Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  I slept fitfully that night, but my mind kept spinning and whirring at the dour future that might await me. My thoughts were partially shrouded by the looming possibility of a murder charge. I finally decided to deal with that premise if it arose. Worrying was one of two useless feelings, the other being guilt. If one takes life as it comes and lives in the present, then worrying about future incidents or feeling guilty about past ones become pointless. This was a lesson I had been trying to remind myself over the years. One of these days it would sink in.

  The jailor brought in two trays of food and slammed them condescendingly on the floor. A bowl of oatmeal, a piece of toast and a cup of coffee sat on each. My roommate wolfed down his breakfast rapidly, so I offered him mine. I didn't bother to tell him to keep his chin up or to maintain his resolve. He may not have had much to begin with. As he gobbled down the meal, I pulled out the Payday bar and slowly chewed it. My eating habits were becoming as poor as my luck lately.

  An hour or so later, the jailor returned to pick up the trays. As he did so, he called out my name loudly, as if there were a dozen people in the cell. I looked at him and said nothing.

  "C'mon, c'mon, which one of you is Burnside?"

  "If you're here to escort him to the gallows, this Burnside fellow escaped last night."

  "You Burnside?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You sound like a real jerk," he grumbled and looked down at a piece of paper. "Anyway your release came through. We're springing you."

  I got up and stretched my muscles. "What happened?"

  "The Fairborn kid regained consciousness earlier. We questioned him and he backed up your story. We're putting a warrant out for that Markovich character. You're free to go. Unless you like it in here, that is."

  I shook my head and said good-bye to the old man. He nodded and gave a half-hearted wave. When we were back outside, I signed off for my possessions and handed two dollars to the jailor.

  "What the hell's this for?" he asked.

  "You mind seeing to it that the old guy gets this? Let's just say I like to keep a clean ledger."

  The jailor shrugged and shoved the bills in his pocket. I signed the rest of the paperwork required for my release and stepped back out into the warm California sunshine.

  *

  Since the Tribune's building was on the way back to my office, I decided to stop off and see Virgil Hairston. As I searched the Trib's parking lot for a space, I noticed his wide body trying to squeeze into a tiny Honda Civic. I tooted the horn twice and pulled up beside him.

  "They don't make those cars for your kind of people," I called.

  He looked up, surprised. "There's gonna be a law one day that protects overweight folks from this type of discrimination."

  "Could be," I said. "What's up?"

  "His highness, Mayor Callison granted me an interview. In ten minutes. I was hoping to talk to you yesterday so I could get a little more background on what you've come up with."

  "Mind if I tag along? I've always wanted to be a journalist. I might also pick up a few things on this case. Think I can pass as a reporter?"

  Hairston pondered the thought for a moment. "Why not?" he shrugged, giving me the once over. "You look as grungy as any of us."

  We rode over to City Hall in my Pathfinder, and on the way Hairston instructed me to play the part of his assistant. Don't talk too much, hold off on the cynicism, take a few notes, and mostly act like the Mayor is a revered leader.

  "In other words," I said, "don't be myself."

  "I knew you'd understand."

  We arrived at City Hall and were quickly ushered into the Mayor's office. It was a large room with twenty foot ceilings, maple wood floors, and lots of windows facing the ocean. It was the kind of suite one could easily get used to and the Mayor seemed to fit in comfortably here. Jim Callison was a tall man in his late forties, with hair the color of shimmering silver. He had small dark eyes and a nose that was long and sharply angled.

  "If it isn't the famous Mister Hairston," he barked, rising to his feet.

  "Mister Mayor," Virgil said, walking over and extending a hand. "I'd like you to meet Mister Burnside. He'll be assisting me."

  We shook hands. "You look familiar, Burnside. I can't quite place you."

  I shrugged. "Do you spend much time in Myrtle Beach?"

  "No," he said.

  "Me neither. Maybe that's it."

  Callison gave me a puzzled look. Perhaps he wasn't used to smart asses. Virgil Hairston interceded at that point and suggested we get down to business. Callison sat down behind his big oak desk and I sank into a hefty leather chair.

  "Mayor, I'd like to thank you for granting me this private interview. It's most gracious of you."

  Callison nodded appreciatively, as if to acknowledge his place as a fair and just leader. He looked every bit the part of the distinguished public figure: dark tailored suit, white shirt with gold cufflinks and a "JC" monogrammed beneath the pocket. A black and silver club tie finished the look. His face was tanned and his hands had been professionally manicured. He had the tony appearance of a successful actor. The difference between politics and theatre struck me as marginal.

  "My pleasure," Callison said. "I despise press conferences. The reporters act like barking jackals, and I'm never comfortable enough to get my points across. I really should write my own column in the Tribune. I've been discussing that very issue with your publisher for some time."

  "That would lend an interesting perspective, I'm sure," I said diplomatically. Hairston gave me a look and I didn't pursue the thought any further.

  "Mayor, how do you look back on your three terms in office? What are you most proud of?"

  Callison leaned back and expounded for a few minutes on how Bay City continued to be one of the most livable communities in the area, preserved a high quality of life, and maintained staunchly liberal values in a time where tea party politics were becoming in vogue.

