Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

  "The last person in the world you want to see," I answered.

  He started to get up and I reached over with my foot and shoved him back down. We repeated the exercise twice, before he lunged at me and tried to tackle my legs. I stepped back and grabbed him by the hair and delivered two sharp punches to the side of his temple. When I let go of his hair, he fell to the ground like a sack of dirt.

  Behind me, Violet Leary stood with her arms wrapped around herself, breathing heavily. Our eyes met and she took a step back.

  "What is going on here?" she asked, in a voice that nearly shivered in its unevenness.

  "I was about to ask you the same question," I said, pulling my card out and handing it to her. "How long have you been coming here?"

  "About a month," she said, squinting at the card in disbelief.

  "Has Hyde been your trainer all along?"

  "No. A guy named Dan Collins worked with me. But Dan wasn't here today and this creep was going to help me through my workout."

  "So you never saw him before."

  "Never," she shook her head. "What's this all about?"

  Some pieces started to fall into place and I decided to level with her. It felt far easier than continuing the charade. Confidentiality had its limits. I also had another paying client.

  "I was hired by your husband," I said, breaking a cardinal rule of investigative work.

  "Why?" she demanded. "Does he think I'm having an affair?"

  "You catch on quick," I said. "Although it looks like he was trying to set one up for you."

  She looked down at the fallen trainer who was beginning to stir. "That son of a bitch. We've been married almost two years and he's worried I'm sleeping with half of Malibu. I can't even look at another man in public without him demanding to know if I'd like to screw them. He's always saying how if I'm given the opportunity, I'd lay anyone!"

  I asked a question that was sure to make her feel more comfortable with me. "Have you ever had an affair since you've been married?"

  Her eyes glowered. "Would it shock you if I said that I hadn't?"

  My eyes searched hers but all I saw was a blazing anger. "I suppose not."

  "And would it further shock you if I told you my husband, the fine upstanding doctor, has had a few flings of his own that I've learned about?"

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  "Well then," she said, her voice starting to crack, "you can tell that paranoid fuck that I've had it with this double standard of a marriage and my lawyer will be on his ass before he can turn around."

  I looked at her trembling body, the rage that spewed from her eyes, and the final betrayal that had been bestowed upon her. I probably should have let things go at that point, allowed the legal machinations to take their course. But I was feeling pretty miserable about the Wayne Fairborn case, and wanted to accomplish something this month. The wheels of justice could sometimes be made to turn more rapidly.

  "Perhaps you don't have to confront him with that just yet," I told her.

  "Why not?" she demanded. "This whole marriage has just stripped my dignity away."

  "I might be able to strip some of that from your husband."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have an idea for the good doctor to get a taste of his own medicine," I said. "And after we're through with him, he may not be writing any more prescriptions."

  Some of the fury in her eyes became tempered. I told her I'd be in touch in a few days and walked her to her car. As I made my way through the back yard, I noticed Hyde had come to and had risen to his knees. Disdaining a desire to wallop him again, I grabbed my camcorder and jogged slowly towards the fence.

  I returned to the office and called Carl O'Brien of the Bay City Police Department. Ox worked the night shift and I reasoned he was most likely just getting up.

  "Ox?"

  "Who's this?" came the response.

  "Burnside. From the softball league. I was on the Montana team the past few years?"

  "Burnside," he said with a little humor in his voice. "I remember you. You're the one who tried to bean me with a pitch after I homered off you. In softball, for crissakes."

  "Uh, yeah, that's possible," I said. "In a slow pitch league though, I don't think I did much damage."

  "Only to your own team. If I remember correctly, next time up, I whacked another homer."

  "Best revenge there is," I said. "Listen Ox, I need a favor."

  He laughed a little into the mouthpiece. "Jesus. What do you want?"

  I told him about my adventure with the Learys and my plans for the swinging dermatologist. He listened carefully before replying.

  "Intriguing," he said. "But we can only set him up for a misdemeanor that way."

  "I know. I'm going to try and get the A.G.'s office involved."

  "Tell you what," he said, "I know an investigator in their shop and he owes me a few favors. Besides, he'll like this kind of deal. Why don't I grease the skids with him."

  "You don't mind?"

  "Nah. This is gonna be fun," he laughed. "We're gonna have a blast."

  "I owe you. Next season, I'll serve you up another gopher ball."

  "Don't worry about it Burnside," he said. "In fact, don't change a thing about your pitching. You're doing just fine"

  I drew in a breath. "Nice guy."

  Chapter 17

  Before I could continue my perusal of Raff's mementos, a knock came at the door. The wide body of Virgil Hairston sidled into my office, a newspaper stuffed into his coat pocket. He glanced around the room and grinned.

  "Didn't your mother ever chide you for not picking up after yourself?" he asked.

  "Doesn't every mother? I just found that ignoring her was the easiest tactic."

  Hairston eased into one of the two chairs that faced my desk. He leaned back and crossed his legs in a manner that made him seem like he was at home in front of the fireplace. "You read this morning's paper yet?"

  I shrugged. "I just read the fish wrap online. AKA the L.A. Times."

