Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  Using a handkerchief, I took the birthday card out of its envelope and handed it over to him. My fingerprints were already on the edge of the card, but there was no point in adding to them.

  Sack put on gloves and opened the card carefully, read through it, nodded, and pursed his lips together. "So Fairborn was sleeping around. Big deal. It doesn't add up to murder."

  "Throw something else into the pot and it certainly does."

  "What's that, hot shot?"

  "When Wayne was found, there was a business card of a Nina Lovejoy sitting in his lap. Now, despite what you may believe about the reverse psychology angle, it's likely that somebody besides Nina put it there."

  Sack held up the birthday card. "The sender of this?" he asked.

  "Simple enough to check. Just run the fingerprints on Nina's business card. You already know there are two sets of prints on it. One, of course, belongs to Nina. I'll bet a million bucks the other belongs to the sender of that birthday card. And you know that taking their prints will be a snap."

  "So the killer was going to surprise Wayne with a birthday present and..."

  "Decided to kill him instead. With Wayne's own gun that was laying on his desk. Nina had already left."

  "Okay. But how does Raff get hold of the card?"

  "Raff was rummaging through the offices thinking no one was there," I said. "He saw a present all wrapped up and decided to take it, probably not even knowing what the hell it was. Whether he took it before or after Wayne was shot is immaterial."

  "Are you sure?" Sack asked. "What was it?"

  "A silver engraved pen stand. I saw it when I visited Raff right after Wayne was killed. Apparently he didn't get the significance of Wayne's initials on the base of the stand. When I pointed it out to him, he decided to return the pen stand to Wayne's office at Second Chance."

  "And that's when Raff himself got popped."

  "Apparently."

  Sack held up the card. "Same person, I imagine."

  "That'd be my guess," I answered.

  Sack slapped a pencil in and out of his hand. "Okay," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "I can have forensics run the prints on this and check it with the business card. If there's a match, we may have something here."

  "I appreciate this," I said. "I know you've been told to lay off the case."

  "We've just been told not to continue the investigation. That doesn't mean we stop being cops. I may look the other way on some things, but murder isn't one of them. I'll give you a call tomorrow and let you know what's what."

  I turned to leave. "You know Barney, all things considered, you're not such a bad guy after all."

  Sack shook his head and picked up his pencil. "Coming from you man, you just don't know what that means to me."

  I laughed sardonically. "Yeah, I suppose I do."

  *

  That night should have been one for celebrating, a night for laughing at the idea that there might ever be a case I couldn't crack. Perseverance, asking tough questions, and following through on whatever leads materialized seemed to have finally paid off. A friend's death was about to be avenged, a killer about to be unmasked. I should have been pleased. Or at least satisfied. Or redeemed. But all I really felt was tired and aching and maudlin. I wanted to place my arms around Gail Pepper. I wanted to have a laugh with Wayne Fairborn. I wanted to share this little victory, this discovery of the mystical piece that connected the puzzle. A bottle of beer and a tuna sandwich was not an attractive substitute. Unfortunately, it was the only option there for me.

  The next day was Sunday and I took my first respite in weeks. I slept late, watched some football on TV and even started one of Raff's books. I barbecued a rib eye steak on my Weber charcoal grill and after dinner I went out for an early evening jog. It was a pleasurable day and I capped it off by going to bed early. Ms. Linzmeier didn't engage in any nocturnal activities so I slept for nine hours straight. I awoke to a blue sky, the sun shining and the birds chirping. It was a brand new day.

  I got out of bed early, showered and drove over to the Ocean Park Cafe. Once inside the swinging screen doors, I looked around for Carl O'Brien and found him sitting at a corner table, finishing breakfast. He was built solid as a rock, hence the name Ox.

  "Hi there," I said, parking myself at his table.

  "Morning," Ox said, taking a final bite of a pancake. "Want something to eat?"

  I shook my head. "I don't have much of an appetite first thing in the morning. Not these days anyway."

  "Problems?" he asked.

  "Nothing that won't be going away soon," I answered.

