Flea Flicker

by David Chill

  “That was a pretty quick entrance,” I said to Roper as we climbed the steps toward our seats. “We didn’t have to go through the security lines or walk through metal detectors.”

  “Damn right we didn’t,” he said. “I’ve got juice.”

  Indeed he did. Roper led us partway up the stairs and then ushered us into seats close to the fifty-yard line. It was not a corporate suite, but perfectly positioned, and the sight lines were great. If you had to watch an NFL match at an undersized stadium, this was the way to go. We had some of the nicest seats in the house.

  The game was scoreless when we arrived, and it was scoreless at halftime, a performance befitting two marginal teams who were out of playoff contention, and playing for what some might call pride. Roper handed Devon and Alshawn some sideline passes and told them to go on the field for a little while, something that gave us an opportunity to speak privately. As I was about to probe on my new assignment, we were briefly interrupted by a pair of distinguished-looking men wearing golf shirts and holding cocktails in their hands. They were both tanned and good-looking. One of them in fact, looked very familiar. His name was Eduardo Gonsalves, and he was the mayor of Los Angeles.

  “Well, Cliff, glad you could make it today,” the mayor smiled, shaking Roper’s hand, and introducing his friend, who turned out to be the deputy mayor; his name was Neil Handler.

  “Nice day to be outside, anyway,” Handler remarked. “Glad the fog finally lifted.”

  “Yeah, and I wish the Chargers would lift the fog around their heads and provide us with some competition,” Roper said. Then he pointed a finger in my direction. “Gentlemen, this is my friend, Coach Burnside. Used to play football at USC, you might have heard of him. He coached there, too.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of you,” Mayor Gonsalves smiled. He was a swarthy man in his early fifties, with black hair graying at the temples, and marvelous skin that barely showed a blemish or a wrinkle.

  “That’s reassuring,” I said, not entirely sure of whether he was telling the truth, but he sounded convincing.

  “And I understand,” Neil Handler said, “that your wife works for the city. She’s a darned good prosecutor. Nice lady, too.”

  “Thank you,” I smiled. “I’m impressed you know her.”

  “I make it my business to know everyone. In fact, I live in Mar Vista, too. We’ve got something in common.”

  “Funny I haven’t seen you on my block.”

  “Ha ha,” the Mayor broke in. “You’ll be seeing much more of him next year, I guarantee you that. Neil’s thinking of running for city council in your district. Give Colin Glasscock a run for his money, and I’ll bet Neil unseats him. Lots of changes happening in our city. All good ones.”

  “These guys,” Roper declared, “were instrumental in getting the Chargers and Rams back here to L.A. They’re great leaders, they’ve made this city what it is.”

  The mayor smiled. “Got you to thank, too, Cliff.”

  Cliff Roper beamed and rubbed his thumb against the top of his fingertips. “Always happy to chip in to make the world a better place.”

  They laughed, waved, said how great it was to meet me, and moved on. I turned to Roper. “You travel in some pretty fast company.”

  Roper shook his head. “They’re hacks. I donated a boatload of cash to the mayor’s campaign last time, so we’re on good terms.”

  “Didn’t have you pegged as a Democrat,” I said.

  He looked at me with a pained expression. “Do I look like an idiot? I also donated money to his opponent. Got to keep my bases covered. You never know when you’ll need a favor. You ought to be taking notes.”

  “Ah,” I said. “And did the mayor and his deputy know I’d be here today?”

  Roper shook his head. “You’re slow, but you’re finally getting it. Politics is a show. Of course I told them. About you and that hot wife of yours. I hope you appreciate her. She’ll help you more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agreed.

  “Look, enough with the small talk. Let me tell you about this assignment before those knuckleheads come back up from the field. You know I’m trying to sign Patrick O’Malley out of SC. You know because I told you yesterday. I’m hoping you remember.”

