Flea Flicker

by David Chill

  “Yes, she is,” I began. “So, I wonder if you can tell me a bit more about the councilman. I gather Colin was not real popular these days.”

  Emma Wick shook her head. “It depends upon on who you speak with. Colin was a visionary. He saw a world where people would get out of their cars. Take trains and buses. Bike locally. Walk more. He was very popular with people involved in our movement. He wanted an ideal world.”

  I let out a breath, not bothering to add that there were myriad definitions on what constituted an ideal world . People usually fell into two decidedly different camps, those who were perfectly happy keeping things the way they were, and those who wanted upheaval, so everything would change. In a different era, compromises could be forged, there would be some give and take, and each side got something they wanted. Those days were long gone. It was a zero-sum game now, a winner-take-all society. Making the slightest concessions was now tantamount to treasonous white-flag surrender.

  “So, who might have had reason to take this type of action?” I asked.

  She frowned. “I thought the police had a suspect in custody. That football coach. They were pretty confident they had their guy. They even found some evidence in the alley behind our office.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “A baseball cap,” she said. “Green. Had a big M on the front of it. I don’t know a lot about sports, so I don’t know what that meant.”

  “It’s the Miami Hurricanes, a college football team. Tyler Briggs played for them and coached there.”

  “I heard they had something else, too. Not sure exactly what that is. Just something I learned from our liaison at the Parker Center.”

  I nodded, interested. It made sense that a staffer at a city councilman’s office had a mole within the LAPD brass. Sharing information was what made a bureaucracy hum, give a little to get a little. But it came at a price. Keeping secrets was becoming a lost art.

  “There are some people who have doubts about this suspect,” I said, thinking it might have just been myself and Hannah at this point. “We all want justice to prevail. Especially when it’s a public figure like a city councilman. Any thoughts on who else might have been involved?”

  She gave me an odd look. “Why?”

  “There are some serious doubts about Tyler Briggs. What the motive could have been.”

  Emma Wick threw up her hands. “Who knows? There are a lot of people in the world who don’t respect progress. Some people were angry about the traffic, some didn’t want apartment buildings going up in their neighborhood. A few made threats. Colin even started carrying a handgun with him at times.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I said.”Do you know what type of gun?”

  “No, sorry. I really don’t know much about those sorts of things. I just know there are a lot of crazy people in this world. I don’t know what Briggs’s problem was.”

  “Whatever it was, murdering someone is a big jump,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, I guess. I heard Briggs had some sort of an interest in politics. Maybe he wanted to move Colin out of his way. For his own selfish purposes.”

  “No guarantee Briggs would have won an election. Or that Colin’s replacement, whoever he or she is, is going to think or act any differently.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s a community meeting tomorrow night among some local homeowners. It’s over at the Woodland School on Palms. These yahoos have been looking to cause trouble for a while now. They’d been talking about fielding a candidate to run against Colin next year.”

  “I heard the Deputy Mayor might be running for his seat,” I mentioned.

  “Neil Handler?” she exclaimed. “No. I just don’t get that. He has zero name recognition, there’s no way he could have beaten Colin in this district. But I can’t see Handler shooting Colin in his own office. Or having him shot. Whatever.”

  I looked at her carefully. “You think this might have been a planned hit?” I asked.

  “No idea,” she said, backtracking in a hurry. “It’s a crazy notion and there’s no evidence. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

  “Don’t even want to speculate? What if?”

  “No,” she said, turning back to some papers on her desk.

  I rolled the idea of a planned hit around for a moment and let it go. There might be something to it, there might not be. But Emma Wick appeared to have shut down, and when someone shuts down, it takes a lot more effort than I was ready to expend to get them to open up once more.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to move the conversation in another direction. “I’ve heard a few things. Was Colin involved with anyone? Romantically?”

  “You mean besides his wife?” she sneered.

  “Well, yes, now that you put it that way.”

  “Good heavens,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Colin was a decent man, hard-working, loved the community, loved people. He was such a good public servant. The idea that you cops are dragging his good name through the mud makes me sick. Just sick.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her that I was not a cop and that I was not dragging anyone’s name through the mud, I was just exploring possibilities. Whoever shot Colin Glasscock had done this for a very specific reason, not that it was necessarily a good reason or a sane reason. Most people don’t walk around with guns and they don’t up and shoot a city councilman because traffic is making them late for work. And even if someone were unhinged enough to do so, the fact remained, traffic was not going to get any lighter because one disliked politician was now dead.

  “Look, I apologize for having to put you through all of this. I’m sure it’s painful. But were there any other incidents before this? Anything which might have led to what happened last weekend? I’m just exploring possibilities. Anything at all you can think of.”

  She shook her head and then froze. “Not here,” she said suddenly. “But you know, there was an incident at his home. It was a while ago. Six months, maybe. God, I hadn’t even been thinking of that.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone tossed a rock through his front window. No note or anything attached to it. Just a large rock with the letter A painted on it in red. Happened in the middle of the night. Colin had video cameras set up, but you know those aren’t always real good, especially when it’s dark.”