  "You P.I.'s got it made, I tell you. Make your own hours and you get top dollar. Plus expenses, I should add."

  "Yeah," I mused. "It's a hell of a life."

  We drove over to the Neudorf Building and rode up the elevator to the tenth floor. I followed Ox down the hallway, past Doctor Leary's office and through a door marked "Sunset Urology Group". We walked through the waiting room and into the doctor's private office. There were two uniformed officers plus a man in a neatly pressed black suit, a technician, and a sexy looking woman wearing a halter top and jeans. Her outfit was tight enough to bounce coins on. Everyone sipped cups of coffee, while the technician finished drilling a hole in the wall.

  "How we doing everybody?" Ox boomed. Introductions were made and I poured myself some coffee. The sexy girl and the guy in the black suit were investigators with the California Attorney General's office. She would be the bait, he would slap the handcuffs on. The uniforms were there in case the good doctor decided to make a fuss about things. The technician was there to make sure the evidence was properly recorded. I was there to validate a hunch. Ox appeared to be there for the show.

  "This gonna be fun!" Ox exclaimed, pacing back and forth.

  The male investigator, whose name was Brad, looked up and smiled. "Now there's a man who enjoys his work."

  "You betcha," he said with a wink.

  "How did you manage to talk the Urology group into letting us use their office?" I asked.

  "We lucked out," Ox said. "One of the doctors here came home to find his house ransacked a few months ago. I took the call and as I drove up, I saw the perp leap the hedges. When I collared him, he had about two thousand in cash and a sack full of jewelry. The doc said if I ever had a urinary problem to stop by. This ain't exactly a urinary problem, but you know..."

  "It's a lot more fun," joked one of the uniforms. No one disagreed.

  The technician finished securing the wires to a closed circuit television and turned it on for a test. We were treated to a shot of an empty examining room containing a chair, rubbing table, basin, and a whirlpool large enough to dangle a pair of legs in. Satisfied things were in good working condition, we settled in for the occupational hazard of detective work. Waiting.

  The woman, whose name was Lila, was only able to secure an appointment with Dr. Leary for eleven o'clock. We spent the next three hours swapping war stories, telling jokes, and talking about USC's chances against Notre Dame the following week. There were few things I missed about being in a uniform, but the camaraderie and the bonding made me almost wish I was still carrying a badge.

  At five minutes before eleven, Lila departed from our enclave and sashayed down the hall. Her symptoms involved a small rash located smack dab on her derriere. Despite Ox's offer, she declined to give him the opportunity to examine the red marker spots on her bottom for authenticity.

  After twenty minutes of waiting, the door to Leary's examining room opened and the technician started recording. The image of Lila appeared on the screen before us. She sat down and gave the doctor a big smile. He had no trouble returning it.

  "Good morning, I'm Dr. Leary," he said, holding out his hand.

  "Lila," she said, offering her hand for a shake. "Lila Singer."

  The doctor held her hand for a fraction of a second too long. Lila didn't seem to notice, or if she did, kept it to herself. The smile remained pasted on her li
ps.

  "Are you from this area?" he asked.

  Lila shook her head demurely and bit her lower lip. "I'm from back east. New England."

  "So am I!" he exclaimed. "I went to college at Dartmouth. Beautiful back there. Especially this time of year. The leaves are changing color and you have those wonderful maple logs burning in the fireplace."

  "Oh my, yes," Lila purred. "I just miss it so much. And the men have so much more character back there. More intelligent, more masculine. Oh, you're starting to make me homesick!"

  Leary smiled and looked down at her chart. "I see that you're single."

  "Single and looking," she smiled. "When I meet the right man I'm going to make him very happy."

  "I'm sure he'll be one lucky guy," Leary said, moving a little closer and patting his hand on Lila's bare knee. "So what brings you in this morning?"

  "Well, it's a little embarrassing," she said with a slight giggle, averting her eyes from his gaze. "I have a rash on a very, uh, delicate part of my anatomy."

  Leary stroked the knee. "Now, now. It's all right. Doctors view everything. There's not much you can show me that I haven't already seen before."