  “I remember. I also remember your wanting me to fix things. You remember what I said?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, here’s the shot. No one cares about the burglar. Seriously. No one. Except maybe some do-gooder in the City Attorney’s office. Maybe you can help with that. Trust me, no jury is going to side with a burglar who gets slapped around after he’s caught.”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. In my years with the LAPD, I came across a few cases of an intruder who got injured while on someone else’s property and took legal action. As absurd as it might seem, there is no hard and fast law protecting homeowners from an opportunistic burglar. In one case, a group of teenagers hopped a fence to use someone’s pool, and one fell as he was landing and tried to sue for damages. Fortunately, the jury indeed sided with the homeowner, although he needed to spend thousands on legal fees defending himself. He tried to recover his money, but filing a suit against an unemployed teenager was a fruitless endeavor.

  “Is the burglar pressing charges?” I peered at him.

  “Let’s just say I’m hearing things.”

  “And you want me to talk to the burglar.”

  “I want you to make this go away.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, I’ll look into it. And I appreciate your offer of a twenty thousand dollar bonus, but I think Patrick will make his own decision on whether or not to go pro.”

  “Look I have Patrick O’Malley’s best interest at heart,” Roper declared. “Believe me.”

  “How so? Because you’ll collect a commission on negotiating an eight-figure contract?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Patrick has a window of opportunity. This is the year half a dozen teams are looking for a quarterback in the draft. There are only a couple of studs who could become a franchise player. Elite QBs don’t come along that often. Patrick’s one of them. He’s got the arm, he’s got the vision, he’s got the athleticism. And he’s got the “it” factor. He’s new and the NFL is excited about him. I don’t want to see him mess things up.”

  I considered this. Patrick O’Malley had spent his first two years as a backup QB, waiting patiently behind USC’s highly recruited 5-star QB, who graduated last year. In practice, Patrick was creating jaw-dropping moments, squeezing a pass into that little window where no margin of error existed. Patrick could also do something called throwing a receiver open. This is when a receiver runs a route and is tightly covered. But because the quarterback throws the ball to a specific place where the defender can’t reach – and only where the receiver can stretch to catch it – it becomes a pass that’s impossible to defend. Not many QBs could do this, but even as a freshman, Patrick was doing it in practice on a regular basis.

  “He’s got a world of potential,” I said. “But he’s still raw.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Roper sneered. “The kid pays no attention to the game plan. I don’t even think he cares about winning or losing. His whole goal is to see if he can outfox the defense. And he usually can and he usually wins. Sure he’ll struggle. He’ll also make a big pile of dough in the process.”

  “So will you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What do you think, I run a charity?” he asked.

  “Okay, look. I understand the situation. If there are charges filed, Patrick might lose his scholarship,” I mused.

  “Good chance.”

  “And the fact that my wife works in the City Attorney’s office? I hope you don’t think for twenty thousand dollars, I’d use that leverage.”

  “For twenty grand you should come off of that high horse of yours,” he said, adding sarcastically, “but of course I wouldn’t want you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

  “No need to worry on t
hat score,” I said. “But let me ask you something. You didn’t know I’d be at the Chargers practice yesterday. Was our running into one another a coincidence?”

  “Sure. Just like Tyler Briggs not coming home last night was a coincidence.”

  I stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Because,” he said quickly, pointing to the two young coaches making their way back up the steps, “I make it my business to know what’s going on in L.A. And no, I’m not having you followed. But I put two and two together and figured you’d show up in El Segundo. And I made sure I did, too.”

  “You know anything about what happened to Briggs?”

  Roper shook his head. “Who cares, he’s not my client. He’s washed up as a head coach. Needs to take a step back, be a coordinator, go back to coaching college. He has options, as long as he dries out. That’s his biggest problem.”

