Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  Post Pattern

  A Novel by

  David Chill

  © 1991-2013 by David Chill

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or deceased, is purely coincidental. We assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.

  For Jeffrey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 1

  The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.

  "They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."

  "Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.

  "I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitting next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.

  "You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."

  Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."

  Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.

  I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."

  "Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."

  Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"

  Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."

  I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.

  Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.

  "So what are you doing now?" I inquired.

  Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."

  "Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.

  But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slightly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.

  Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of make up including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.

  "Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  "As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."

  "So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."

  "Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."

  I nodded. "All-Conference if I recall."

  "Yes."

  "You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.

  He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."

  "Then you graduated."

  "I was a year older."

  "Of course," I said.

  "They changed around the offense after I left. Started using the Read Option. That was probably why Robbie didn't have a great senior year."

  "So I gathered. I still follow the game."

  "Sure," he commented. "I remember watching you when I was a little kid, Mr. Burnside. You played safety at USC, didn’t you?"

  "You've got a good memory. But why don't we get back to why you're here."

  "Oh yeah," he paused. "Well it was like this. I was driving Robbie's car last night. You see, our parents had an affair up at the house. I needed to leave early and Robbie's Honda was blocking my car in the driveway. So I just borrowed his."

  "Sure. I do the same thing when someone double parks in front of me."

  Norman gave me a confused look but continued on. "Anyway, I'm driving on the freeway when all of a sudden someone pulls alongside and fires a gun at me. Shot the side window clean out. I was really lucky they missed, the bullet got lodged in the head rest."

  "And you think they were after your brother."

  "Who would want to kill me?"

  I decided to answer a question with a question. "Who would want to kill Robbie?"

  He thought for a moment. "I don't know."

  "Did you get the plate number?"

  "No," he said sadly. "I was too startled. I can't even describe the car to you."

  I asked if he had gone to the police, and both Norman and Ashley responded with concurrent nods. Norman had the perplexed look of a football player facing a Cover
2 defense for the first time. Ashley responded.

  "The police took a report,” she said, “but they told us that without a license plate number there wasn't much they could do. They also seemed very busy."

  "Business must be booming," I mused.

  "Excuse me?"

  I held up my hand. "Never mind,” I said, and turned back to Norman. “Before I start sticking my nose into your brother's business, have you talked to him about this?"

  He nodded yes. "Robbie... Robbie told me not to worry about things. Not to get involved. He'd be very angry if he found out what I'm doing here. But I'm his brother. I care about him. And I'm worried for him."

  I watched Norman's face to see if it would reveal anything more than golden boy looks. He spent most of his time talking with his gaze aimed at the floor. That might have meant either he couldn't look me in the eye or that my linoleum was developing serious wax build-up. Trial judges often instruct their juries to consider a witness's body movements during testimony, but I've concluded that theory doesn’t always work well in practice. People can tell the god's honest truth with a drooped head and slumped shoulders, while others are able to commit blatant perjury while looking someone dead in the eye.

  "I understand."

  He continued to fidget. "So will you help me?" he finally asked.

  "I doubt I'll be able to find the guy who took a shot at you last night."

  A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at least find out why?"

  I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”

  Norman nodded. “Okay.”

  "Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"

  "Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it."

  Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."

  Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.

  "Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."

  In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.

  *

  Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.

  So now I had two paying clients: Norman Freeman and the Differential Mutual Insurance Company. The Differential, as they were so fond of referring to themselves, had hired me to investigate one of their claimants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy Wachs. She lived in Carson, a smoggy, blue collar suburb about twenty-five freeway minutes from my office on Olympic Boulevard in West Los Angeles.

  It was a warm day in the Southland with the mercury rising to the mid-seventies. This summer was very typical so far in the basin: warm days followed by cool evenings. As was my custom in the summer, I spurned the button-down look and wore a red knit shirt with a little tiger crouched over the heart, dark slacks and black sneakers. My hair was short and black, and parted on the right side. While I’d never be in football condition again, I still was lean and strong. I left the windows open as I navigated the San Diego freeway, the warm winds lapping at me as I drove.

  Mrs. Wachs lived in a modest, working class neighborhood lined with stucco homes that featured pickup trucks parked inelegantly on the front lawn. A few of the local gentry sat on the curb and sipped refreshments contained within a surreptitious brown paper bag. A couple of ten year olds were carefully playing with matches in the middle of the street.

