by David Chill
Chapter 13
I admit to being a little surprised that Detective Marc Knapp had not only allowed me to tag along on taking a suspect into custody, but also gave me the latitude to participate. I asked him about this as we rode up to Mandeville Canyon to collect Lauren Starr, after Sylvester Means had been booked at the West L.A. Division. Knapp candidly told me he had already put in his twenty years, and he didn’t much give a crap what any of the top brass might think. That I had been vetted by Lieutenant DeSanto gave me some cred, but the fact that I cracked the case had actually impressed him. He scolded me in a mild way for removing evidence from a crime scene, but acknowledged he had not known Brady Starr had attended Roche High, so the ring wouldn’t have meant much to him. He certainly would not have cobbled together the connection to Sylvester. It was as close to a thank you as I would probably ever get from him.
Knapp did not bring up the subject of Sylvester having an attorney present; he told me afterward that the reading of the Miranda rights covered that. Sylvester had written out a long and detailed confession, admitting to the accidental shooting of Gavin Yunis and the plot hatched by Lauren Starr to kill her husband. He laid the blame of the entire episode at Lauren Starr’s feet, but in the end it was Sylvester who did the shooting, and Sylvester who would answer for his actions. Knapp had no sympathy for Sylvester, and realistically, neither did I. His involvement had resulted in two people dying. Even if he didn’t get life in prison, he would serve a very long stretch behind bars. He might look back at his crummy apartment in Hollywood as a far better place than his cell at San Quentin.
When we arrived at the Starr residence, we only came upon Curtis and Brady. We conducted a full search of the house and the surrounding property, but Lauren Starr was nowhere to be found. Curtis said they had gone to bed the night before at midnight, but Lauren was gone by the time he woke up, as were a couple of suitcases and some of her clothes. Knapp issued an all-points-alert warrant, and later in the day we learned she had boarded an early morning flight to Heathrow Airport in London, with plans to take a connecting flight to Dubai. After contacting Scotland Yard, Lauren was arrested as she deplaned, and arrangements were made to have her extradited back to Los Angeles the next day.
As we informed Brady and Curtis of the back story, they both sat there in shock, their mouths gaping, and the only questions they asked were variations of why. When asked, Curtis told Knapp he had fled the scene of the shooting on PCH because he feared his life was in danger. I didn’t bother to say anything, because Curtis was actually correct. Knapp told Curtis that he wished he could bring him up on charges of leaving the scene of a crime, but California has no such statute prohibiting that behavior, if it wasn’t a car accident. For Knapp though, two homicide arrests seemed to be a sufficient haul.
I took Brady aside and gently told him about the rumors of his illicit affair with his stepmother, and like Lauren, he denied it vehemently. When I told him my source was unimpeachable, and he’d be well served by telling the truth, he sheepishly admitted to something which explained the rumor. He had not slept with his stepmother, but rather with her twin sister, Jacquie. That explained the error in scuttlebutt from Derek Altman, although it did not explain Brady’s questionable choices in partners. Like a million young men before him, Brady most likely suffered from decisions fueled by too much alcohol and raging hormones.
I picked up Marcus from preschool and he talked me into taking him to a movie. He reasoned that since Gail did not like superhero movies that were heavy on explosions, brawls, and shootouts, this would be an ideal opportunity for the two of us to go, as Gail would be putting in a full day and a full night campaigning. We headed to the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica, had Dagwoods pizza before the movie, a big step up from the likes of Chuck E. Cheese, extra buttered popcorn during the movie, and ice cream afterward. Since we were doing a boys’ night, I figured we should go all in. Marcus said he couldn’t wait to tell Gail about our adventure. I told him his mom had a lot on her mind right now, and maybe he should wait a few days, after which, I hoped he might forget to mention our questionable nutrition and entertainment choices.
