Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  Lafferty nodded. "You think he had some help."

  "Somebody was gunning for Robbie on the freeway the other night, only his brother happened to be in the car at the time. That someone had better luck tonight."

  "Any ideas about who did it?"

  "No. I mostly have a lot of questions."

  "Great," he said dryly. "Anything else you'd like to offer?"

  I shook my head. "Not unless your buddy over there wants a re-match."

  "Mick? He probably does, but he'll cool down. He's not a bad detective but he’s a hothead."

  "Uh-huh."

  Lafferty looked around. "I think we're almost done here."

  "Do you have any objections if I go back up to the apartment and look around?"

  "No can do. Not now anyway, they're dusting for prints. I think they're also examining the video that was being recorded. Yeah I know, we lucked out on that one. Besides, what do you think you'll find?"

  I shrugged and said I didn't know. Walking outside, I stopped to take a final look at the Corvette. The top of the car was caved in and damage to the hood was evident. The windshield was destroyed and the interior looked like it was the target of a missile. The owner would have quite a surprise awaiting him tomorrow. A victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His turn to be picked on. I walked across the street to my Pathfinder and found a small surprise waiting for me as well, in the form of a parking ticket. I was too tired to bother with it so I tossed it in the glove compartment along with my CDs and drove home. It was nearly four in the morning and there was still plenty of traffic on the streets.

  *

  It took three days for the police to complete their investigation. No one had murdered Robbie Freeman. It had been ruled an accident. A newspaper article quoted Captain Lafferty as saying the young man was drunk and had fallen twenty-two flights through his own carelessness. No one would be charged, no one would be found guilty, no further investigation was warranted. The death was simply an accident. All hands were clean.

  Robbie's funeral was the following day and I chose not to bother the family. Instead, I spent half a day trailing behind Mrs. Wachs, waiting for any sign she was not the injured party she made herself out to be. After following her home from her physical therapy, I drove wearily back to the office and telephoned Juan Saavedra at the Purdue precinct. Juan was a detective I had known way back when. Through my contacts at USC I was able to provide him with good tickets for the LAU and Notre Dame games, and Juan's appreciation was always apparent. Everyone has their price.

  "Burnsy? How ya been, buddy?"

  "Been better, been worse," I said.

  "Whaddya need? I'll make a wager it has something to do with the Freeman case."

  "You're a psychic, Juan."

  "Nah, I just get around."

  "Talk to me about it. Someone put a lid on the investigation?"

  "No, no, nothing like that. They looked at the DVD and established that everyone at the party was accounted for when Robbie went over the balcony. Everyone was in the living room with the strippers. Except the kid who passed out. And you."

  "How could they establish the right time?"

  "Clock on the living room wall. Robbie hit the ground at exactly 11:01 p.m. and they have the doorman and that old boy at the security desk to back it up. They checked the clock and it was damn near right on Naval Observatory time. Lucky thing that kid was recording everyone. You know what they say, the camcorder never lies."

  "Never lies," I repeated.

  "Although personally I would have preferred a few more close-ups of the babes."

  "You always were a class act, Juan. Any chance I could get a look at that DVD?"

  "I dunno. In a few days, maybe I can swing something. Wait until this dies down a bit. You think there's something more going on?"

  "Hard to say. A few of the guys were carrying hardware. Football players can generally take care of most people without resorting to heat."

  Juan chuckled. "Things used to be that way." I thanked Juan for his help and hung up. The warm breeze outside my window was making the jagged tops of the palm trees sway. I gazed at them and thought for a long time. No further investigation would be warranted. No pondering about the suspicious link between the freeway shooting and Robbie falling tragically off of his own ledge. No looking into why some of the other men at the party had guns. The police were satisfied that the death of Robbie Freeman was an accident. I, on the other hand, was not.