  "Well now," he said, "You need to be more up on local Bay City news. I'll have to have one of our telemarketing reps give you a call. With the Tribune's new faster format edition, all you need to see is the two sentence summary under the headline. It's especially made for today's busy private detectives."

  "Save the step," I answered dryly. "One of your telemarketers did call me."

  "The sales pitch didn't work?"

  "Uh, no. It was her first day and she was having a little trouble reading the script her boss wrote out for her. She told me her main line of work was really acting. Couldn't have proved it by me."

  "Good help's hard to find," he said, and tossed the local paper on my desk. I unfurled it and read through the lead story, the byline going to Virgil Hairston. The headline read "More Traffic Woes To Plague Bay City Soon!" and the article went on to state that the T & R development company was trying to turn another large chunk of land into a business park. The principals, Jackson Taylor and Maury Rubin, had purchased all but three lots along the Olympic corridor, and were negotiating for the final parcel. The article said nothing about Mayor Callison.

  "You've done your homework," I said.

  "I had some help," he responded with a smile. "Tell me something. How did you originally learn of T & R's involvement with the Mayor?"

  "A disgruntled campaign worker," I said. "Apparently she was a little concerned about the Mayor's change of position on whether the city should continue to pursue commercial development. I learned T & R had been making some sizable donations to Callison's war chest."

  "Has she any proof of improprieties?"

  "None," I said. "They were all within the letter of the law."

  Hairston leaned back in his chair. "After the interview with the Mayor, I went through all the campaign contributions made to Callison, they're a matter of public record. I noticed some big numbers from Taylor and Rubin, but also from a number of othe
r sources. Companies named Lieberman Associates, Griess & Solomon, Carat & Carat. I checked them out and they're all subsidiaries owned by T & R."

  "So they've been funneling money to Callison under different names to divert suspicion."

  "Right. And most of the land along Olympic is owned by this Carat & Carat group. Let's test your powers of deduction. What do you make of the name? And that's Carat as in gold and diamonds not crunchy vegetables."

  I thought a moment. "Carat and Carat. C and C. And R and T. Maybe that's T and R."

  "Keep going. You're getting very warm."

  "But carat is supposed to measure purity. This whole mess doesn't seem very pure."

  Hairston laughed. "It's pure something. Bet on that."

  "Hmmmm. C-A-R-A-T. Callison, Rubin, Taylor. Callison and Rubin and Taylor."

  Hairston put his hands together and showered me with a brief round of applause. "Bravo," he said. "I'm impressed."

  "But there was nothing in the article about this," I pondered. "Or anything about Callison himself for that matter."

  "No connection can be made," he said. "At least none I've been able to find. The corporate officers of the property are listed as Jackson Taylor, Maury Rubin, et al."

  "And Callison is the al," I surmised.

  "That would be my guess too."

  "And you need a way to pin the tail on this donkey," I said.

  "That's where I'm hoping you can help out," he mused, his eyes looking upward towards the ceiling.

  "How's that, pray tell?" I asked.

  "Carat & Carat has been trying to buy the last three lots along Olympic for a couple of years, but the owner has been unwilling to sell."

  "Who is the owner?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure why her name is on the deed, maybe it's for tax reasons, I don't know" he said, smiling broadly now. "But the property was originally purchased five years ago by a fellow named Wayne Fairborn. The current owner is his wife, Crystal."

  *

  Over the next half hour, Virgil Hairston and I concocted a scheme that sounded foolproof. I called up Jackson Taylor's office and set up a meeting for that evening. Taylor's secretary insisted he was unavailable until seven, so I had a large chunk of time on my hands. The pile of Raff's clothes and papers looked wholly unappealing, so I went over to the gym. Wrapping my wrist tightly, I pumped some iron and pounded the bag for a while. As I climbed into my truck I remembered there was a fellow I needed to pay a visit to. I imagined he'd be happy enough to see me. Considering I may have saved his life.

  Peter Fairborn was resting comfortably in the Little Company of Mary Hospital in Torrance. He had a bevy of magazines strewn about his bed, and considering the bandages patching his face and the cast protecting his arm, he seemed in relatively good spirits. Half a dozen rows of playing cards sat precariously on his lap as he tried to finish a game of solitaire.

  "You look like you're recovering nicely," I said, walking into the room.

  "Hey, dude," he said through a slightly open mouth. "What brings you down here?"

  "I didn't think you'd remember. I was the one who found you the other day. A few minutes after Markovich got to you."

  It took a few seconds for him to make the connection. When he did, it revealed a broken smile with two or three teeth missing. "That's right. You're the detective, yeah, okay. They told me you were the one who called for that ambulance."

  I nodded. "Sorry I didn't get there a little sooner. Markovich lost his head."

  "That's an understatement," he said. "Man, I just opened the door and that big sack of shit grabs me and starts accusing me of stuff. Said I been following people, trying to run down somebody. He even accused me of killing my own brother. I mean, can you believe this asshole?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Actually I can."

  "It was unreal, I tell you. I don't know what he was looking for, but he wasn't gonna find it at my place. He ought to look closer to home."

  "Meaning?"

