Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  The left side of the car was ravaged from front to back and the right side had a large dent in the passenger door. The front end was mangled and the color coordinated bumper hung inches from the ground. The left front tire had dislodged, and the right front was blown. A puddle of greenish radiator fluid with tiny rainbow streaks was forming under the engine.

  The couple finally remembered there was another party to the collision and jogged over to yours truly. Apparently my vehicle wasn't as spectacular a sight. Thankfully.

  "You okay in there?" he yelled.

  I looked down at him. He had brown hair, long and thick in the back, and a trimmed beard. A green tattoo with an indiscriminate design was emblazoned on his left arm.

  "Hope so," I finally managed, as I worked to free myself from the confines of the shoulder harness. That done, I opened the door to climb out and stumbled haphazardly into the man's arms.

  "Whoa there," he said, catching me by the waist. "Take 'er easy."

  I struggled to stand up straight and without any assistance. My legs were wobbly and I felt myself gasping for air. My head was light and the ground swayed beneath me. The guy had one hand on my elbow and the other grasping the back of my belt.

  "It's okay," I managed. "Let me try it myself."

  He released the grip and I took a step, feeling like a novice ice skater navigating along a treacherous path. I steadied myself with the truck door and took a second step, finding this one a little easier and hoping I wouldn't have to ever re-learn any other basic functions. Suffice to say, it was not fun but at least I had the capacity. Apparently it was more than I could say for my counterparts.

  "You don't look so good, pal," the man said. "But it's like they say, you oughta see the other guy."

  "Let's," I said.

  "Name's Honch," he offered.

  I had to think for a minute. "Burnside. One word."

  The other car was about fifty feet away and I hobbled over to it. I felt sore and dizzy as I walked along the ominous freeway, cars inching past on the outside lane for a glance at the grisly scene. A bit of steam emitted from the hood of their car and added an exclamation point to the heat that was bearing relentlessly down on us.

  I approached from the rear and looked inside. Even after thirteen years of police work, the goriness of mangled, bloody faces never ceased to affect me. There they were, Curt and his cohort Whitey, lying shoulder to shoulder beneath a generous sprinkling of glass shards. Their faces were drenched in blood, Curt's almost to the point of being unrecognizable. There was no need to check their pulses; these two were finished. I felt a wall of nausea rise from within and I needed to turn away suddenly and breathe a few deep gasps of air. It could have been worse, I told myself. It could have been me.

  A Highway Patrol cruiser pulled up a minute later and two uniforms slowly emerged. Both were women, one stockily built with blonde hair tied back into a knot and the other wiry with short auburn hair. Not too long ago there was an unwritten policy against two female uniforms riding together, the thinking being they needed a man around in case things got tough. I never bought that. Since most were well versed in martial arts, I found they could handle themselves in almost all situations. The only problem came about convincing a few suspects who thought they had a better chance slugging it out with a woman. That's why many developed a tough, caustic shell early on.

  The blonde approached us and directed her question to Honch. "Were you the driver of one of the vehicles?"

  Honch pointed to me. "Him."

  "Is that your truck?" she asked.

  I nodded and looked back at my Pathfinder. All things considered, it didn't look too awful. A nasty looking dent in the front left fender, a cracked grill, and a busted headlight. Not to mention a few shotgun shells lodged in the steel body. It was probably my crazed state but the truck seemed to be winking at me.

  "Would you tell me what happened?"

  Before I could respond we heard a loud "oh my god" and I didn't even have to look to know the wiry officer had just peered into the BMW. I chuckled to myself. They were better at martial arts.

  I gave the details to the blonde who jotted them into a notepad. She frowned a few times when I related the gunplay but her demeanor never varied. Very professional, I thought. I hadn't noticed the gun anywhere in the BMW but I wasn't about to look too closely. Regardless, there were holes in my truck door if anyone cared to dispute my story. Since no one would get the perspective of either Curt or his buddy, this wasn't a real cause for concern.