  Chapter 5

  The temperature never dipped below seventy that evening, as the Santa Ana winds began to whip through Los Angeles. The Santa Anas were sometimes called the fire winds because of the destruction they're prone to wrought. Unlike the off-shore breezes that cool the basin, these winds came up from the south and carry with them a nasty spell of sizzling days and merciless nights. They kick up a few times a year and could last from a couple of days to over a week. I slept a few fitful hours before rising in time to see a blood red sunrise.

  I drove up to the Valley and stopped at a local deli for breakfast. After eating a decidedly unhealthy meal of bacon, fried eggs and a bagel with cream cheese, I lingered over a few glasses of ice water before venturing back out into the warmth of the morning. The sign outside the bank across the street blinked 7:12 and 76 degrees. Things would only get worse.

  It took five minutes to reach my first call of the day, and I was mildly surprised when he answered the door on the initial ring of the buzzer. Nevertheless, he looked rather sleepy as he stood facing me in a white t-shirt and dark blue gym shorts. He was tall and slim, with sharp features and a big nose that I was just starting to get used to. His brown eyes were barely open and he had the look of someone who would rather not be standing upright.

  "Yeah?" he asked blankly.

  "Lenny. The name's Burnside. I met you last weekend at the party, remember?" I assumed he knew what I was talking about. I've asked more difficult questions of five year olds.

  "Which party's that, dude?"

  A fundamental rule had been broken. Never overestimate people. "Norman's bachelor party," I said, a touch of sharpness seeping out of my voice.

  "Oh, yeah. I was at that one," he said, a goofy smile of recognition crossing his face. "I remember you now. You're Norman's friend from the lot, right?"

  "Actually, Lenny, I'm a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?"

  Lenny Caputo hesitated for a moment, then pulled the apartment door open and waved me inside. His apartment was nicely appointed, but it was the type of decor that was musty and resembled my grandmother's home. The sofa had floral patterns across it and the teak end tables were octagonal in shape, with small brass handles on the doors. A large box shaped CRT television sat in a corner and the olive green carpeting had definitely seen better days. The thick drapes were still closed, making the living room darker and drearier than it might otherwise have been. The only noise was the low hum of an air conditioner.

  "I wish you'd have called first," he said.

  "I used to do the polite thing at one time, but people had a habit of not being home when I got there. This way seems to work out best."

  "We'll have to be quiet. My mom's still asleep."

  "Right," I said.

  "I don't know how much help I can be to you. I was really out of it that night. I barely remember anything."

  "What's the last thing you do remember?"

  "Falling down and having some people toss me onto a bed. I heard some activity and then the police were shining a flashlight in my face telling me to get up. They were pretty rude about it, too."

  "I'll bet," I said, smiling to myself. "When you say you heard some activity, what exactly do you mean?"

  "I dunno. It was dark and I didn't even remember who carried me in. I found out later it was Robbie and that big dude who brought the babes."

  "Do you remember what happened after they carried you into the bedroom?"

  "Uh-uh."

 
I stopped for a moment. I didn't want to tax his brain too early in the morning. "You and Robbie were both wide receivers at LAU. Were you guys pretty close?"

  "Yeah, we were friends. We hung around together sometimes. Drank some beers, went to a few clubs. I mean, Evan Wurman and Scotty Haid were probably closer buddies with him. If that's what you're getting at. But all of us played wide receiver, so we spent a lot of time together."

  "What type of clubs did you go to?"

  Lenny shrugged. "I dunno. Robbie would sometimes drag us off to those divey bars near the beach. The Joker, The Circle Bar. Robbie really liked this place in Venice called Neary's. I think that's where he knew the babes at the party."

  "He knew those girls beforehand?"

  "I'm pretty sure. We all kinda got around. Y'know?"

  I nodded and went along. "Robbie into anything weird?"

  Lenny gave a giggle, most of which snorted out of his nose until he started to cough. "Nah. Nothing special I can think of."

  "He drink much?"

  "Yeah, some."