  "Well, there's another problem also. I'm not actively employed right now, so I'm concerned about your fee."

  Leary waved a hand. "We'll work something out. I have a special feeling about you. You're good people, I can just feel it. Why don't you show me your rash."

  Lila hesitated for a moment, then smiled in an embarrassed way and stood up. Looking down at her midsection, she unbuttoned her pants and slowly wiggled out of them, hips gyrating provocatively. The doctor's eyes followed her hands and an audible swallow could be heard when her skimpy lavender panties came into view. She turned seductively and lowered her panties to reveal a well constructed set of buttocks, round, smooth and firm. A random series of red dots spotted both cheeks.

  Leary's eyes were practically bugging out of his head as he watched Lila turn her posterior towards him and bend over slightly. He put his hands on her rear and poked and prodded, all the while moving in for a closer look. He massaged her bottom for a minute, and Lila slowly began to respond to his touch, sighing and moving her torso slowly back and forth. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at the doctor and asked him what he thought. Leary licked his lips before answering, but his hands never strayed from the sensuous patch of skin he was busy caressing.

  "How often do you go to the gym each week?" he asked.

  Lila pondered for a moment. "Four, five times maybe," she answered. "Say, how do you know I go to the gym?"

  Leary smiled. "Elementary, my dear. Locker rooms are veritable breeding grounds for bacteria and fungi. Does your bare skin come into contact with a bench or seat, perhaps?"

  "Sure, when I change my clothes. Or when I'm sitting in the steam room."

  "Voila," he smiled, moving his hands towards the inside of her thighs. "I prescribe you avoid the steam room and make sure you lay out a towel before sitting down on the bench to get dressed. I'll give you something called Loprox. It's a cream you need to apply twice a day. These nasty little things should disappear soon."

  Lila frowned. "But is it expensive, doctor? I can't spend much money."

  Chuckling slightly, Leary stood up and put his hands around her slender waist. He bent over and kissed the nape of her neck. "Why don't we forget about the fee," he whispered.

  "Oh, but you should be compensated for your time, doctor," Lila declared. "Maybe I can pay you in installments?"

  Leary pressed himself against her back and began to fondle her breasts. "You can pay me right now," he breathed.

  "You mean sex?" she asked in a voice, far louder than need be, considering his ear was inches from her lips.

  The two uniformed officers looked at each other and laughed feverishly. Brad stood up and walked towards the door. "Show time's over, guys. Let's take him."

  One of the uniforms crossed his legs. "I think we need a little more evidence, don't you?"

  Brad looked uncomfortable. "She gave the code. Let's do it."

  On the screen, Leary was struggling to stick his tongue in Lila's ear. "Sex?" she yelled loudly. "Is it sex you mean?"

  The other uniform took a sip of coffee and smiled. "I thought the code word was prick. She hasn't said prick yet."

  Brad opened the door. "It was sex," he insisted. "You guys are a bunch of sick bastards. Now get in there now or I'll see to it you go on report."

  The cops slowly stood up. "Now, don't go and stir up trouble. We just need to be sure."

  The three of them finally departed for Leary's office and by the time they barged through the door and announced themselves, Leary and Lila were tangled up on the chair. The cops pulled Leary to his feet and jerked his arms behind his back. Lila grabbed her jeans and climbed into them swiftly.

  "Where the hell were you guys?" she screamed. "I'm practically getting raped! Didn't you hear me?" She continued to berate them as they led the doctor from the office and read him his rights.

  Sitting next to me, Ox proffered a derisive laugh. "She's got a lot of spunk," he said. "I don't half blame the doctor for going after her."

  "Except when the state board pulls his license to practice medicine," I said, "he may feel a twinge of regret."

  I thought of Violet, his pretty young wife, and the violated look on her face when she learned what her husband was doing. I wondered how many student nurses had received an education of another sort when Leary hired them. From my vantage point, he had done more wounding than healing. The doctor of the skin would soon be taking some rather bitter medicine. Dr. Leary had made plenty of mistakes. His biggest one may have been hiring me.