  "His daughter'd be the first suspect I'd have looked at. Crystal's so obvious. After that, there's his son-in-law, Rusty that fat whale."

  "Because Wayne wouldn't help them out financially?"

  "Yeah, there's that. But Rusty just flies off the handle easily. That's part of why he lost his job at the high school. Some kid mouthed off and Rusty popped him. He's trying to teach discipline to guys on his football team and he has none himself. Ain't that a crock?"

  "So that's how Rusty lost his job," I said. "How did you dig this up?"

  "Guy I play volleyball with teaches over at East Torrance. He says Rusty didn't belong around kids anyways. Had too much hostility in him. I guess that's okay for a football coach, but you gotta have limits, you know?"

  "Is that why you think Rusty killed Wayne?" I asked. "Wayne wouldn't help him out with the money, and Rusty flew off the handle?"

  "That'd be my thinking. And Markovich storming into my place fits in real well. If he finds something on me, that takes the attention away from who really did it. They can't fool me."

  "Apparently not," I said, wondering what Markovich's true mission in this whole scheme of things really was. It certainly felt like Markovich was doing more harm than good.

  "And boy, when we find that big oaf, he's gonna have a major surprise coming to him."

  "I wouldn't mind having a few words with him myself." I said. "Are you pressing charges?"

  "Sure," he said. "Assault and battery when we find him. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. My lawyer's gonna file a multi-million dollar suit against Markovich. You'll get a share too, when you testify. Damn, am I glad you showed up today. We're gonna make us a fortune!"

  I looked at the giddy figure smiling through the broken teeth and the white tape that covered a good part of his upper torso. The kid had spunk, I'd give him that. He had been beaten to a pulp for no discernible reason by an obsessed man on a mission, survived it and he was now out to get some payback. Sharing in the profits wasn't exactly what I had in mind for myself. Throughout the case I had speculated if Peter could have been so bold as to take his own brother's life. I was fairly sure he hadn't, but equally sure I was closing in on who had.

  "Look," I said grimly, "I'm not planning to make anything off of your injuries. I just came down to wish you a speedy recovery."

  "Wow. Someone in L.A. that passes up free money? You're a fish out of water, dude."

  "You're not the first one to have noticed that."

  Chapter 18

  At precisely seven o'clock, I walked through the frosted glass doors of the T & R Management building along Colorado Avenue near Twentieth Street. A while back, this street was filled with auto repair shops, small manufacturing plants and single story warehouses. T & R and a few other developers saw the opportunity to make more money by tearing down the structures and erecting groups of office buildings. The companies that assembled electronic components and desk accessories were being pushed out to make room for the various lawyers, tech firms, and post-production houses that wanted a trendy Westside address. Apparently, this was the future.

  The lobby was a plush, shiny vestibule with thick pile burgundy carpeting and lots of chrome trim. The walls were made of a highly polished green marble and held a directory which illuminated the names and suite numbers of the tenants. A few people in jackets and ties walked out wearily as I entered. For a change I fit in with the office crowd, my windbreaker, tan dockers and button-down blue oxford shirt made me look like any other grunt that played with a keyboard all day. The only obtrusive difference was that my left arm, which carried the briefcase, also covered a .38 pistol that fit snugly beneath my arm pit.

  I rode up the soft, hushed elevator to the top floor and entered the T & R executive offices. It was quiet as the reception area was vacant and the only noise was the distant clicking of a computer keyboard. I followed the clicks down a long hallway where I found a pudgy man wearing a white shirt with his back to the entrance. The office was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small
green shaded desk lamp, and the bright light emanating from the computer monitor.

  "Mister Taylor," I said.

  The pudgy man turned around. He had brown hair, receding in front, with a stylized auburn beard that had flecks of grey around the chin.

  "Yes, I'm Jackson Taylor. You must be Mister Burnside," he said, rising to shake my hand.

  "That's me," I said. "Realtor to the stars."

  "I know most of the commercial realtors in town," he said, looking me up and down. "Never heard of you before."

  "I'm new in town. From up north," I said, not bothering to embellish the point by informing him that up north was Montana Avenue, a few blocks away.

  "Uh-huh," he said. "Well, if you've signed up Crystal Fairborn, you've certainly worked pretty fast. We've been trying to buy those lots on Olympic for a damn long time."

  "The Fairborns are friends of the family," I said.

  "Sure. But I think we got us a problem, even still."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "The Fairborns owned the property. And as I understand it, his little wife was taken into custody as a possible suspect. If she bumped off her husband, it's good-bye to that deal."

  I thought back to my conversation with Virgil Hairston. We had plotted this out carefully and Taylor was practically following our script to the word.

  "The property was purchased by Wayne," I said slowly, "but he recently put the title in Crystal's name. Tax reasons, I suppose. Maybe it was better for him politically, but the property's hers straight away. No probate, no delays. Even if she was charged, the title is still in her name, so legally it has nothing to do with Wayne. And no charges were ever filed against Crystal and the police have released her. I know Crystal would like to sell off a few assets and move on with her life. Most of what they own is joint and that'll be tied up by the attorneys for a while. She needs some money to live on, and this'll give it to her."