by David Chill
“Dumb idea. Turns out I am tough.”
“Yeah, look, be careful about that in the future. I know you can handle yourself, but you’d be surprised how many guns are out there. Things can go sideways in a hurry. I’ve seen it.”
“Maybe not that surprised. Hey, speaking of guns ... ”
“Yeah?”
“You made a pretty quick arrest yesterday. Tyler Briggs.”
Juan agreed, looking sheepish. “On orders of the Deputy Chief. Not my idea, but I didn’t have a better one. Assuage the community and all.”
“Assuage?” I repeated, raising my eyebrows. “You’re sounding like a suit now.”
“Always trying to improve myself. You should consider that, too.”
“I do try. I just don’t always succeed,” I answered. “Hey Juan, I heard there was some evidence found at the scene. Article of clothing.”
“Right. In the alley behind Glasscock’s office.”
“A green baseball cap. Letter M on the front,” I mused.
“Well,” Juan said, sitting back. “You’ve been doing some bang-up investigating. Yeah, we found Briggs’s cap.”
“You’re sure it’s his?” I asked.
“Had his name written on the inside. We also have a weapon found near the scene. Glock 19. Found it sitting right near the cap. Checking DNA on both now, but our guys are optimistic. Normally DNA testing can take a while, but this case is very high-profile, it got moved to the front of the pack. The coroner pulled a couple of 9 millimeter slugs out of the councilman. It all fits neatly. Maybe too much so.”
I took this in. A murder weapon found near the scene, an article of clothing easily linked to the suspect. It all made sense, but it really didn’t. All the pieces did fit together cleanly, and they all came together right away. It was too neat, too tidy and had all the earmarks of a setup. Police work doesn’t get this easy unless someone wants to make it so.
“You don’t sound super convinced,” I said.
“No, I’m not. Plus, there’s another thing that’s curious, and that’s a motive. Nothing ties Briggs and Glasscock together. Briggs denies everything, but he has no account for where he was this weekend. None. Said he was drinking heavily on Friday night and blacked out. Lost weekend and all. Not the best alibi, but you know, something about all of that tells me he was speaking the truth. Now I suppose it’s possible he could have shot Glasscock in a drunken stupor and not remembered.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “I always forget the people I gunned down when I was drunk. Saves me from feeling bad afterward.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, there’s an element here that smells bad. But I don’t have the resources to keep looking into this. Mid-year budget cuts took away all my discretionary funds. And I don’t feel like going up against the Deputy Chief unless I have something more than a gut feeling.”
“I suppose that’s where I come in.”
“Well, now, it’s not like you’re in jail or anything.”
“I do have you to thank for getting me out. And I’m also being paid to investigate this, so I don’t mind being the one to look around some more. Not sure what I’ll find, but if you keep poking the bear, eventually you’ll get a reaction.”
“There you go. Anything I’ve missed?”
“You know,” I said, “There was a rumor that Glasscock was carrying around a handgun.”
“Yeah,” Juan nodded. “We heard that rumor, too. Didn’t find anything on him, his wife didn’t know anything about it. Nothing registered under his name. We chalked that up to what it was. A rumor.”
“Okay. I take it your guys didn’t visit the Snuggle Inn on Washington.”
Juan frowned. “That motel? No. Was Briggs there?”
“With some woman other than his wife. Talk to the maid. Name’s Teresa. I told her to hold something for you guys, could be evidence. May want to send it to the lab right away.”
“All right,” Juan said, jotting down a few notes. “You’re starting to make me feel good I let you out of your cell.”
“You always do the right thing,” I smiled.
“Enough with the false flattery. Look, I’ll send Detective Brown to see this Teresa. If Orlando gets something, whatever it is, we’ll ship it off for testing. But I want you to stay on this and keep me in the loop. Also know that we arraigned Briggs this afternoon and he made bail. Judge set it at three million, but his wife used their house as collateral. Didn’t realize how much football coaches make. I’m sure some movie stars are jealous. Can’t imagine how much you made at SC.”
“Trust me, I was well paid, but I didn’t make millions,” I said. “Hey, Juan, you know, since I’m here and have your full attention.”
“Oh, crap,” Juan groaned. He knew what was coming and so did I. The best time to ask for a favor is right after someone asks you for one.
“I’m wondering if I can inquire about another case.”
Juan rolled his eyes. “Just when I give you nine yards, you go and take ten.”
“I’m funny that way.”
“Okay. I always love hearing detective stories from the private sector. What is it this time?”
“Domestic disturbance last week,” I said, and gave Juan the Hobart Street address where Patrick O’Malley and Fili Snuka lived. Juan typed the address into his computer.
“Yup, attempted burglary,” he said as he read the notes. “Interesting, the suspect is also bringing charges. Assault, battery, kidnapping. Said he was tortured. Officers found cigarette burns on his back. Facial injuries, bruises. His wrists had rope burns on them, indicating he was tied up. Sounds like a case of the perp getting his punishment without due process.”
“And how is the department responding?”