  Chapter 22

  I was back in my office for no more than two minutes when the knob of my door turned. I looked up from reading some junk mail to see Crystal Fairborn enter quietly and sit down on a chair facing me. In her hand was today's copy of the Tribune. On her face was an expression one might call perturbed.

  "I'm glad to see you're keeping up on your paperwork," she said, "with all the hard work you've been doing."

  The cynicism did not become her. "I'm not sure I follow."

  Crystal held up the newspaper. The headlines blared, "Mayor Callison to Resign!"

  I put the junk mail down. "I haven't read the news today. I guess we'll soon say hello to our new mayor, Lee Finley."

  She tossed it on my desk. "Allow me to summarize it for you. The Tribune learned that the Mayor was a major investor in commercial real estate that was about to be developed by a company called Carat & Carat. The only delay was because a few lots still needed to be purchased. The owner, a one Crystal Fairborn, is currently in negotiation with Carat & Carat to sell these lots."

  I nodded and said nothing. Crystal continued.

  "Well," she said, "I thought that was interesting so I called Jackson Taylor and asked where he got the idea I was going to sell. And he told me my real estate agent, Mr. Burnside, had been negotiating with him. Have you added a realtor's license to your repertoire? I just asked you to look into Wayne's death, not splatter our financial holdings across page one of the local paper."

  I shook my head. "I have been working on what you hired me for," I said. "And I'm sorry you're upset. Believe it or not, this all does relate back to my investigation of Wayne's death."

  "That's a stretch," she said.

  "Admittedly, it may seem so. But were you aware that Taylor and Rubin were behind that DVD you received a few weeks ago? The one with Wayne and Amy? Or that Wayne had turned down T & R's offer to buy those three lots you own along Olympic?"

  Crystal's eyes widened. "T & R was involved in the DVD?"

  "Yes," I said, not especially wanting to delve further into this topic, but seeing few options. The truth was hard to discuss, and it would not get any easier in the days to come. I had to be candid with her, despite the delicacy of the subject.

  "What's more, this was far from Wayne's only affair. I don't know much about
the state of your marriage, but believe me, Wayne got around. Amy wasn't his only one."

  The icy look she walked in with had begun to melt. Her body, rigid and straight a few moments ago, was now slouched in the chair. Her eyes moistened. I had touched a nerve.

  "What you say is true," she finally managed. "I suspected as much for a while. Long before the DVD arrived, Wayne's interest in me, well, waned, I suppose is the only way to put it. Our relations deteriorated. I tried for a long time to pretend nothing was wrong. I was the good wife of a wealthy young man who was trying to make the world a better place. There are a million women who would trade places with me, so I didn't complain. I simply counted my blessings and hoped things would change. Hoping against hope."

  "Why do you think Wayne was unfaithful?" I asked.

  She bit her lip. "I think it was his way of proving his masculinity. It's so childish, especially for a man who had a public persona of maturity and sophistication. I don't entirely understand it, and believe me I have tried to. I think it was his way of reliving adolescence, of not growing up, of keeping his options open."

  "Of trying to live forever?" I suggested.

  "Yes."

  "By avoiding the adult responsibilities of a monogamous marriage."

  "Yes."

  I hesitated for a moment. "And did you ever have an affair yourself?"

  She shook her head fervently. "No, never. If I did it would have been out of revenge, and in the end I'm sure I would have been the one who would have suffered, not Wayne."

  I nodded. "You may be right," I said. "There is something you should know, however. I did find out who was behind your car accident a few weeks back. It was Amy Flanders. She and a guy named Mel Fenster were in her SUV. They followed you home and Amy got the drunken idea to try and run you off the road. I found traces of paint on her vehicle that matches yours. We can press charges against her for attempted murder, or at the very least reckless endangerment. We can verify the scratched paint on your car with the blue paint from Amy's vehicle."

  The two of us sat in silence for a while. I crumpled up an advertisement for a take-out Chinese restaurant and winced as I tossed it in the trash. Even the simple act of twisting a piece of paper still irritated my wrist. I started to regret throwing away Leary's card for the orthopedic surgeon.