by Chill, David
*
I stopped for breakfast at a beachfront cafe and had a spinach omelet that was way too small and tomatoes that were shriveled and mushy. The slice of cantaloupe and small bunch of red flame grapes had grown lukewarm by the time my fork reached them. The waitress, a shapely beach bunny in short-shorts, never got around to refilling my coffee cup. Combine all that with the fifteen dollar check, and my breakfast turned out to be neither tasty nor cheap. Virgil Hairston's fat laden diet no longer seemed that terrible.
When I arrived back in my office, I listened to two messages waiting for me on my voice mail. One was from Dr. Leary, the dermatologist, asking how the investigation was going. The second was from the property manager of my office, inquiring when I would care to provide him with a rent check. I was busy weighing how much urgency I should assign to either when a soft rapping could be heard on my door. I turned and saw Crystal Fairborn walk in with a large, thick boned man who was old enough to be her father. My finely honed detective skills told me that it probably was.
"I'm sorry for not calling first," she said in a subdued voice.
I waved my hand. "No apologies necessary," I said.
"Burnside, I'd like you to meet my father, Serge Markovich."
Markovich held out a huge paw. "It is pleasure to meet you," he said through what seemed to be a Russian accent. He gave me a strong handshake that was somewhere between decidedly firm and bone crushing.
"I take it you work with your hands," I commented.
"I am tile man," he said proudly. "I tile kitchens, bathrooms, anything around the house. You have house? You name, I tile."
"Fine," I answered dryly. "I'll keep you in mind for my summer home up in Arrowhead."
Crystal sat down daintily and looked straight at me. Her eyes bore the weight of fatigue, exacerbated by the absence of any makeup. On some women that meant they appeared sallow and ashen, but on Crystal, her innate beauty made her look vulnerable. Markovich remained standing and rested his big hands protectively on the back of Crystal's chair.
"I've heard the police cleared you," I said to her.
"For now," she pointed out. "They were very specific about that. They say I'm still a person of interest, whatever that means."
"I'm the last person who'll be an apologist for the police, but there was an eyewitness involved. When the cops have nothing else to go on, that means a lot."
"To them, maybe. Except I didn't do it. And I wasn't at the Center that night. I think the only way I'm ever going to get my name cleared is to find out who did this."
"That's absolutely right," I said.
She pursed her lips together. "I'd like to hire you to help me."
"I'm already on the job."
"Working for who?" she peered at me.
"Wayne."
A wave of anguish swept her face as the mere name of her husband dredged up some memories. The impact of a loved one's death lasts a long time, sometimes forever. From her expression, I could see Crystal was still trying to accept the fact that he was gone. Still hoping that some mystical beam would carry him back, telling her it was all a mistake. Figuring out who murdered him would never ease the sorrow, but might permit her to mourn in a way that wasn't so horrible. A way she could concentrate on her husband's life, his decency, his generosity and his kindness, without being preoccupied with defending herself from a homicide charge.
"Wayne was in a tough election," I said slowly, "and the other side was nervous. There may also be something that came to a head the other night."
Crystal tried to blink away some tears. "What do you mean?"
I tried to think of a way to put it to her that was delicate, yet got the message across. She was a grieving widow, and the last thing she needed to dwell on were people who were trying to destroy Wayne in a political race. But it was imperative that I ask these questions. This was a case that had blind alleys leading into blind alleys.
"Wayne knew a lot of women, didn't he?"
"Why of course, plenty of our friends were women."
"Ah, yes," I managed. "Did he know some better than others?"
"Hey wait a minute," Markovich snapped in a loud voice. "Show respect here. For the dead."
I stood up and looked him in the eye. "A man's been killed. For all I know he may have asked for it. But I'm grabbing at straws here. The deeper I get into this case, the greater the number of possibilities seem to be turning up. Every stone I uncover has three more stones hiding underneath it. Right now I figure there's at least half a dozen people who could have shot Wayne."