  We turned our attention back to the field. Since both the Chargers and the Raiders were out of the playoffs, neither team put in any more effort in the 2nd half than they did in the 1st half. With six minutes left in the 4th quarter, Roper announced we were leaving, and we piled back into his Escalade. The trip back to the Westside was mostly filled with coaching gossip, who was likely going where, who was about to get fired. I began thinking about people I’d go talk to tonight, in seeking out the missing Tyler Briggs. But as we neared my house, Roper’s cell phone buzzed. He looked down at a text and shook his head.

  “L.A. politics,” he whistled. “I just lost a politician I had in my pocket.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Your city council election just got easier for the deputy mayor. One less candidate.”

  “How so? Our guy retiring?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Roper sneered. “For good. The cops just found Colin Glasscock’s body. Someone drilled him in the head a few times. Did it right in his own office. Looks like I’m going to give Neil Handler most favored nations status. He’ll be getting a fat check sooner than we thought.”

  Chapter 4

  The hastily scrawled note on our front door was from Gail. She had dropped Marcus off with the Hartnetts, and had gone over to the Glasscock office near LAPD’s Purdue division. I decided to drive over as well. I didn’t know what I’d find there, but I was at least curious why Gail went. I hopped into my Pathfinder, and, on a late Sunday afternoon with the streets being gloriously empty, it took less than ten minutes to join her.

  There was no mistaking the crime scene. Half a dozen black-and-white police units were parked haphazardly in front of a gray stucco office building, the yellow tape stretched across the front to prevent looky-loos from wandering inside. I made eye contact with Gail, who was in mid-conversation with the City Attorney, and then I noticed another familiar face. He had bright lights shining down on him, a TV camera pointed his way, and a pretty on-air reporter peppering him with questions.

  The reporter gazed intently at him, but it struck me that she was barely listening to a word he was saying; you could practically see the gears in her head spinning to formulate the next question. The silver-haired man was dressed in a well-tailored suit and tie, unusual for a Sunday, but this was an unusual situation. And Juan Saavedra was looking the part of the concerned leader, the distinguished LAPD captain putting the community at ease, and taking charge of the investigation.

  I wandered over near the interview and listened in. Juan did a remarkable job of providing lengthy, articulate answers without really saying much. He was passionate about the LAPD using its full resources to bring this murderer to justice. He conveyed outrage while maintaining a cool exterior. He looked serious without being pedantic. It was an impressive performance, designed to paint himself in a favorable light, albeit under the guise of community concern. As he finished the interview, the lights dimmed, and a uniform went over and whispered in his ear. He responded with a few quick words, and pointed the officer toward the alley behind the office. Then he noticed me.

  “Well, looky here,” Juan said, taking a few steps toward me. “I didn’t think this day could get any worse, but you never know.”

  “I always like to be where the action is.”

  “And you often get mired up in it,” he mused.

  “Aw, you’re making me blush,” I said. “But you sure have learned to handle the spotlight well.”

  “I’ve had lots of practice. TV is actually easier than dealing with print. The TV guys just want a quick sound bite, something clear and concise, they want you to look good and sound good. The L.A. Times guys are the idiots. One time this cub reporter asked why an officer facing down a suspect with a pistol didn’t just shoot the gun out of his hands.”

  “Just like in the movies,” I smiled.

  “Yeah. Some other Times reporter decided to get cute and asked me what was the dumbest question I’d ever been asked. I told him he just asked it.”

  “You looking to take a step up?” I inquired. “Head over to PAB and work with the suits?”

  PAB was code for Parker Center, and stood for Police Administrative Building. It was where division cops looking to move up hoped to be. There were only so many opportunities for advancement in the field, and a captain in a Westside division was likely to languish there. Juan gave me a long look and changed the subject.

  “So, what’s your interest here? Hopefully you’re just providing taxi service for Gail. I’d hate to think you’re wrapped up in this somehow. But hell, I’ve seen it before.”

  “Probably not this time,” I said.

  Juan looked at me. “And just what are you working on these days?”