Gail arrived home after midnight, crawled into bed, and actually rose before me, just as it was getting light, at a quarter to six. She murmured that she had a big push today with getting out the vote, and I didn’t want to slow her down by inquiring just what that was, how much it entailed, or whose palms might get greased. I could safely assume whatever she was doing was, at the very least, important. I drove Marcus to preschool, went to the new Starbucks at Sawtelle and National, and settled in with a Mocha Java and the L.A. Times website. The news was eye opening.
The arrest of Sylvester Means was front-page news, and even though it was not the most sensational double murder in Los Angeles’s star-crossed history, the association with a minor celebrity was enough to invoke screaming headlines. Adam Lazar got the byline, not surprising, since he had called me again on Monday to fill in a few holes in his story. Thankfully, he listened to my admonition to leave the name of a certain local private investigator out of the article. But there was another omission as well.
The story provided a cursory background for Sylvester Means, that he had recently been fired from a talent agency in Hollywood, and was a ne’er do well, with a history of petty thefts. There was no mention of Cliff Roper or his sports agency, nor of Brady Starr, or the upcoming NFL draft. Lauren Starr’s name was omitted, the only reference to her was as an unidentified co-conspirator who had fled the country and was awaiting extradition. There was no mention of Curtis Starr, other than a passing reference to a homeowner in a secluded section of Mandeville Canyon, the scene of Gavin Yunis’s murder. The story instead focused on how a heroic and persistent LAPD detective named Marc Knapp had doggedly pursued this case, and solved it through old-fashioned investigative work. I began to wonder if I should jokingly ask Marc Knapp for some Dodger tickets as a payoff for not only my help, but for keeping quiet about how the case was actually solved. I guessed that Roberto DeSanto would figure out my role in all this, and if he didn’t, I would surreptitiously let him know.
The rest of my day was eerily quiet, except for a brief interlude when I went to vote. Our polling place was at a local senior citizens’ center, manned by a trio of polite women in their seventies. They even had a plate of cookies set out for voters. It was a surreal feeling to look at my voter’s guide and see the name Gail Pepper listed as a candidate for City Attorney, and as I cast my ballot for her, a burst of pride swelled through me. She had come a long way. I wondered if I’d be able to keep up with her. I also voted for Arthur Woo, but I left the other offices on my ballot blank. Someone in the Democratic Party had sent me their list of their endorsed candidates, which I had crumpled up, and Marcus and I used it as a pretend basketball for a little while. I smiled at the poll workers as I deposited my ballot into the receptacle, and took an oatmeal cookie as a reward. They told me to have a nice day. I told them that would be a very welcomed change from the past week.
I picked up Marcus in the afternoon, and we played board games and did coloring with various markers. I put his artwork aside for Gail to view, wondering if I should tell her these might not need to be saved for posterity. At about seven-thirty, I got dressed in a suit and tie, and helped Marcus put on a nice shirt. I told him he would be able to stay up very late tonight, maybe even past midnight because he’d be at his mom’s victory party. He grew very excited and asked what type of snacks they’d be serving. I told him life was full of surprises. That innocuous statement certainly turned out to be more true than I intended it to be.
The Biltmore Hotel was, like the Beverly Wilshire, stately, and decades old. Located across from Pershing Square in downtown, entering the Biltmore was like entering a palace. The floors were polished to a high gloss, there were murals on the walls of the lobby, and gorgeous chandeliers lit up the atrium. The victory party was being held in the Crystal Ballroom, a magnificent place to hold any event. This was where
the slate of candidates, led by mayoral candidate Arthur Woo, would all be celebrating.
Marcus and I walked into the ballroom, and I quickly got him a Shirley Temple. A large monitor was placed in the front of the ballroom to show the election returns. We weaved through the crowd but did not see Gail right away. A few people said hello to us and wished us good luck. I even ran into a retired LAPD cop named Rick Maresco, a sergeant I had once worked with down in the Broadway Division, who said he was working security tonight. He said he didn’t miss the daily grind of the LAPD, but he did miss seeing his friends every day. He asked Marcus if he wanted to be a police officer, and Marcus responded by telling him he wanted to be the mayor. Rick took out a dollar bill from his wallet and slipped it into Marcus’s pocket, telling him this was a big part of being mayor. Marcus asked him how old you had to be to become mayor. Rick told him he was probably ready right now.