  Chapter 13

  I spent the better part of the day talking to my auto insurance company, filling out paperwork and licking my wounds. My Pathfinder was sitting over at the police impound lot, awaiting examination from ballistics before I turned it over to the body shop for repair. I made sure I took everything out of the glove compartment before I turned over the keys. DVDs, papers, everything. I had learned that police protection had its limits.

  Surprisingly, my own body felt a lot better by the end of the day, although running a 10K race wouldn't be high on my to-do list in the near future. I rented a Ford Focus until my Pathfinder could be made whole again, and drove the little thing back to my office. Not a Pathfinder certainly, but it would at least shepherd me around. When I returned to the office I decided I needed something to perk my spirits. Nearly getting killed can put you in the most depressed mood. I called Gail Pepper and made dinner arrangements for eight o'clock.

  As I finally concluded it was time to call it a day, the phone of course rang. Mr. Cadwell from the Differential Insurance Company wanted to know the status of the Wachs case. I told him the status was unchanged.

  "That doesn't make me very happy," he said, in a tone one would not confuse with excitement.

  "I'm not a happy camper myself today I can assure you."

  "This goes before the State Disability Board in two weeks and we will be in need of your findings soon. I hasten to add we don't have much to go on except a co-worker who claims Mrs. Wachs is holding down a second job. Have you been tailing her?"

  I just loved guys who used trade lingo. "Been on her tail every spare minute," I said.

  "Good. I have a hunch this one's up to something. Her accident was just too suspicious."

  "They all are, my friend," I said, vaguely wondering if Curt Salvo had bothered to take out insurance. Curt struck me as the type who would boast a bumper sticker saying insured by Smith & Wesson. "I've got an idea or two. I'll keep you informed."

  I hung up and decided it was time for a long hot bath. And maybe consider another line of work.

  *

  By eight o'clock I was cleaned and rested and ready for the evening to bring forth brighter moments. I crammed myself into the little Ford Focus and it took a full ten seconds to figure out where the headlight switch was. So much for American ingenuity, although the engineers from Detroit probably believed they just needed smarter customers. On the way to pick up Gail, I told myself how much money I'd save on gasoline by driving the little sub-compact. It worked for a few moments, but the smug feeling left me when I needed to rearrange my legs.

  Gail lived in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica which bordered Venice beach. It was an area that seemed pleasant enough, though it was only blocks away from the sleaziness of California's version of Venezia. Innocent on the surface but a tangled web within. Not unlike the people I had been investigating lately.

  Gail came to the door wearing a low cut green top and shorts. If my tongue was hanging out she didn't seem to notice. It was summer and she could dress any way she felt like. I wasn't about to complain. I told her she looked nice and she responded with a simple, albeit playful, thank you.

  We went directly to the restaurant, an intimate little pasta bar near the beach. Candle lit tables with old fashioned red checked tablecloths and the pungent smell of garlic making its way from the kitchen. The night was warm as usual but it mattered not. Romance was blooming.

  We talked about all of the things tw
o people talk about when they go out on a first date. This was technically our second date but I felt the other night was more of a let's-get-to-know-each-other meeting. A good first date is where you begin to share things from your past and reveal what you'd like the future to bring. And gaze into the other person's eyes frequently to see how they respond. And sometimes you get a feeling that maybe, just maybe something is clicking. It's a dichotomous feeling though, a blend of elation and fear, of potential and caution. Of being alive, and of your senses awakening. It's a feeling that doesn't happen often. But it was indeed happening here.

  We both had grown up in Southern California, myself in the shadow of the MGM lot in Culver City, Gail in the Orange County enclave of Huntington Beach. We both liked sports, jazz, target shooting, good books and angel hair pasta. We disliked insincerity, desk jobs, rap music and waiters that insisted on revealing their first names. Gail did volunteer work with inner-city youth; I lamented the lack of time my job afforded me to engage in such humane endeavors. We talked about past loves, ones that had gone sour, others that simply lost their spark after a few years. She recanted a five year relationship that had ended last year; I talked about Barbara, my own five year love many moons ago. Too many. We talked and laughed and sipped coffee laced with Frangelica until a tired looking waiter cleared his throat and asked if there would be anything else. Apparently it was almost midnight and we were the last patrons lingering. The best nights are those where you wonder whatever happened to the time.