“Well,” Juan said, “it looks like Detective Rob Hatfield is investigating. It’s in the Southwest Division, yup, right near your old stomping grounds, USC. Hatfield is about three months away from retirement, which is probably why they assigned it to him. My guess is he’ll be investigating this one slowly.”
I understood. The slow reaction on the part of the police would send a covert message to the perpetrator that his charges weren’t going to be taken seriously. The media had gotten wind of it, but someone at USC managed to quash any follow-up. Not that they needed to push hard, the LAPD had long been known as a department that thrived on patrol work, interceding quickly to restore peace. Investigative work was its Achilles heel, given secondary importance. But that didn’t mean the incident would go away forever, especially in some quarters. And I knew the NFL had its own investigative arm, and if Patrick or Fili were going pro next year, this could be looked into more thoroughly.
“Mind telling me his name?” I asked. “I might want to pay him a visit. Just as a public service.”
“Geez, Burnside, we should just hand you your badge and gun back. You’re doing more police work than some of our guys bother to do.”
“I thought of pointing that out before, but, you know. Didn’t want to offend.”
“Uh-huh,” Juan said, and he pulled out a memo pad. “Name’s Tristan Lopez. Lives near Adams and Normandie. And I assume your interest is somehow football-related?”
“Yeah. You probably recognized the names on the report.”
“Patrick O’Malley? Hard not to. What’s your role here?”
I shrugged. “Keeping the peace mostly. Some of these guys are headed to the NFL, if not this year, then next. Getting harder to do that with a criminal record.”
“Okay. Keep me informed on this one, too. And try not to slug anyone else.”
“I’ll do my best. And I must say you’re being awfully supportive here. You normally don’t like private investigators running around doing police work.”
“I have my reasons,” he smiled. “The deputy chief’s been a thorn in my side for a while, and I wouldn’t mind shoving this Briggs arrest up his ass. Heard he’s on the outs with the chief.”
“Ah,” I said. “And hence, there might be an opening soon d
owntown at PAB.”
“Might be.”
“I never thought of you as someone who played office politics.”
Juan looked off into the distance. “Firstly, I’m not crazy about the deputy chief, he’s a grade-A jerk. Secondly, the wife’s been bugging me about money. You know my oldest is applying to college now.”
“Wow. Time flies.”
“And money flies too. Right out the door. He’s applying to a few Ivy League schools. Bright kid. Like to see him do well. But the tuition? Tough to make that nut on a captain’s salary.”
“He could always apply to a state college. Berkeley’s a great place.”
“So’s UCLA,” he said.
“Never heard of that one,” I smiled. “But he could always live at home and go to USC.”
Juan nodded slowly. “He’s applying there.”
“Good.”
“Yeah,” Juan said, a devious twinkle in his eye. “Always helps to have a safety school.”
*
After finishing with Juan, I waited another hour for the khaki officer to retrieve my .357. He seemingly needed special approval before he could return it to me. My guess is he was simply taking a long coffee break.
The Purdue Division was only a few blocks from where they towed and impounded my Pathfinder, but fortunately for me, Juan made a call, the fee was waived, and I picked it up without a hassle. I inspected the front end, and there was no noticeable damage from the collision. The worst thing seemed to be a small scratch on the bumper.
As I drove off, I remembered a community meeting tonight at the Woodland School on Palms. When I arrived at home, the first thing I did was take a shower and toss my clothes into the hamper. Jails are about the least sanitary places, and washing the stink off me felt good in both a practical and spiritual way. My head still hurt from the grazing punch I absorbed, so I took a couple of Advil tablets. I spent an hour with Gail and Marcus, put together a turkey sandwich quickly, and told them I’d be back in a couple of hours.
“Daddy, why do you work at night?” Marcus asked. “I thought most people just work during the day.”
I gave Marcus a hug. “I’m not like most people. But I may have a surprise for you.”
“Christmas present?” he exclaimed.
“More like New Year’s. No promises, I’m working on it.”
Marcus gave me a hug, and then Gail gave me a kiss, and I was out the door. I did not bother telling Gail about my brief respite in the Purdue division’s jail cell, and she hadn’t noticed my swollen knuckles or the red marks on my wrists. Those details could wait for another day.
The Woodland School was a private high school located near Palms and Barrington. It was the type of school you see in the movies, the dreamy ones, the kind where the setting is idyllic, the grounds cared for and the pastel colors of the buildings freshly painted. It was evening, and the few students still on campus had wet hair from showers, most likely having just finished basketball practice. They had the tired look of athletes who had put in a full day’s effort. I knew the look well.
The meeting was held in the gym, which had been designed to hold hundreds but tonight only a few dozen souls bothered to show up. A couple of rows of metal folding chairs were arranged, and there was a podium where the leaders hovered. I sat down next to a tanned, handsome man who sported enviable bone structure. He was dressed casually, if casual meant a Lands End shirt, pressed khakis and cordovan topsiders. The handsome man didn’t recognize me, but I recognized him. Deputy Mayor Neil Handler was doing his best to be here incognito and succeeding quite well at it.
“Guess they haven’t got going yet,” I said, wondering how well that ice breaker would work.
The man shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “The meeting, yes. Any real action, I doubt it. They’re amateurs going up against pros.”