  "Any drugs?"

  Lenny shrugged. "I dunno."

  I pondered this for a moment. Hanging around with hookers, maybe smoke some weed. But nothing out of the ordinary.

  "Lenny, do you have any reason to believe someone would want to murder Robbie?"

  He gave me a funny look. "No way. The police ruled it an accident. They wouldn't do that if they thought it was murder!"

  Suppressing a smile was not always the easiest task. The kid had a few things to learn. A college education taught you only so much. "Let's think in the abstract for a moment. Do you think it's possible he was murdered?"

  "I don't know. I guess if he pissed somebody off they might."

  "Who might?"

  A look of concern came over him and he clammed up. I asked a few more questions but all I got was a succinct shake of the head. Finally, I handed him one of my business cards and told him to call me if he thought of anything. Or if he wanted to do a term paper on police assumptions gone wrong. I was living proof their success rate would never be one hundred percent.

  Walking out, I shut the door harder than I meant to and a loud bang could be heard down the hall. Oh well, I thought. Mom should probably be up by now anyway.

  *

  My next stop was at Max Brewer's home. In stark contrast to the dim and musty surroundings of Lenny's apartment, Max lived in his parents' spacious house in the foothills above Encino. Theirs was a split level home that was set back from the street. A curved driveway led to a three car garage facing the side of the house. This was the type of home Ward Cleaver would move the family to when he got that big promotion at the office.

  The doorbell chimed rather than rang, and Max's mother, a pleasant faced woman in her early fifties, answered the door. She had an apron on and invited me inside when I asked to speak to her son. I was led through an impressive foyer with high beamed ceilings into a bright, sunny kitchen. The happy suburban family of four was eating a nourishing breakfast together consisting of bran flakes, strawberries and skim milk. Strong father, proud mother, athletic son, nubile daughter. There was even a golden retriever thumping its tail in the corner. Norman Rockwell couldn't have painted it any better.

  "Good morning," I said. "I'm sorry to bother you folks so early, but I was wondering if I could talk to Max for a minute."

  Max had very light blond hair that almost matched his sister's in color, if not in length. He wore an orange golf shirt and dark blue shorts, and looked like he could easily have been a cover boy for GQ. His sister could have made the cover of Cosmo too. Max wiped his mouth with a napkin and placed it delicately on the table. Such good manners.

  "Sure," he said. "Didn't we meet the other night? At Norman's party?"

  "Right."

  "You work with Norman, don’t you?" he asked, trying to remember.

  "Actually, I'm a private investigator. Norman had hired me to look into a situation involving his brother."

  The family took a collective breath together. The father, a powerful looking man with a large bald spot, asked to see some identification. After I presented it, he offered me a cup of coffee which I gladly accepted. Very smooth. Probably Mocha Java.

  "I'm not sure what more I can tell you that I haven't already told the police," Max said.

  "I'm actually more interested in learning about Robbie himself. What kind of a guy was he, what type of people he palled around with. That sort of thing."

  "I don't honestly know much. Robbie was into a much different lifestyle than I am."

  "Lifestyle?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

  "We've tried," his father interrupted, "to instill in our children the idea that your friends are a reflection of yourself. We're pleased they have chosen to associate with more of a wholesome crowd than the one Robbie associates... I mean, associated with."

  "Just what kind of crowd was Robbie in?"

  "Oh, you know," Max said, "People into doing a lot of partying."

  "Not to mention lewd women," his sister added, poking Max playfully in the ribs and giggling. I suddenly remembered a vision of her brother reaching out and copping a feel of one of the stripper's buttocks.

  "Don't kid about that, Bridget," Max pointed out in a tone I thought was a bit too serious. "Robbie used to date some pretty flashy girls. I heard he actually knew those...dancers that were at the party."

  "How did he know them?"

  Max shrugged. "I think it was through someone who worked for the coaches."

  "Who were his friends?"