  We drove back to Gail's apartment and on the way she asked me a troubling question. It was bound to come up. In most settings I just answered it in vagaries, dancing around the topic as smoothly as I could manage. But I was feeling open and trusting. And I was tired of asking people questions all day long. For a change, I wanted to talk.

  "Why did you leave the job?"

  I took a deep breath and turned off the ignition. I placed a Freddie Hubbard CD back into the glove compartment, which was smaller than my Pathfinder's but just as messy. I said nothing for a minute, sorting out my thoughts until they were ready to surface.

  "I had made a mistake. It was the type of mistakes cops swear they'll never make. Never to get involved. Never to let your guard down. Never to let your feelings get in the way of doing the job."

  "Never to be human?" she injected.

  "There's more to it than that. It's not that simple. Rules exist, some written, some unwritten. It happened two years ago. I was working vice out of North Hollywood, undercover job. I busted this girl for soliciting and I swear she looked like she was thirteen. Wholesome, pretty, she should have been trying out for cheerleader or home playing with Ken and Barbie."

  "Looks are often deceiving. Especially these days."

  "And especially in this case," I agreed. "As it turns out Judy was seventeen, not thirteen, but the point is she shouldn't have been out on the streets at all. Hell, she shouldn't have even been in California. She was from a little town outside Des Moines, mother died at an early age, father drank and abused her when the mood struck him. Not a unique story mind you but to hear her relate it, this little child, so angelic, I tell you it tore my heart to pieces."

  Gail's eyes remained steady on me. "And you decided to do something about it."

  I nodded. "I let my guard down. I wanted to make a difference in someone's life. Judy wasn't meant to be turning tricks in a back alley. But you do what you gotta do in order to survive and surviving for her meant getting out of Iowa and as far away from her old man as possible. She bought a bus ticket to L.A., arrived full of the same dreams that brings everyone out here, a better way of life. What she found was worse."

  "Didn't she even try to find something better than hooking?"

  "Didn't have much of a chance. First thing off the bus some asshole approached her, bought her a meal, gave her a place to stay, treated her nicely for a while. Then he put her to work. He told her if she ever tried to leave he'd kill her. She was in the same prison she tried to leave."

  "And after you arrested her?"

  "She turned state's evidence and we put her pimp away. He was taken care of. But Judy had nowhere to stay, no family, no money. I took her in. I tried to give her shelter, direction, tried to steer her towards a better path. I knew it was risky, but I didn't... didn't have anyone else in my life at the time."

  "And you wanted to make a difference."

  I swallowed. "Yes. Make a difference. Thirteen years on the force and most of it spent sticking it to scum. Trying to keep the streets safe but not raising anyone's life to another level. So I took her in, let her stay with me. The daughter, kid sister, whatever. That person I didn't have."

  "It didn't work?"

  I shook my head. "She had been on the streets too long. She was good at fooling people. And when she got busted again it was for turning tricks, but not in some dark alley. She was doing it in my apartment and all of a sudden I've fallen from model cop to pimping children."

  "Did you ever..."

  I shook my head again, vehemently this time. "Never. Absolutely not. My role was strictly paternal. Give her the guidance she never received from her parents. I was just too late is all. And there’s nothing worse than being too late. She was too far gone, had too much hate for the world and couldn't see much good coming out of the future. I didn't fail, I just never got a clean chance. She used me, betrayed me, call it what you will. I paid a very big price."

  "Were you arrested?"