  “Missing person. Former football coach, Tyler Briggs. Didn’t make it home last night.”

  Juan looked at me curiously. “You check the drunk tank?”

  “His wife did. Hannah Briggs. Came up with nada. You know about his drinking?”

  Juan gave me another long look and then shook his head in disgust. “Yeah. Never understood oilers. Why some people can’t have one or two drinks and stop. They say they like the feeling, but they lose all sense of responsibility. Some people call alcoholism a disease. I call it selfishness.”

  “That’s a little rough, Juan.”

  Juan shook his head. “No it’s not. You were on the job long enough. You saw the car accidents. Innocent people killed because someone decided to just have one or two or six more drinks. And half the time the drunk survives and the victims don’t. I’ve talked to the victims’ families and seen their faces. So no, I don’t think I’m being too rough.”

  “But you apparently know about Briggs. Your guys must have picked him up before.”

  “Multiple times. And you know what? Each time Briggs got off, he got the charges dropped. Guy has some big-time connections. He needs them. He’s got big-time problems.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And what happened here? A widely disliked politician gunned down in his own office?”

  Juan looked at me. “You know something about him, do you?”

  “Only scuttlebutt,” I answered. “I don’t follow local politics much, but looking into Tyler Briggs’s disappearance opened my eyes about Glasscock. Lots of unhappy constituents in his district. Mostly related to traffic getting clogged up on Venice.”

  Juan gave a small smile. “In L.A., messing with traffic is a capital offense. Nothing pisses people off more than seeing their commute get longer.”

  It was a sad commentary, albeit an accurate one. Traffic in L.A. has long been a thorn in everyone’s side. The beautiful weather, the opportunity to get a fresh start, the lure of Hollywood, all conflated to attract more and more people to L.A. every year. Some got disillusioned and went home, but a lot simply stayed and found a way to fit in. And with the mass influx of people, often from all corners of the world, the infrastructure became overwhelmed. Traffic gridlock, soaring rents, and general overcrowding created an atmosphere that made a lot of long-time residents angry. As a cop, I saw lots of people’s blood boil at how their lives had c
hanged as L.A. changed. It was not the same city they grew up in, and they didn’t like it one bit. Some people even put bumper stickers on their cars that read, ‘Welcome To California. Now Go Home.’

  “Kind of strange they’d remove traffic lanes from one of the biggest east-west arteries,” I said.

  “Yeah, their idea is to get people to bike. Brilliant, huh? People commuting thirty miles to work, moms with kids, gardeners with lawn mowers, sure, they’ll be on board right away with that. But one unforeseen tragedy is occurring. More pedestrians are being hit by motorists. It’s messy. I wish they’d change Venice back to the way it was.”

  “Think they’d listen to an LAPD captain?” I smiled.

  “Politicians? They’d listen and then ask me for a donation. Nope. Besides, Mar Vista is technically in the Pacific Division. We’ve got our own problems here.”

  “I can tell,” I said, looking around. “So, someone shoots a city councilman in his own office. Any chance of video footage nearby?”

  Juan shook his head. “Uh-uh. Ever since Watergate, politicians have learned to keep their business discreet. They don’t want cameras or microphones around unless they’re getting on TV. They’d never install anything like that here. Can’t blame them really. No sense hanging yourself.”

  “Spoken like a true public servant.”

  “I have a feeling this is an internal beef,” Juan said. “Just between you, me, and the sidewalk.”

  “Internal, as in his own office?”

  “City politics. There’s some nasty stuff going on.”

  “Nasty enough to murder a city councilman,” I mused. “Sounds like there’s some money involved.”

  “For a politician, money trumps most everything, at least in some ways. Occasionally sex gets thrown in there, too.”

  I nodded. Most homicide investigations indeed have love or money at their root, sometimes both. The reason a distressed person could rise to commit the ultimate act was often a product of intense passion. Few things were as personal, or could generate more intense feeling than love. Except perhaps money.