  “Did he have any sense of who might have done it?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Colin just shrugged it off, said it was the price of moving the world forward. He told us they also painted a red A on his front door with a circle around it. He said that’s the Anarchist logo. In his opinion, it was at best, a prank, maybe from a neighborhood kid. Nothing ever came of that. At least, not that I know of.”

  “Tell me about these other threats you mentioned a minute ago.”

  “There’s always been threats,” she said. “Someone began sending Colin nasty notes at his home. He gave them to the LAPD, but I don’t think they ever followed up on it or even took it seriously. They said the people who make threats are only doing that. Nothing more.”

  That was generally true, but not all of the time. The real threats normally came from the people who didn’t tip their hand. Those who made threats simply wanted to create a climate of fear, and they rarely followed up with any action. But in today’s internet-connected world, getting access to someone’s home address was simple, especially if the person had any real estate. Property ownership was a matter of public record, and if you knew where to look, you could find out where almost anyone lived. Public figures were often able to disguise their home address by using a business office, but all it took was one indiscreet neighbor and everyone from TMZ to a shut-in living in their mother’s basement could pinpoint where that person was at any given moment.

  I thanked Emma Wick for her time, and she didn’t bother to tell me I was welcome. I walked out into the bright, cold morning, and decided I needed a caff
eine jolt. There was a Starbucks a few blocks away where I could also sit and plan my next move. There was always a Starbucks a few blocks away.

  Deflecting the barista’s recommendation of an ungodly concoction called a Blonde Roast, a curious amalgamation of under-roasted coffee beans I didn’t even want to imagine, much less drink, I went instead, with a grande cup of the Christmas Blend. Aside from watching Marcus gleefully open his presents last year, I thought this was the best reason to have Christmas. The Christmas Blend was dark and rich, with a nice bite. I joked with Gail that there was probably a third good reason for Christmas lurking somewhere, but she failed to see the humor.

  I placed my coffee order and looked down my nose at the nasty remnants lining the pastry shelf, unappetizing leftovers from the morning rush. Instead, I bought a pack of chocolate-covered graham crackers and ate them with my coffee as I sat in a corner working my iPad. I quickly found Colin Glasscock’s address on Mar Vista Hill, a five-bedroom home located on a block called, of all things, Indianapolis Street.

  I clicked through the internet for anything remotely related to suspicious chatter about Colin Glasscock. I found a treasure trove of articles describing his vision, his goals, his election campaign from a few years ago, all standard, innocuous stuff. I discovered a few articles that focused on the unhappy residents of his district, but one could always find those stories associated with any politician these days. Facebook had a number of pages set up to both support and denigrate Glasscock, including the homeowner group Emma Wick talked about. That one discussed plans to unseat the councilman. It detailed a laundry list of scurrilous activities, the most salient being his bizarre dream of turning major streets into grassy parks, and eliminating L.A. car travel as we knew it. The ringleader was a man named Roy Woolley, who owned a coffee house along Venice Boulevard. I had passed it by hundreds of times, but with an endless number of Starbucks available, I never saw the need to stop in there.

  After finishing the last drop of my Christmas Blend, I drove up to the address on Indianapolis Street. This was an odd name for a street in L.A., except I now recalled that in Santa Monica I once lived between Montana and Idaho streets, neither of which could claim much of a relationship with Southern California, except those were states where a surprising number of Angelenos fled to when they retired. Colin Glasscock’s home was a modern, two-story glass-and-steel structure that looked like it had been remodeled recently. It was a big box of a residence, and the front yard offered a sweeping panoramic view of the L.A. basin. On a clear day this might have been a glorious vista, but there were still enough low clouds in the distance to make today’s view somewhat limited.

  I decided not to bother Glasscock’s family. Whatever the motivation for Colin Glasscock’s demise, his family did not deserve yet one more visit from an investigator, especially while they were obviously still in mourning. There was no one out and about in this quiet, leafy neighborhood, so I walked down the street and began ringing doorbells. The first few I tried did not yield any results; either the people were at work, out shopping, or not answering the door. I wondered if I looked too much like a realtor, the type who would waste their time trying to convince them to put their house on the market. Finally, I hit pay dirt.

  The first sound I heard after the standard ding-dong was the immediate high-pitched yapping of a small but persistent dog. When I was with the LAPD and responding to burglaries, most of which had been committed hours earlier and with the thief long gone, I often gave homeowners some advice. Video cameras were not always good at capturing images, and even if they did provide clarity, the thieves often disappeared quickly into the wind. Burglar alarms were fairly easy to disable if a robber knew what they were doing. But the best deterrent to a break-in was a vocal dog, and the most vocal canines were often the smallest ones. Thieves wanted to get in and out of a home quickly, grab whatever cash and jewelry they could, and move on. Barking dogs drew the attention of any passersby, and they augmented this with the occasional habit of biting the intruder. Neighborhoods often got hit with a rash of burglaries at once, after which many people got dogs, and the robbers quickly pivoted to other areas. Dogs are often called man’s best friend, but they are also known as a burglar’s worst nightmare.

