. Anything at all."
For a moment my eyes locked onto his, but it was only for a moment. As he diverted his eyes again I looked around the room at the mess that could rival any teenager's. I caught a glimpse of something out of place. On a small desk across the room, atop a pile of books, was a shiny silver pen stand. The chrome base was elegantly curved, and two long cylinders holding silver pens were sticking up at forty-five degree angles. I rose and walked over for a closer look. Engraved in the base were three initials, WJF.
"Nice souvenir," I remarked. "Was this a gift from Mr. Fairborn or do you figure God helps those who help themselves?"
Raff stood up straight and glared at me. "It was a gift."
I laughed and shook my head. "Raff, you don't get it. People don't give away things with their initials carved into them. Also, Wayne was the kind of guy who believed people should earn things. They should get helping hands, not handouts. You swiped this from the Center. My only question is when."
"I think I will have to ask you to leave."
I stood there looking into the hardened face, the cold eyes, the unyielding posture. "I'll leave. But if you're involved in this, I'll find out. And our next meeting may not be so pleasant and carefree."
Raff took a step towards me in a menacing way but I pointed my left index finger at him and drew back my right fist.
"Don't even think about it," I warned him. Looking at my size, he stopped in his tracks. At least his brain w
asn't completely atrophied.
"That's the first smart move you've made so far," I remarked, and walked back out into the putrid hallway.
Chapter 5
The next morning I was up at my normal six o'clock, as Ms. Linzmeier apparently chose to spend the night alone. The light began to filter through the curtains tepidly, the soft rays stirring me in a delicate manner. I showered and dressed and then scooped some Mocha Java into the coffeemaker. Setting it in motion, I decided to walk over to a local bakery on Montana. Stepping over a sleeping young man sporting a light blond stubble on his face, I picked up a warm loaf of sourdough bread from a cheery woman behind the counter. I asked how long the man had been sleeping in front of the building, but she just shrugged and said he was in the same position when she arrived. She didn't have the heart to wake him. Climbing over him on the way out, I checked to make sure he was still breathing. It was a little difficult to tell, but the occasional rise and fall of his chest told me he was still taking in air. Whether he was truly living or not was an altogether different subject. Not having the heart to wake him either, I moved on down the street, feeling a little more grateful for my own existence, modest as it might be.
After breakfast, I decided to start my day with a local visit. It took about five minutes to reach the Bay City police station, and an hour of waiting for Crystal Fairborn. She was finally brought to the glass enclosed booth typically reserved for attorney-client discussions. We were separated by a glass partition, easily an inch thick, and successful at muffling most sounds. Telephones on either side of the booth were necessary for talking. Even though we were only a few feet away, her voice sounded as if we were separated by an ocean.
"Crystal," I said softly, "how are you holding up?"
She shook her head and said nothing. Looking down, she started to speak but no words came out. She looked miserable, as would one whose world had just collapsed. Tears slid down her cheeks.
"I understand what you're going through," I said slowly. "Maybe I can help. If you're innocent, I can promise you that I'll do whatever's in my power to get you off. But first you have to talk to me."
Her soft grey eyes looked into mine. They were tinged with red and had a pleading look to them. The normally pretty face was now drawn and gaunt. Crystal was in her early thirties, and had ash blonde hair that fell past her shoulders in an elegant manner. A beauty mark sat just to the right of her lower lip. Even in her orange prison garb, she managed to exude a certain ornate refinement.
"You probably can guess," she stammered, "that this is the most horrible time of my life."
"Tell me about what happened," I asked gently.
"Yesterday," she said, her voice almost choking, "the police marched into my home like a group of storm troopers and took over. They assumed I was guilty and were going to pull a confession out of me. Oh, thank God my father was there. At least I had a witness. The police... they were ready to write a confession out and sign it for me."
"I know the feeling."
"Oh, it was awful! I've never been treated so badly. If only Wayne were... oh, he would never have stood for it. This whole thing is a nightmare!"
She began to cry, her eyes closed tightly and her body trembling. Her lower lip protruded and her face revealed the agony of one who was suffering deeply. I waited patiently until she sniffled and began to wipe her face.
"Crystal, let's talk about what happened last week. Wayne told me something about a SUV following you along Sunset?"
She blew her nose and looked up at me with those red, bleary eyes. I felt my own heart strings being pulled.
"I was driving home last week from a function. I don't know how long this truck was in back of me, but once I got onto Sunset they began driving extremely close. Finally, there was a stretch that curved sharply around an embankment and that's when they passed and tried to run me off the road."
"Any damage?"
"A little. There was a dent, and some paint was scraped on my car," she said and held up her left hand that had a gauze bandage applied to the heel. "And I cut my hand on something when we collided."
"Any idea as to who might have done it?"
"Oh, Burnside, I don't know. I've never hurt anyone. And if someone were after Wayne, why would they try to harm me? How would that help anything?"