"Who?" he demanded. "You give me names. I find out."
"You no find out," I said, in my best broken English. "I'm a licensed investigator and I know what I'm doing. You on the other hand are an angry father out for vengeance. You may hurt the wrong person or you may hurt yourself. If you want to help, you can sit down and let your daughter talk. I'm doing the best I can to unravel this, which I might add is pro bono, and one thing I don't need is some big moose stomping around, muddying up the waters."
I kept looking him in the eye, wondering if he'd answer with his mouth or fists. His chest rose and fell rapidly but his mouth stayed zipped and his hands remained at his side. Good thing for both of us. I didn't think my wrist could take a lot more.
"I was going to tell you the other day," Crystal said softly, her voice having a vacuous quality to it. "You asked about a woman named Amy Flanders."
"Go on."
She bit her lip and looked beyond me out the window. I doubted she saw anything more than a few old ladies waiting at the bus stop. The wheels inside of her head seemed to be spinning, and whatever images they produced did not make her happy. A few new tears formed in her eyes.
"It happened just a couple of weeks ago," she said with a sniffle. "It was a package someone sent to Wayne but I opened it. No name, no return address. Just a package sent with a DVD inside. I watched it for a minute and at first I thought it was porn. Somebody's idea of a joke. Then the camera zoomed in for a close-up and it was Wayne. It was Wayne!"
She tried to choke back the tears but they were pouring out by now. She brushed a few away and continued.
"I was so furious," she said. "Wayne and I have been married for years. We met in college and it was a storybook romance."
"Rich boy meets poor girl," I remarked.
"Yes. I was at SC on a scholarship, Wayne was getting an MBA. He was so handsome and smooth, he could have gotten any girl he wanted. I used to pinch myself because it seemed like such a dream. And our marriage had been wonderful. I couldn't understand what had happened."
"Did you confront Wayne with the tape?"
"Oh you bet I did," she said through wide, glistening eyes. "He admitted the affair, said it was the first time, said the woman seduced him. And he said it would never happen again."
"And you believed him."
"He said he made a mistake. I was angry, I was bitter. I tried to look at what I could have done to have prevented it from happening. I blamed him, I blamed myself. I was trying to forgive him. To let him have a second chance."
"And the woman he was with was Amy?" I asked.
Crystal nodded.
"Was she the one who mailed the DVD?"
"I don't know who mailed it. After I confronted Wayne, we had it out. But from that point on we never discussed it again. I didn't bring it up and neither did he."
I cringed as I watched the shiny tears roll down Crystal's smooth cheeks. "I'm sorry to have to put you through all this," I said. "I know it's difficult, but this is part of my job. I like to think I'm good at it."
"You are," she said. "And you also mentioned you were working pro bono. If Wayne hired you, why are you doing it for free?"
"Somebody killed him before we could agree on a price."
She frowned. "What do you normally charge?"
"Seven hundred a day," I said.
She took out her checkbook and wrote me out a two week retainer. The stubborn streak in me wa
nted to tell her this was on the house. That this investigation was something I was doing out of loyalty to Wayne and compassion for his memory. My pragmatic side told me I might soon be evicted. Two forces, diametrically opposed.
"I appreciate the fact that you've involved yourself already," she said, pressing the check into my hand. "I'm fighting for my life here. Nobody else could want to help me more than you. I heard that message from your landlord when we were walking in. I know you need the money. And right now I need you."
With that she stood up and walked out the door, her father following in tow. I took a deep breath and mulled things over. One could easily scratch Crystal off the list of suspects, but in so doing it would be just as easy to pencil in Markovich.
The phone rang at that point and I grabbed it before it could go to voice mail. I'd have to either reduce the volume or else start listening to these messages with my door shut.
"Hey Burnside," the voice came across the line. "This is Jerry. I'm okay, but some new evidence turned up last night at the Center. It's a whopper, too."