  As I stood outside the pleasant-looking suburban home on Indianapolis, I heard a lengthy discussion between the homeowner and their dog, a discourse where the owner admonished their pet for not being a good listener. The lecture lasted a good twenty seconds before I finally heard the slow pitter-patter of footsteps and the door opened. A seventyish woman in a pink robe peered out from the door, bent over, grabbing the collar of a very small white dog.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, as she struggled with her pet.

  I flashed my fake badge. “Don’t mean to bother you, but I’m doing an investigation into what happened this past weekend. Councilman Glasscock. Wondering if I could speak with you.”

  “Oh,” she managed, “I’ve already spoken with the police about that.”

  “It should only take a few minutes,” I insisted. “It’s important.”

  “Oh. All right. One moment,” she said, and dragged her dog, which looked like a Lhasa Apso, a few feet away, where she attached a leash. The dog, still straining to get a closer look at me, didn’t seem to notice the restraint. The woman walked back over to me, leash in hand.

  “Any thoughts on what happened to Colin Glasscock? Anything at all?” I began, moving things along quicker than I otherwise might, because the pull of an anxious dog might make this a brief interview.

  “Not really. We’re all shocked. He was such a nice man.”

  “Did everyone in the neighborhood like him?” I asked.

  “Oh. Well, I suppose not everyone. There are the usual malcontents that didn’t like Colin’s politics. Called him a liberal snowflake and accused him of wasting their precious tax dollars. But I guess that happens to all civic leaders.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, thinking about Gail and the public lumps she’d be taking if she ever decided to enter the roughhewn octagon of politics. “How about around here? Were there any serious problems with neighbors?”

  “We always have problems with certain neighbors. You know. There’s a few on every block.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, well, the owners of the house on the other side of Colin’s home. They filed a lawsuit against him a couple of years ago. When Colin was remodeling.”

  “Why?”

  “Colin added a second story. The Bellow family said it blocked their view. Hurt their property value. They were really angry. There were a few screaming matches when the neighbors figured out what Colin was doing. The initial permits didn’t say anything about an upper floor.”

  “I take it Colin won the lawsuit,” I said, looking up at his two-story home.

  The woman nodded in agreement. “Pretty obvious. They say you can’t fight city hall. It’s even tougher to fight a city councilman. Especially when they want approval for a personal project.”

  I paused for a moment. “Did this Bellow family stay in their house?”

  “They did. Still there. Still ticked at Colin.”

  “Ticked enough to take a violent step like what happened this weekend?” I asked, looking at her cautiously.

  “I don’t know,” she said, pondering the thought. “You wouldn’t think. But hey, look, you mess with people’s property values, you never know what they might do.”

  *

  The Bellows were not at home, and neither were most of the residents of this idyllic bedroom community. I left a message with Juan Saavedra at the Purdue Division, but didn’t expect a call back. I wondered what other evidence they had that linked Tyler Briggs to the murder. I thought about eating lunch but it was only 10:30 am. Instead, I decided traffic had softened enough on the 10 Freeway to risk taking a drive down to USC. I hadn’t heard from Cliff Roper since Sunday, which only meant he’d be calling soon, chastising me for not working hard enough for him, demand
ing an update, if not a resolution to his problem. Time to begin working on my other case.

  Hobart Street is tucked into the pocket that straddles the border between USC’s lovely new extended campus and a gritty, inner-city neighborhood. The residents of the two communities differ as much as one could imagine. The student body, who inhabit the bulk of the off-campus housing north of campus, often came from wealthy or at least comfortable backgrounds. The people who lived in the area north of Adams and east of Vermont made up the low end of the economic totem pole, were mostly people of color, and mostly people who had a limited supply of money. If they had more, they’d live somewhere else.

  The house that Cliff Roper directed me to was a ramshackle place, a dilapidated Craftsman home that might have been stately a hundred years ago, but had now fallen into disrepair. The front yard was mostly a patch of dirt. This was the type of property that an elderly person who didn’t have sufficient means might live in, not wanting to move after many decades of staying in one place, but unable to fix it up. It was also the type of house a group of college students could fall into. Big, roomy, relatively affordable, and the landlord would likely shrug off any smashed windows or unhinged doors that might come with a group of post-pubescent animals living on their own for the first time. That the occupants of this house were football players made that outcome even more likely.

  I knocked on the door and waited a long minute before hearing any signs of life inside. There were cars in the driveway, but that meant nothing; the students could have been in class, or in the library or out getting coffee. The door finally swung open, and a sleepy looking twenty-one-year-old opened the door. He was not a typical twenty-one-year-old though, something his 6’4” frame and 350 lb girth quickly communicated. He blinked a few times before recognition set in.

  “Hey!” he said, and stifled a yawn. “I don’t believe what I’m seeing!”

  “Me, neither,” I smiled. “Incredibly, you seemed to have put on a few pounds.”

  “Coach Burnside,” he shook his head. “Always with the jabs.”