  "With the country becoming more conservative, some might say Bay City was behind the times, rather than being progressive," Hairston commented.

  "Progressive politics are never out of style. We're here when people are in need."

  Hairston scribbled some notes and looked up. "What would you say is the biggest problem facing your office today?"

  Callison jutted his mouth outward and raised his head to strike a thinker's pose. After a few moments of careful deliberation, he responded. "Making certain the city runs efficiently."

  "Meaning?"

  "The citizens only see the final product. They see the nice new buildings, the Third Street Promenade, the movie theaters, the renovation. But all that costs money. Most cities get that through property taxes. But Bay City is a place where renters outnumber homeowners four to one, so it's a real trick to improve things with a limited tax base. We need to get things done using other sources."

  "And those sources include..." Virgil asked.

  "From the business community."

  "So the biggest problem," I chimed in, "is selling the idea of urban growth to a liberal minded citizenry that would ordinarily hate the idea."

  Callison lowered his eyelids. "That may be boiling it down too finely. People need to be educated as to the nuts and bolts of what's involved in giving them what they need."

  "Or what they think they need," I added.

  Callison gave Virgil Hairston a look that asked "who is this guy?" and turned back to me with a stern look. "As a leader, I am keenly aware of what people want. I've been Mayor for twelve years and I listen to what my constituents are saying. But there's a price to be paid for a more upscale way of life."

  I raised my hands. "No offense intended."

  "It's okay, Mayor," Virgil said. "He likes to get a rise out of people. Don't let it bother you."

  The humble servant's terse look was somewhat assuaged. "It's all right," he said and even managed a smile. "I like people with a little spunk. I'm a passionate guy myself."

  "Sure," Virgil sai
d. "But since we're on the subject, you've opposed any major commercial or industrial development projects in the past. What changed your position?"

  "As I said, the people of the city. Years ago, this was almost something of a retirement community. We had lots of elderly people living here. When they revamped the rent control law, Bay City became more popular with young people, and landlords sought them out. More young professionals began moving in when the elderly ones passed away. They liked the casual lifestyle and the proximity to the beach. But to look around the city, we had too many old, tired shops, cheap restaurants and neglected movie theaters. We had to do something to bring the city up to date with the times."

  "What about the problems that come along with that?" he asked.

  Callison shrugged. "It's inevitable. It's becoming a bigger, more diverse place, so there's more people coming here. More traffic, more congestion. That sort of thing."

  "Crime is higher," Virgil pointed out.

  "It's an urban environment now," the mayor spouted quickly, "but on a per capita basis, crime is no higher than it's ever been."

  "There's more homeless," he said.

  Callison shook his head. "There's more homeless everywhere. It's a societal problem. We're no different than anyplace else. In fact, we take a more humane approach to them here. The homeless aren't prosecuted for vagrancy like they are in some communities. We also work with shelters to help give them a meal, no questions asked. And we don't have a litmus test to make sure they're save-able like that dopey right wing homeless clinic Fairborn was running."

  I spoke. "You didn't like Wayne Fairborn much, did you."

  "He was my opponent and we naturally had different views on things. And I don't mean to say anything negative about the dearly departed, but I was a lot more honest than he was."

  My interest was piqued. When a politician talks about honesty, my first instinct is to put a hand over my wallet. "Why do you say that?"

  "I'll tell you why. Fairborn was as big a supporter of development as me," he declared. "Hell, his daddy was one of the biggest developers in the state. That's what made the family fortune. He was just saying he was against further development to win an election he had no business winning."

  "But it was working, wasn't it," Virgil said. "The polls showed you guys in a dead heat."

  "The election is still a month away. Anything can happen in that time frame. I'll tell you something else about that guy. Fairborn made a lot of noise about helping the homeless in a practical way, helping them get jobs. But the vast majority aren't going to get jobs. They're on the streets because they're either mentally ill or they have substance abuse problems. It's a messy problem, but picking out the few and far between who can be rehabilitated won't solve the homeless problem. No way. I deal with situations as they really are. Patchwork solutions like Fairborn's look trendy and fashionable, but they're not worth a bucket of warm spit."

  "That's the vice presidency." I pointed out.

  "Huh?" he frowned.

  "It's a phrase one of FDR's veeps coined to describe the job. A bucket of warm spit."

  Callison looked at me as if I were from another planet. Some people were obviously not fans of trivia. And technically John Garner had referred to the Vice Presidency as not being worth a bucket of warm piss, but I revised that for the sake of manners.

  "Uh, Mayor," Virgil said, trying to move on, "how do you feel about Fairborn's replacement?"

  "Finley?" Callison scoffed. "He's just like Fairborn, except he doesn't have as much money. He's taking the same stands, same positions as Fairborn. They're clones. Except Fairborn had more dough."

  "So you're glad you're facing Lee Finley instead of Wayne Fairborn," I suggested.

  "Absolutely not. Lee Finley is a very formidable opponent."

  "But you'd rather face him than Fairborn," I said.

  Callison pointed a finger at me. "Don't you put words in my mouth, friend."