"What's that?"
"The gun," he said. "A .32 caliber pistol. Somebody planted it in my desk."
Chapter 10
The police had come by the night before and grilled Jerry for the better part of the evening. Apparently they seemed satisfied with what he said and little would be accomplished by detaining him. They fingerprinted Jerry and planned to have Ballistics run some tests on the gun. Sounding more than a little concerned over the phone, he asked if I could find out anything. I told Jerry I'd do what I could and would try to swing by Second Chance in the morning. Putting the phone down, I wondered what in hell could happen next.
There were two people I needed to speak with and both were temporarily incommunicado. Mustard's room was still dark and Barney Sack had yet to arrive at work. Sack's shift went from four until midnight, so I amused myself for a while down on the Bay City Pier. Having a few extra dollars in my pocket, I played some video games, got out some aggressions in the bumper cars, and flung two out of three footballs through a small black tire. I noticed half the patrons at the Pier were street people, and the once pleasant, carnival atmosphere had turned unsavory. I succumbed to a few requests for money, figuring if I was spending money this frivolously I should at least be a little generous with some of it. When I saw one of my recipients swagger by later with a can of Budweiser, the warm, benevolent feelings vanished.
At four o'clock I went over to police department headquarters and found the pudgy detective sitting in his office, loading bullets into his service revolver. He had on a beige shirt open at the collar, with a green and yellow striped tie pulled down past the second button. Even at the shift's commencement, Detective Sack had the rumpled look of one who had already survived a demanding day.
"Hope my name isn't on one of those bullets, detective."
Sack glanced up and a faint look of disgust crossed his face. On Sack it looked as normal and proper as palm trees swaying on a tropical beach.
"Ah Christ, look what the smog blew in," he muttered.
"Smog doesn't blow, detective. It just sits there looking ugly."
"I do hope," he said, "you didn't mean anything personal in that crack. For your sake."
I raised my hands. "Touchy, touchy," I said. "The last thing I want to do is insult a man loading his weapon."
"Uh-huh," Sack said, snapping the pistol together and jamming it into his holster. "So what's up? Any more dead bodies turn up at that house of bleeding hearts?"
I sauntered into his office. "My, we are cynical, aren't we? A few people trying to do some good in the world and all you can do is criticize?"
"Do some good," he chuckled cynically without bearing a smile. "Two murders. That's doing a lot of good. Why don't you expand and open things up to the whole Southland? I don't know what you've done for the homeless problem, but you're making real progress helping to limit the population growth in Bay City."
I sucked in some air. There were times to be insolent and times to put your wit in check. The last time I enraged one of Bay City's finest I ended up wearing a set of bracelets for a brief time. Discretion is sometimes warranted.
"As much as the idea intrigues me, I really didn't stop by for a discussion of contemporary sociological issues."
"What do you want then?"
"Answers to a few questions, perhaps?"
"Ah, Christ," he sighed, and looked at the clock. "Aw right, the watch doesn't begin for five more minutes. Get it over with."
"You're all heart, Sack. Jerry Winkler told me that Ballistics is running tests on the pistol. And I take it the killer is still at large."
"Last I looked," he snarled. "Yeah, the murder weapon turned up with Winkler, but I'm sure it was wiped clean. I doubt we'll get any prints off it. But it turns out the gun was registered to Fairborn himself. We'll get the Ballistics report in soon, but it's pretty obvious this is the gun that did it."
"Same person did them both, then."
"You're a genius, Burnside."
"What else can you give me?"
Sack sneered at me. "A boot in the pants if you keep getting in our way. You know, if it wasn't for that fat assed reporter you'd still be cooling your heels in the tank. This is police business and if you keep sticking your nose in it, I'll see to it it's clipped off for good."
I sighed. "Look, I have an obligation here. To the client I'm working for now, but also to the two guys who got killed. Fairborn's legacy will live on with Second Chance. But Raff's legacy died when he did. Somebody killed them. Somebody has to pay."
