by Chill, David
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
I removed my business card and handed it to her. "It's about an investigation I'm conducting. I think she'll see me."
The girl took the card and her brown, doe eyes grew wide. "Oh my. One moment please."
She left the vestibule and walked inside. Emerging a minute later she asked me to follow her. The inside of the office was decorated in much the same tone as the reception area, the hallways sporting plenty of soft pinks and purples, along with the occasional vase of flowers sprouting up from a table.
Nina's office was small enough to contain just a desk and a couple of chairs but the view from her window was stunning. With the Bay City mountains as a backdrop, she had a panoramic view of the Los Angeles basin, smog levels permitting. Today was not a good one from a visibility standpoint, as even nearby Westwood Village was little more than hazy shades of grey.
"Well this is a surprise," Nina said, waving a hand towards one of the chairs. I closed the door and sat down. Nina Lovejoy looked as lovely as ever, her pretty face displaying a marvelous peaches and cream complexion. Her long blonde hair was tied back into a golden pony tail that was shiny and lascivious.
"I'd say I was just in the neighborhood but you might have trouble swallowing that."
She smiled playfully. "I don't think I'd have trouble swallowing anything from you."
Whoa. I wasn't sure if I wished I was fifteen years younger or she were fifteen years older. "I'll remember that for future reference."
"A lot of men get intimidated when they meet a woman who knows what she wants and has no problem being up front about it."
"That's because we, as men, have been trained since kindergarten to be the aggressors. We're now being told to let go of our pre-conceived notions."
Nina nodded enthusiastically. "That's one of the things I love about my job. This magazine is exploring how people will live in the future."
I lifted up the October issue of "Tomorrow's Woman" and didn't go any farther than the slinky girl on the cover. A cursory look at the main stories indicated how women could find the hot man of their dreams, leap up the corporate ladder, and rule their world by the time they were thirty. I wondered if there would be anything left to achieve by the time they turned forty.
"Hopefully the future will be a bit less violent," I said, watching the exhilaration melt from her face.
"Yes," she managed. "That would be nice. I guess you're still looking into Wayne's tragedy."
"Don't tell me you've forgotten," I peered at her.
"Of course not," she scoffed. "But I've chosen not to think about it. It's a very painful experience and the mere thought of it upsets me. I believe positive thoughts beget positive energy. That's another thing the magazine teaches our readers."
"Uh-huh. Well I'd appreciate it if you would be so kind as to indulge me in a little pain for a few minutes."
Her features stiffened. "I suppose. If we must."
"We must," I said in as tender a voice as I could muster. Burnside, the sensitive soul. Lord help us all.
"First thing," I said, "is do you know anything at all about why Raff was killed the other night."
"Raff?" she asked with a tilt of her head.
"He was one of the homeless men going through the program at Second Chance. He was hired on recently as a janitor and somebody shot him outside the Center. Short guy, black framed glasses...?"
Nina nodded. "I remember. The Marxist."
"Marxist," I mused. "That doesn't surprise me."
"Why's that?"
"He was studying political science at UCLA," I said. "A lot of people in that field start out as Marxists. It's one of the fundamental bases for political thought."
"For a detective, you seem to know a lot of things."
Talk about a left-handed compliment. "Let's just say I have a talent for taking bits of trivia and piecing them together so they mean something."
"Did you go to college, Burnside?"
"Sure. Four years at USC. Earned a degree in Social Science with a minor in college football. I started out admiring Sigmund Freud and B.F. Skinner but ultimately I became more impressed with Ronnie Lott and Troy Polamalu."
"Are they psychologists?" she frowned.
"Safeties. Toughest pass defenders the NFL's ever seen. They both played at USC."
"Oh, yes. You men are into that, aren't you."
"Indeed," I said. "But back to Raff. Any idea why someone would want him dead?"
She shook her head. "No more than I would understand about Wayne. This whole subject is not only disturbing, it's baffling."
"You're telling me. You know Nina, we never had a chance to talk about you and Wayne. When I told you about Wayne's death the other night, you were too upset to focus on much of anything. Can we do that now?"
She nodded cautiously. "What exactly do you need to know?"
"Were you and Wayne having an affair?"
The peaches and cream cheeks turned crimson in a hurry. Her mouth opened slightly, an automatic response perhaps, and she blinked a few times before regaining her composure. For a moment I thought I saw her actually gulp. Maybe not. Not Tomorrow's Woman.
"That's really not a concern of anybody's."
"Actually it is. It's a concern of mine because it may have had something to do with Wayne being killed. I'm not saying it did, mind you. There are plenty of avenues to go down in this case. But Wayne's infidelity has already been documented. I just need to know the extent of it."
Nina put a fingertip to the corner of her eye but I couldn't be sure if she was brushing away a tear or a piece of dust. Either way, she didn't look like a happy camper.
"What do you mean Wayne's infidelity has been documented?"
"I mean somebody recorded him copulating with another woman. Not his wife I should add."
"Oh my," she exclaimed. "Was it recent?"
That one remark spoke volumes. She looked shocked and her mouth was slightly open. I wondered if she was planning to schedule an STD test soon.
"We can't tell from the DVD," I said.