"They might have been trying to send him a message. Or scare him into doing something. Do you know anything about this?"
She steadied her eyes downward. "He had received some threatening phone calls. They would just say that Wayne better do the right thing, but he never told me what that right thing was."
"Man or a woman?"
"He couldn't tell. They would disguise their voice for gosh sake. And they would always speak to him, they'd hang up when I'd answer. Oh, this whole thing... it's just too horrible for words! Burnside, you've got to help me! Please!"
"I'll do what I can," I said grimly. "One last thing. You didn't go to Second Chance the night Wayne was shot?"
She shook her head no.
"Do you know a woman named Amy Flanders?"
Crystal's eyes turned hard. "Yes," she said. "Why?"
"Amy was the one who identified you as walking out of the alley behind the Center right after the shooting."
A wave of horror spread across her face and her mouth hung open. "That woman is unbelievable," she started. "She is just a complete monster."
"How well do you know her?"
"I... I can't talk about it. I simply can't," she said.
"All right," I said, knowing this wouldn't be the right time to probe.
"It's just too difficult."
I saw the jailor check her watch and start to move towards us. I remembered something else. "This may be unrelated, but do you know if Wayne gave away a pen stand to one of the homeless?"
Crystal shook her head blankly. "I don't know. I don't know anything about that."
Before I could follow up with anything else, the khaki jailor was next to us, saying our time was up. I stood and watched as Crystal was led back to her cell, her tear stained face the picture of injustice. She had just lost her husband and was now suspected of having killed him. The two worst things in the world had just happened to her.
*
I spent the bulk of the afternoon reacquainting myself with the dermatologist's wife, Violet, and following her from one trendy Westside boutique to another. Why Doctor Leary hired my services was beyond me, as there wasn't even the hint of infidelity. From my vantage point, her biggest sin was spending money like a drunken sailor. At five-thirty she ended her taxing workday.
In the three years since I formed my investigations agency, I always had the luxury of an office. There were a few times when the cash flow was mostly a one way operation, but something always materialized and I made the nut. Good thing for me because I dreaded the thought of working out of my apartment. Not only does it make a poor impression on potential clients, but cabin fever is a real issue when business is slow.
I had received one call during the afternoon from Mel Fenster, one of the volunteers who had been at Second Chance the other night. Mel said he would be at his store until closing, which meant I could call until eleven. He probably meant call by phone but I was big on seeing a person's reactions when I quizzed them.
I parked along Pico Boulevard just past Cloverdale, in front of a sign that read "Fenster & Son, Liquor and Jr. Market". The lights were on and the Son sat on a stool at the cash register, reading a magazine. As I walked towards the entrance I noticed two indigents setting up their campsite along the sidewalk. They had unrolled blankets and were using a pile of clothes as pillows. A shopping cart stuffed with various belongings sat a few feet away, their possessions stowed away in rumpled, white plastic trash bags.
I entered the store and the jingling of bells signaled that the door had been opened. Mel looked up suspiciously before he recognized who it was.
"Mr. Burnside," he said. "I thought you'd phone first."
Mel
Fenster was in his early thirties, a lanky man with long black hair. He had an olive complexion, enhanced undoubtedly by plenty of hours laying out on the local beaches. Bay City had no shortage of lovely shoreline, but the water was sometimes unfit to swim in because of repeated sewage spills from a local treatment plant. It was a pathetic irony. We live in paradise, we just can't enjoy it.
"It's a nasty habit of mine," I replied. "Besides, in my line of work people with good manners rarely excel at their job."
The store was divided into four sections, a huge magazine rack, a pitifully small area that held some food and household items, a cooler that mostly contained beer and soda, and a vast liquor wall behind the counter. Bright lights emanated from a series of long incandescent tubes, and the floors were slick and shiny.
"I read that article about Crystal in the Tribune earlier today," he said, closing the magazine he was reading. "What a story, huh?"
I looked down at his magazine. The latest issue of GQ. The cover story was why men who shaved their body hair made better lovers.
"Don't believe everything you read," I cautioned and looked up at him.
"Really? You think someone besides Crystal did it?"
I paused to re-focus on the topic at hand. "Uh-huh. I don't think this case is closed. Not by a long shot."
"Don't I know it," he scoffed. "I have, like, no use for the cops around here. The ones at the Center kept us till almost one a.m. the other night."
"What did they ask you?"
"Oh, you know. What I saw, who I saw, when I saw it. What I knew about Wayne. The whole deal."
"Just what did you see?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Not too much. Nina told me she went upstairs for a minute with Wayne. I guess she was doing an article about California politics for that magazine of hers and wanted to interview him. Can you believe the police actually went over to her place and grilled her until the middle of the night? These guys act like we don't have lives of our own. If I were there, I'd have tossed 'em out."
"You and Nina still seeing each other?"
"Sure," he said, giving me a sideways look. "We've been together, oh, must be couple of months now."