We saw Gail speaking to someone near the stage and walked over to her. Before we could reach her, my path was suddenly blocked by a familiar, swarthy face. I wondered if he would be here tonight.
“Reporter Lazar,” I said.
“P.I. Burnside. Figured I’d see you. I was curious if you could help me get a few minutes with your lovely wife.”
“You working the political desk now? I thought that was Virgil’s area. You do the crime beat.”
“I do. But I’d like to ask Gail a few questions about a case that’s been held up for about five years. Internal corruption at the LAPD. Wondering how she’s going to proceed on it if she wins.”
I nodded. “I’ll see if I can arrange something, but it may not be tonight. She’s a little busy now. You know?”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
“By the way. That was an interesting article you put together on Sylvester Means this morning.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Oh?”
“What was interesting wasn’t what you put together, but what you left out.”
“Oh. Yeah. Look. I thought you said you didn’t want your name in the paper now. You know. With your wife, and that incident at Chuck E. Cheese.”
“Right. But actually I was more curious about how you referred to Sylvester as having worked for a talent agency, emphasis on past tense. You had to have known he worked for Cliff Roper. And as of yesterday he was still working there.”
“I know,” he shrugged. “And to be honest, all of that was in my article. Editor took it out. Someone high up reached down and altered it. I don’t like it either. I don’t like anyone rewriting my work. But this is the pool we swim in. If I want to work there, that’s part of the deal. Someone pulled strings. I’m assuming it was Cliff Roper.”
“That would be a good guess,” I said. “And you’re right. I could live without any more publicity right now. The last bout got me into some hot water at home.”
“I can imagine,” Lazar said, and then he looked down at Marcus. “You know your dad’s a celebrity?”
“What’s that?” Marcus asked.
“It means he’s famous.”
“Yeah,” Marcus said casually.
Lazar did a high-five with him and then looked up at me. “California cool. Your kid’s all right.”
I smiled and felt a little burst of pride. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know, but it still felt good to hear it from someone else. I told Lazar I’d get back to him.
We made our way to Gail, and she gave us hugs. She seemed exhausted, her lovely gray eyes looking a little droopy and a little weary. She was still beautiful, but it also appeared as if the campaign was taking its toll on her. She said she needed to go speak with someone in media relations, so Marcus and I found a food station and dug in. Mini hot dogs, mini sliders, and tater tots were our primary food groups. If dad was in charge of meals full-time, Marcus might have an eating disorder at some point. I chalked it up to this week being special. We wandered around the room for a while, watching the returns, and watching the people in the ballroom, all of whom seemed to know each other. I felt like we were strangers in a strange land.
By 9:30 pm, a lot of the returns were coming in, and it didn’t look good for Gail. In the mayoral race, Arthur Woo had a comfortable lead over his opponent, but Paul Bleeker had taken a 51% to 49% lead over Gail, with half the votes counted. By 10:00 pm he had widened the margin to 53% to 47%, but nearly 80% of the votes were now in. It didn’t look good. We found Gail, speaking with a member of her staff, and we waited patiently until she was done. I could tell Marcus was getting tired, and even though he said he wanted to stay up until midnight, he was having a tough time keeping awake now.
“Things are going in the wrong direction,” I said.
Gail sighed. “I know. We’re finalizing a concession speech. Bleeker’s going to win.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and gave her a hug. Marcus leaned in and hugged her legs.
“Well, at least I have a very nice family,” she said, wiping a tear away. “Bleeker’s going to have his work cut out for him. I’m not sure he even knows where to begin in leading the City Attorney’s office. I’m wiped out.”
“I can see that.”
“I have to stay to the end. But you should take Marcus home.”
“Aw, Mom,” he said, protesting, and stifling a yawn at the same time. “Do I have to?”