“I guess you know something about all this, tossing your hat in the ring for city council,” I said, looking straight ahead for the most part, but glancing at him through my peripheral vision, catching glimpses of his mouth opening as he turned to look at me.
“How do you know that?” he managed.
“Come on,” I said. “A good politician’s supposed to have a memory for names and faces.”
He looked harder at me and I finally saw a wave of recognition. “Oh yeah. From the Charger game the other day. You’re Cliff Roper’s friend.”
“Calling us friends would be a stretch. But yeah, that’s where we met. You checking out the competition tonight?”
“Sort of,” he said. “My daughter goes to school here. She’s in 9th grade. I saw the signs up for a community meeting on local problems.”
“Funny they’d have them at a private school.”
“Not so much,” he said. “Woodland likes to maintain good community relations. They take over the park across the street for tennis and soccer matches. Donating space is their way of giving back.”
“I see. Your daughter like the school?”
“Loves it. At $40,000 a year, she better love it.”
I shook my head. One more thing to worry about for Marcus, and yet another discussion down the road with Gail. Fortunately for us, high school was way down the road. I was a product of public schools, at least until I got into USC. I knew bright kids would do well in most places. Public schools had enrichment programs in place for advanced students, and remedial programs for ones that were struggling. It was the kids in the middle who sometimes got lost. Marcus was only five, but he struck me as the type of kid who would fit in well anywhere. Convincing Gail of that was another matter.
“You think this place is worth the money?” I asked tepidly.
Handler raised his hands in the ‘who knows’ posture. “Probably not, I don’t think any school is worth that much. But it’s a little more engaging than public schools. The kids here are generally better behaved, and the class sizes are small. But kids are kids, and there’s always a bad apple or two in the bunch. One of my daughter’s classmates had a party last weekend when her parents were away on a ski trip. The liquor cabinet got drained. Ever see a fourteen-year-old girl with a hangover? I’m just hoping it’s a lesson for her to learn from.”
“How’s the optics on that? Deputy mayor of Los Angeles not sending his daughter to a school in L.A. Unified?”
“It just makes me look like every other politician since the dawn of time,” he said sarcastically.
I shook my head. “So, what do you hope to learn tonight?”
“Just seeing what I’ll be up against in the primary. Helps to have intel on the opposition. But also, the fact that you’re the only one who recognizes me says something.”
We sat back and watched the spectacle unfold, which was mostly a forum for some muted outrage over the lane closures on Venice, comments about out-of-touch politicians and the need to take back our government. There were a few sensitive remarks of condolence to the Glasscock family, and how no one ever wanted to see things end in such a horrific way. But what was done was done and they needed to move forward with their agenda. A large, bearded man in his early thirties named Roy Woolley declared himself to be a candidate for the Glasscock seat. Dressed in a flannel shirt, and looking more like a lumberjack than a man running an insurgent political movement, he said he was a local business owner, and unlike the past councilman, he would be responsive to the community’s needs. The meeting finally broke up with petitions being handed out, and anyone interested in being a volunteer for the Woolley campaign should make their presence know. I turned to Handler.
“Still wondering about your competition?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said and turned to leave. “It’s about what I thought it would be.”
I agreed, although I started to feel this was all a colossal waste of my time. Then I happened to see another familiar face standing off in the corner. He was wearing a rumpled suit, tie loosened, and had that world-weary look that came part and parcel with being an overworked cop. I walked over to him.
He looked me up and down as if he expected me to be here.
“Detective Orlando Brown,” I declared. “We meet again.”
“Figured we would at some point,” he said. “You have a funny habit of being nearby a lot.”
“Maybe not that funny,” I said. “What brings you here?”
“Captain’s orders,” he replied stoically. “You think I’d be here otherwise? I’d rather be home watching the Laker game and drinking a beer.”
This was not what I expected from a homicide detective. Most were dedicated, if not obsessive, about their jobs, and had a natural curiosity that kept them pushing through cases. And they rarely moved into another crime unit; once you work homicide, no other type of police work gives quite the same jolt. But Orlando Brown didn’t look obsessed with anything. He just looked weary.
“Interesting,” I said. “The captain seems to have some doubts about Tyler Briggs. Do you?”
“Me?” he asked. “I’m here to make collars and clear cases. Got physical evidence near the crime scene, plus an eyewitness who identified Briggs coming into the Glasscock office Friday evening. All I need to know. But I’m a soldier. I do what the brass wants. Unlike you.”
“Unlike me?”
“I heard about you. Word gets around. Ex-cop, kicked off the force. Questionable morals, yeah I heard the story. Taking in a teenaged prostitute. Then you turned rogue. Man, you sounded like you were a real piece of work. No wonder you’re not on the job any longer.”
I felt my insides begin to simmer. It had been a decade since I had been kicked off of the LAPD, wrongly discharged, yet the stories remained. The false narrative, the rumors, the lies that would remain on the internet forever. My legacy, burnished.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said in a low voice.
“I’ll believe what I choose to believe,” he declared.
“That’s why you’re still around after all these years.”
“And that’s why you’re not,” he said evenly. “You thought you were a hotshot.”