"Who was the woman?"
"Relax, it wasn't you."
Nina's mouth opened wide for a second and then closed quickly. It appeared she had found out her wayward lover had cheated on her.
"We only did it twice," she said slowly. "But both times were the most wonderful experiences. The things we shared, the things we felt. It was just so special. He told me he didn't love his wife anymore and I was the first woman who he had been with in a long time."
I suppose everything is relative. For Wayne, a long time might have been a week or two. Nina took a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose daintily.
"I take it this was a more meaningful tryst than your relationship with Mel," I said, watching her eyes carefully.
"Mel? Mel and I don't have a relationship. Oh, he and I have gone out several times, but he's more of a friend than anything else. I think he'd like it to be more than that, but believe me there's no passion. Not like with Wayne. Wayne was like a... a magnet. I was hopelessly drawn to him. I couldn't say no to Wayne."
"So you have nothing going on with Mel then."
"No. Of course not."
"He seems to think otherwise," I said. "In fact he seems to think you two are deeply involved."
She gave me an odd look. "No," she said. "A relationship with Mel is simply not going to happen."
I thanked Nina for her time and stood up to leave. She looked at me, a little crestfallen at what she had just learned. No positive energy was exuding from her when I left her office. A little reflection on things perhaps, and maybe that wasn't so bad. Mulling things over could bring about a new direction in a person's life. It might not yield positive energy immediately, but all good things need time to percolate. I didn't bother to share that with her though. She had swallowed enough for one afternoon.
Chapter 11
Feeling rather exhausted, I decided to give myself a night off and
stretched out on the couch for an ambitious evening of Monday Night Football. When the Jets took a 7-0 lead against the Steelers, I closed my eyes during the commercial break. When I reopened them, the next thing I saw was an old Eddie Murphy movie flashing across the screen. The clock read 1:22. I flicked off the TV and stumbled into the bedroom, vaguely wondering who won the game.
When you fall asleep too early in the evening, there is a distinct tendency to rise too early in the morning. At four-thirty my body told me I had slept enough. I got up and fixed a pot of coffee, and sipped on it while I skimmed various news websites. I was feeling edgy and needed to do something, but doubted anybody would appreciate a pre-dawn visit from a private investigator. I had enough trouble pleasing people during the light of day. Since my gym wasn't open yet, I donned a pair of shorts and journeyed out for an early morning jog.
I ran over to Palisades Park which is a narrow strip of grass that overlooks the Pacific. Spanning just over a mile, it also served as a campground for the homeless. It had been a while since I had gone running here and I was awestruck at the number of homeless campers. With bodies strewn about the park, I couldn't help wondering if this was what Normandy looked like on the dawn of the invasion. I tried to find a straight path to run in, but all lanes had obstacles in them. A jogger about fifty yards ahead of me solved the problem by treating the course like it was the high hurdles.
The sun was fighting through the smog, and the yellow haze of the morning did little to perk up my spirits. After a shower, I went to the office and checked voice mail. Another message from the dermatologist. What was happening? Had I learned anything about Violet's activities? Why hadn't I called? I sighed and decided to pay him a visit. I was also starting to wonder why his wife wasn't having an affair.
The doctor's office was on the tenth floor of the Neudorf Medical Arts Building along Bay City Boulevard. As I walked into the waiting room, I was greeted by a receptionist who could easily have been a contestant in the Miss California pageant. Her wavy blonde locks swirled past her shoulders and the green eyes were as enticing as a kitten's. While she was wearing a professional looking white lab coat, the only thing under it was a black halter top and a pair of form fitting black jeans. She hadn't bothered to button the smock and I was not about to voice a complaint.
"Good morning," she smiled. "Do you have an appointment to see Dr. Leary?"
"No, actually I don't."
"How may I help you then?" she asked.
I handed her my card. She picked up the phone and punched in a number, speaking quietly into the receiver. Hanging up, she rose and asked me to follow her. The white coat flowed behind her and she led me down the hallway into the doctor's business office.
The doctor had on a white lab coat of his own, but he chose a light blue oxford shirt underneath, with the top three buttons open. A plethora of grey chest hair spilled into view. When he had initially come to solicit my services, he had the candor to at least wear a tie. Another pretty young woman, slender and dressed in a red tank top and jeans, sat across from his desk. For a moment I thought I had wandered onto a set of The Bachelor.
"The famous Mr. Burnside," crowed the doctor. "Ladies, let me introduce you to a real life detective."
The girls turned and looked impressed. "Are you like Magnum, P.I.?" asked the young thing in the red tank top. "My mom used to love that show."
"Precisely," I said. "Except I'm not as hairy and I punch harder."
"Ladies, would you excuse us," Dr. Leary said. "We have some private business to discuss. The detective probably wants my expert opinion on a medical matter. Brandy, why don't you show Lorelei how to work the coffee machine."
They left the room and as I closed the door, the dermatologist's effusive smile disappeared.
"Whaddya got for me?"
I raised my eyebrows. "Brandy?"
Leary shrugged. "The blonde. Lorelei's just starting today. Student nurse, wants some experience as she works her way through school."
"Making coffee's great RN training."