  I looked at the finger and the man behind it. "I wouldn't dream of putting words in your mouth. I'd have to dislodge your foot first."

  Callison slammed a fist down on his desk, stood up and pushed a button next to his phone. "I want you out of here," he said to me and turned to Hairston. "I agreed to this interview as a favor to your publisher. But I'm not going to sit here and take this crap."

  I stood up. "We haven't even asked you about Taylor and Rubin yet."

  Callison recoiled. "What about them?"

  "T & R. They're the ones building that complex by the Pier. Rumor has it they have another one planned along Olympic."

  "I can't comment on that," he said.

  "Can you comment why Taylor and Rubin are your biggest contributors in this campaign, whereas they never made any contribution to your past three campaigns?"

  "You need to leave," he said pushing the button under his desk again. And with that, the door opened and in walked his assistant.

  "Your next appointment is here, Mayor," she said.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm sorry, but I can offer you no further time. Thank you for coming."

  I looked at Hairston and he motioned me to follow. We walked downstairs and out of the building, saying nothing until we reached the street.

  "Where did you get all that stuff on T & R?" he asked.

  "You forget what profession I'm in," I said. "I hope I didn't spoil your interview. I have some trouble heeding requests to speak sparingly."

  "That's okay," Hairston said. "That's how people like Callison get thrown off balance. I didn't think you'd pay much attention to my request."

  "No?'

  "No," he said with a slight smile. "In fact, I was counting on it."

  Chapter 14

  I deposited Virgil back at his office and we promised to keep each other apprised of what ensued in the case. He was still absorbed in the relationship Callison had with Taylor and Rubin, but I only had so much to offer. Local politics was his bailiwick. Mine was solving a murder case. After going home to shower and change clothes, I decided to make up for the time I lost while spending the night in the Hermosa Beach jail.

  Alexa Polo's address was plainly listed on the internet. She lived close to the corner of Fourth and Idaho streets, conveniently near my own apartment. Hers was an older building that had seen better days. Some landlords made little effort at repairs. Fortunately for me, my landlord lived in the same building, and if work wasn't performed promptly, he had to endure tenants' gripes on a regular basis. From the looks of Alexa's building, she didn't seem to be as duly blessed.

  I rapped on a door whose last paint job may have been completed before I was born. A small black sticker above the lock warned of a security patrol that had gone out of business ten years ago.

  "Can I help you?" asked a tall woman in her early thirties as she opened the door. One of these days I planned on providing an honest answer to that question.

  I flashed my gold shield that read Private Investigator. "Name's Burnside," I said quickly. "I'm conducting an investigation. I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time."

  "Am I in some kind of trouble?" she frowned as she ushered me inside.

  "No," I said. "I just need to ask you a few questions. It has nothing to do with all those parking tickets you probably have stacked up."

  Alexa laughed a little, softly, and invited me to sit down on the couch. She was about five-nine, slender, and her chestnut brown hair was tied back tightly. She was moderately attractive, except when she smiled and then her whole face lit up. It was a big, wide, engaging, scintillating smile that sent sparks flying. It was the type of smile that reminded me of Gail Pepper's. It was all I could do to focus on the topic at hand.

  "I'd like to talk with you about Wayne Fairborn," I said.

  Her posture shifted immediately. From sitting daintily at the edge of the sofa, back straight, she stood up momentarily before sinking her lanky body deep into the cushions.

  "Oh," she said intelligently. The smile no longer evident.

  "I
understand you were involved with Wayne."

  Alexa took a deep breath. Her mind was concentrating on a memory that made her flinch a few times. "For a short time. A month or two, I suppose. The way it ended, it was, well, a hard chapter in my life"

  "That sounds painful," I observed, doing my best psychotherapist imitation. Next I'd be asking who else had hurt her.

  "Oh yes," she said, the lilt in her voice making it seem like she were singing the words as much as speaking them. "When you find yourself falling in love with somebody, it's awfully tough to accept the fact that it ends."

  "Who ended it?"

  She gave me a wistful look. "It wasn't me, I can assure you."

  "You loved him."

  She sighed. "Of course."

  "And did he love you?"

  She didn't answer at first, instead choosing to keep her head lowered and her eyes averted. "Oh, I thought he did. He was so sweet and he treated me so special. We really connected with each other. But then, he broke it off very abruptly... it really hurt me. I thought I meant more to him than just a fling."

  "Did he say why?"

  She gave a sad smile. It wasn't so bright or scintillating any more. "Why does any married man end an affair?" she sniffed. "His wife found out. She demanded he put an end to it. Which he dutifully obeyed. Funny thing, though."

  "What's that?"

  "I learned later on that I wasn't the first woman he was involved with outside his marriage. God, the more I talk about it, the cheaper I feel. Do we have to continue?"

  I nodded as soberly as I could. I wasn't entirely sure where Alexa fit in with this case, but every little bit helped. I had gathered plenty of information on Wayne but there was a central, integral link missing, a piece that might bond everything together. It seemed like a long shot, but I had nothing to lose. Neither did Alexa Polo really, save for a trace of sad reminiscing.