"And I got an obligation to the people that I work for," Sack said.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I've been told this is low priority."
"Investigating Raff?" I asked.
"Investigating both of them."
"Since when are two murders low priority? Are you getting pressure from the Mayor's office?"
"You figure it out."
I took a deep breath. It was possible Callison simply wanted this mess swept under the rug and forgotten by the time election day rolled around in early November. It was also possible he had a more personal reason for wanting it to disappear.
"You want this case to go away too, Sack?"
"I want what the people who pay my salary want."
"Isn't that the good people of Bay City?"
It was Sack's turn to sigh. Maybe he did have some soul buried down there after all. "Look Burnside, I've been on the job here for almost twenty years. I stayed around by being a good soldier. By learning to follow orders. Yeah, I'd like to clear up this mess. Any way you slice it, unsolved murders don't look good for either a police force or a community. But I don't want some hot shot doing my job for me. And then having people ask why the police couldn't crack the case."
I shook my head. "I'm not looking for any headlines out of this," I said. "I don't want any glory. And I don't want to do your job for you. But a guy I know is dead and now somebody who probably had nothing to do with this, except maybe seeing something he shouldn't have, is dead as well. I respect your situation. I know your hands are tied."
"Damn straight."
Our eyes met for a moment. Sack was a survivor, the kind of cop I was afraid I'd become one day. Play by the rules, don't go against the tide, avoid making waves. When my moment of truth faced me, I knew I could never live by that arrangement. I learned I was not someone who would compromise, not somebody who could walk away from a situation I felt was patently unjust. There would always be guys like Sack. I just couldn't be one of them.
"I'll tell you what," I said. "As you probably can guess, this is not a case I can drop."
"So I'm seeing."
"But I'm not looking to embarrass anyone. Not even that goon that took a swing at me the other night. If I come up with anything, the glory's all yours."
"A big if."
I was about to make a smart comment, when I reminded myself again about discretion. I also recogniz
ed there was a fair chance that Barney Sack might be right.
*
It was nearly five o'clock and in Southern California that meant traffic was about to hit critical mass. If you had to travel by freeway it meant you simply had no other option. If you didn't have to get on the freeway, you steered clear at all costs.
I climbed into my Pathfinder and sat for a few minutes, letting the engine idle in neutral. I rolled the case around in my mind and tried to make sense of what I had. Raff, Nina and Crystal were identified as leaving through the back door of Second Chance after Wayne was killed. Crystal denied even being there and the more things I uncovered about the eyewitness Amy, the more I leaned towards Crystal's version.
I considered more players. Amy herself was far from being an impartial observer, and the fact that she had a liaison with Wayne made her a suspect. Peter Fairborn would now receive a financial windfall as a result of his brother's death. Crystal's father was taking a keen interest in the case. Her brother-in-law Rusty resented Wayne for not helping him more. Mel Fenster couldn't have been pleased with Wayne's involvement with Nina. Wayne might have had other women too. And I hadn't even scratched the surface of Mayor Callison's potential motives. With all that, my hopes for a quick solution to this case were not likely to be realized.
I flipped through my notebook and came across Nina Lovejoy's work address. Her magazine was headquartered in a slick black glass building along Wilshire Boulevard just west of the San Diego freeway. Nina's own office was located on the eighteenth floor, and as I pushed open a door which read "Tomorrow's Woman" in big brass lettering, my olfactory passages picked up the scent of jasmine and lilacs. I strolled onto the thick pile carpet that made my feet feel as if they were walking on marshmallows. Indirect lighting against the mauve walls lined the perimeter of the vestibule. At a chrome lined counter, a young girl wearing a lavender dress and a pink scarf hanging from her neck looked up. Her face had enough cosmetics layered on to hide not only her acne, but whatever distinguishing features may have formed. I told her I'd like to see Nina Lovejoy.