"There are worse internships. Anyway, when you make the kind of money I do, you can have some nice stuff walking around. I didn't bust my ass all these years to have a bunch of cows in here."
"Is that what you told your first wife?"
Leary glowered at me. "Now don't you crack wise. I hired you to find out about Violet. How come I haven't heard from you?"
"Because she hasn't done anything," I said evenly. "I talked to her girlfriends, her hairdresser, even the guy who clips the hedges outside your house. What I've come up with is nada."
"Keep snooping. She's up to something."
I sighed. "Just what makes you think that?"
"I hear things," he said. "Besides, I want to make sure, if for no other reason than my own piece of mind. One of my buddies at the club has a younger wife and one day he caught her with some tennis pro."
The good doctor's face was turning scarlet as he probably thought of his own lady love diddling someone closer to her own age.
"How long have you been married, doctor?"
"Two years to Violet."
"And to your first wife?"
"Thirty years. I figure I got about twenty more good years left in me, and I might as well enjoy them in more splendid surroundings."
Things probably would be splendid for a few years, I admitted. But when the body parts start malfunctioning and those romps in the afternoon become fewer and more far between, a young women will probably start looking elsewhere. Someone you've been with for thirty years will doubtlessly be more compassionate. Especially when their own skin is sagging and they have as many maladies as you. His first wife was probably attractive once. It's a shame that nature never leaves well enough alone.
I tried a new tact. "So you think Violet's getting it elsewhere."
"Yeah, that's what I think."
"How about you. Have you been getting it elsewhere, too?"
"That's not your business, Burnside," he sneered. "Stick to looking through peep holes. I paid you three days retainer and you haven't come up with anything yet."
"And I've put a week into it already. If you have any doubts, I'll show you the log I've kept on her. It'll be included anyway in your final report."
Leary waved the idea away and opened his checkbook. " I owe you what, seven hundred a day?"
"Plus expenses." I hesitated before continuing. "But are you sure you want to keep doing this?"
He scribbled out a check for another three days pay. "You let me decide how to spend my money. This'll keep you going. Look, Violet sees to a personal physique trainer every week. He's the one I really suspect. I'll get you the details. If nothing happens, I'll end the investigation."
I pocketed the check and winced as I stood up. The pain in my wrist was almost as strong as the one grinding my pride. I needed to stop using the arms of chairs as leverage. I also needed better clients, health insurance and a summer home up the coast.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
I held up my hand. "Banged up my wrist. I don't suppose you'd be able to help."
Leary shook his head. "I'm a dermatologist. Doctor of the skin," he said reaching into a file. He handed me a business card of an orthopedic surgeon named Don Gieselman. "He's a golf buddy of mine. Tell him I sent you. He'll give you a good rate."
I fingered the card and headed for the lobby. As I passed the pretty blonde receptionist, she motioned to me.
"Are you investigating Dr. Leary?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
She looked around carefully before replying. "He's a real creep. Can't keep his hands off the girls. Nobody lasts around this place."
"How come you're still here?"
She bit her lip. "I need this job badly. Money's tight. But I don't know how much more of that damn doctor's groping I can take."
I nodded. "Let me think about what I can do. There's always options. And I don't think you have to worry too much."
"Why not?"
&nbs
p; "The world never lets a beautiful woman starve."
Getting one last smile from Brandy, I tossed the orthopedic surgeon's card in the trash and walked towards the elevator.
*
There's something very nostalgic about the candy section of a pharmacy. They often have hard-to-find treats that most convenience stores don't stock. The pharmacies' clientele is often older and more likely to be interested in items beyond M&Ms and Milky Way bars. The pharmacy on the ground floor of the Neudorf building evoked memories of childhood that brought a smile to my face. Everything from Sky Bars to Cup o' Gold to boxes of Good n' Fruity were sitting in the pharmacist's bin. I settled on a roll of Regal Crown Cherry Sours and happily let one the lozenges dissolve on my tongue as I drove along the now sunny streets of Bay City.
For the past few years, anyone in need of a free meal could get one near City Hall. The program was sponsored by a wealthy donor who was concerned about people going hungry in the streets. With some logistical help from the city in the form of manpower and the use of municipal land, a free lunch was served daily. While some people considered the program a booming success, others felt it attracted too many homeless people to Bay City where they chose to remain, in a perpetual state of limbo.
When I first met Wayne, he told me how he had become tired of homeless people asking him for money on the street. As an experiment, he offered to take a panhandler to a local coffee shop and buy him a free meal. Over a hamburger, he learned that the people were usually not hungry, as they knew which missions and soup kitchens to visit for food. An extra meal was not to be scoffed at, they said, but they preferred cash so they could buy some personal items. For some people this could mean toothpaste and shaving cream, for others it could be a bottle of cheap wine.
A line had formed around a table where a group of volunteers and City Hall administrators were spooning out bowls of stew into plastic bowls. I looked around for the elusive Mustard, but he was nowhere to be seen. Walking down the line of those waiting for food, I asked each one if they had heard of him. Finally, a rangy looking man who could have passed for a corporate executive if he had a haircut and a new set of clothes said he thought he knew him.