“Looks like it’s not going to be a celebration, sweetie. Maybe next time.”
Marcus and I said our goodnights, and departed, disappointed at losing, and me being very concerned my fisticuffs at Chuck E. Cheese had played some role in all of this, however small. But in a way, I was relieved. I wasn’t certain Gail was quite ready for the demands of the office, and I knew he manner in which I worked would impact her. We had navigated through this part of our careers okay, in part because her job was not high-profile, and because my occasional bad behavior would largely go undetected by the media. I thought back to a saying I had once heard, that the world does not give you more than you can handle. Maybe that was what was happening here. There is often a reason things work out the way they do.
*
I met with Harold Stevens at his office the next day. I suggested lunch, and after carefully weighing whether or not he had the time, he finally decided he did not. He did ask me to swing by his office in the mid-Wilshire district. Years ago, this was a fashionable neighborhood, but that was a lot of years ago. Harold’s office was on the 11th floor of an art deco building that looked good from the outside but was a bit threadbare inside. I noticed a musty smell as I walked along the uneven carpeting that led from the interminably slow elevator to the office of the Differential Insurance’s investigative arm, also known by the gold lettering on Harold’s door which said, Claims Analysis.
“How’s business?” I asked, sitting down on the single utilitarian chair facing him. “Must be busy if there’s no time for lunch.”
Harold agreed. “I’m a little swamped this week. I might have something else for you soon, though.”
“Always happy to help my friendly neighborhood insurance company. Especially since my wife may soon be unemployed.”
Harold reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope, handing it to me solemnly. It was unsealed, so I opened it. A check for eleven thousand dollars sat there. I was impressed, and decided not to bring up the extra expense of baseball tickets for a certain lieutenant in the LAPD.
“Looks like there’s a bonus,” I said.
“When you save the company ten million dollars, we like to show a little appreciation. I don’t know quite how you did it. This was a highly unusual situation. In fact, I’ve never hired anyone to do what I asked you to do. Wasn’t sure how it would end up. But you came through with flying colors.”
“Just doing my job, sir,” I smiled, as I stuffed the envelope into my jacket pocket. “This will be helpful in paying tuition for Marcus’s kindergarten. Should we decide to move him into private school.”
&n
bsp; “Oh? Where are you thinking?”
“He was accepted at Crossroads. But I don’t know if we’re going to do that. Looks like Gail will be out of work soon, and my income stream is, how should I put it … uneven. And realistically, I don’t know that private school is the right way to go. I don’t know that the education is all that much better. With Gail as a public figure, having Marcus in a school with higher security made sense. Now, not so much.”
“Modern day parent problems,” Harold smiled. “But you guys will land on your feet. You’re smart, and she’s smarter.”
I smiled, too. “I hit the jackpot when it came to family. I’m just trying not to screw it up.”
“How so?”
“You heard about that little altercation I got into last weekend?”
Harold nodded solemnly. “I wasn’t going to bring it up.”
“It’s created some tension internally with Gail. Bad timing, what with the campaign and all.”
Harold sighed. “Yeah. Tough loss that Gail took. I thought she had the election in the bag.”
“I’m not sure I caused her to lose, but my actions clearly weren’t helpful.”
“You were protecting your kid,” Harold said. “That’s what dads do.”
“I’ve been told there might have been some, er, more delicate ways to handle that situation.”
“Maybe, but you can’t look backward. Heat of the moment, and all. Is the book closed on that situation?”
I shook my head. “Don’t think so. There won’t be any criminal charges filed, at least from what I’ve been told. But the first guy I hit may be looking at filing a civil suit. And there’s still the matter of my using a fake badge to impersonate a police officer.”
Harold nodded. “Well, at least now you’ve got a very capable defense attorney, and you may be her first client. Might be good publicity if Gail represents you.”
“If she doesn’t throw me out of the house first,” I said, half-jokingly, but a small part of me wondered if that statement had any legs to it.