  "Arrested but not convicted. Judy skipped bail, never to be heard from again. Internal affairs conducted its own investigation but without Judy there was no testimony so they simply issued me a warning. My attitude changed though. From that day when I was tossed into a jail cell with the same slime I had been busting for years, I realized how elusive justice could really be. And I fell off the bus so to speak."

  Gail touched my hand. "Understandable," she said. "Very understandable."

  "Instead of being the dutiful soldier I started questioning superiors' directives, putting up with less lip from suspects, administering my own brand of justice. I felt better about myself but lone wolves aren't appreciated in a system like the LAPD. When they gave me my walking papers I think everyone was probably relieved. Including me."

  "Life has a way of leading you down strange paths."

  Smiling, I said, "Do not depart from the path destiny has laid out for you."

  "Existential philosophy?"

  "Nope. Fortune cookie."

  We both laughed and drew closer into each other's arms, kissing softly, tentatively, exploring with our lips and our hands. Her hair was soft and fine, the scent of jasmine radiating as I grew near. It had been a while since I had felt anything remotely warm towards a woman and those desires I had held in check were now swimming to the surface, sanguine and effortless.

  She pulled away for a moment and I offered no resistance, both of us taking a minute to catch our breaths. I had almost forgotten we were in a rented sub-compact which would never be compared with a suite at the W, or even a room at a Holiday Inn. Gail's thoughts echoed my own.

  "If we're going to do this," she said, smoothing her hair, "let's go upstairs. A contortionist, I'm not."

  "Lead the way," I said, and we exited the rented chariot.

  She slipped her arm inside my elbow. "Oh. I don't want to get bogged down on business but I may have something interesting for you about the Freemans tomorrow. I'm not entirely positive what it is, so it will have to be a surprise. You do like surprises, don't you?"

  I kissed her cheek. "I'm learning to."

  Chapter 14

  The dawn's early light brought with it an abatement of the scorching heat that had reached into every pore of my body. On this morning, I opened my eyes to the sweet coolness of the day, languid and lovely. Gail, her body wrapped tightly in a beige sheet and nothing more, dozed silently next to me, breathing in a rhythmic pattern. Her lips were pursed, slightly apart but as pretty and pouty as ever.

  I moved g
ingerly out of bed, partly to avoid waking Gail and partly to refrain from putting any more pressure on my aching ribs. I didn't want to leave without saying anything, so I looked around for a sheet of paper, to no avail. A vase of flowers sat atop her walnut chest of drawers however, so I quietly plucked a tulip and laid it down on my pillow.

  The freeway was wide open as it normally is at five-thirty and I zipped along unimpeded. I stopped for breakfast at a coffee shop that at one time employed carhops on roller skates, but that was many years ago. I ordered a cinnamon roll and coffee, pleased that if nothing else, the waitress was considerate enough not to tell me her name. She refilled my cup half a dozen times as I read the newspaper all the way through. After being satisfied I was properly awake, I paid and left a tip equal to the amount of the check. Good service should be rewarded.

  It was seven-thirty by the time I reached the Freeman estate. The birds were chirping and the jacarandas were still sending delicate lavender petals floating to the ground. I parked on the glazed driveway, the Focus cutting nowhere near as dashing a figure as my disabled Pathfinder had. All things heal in time, I reminded myself.

  The brass knockers made a loud clanging noise and a tanned, well groomed woman answered the door. She had blonde streaky hair, an appealing figure and large tawny eyes. She was dressed in a pair of neon pink shorts and a white knit shirt with blue and pink vertical stripes. She was older than Norman, but not by much.

  "May I help you?" she inquired.

  "I'm here to see Harrison Freeman. The name's Burnside."

  "I'm Mrs. Freeman. May I help you?"

  I smiled. Harrison, you old dog. Money can buy anything, I suppose.

  “I need to talk to your husband, ma’am.”

  “You can talk to me,” she insisted.

  "Oh. Well. All right. You see, I'm from the lot. We need Mister Freeman's okay to start exporting Hondas back to Japan."