  I pulled out my file from the Differential and examined it once again. Mrs. Wachs was about forty years old and had been involved in a rather curious car accident. While stopped at a red light, her Plymouth Fury was rammed on the passenger door by a van which had rolled mysteriously down the embankment of a driveway. Despite being on the other side of the vehicle, Mrs. Wachs complained of a stiff neck and an aching back. Her doctor happily provided an exhaustive battery of medical tests and physical therapy to the tune of forty-two thousand dollars. Mrs. Wachs herself had filed a multi-million dollar lawsuit against the Differential, the van owner's insurance company, of which two thousand dollars was for vehicle damage and most of the remainder geared towards compensation for pain and suffering. To say the least, the Differential was not pleased.

  My client’s person of interest had yet to arrive home, so I parked my black Nissan Pathfinder across the street and awaited her arrival. I used to own a Jeep, but after spending a few evenings tailing a wayward wife through a series of torrential winter rainstorms, I decided to invest in a vehicle with a permanent roof. Unpacking the camcorder, I played with the zoom lens and pretended I was directing a documentary about the other side of Los Angeles. I inserted a George Winston CD into the tray and used it as a soundtrack. My career imitating Ken Burns lasted ten minutes. Mrs. Wachs had arrived home.

  Cindy Wachs may have been forty, but she looked every bit of fifty-five. She had a stocky build, a pug nose, brown hair combed without much attention, and an enormous brace wrapped around her neck. She parked her car in the driveway, exited it gingerly, and went to unlock the padlock on her garage door. All the while, the camcorder whirred and picked up her every movement. After opening the door, she walked back to her car and drove it into the garage, and my work day had come to an abrupt conclusion.

  Driving up to Santa Monica I took Vista del Mar, the coast route, and watched the sea gulls mingle among the surfers and the hang gliders. A pair of bikini clad girls wearing baseball caps tapped a volleyball back and forth. It was June, sweet June, and the golden sunlight would linger well past eight o'clock. I would have time for a leisurely dinner at The Lobster, and if the clams didn't fill me up, the crab cakes certainly would. Afterwards, I might sip on a Mojito and help the sun fall below the sea. Summer was here, and the climate was warm and pretty. Life seemed good right now and I was eager to take advantage of it. I knew things wouldn't stay that way. They never do.

  Chapter 2

  I rose early the next morning, as was my custom of late. It was my custom because my downstairs neighbor rose early and the moaning pipes from her shower were enough to wake the dead. By five o'clock the sun was already blinking a few rays of diffused light through my curtains and Ms. Linzmeier was undoubtedly lathering herself up. Not wanting to run out of hot water, I waited a few minutes until the pipes groaned again before taking my turn.

  It was noticeably warm already, so after toweling myself dry, I again passed on the buttoned down look for a white knit shirt and a pair of khakis. I brewed a pot of French Roast and drank two savory cups, strong and black. The orange yolks in my poached eggs were perfect, and when I dipped in a piece of sourdough toast the yolks oozed out gracefully. Sometimes things work out the way you want them to.

  As the California sun began to brighten, I hopped in my truck and zoomed down a lonely freeway. School was already out and that meant an easier time navigating through the city. During most of the
year, the fourteen mile trip from my Santa Monica apartment to USC would often take upwards of an hour. When I was a student it took just twenty minutes.

  The University of Southern California is located in downtown Los Angeles, next to a neighborhood that could not even be called marginal. The blighted shops along Vermont Avenue had seen better times, but those times might have been sixty or more years ago. A few stores were boarded up, and many of the others were on their way towards extinction as well. The residents who ventured out at this wee hour trudged through the streets slowly or stood aimlessly on a corner. The smog was especially thick down here, and my horizon line barely reached two blocks.

  I parked on the USC campus, telling the sleepy security guard I had a package to deliver. It had been twenty years since I first employed that excuse and its usefulness never failed. The first time I tried to drive onto campus I discovered that honesty only brought me a directive to do an about face and leave. I had acquiesced, circled the block, and told the same guard I had a package for the Provost. He quickly ushered me past the gate.

  Few people arrive at Heritage Hall, the USC athletic headquarters, by the crack of dawn. Especially two months before the football season begins. But few people had the makeup of Johnny Cleary. Johnny was a genius when it came to putting together defensive schemes. He lived and breathed football, whether it was mid-November or mid-June.

  I entered the building and maneuvered past the multiple Heisman trophies and countless memorabilia that lined the lobby. The office I walked into was a small windowless room with coarse, burnt sienna brick walls. Photos of past glories were omnipresent and I caught a glimpse of one that featured a younger version of yours truly. I looked like a completely different person.

  "Knock, knock," I said, as I pushed an office door open. "Anybody got a good defense for Calvin Johnson?"