  "Oh, guys like Scotty and Lenny and Evan."

  "Evan Wurman?"

  "Right. Evan played football his freshman year, then dropped out of college. He was a fast little receiver but just too small for the college game. Wurman and the Freemans go back a long ways. They were next door neighbors over in Brentwood."

  I nodded and asked the question that was sure to make the bran flakes work even quicker. "Do you have any reason to believe that Robbie's death was not an accident?"

  The question produced a response at the table which I could have predicted with a Ouija board. Deep breaths, a couple of coughs, shifting of posture. All eyes fell eventually to Max.

  "No, none I can think of," he finally said. "The only one who was out of the living room when it happened was Lenny Caputo, and he was practically unconscious. After Robbie and that big guy carried Lenny to the bedroom, Robbie didn't return to the party. That's the last anyone saw of him."

  "Did Lenny ever have any problem with Robbie?"

  "A little maybe," Max said, thoughtfully. "Robbie beat him out of the starting job at flanker, but he did it fair and square. Robbie was the better receiver. I know Lenny used to bellyache that Robbie bought it with his father's money but nobody believed that. We all knew different. But I couldn't see how a grudge like that could be kept for so long. No, there's just no way that Lenny could have done anything. It had to have been an accident. There's just no other explanation."

  The table grew silent and everyone looked down, caught up in their thoughts. After a minute, Max raised his head. "It's possible I'm not the best person to talk to."

  "Who might be?" I inquired.

  "Maybe Evan. He has a reputation for being into some weird stuff. I wouldn't trust him. For that matter I didn't trust Robbie himself too much."

  I nodded. That was becoming no surprise. After leaving my card with the Brewers, I excused myself and left.

  *

  Since the name Evan Wurman had come up a few times, I naturally wanted to speak with him. Additionally, he was one of the guys who was packing a gun at Norman's party. I was disappointed when I tried his Westwood apartment and learned he wasn't there. The high pitched male voice that answered the intercom told me he was out of the country for a few days. I drove back to the office wondering who I'd call on next, when I found a pair of surprise guests waiting outside my office. Norman said he and Ashley had only been there for a few minutes.

&nbs
p; “Hello there,” I said, and ushered them into my office and motioned for them to sit down. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Norman said in a low voice.

  “I imagine you’ve postponed your wedding. “

  “Yes,” he responded. “We’re going to wait until… this situation blows over. You can't go from a funeral to a wedding this quickly."

  I concurred and we sat down. The two were holding hands but I noticed there was no diamond on Ashley’s left hand.

  “Have you put away your engagement ring?”

  Ashley’s lips tightened. “I don’t know whether it was lost or stolen. The other day I looked down and it was just gone. Disappeared. It may have slipped off my finger. I don’t know. This has simply been a terrible week all around.”

  “Bad things come in bunches. Sorry.”

  Both of them looked down at the floor. In a grey t-shirt and jeans, Norman appeared, if anything, younger and even more guileless. His blue eyes drooped slightly and there were tiny, sporadic red veins evident. The end of his nose was tinged with a sharp rawness. He slumped in the chair, his strong chin held up by a fist whereas previously he had the posture of a Marine Corps soldier.

  "Mr. Burnside," Norman began, "I'd like to thank you for spending time looking into what happened to my brother. You've taken your job seriously and I appreciate it. But, at this point I think you can stop your investigation."

  "You've paid me for five days, kid. I'm only halfway through my second day."

  "The family believes," Ashley said, "that Robbie's death was an accident. That he was drunk and on some kind of drug, and he fell off the balcony through no one's fault but his own."

  Looking at her, I began to notice that she had the kind of beauty that wore off as you got closer. It was kind of like an Impressionist painting. I also smelled a brand of perfume that probably cost a fortune, but only served to irritate my nose and make me want to sneeze.

  "You're being pretty tough on Robbie. He was no angel, but I think there may be a little more here than meets the eye."