Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  I nodded. Compliments from cops were few and far between. "And the second murder that Curt Salvo committed?"

  "Robbie Freeman, m'boy. You got us to thinking about dried blood and we noticed some on Salvo's gun so we ran some tests. They matched up with Robbie's."

  "Wait a minute. You're saying Curt Salvo whapped Robbie? And that's how he died?"

  "What I'm saying, my fine gumshoe is that Curt knocked Robbie out with the gun butt and then tossed him over the balcony. It was quick too, because the head wound hadn't started to close up. The fall was what killed him though, at least if you believe the coroner."

  "No way. Curt wasn't in the bedroom when Robbie fell. He fell at 11:01. And we have the recording which shows Curt in the room at the time. There had to have been somebody else."

  "You're wasting your time, pal. Either the clock or your watch was off. There's no other sensible explanation. Everyone else was watching the girls, except that drunk kid who passed out. We have enough witnesses who swear he couldn't even walk, much less heave a body over a railing. And nobody else came into the apartment that night 'cause we checked that registry they keep in the lobby."

  Something tugged at my gut. The registry. I made a mental note and continued. "What about a motive?"

  Lafferty shrugged. "Some things we can't figure. You know that. Salvo was into running girls, maybe drugs as well. The Freeman kid was into that whole scene. Maybe they had a falling out."

  "Sounds nice and neat," I said dryly, feeling a little empty inside.

  "Hey look Burnside, I appreciate your help. I really do. If you didn't come up with the idea of looking in Salvo's trunk we'd never have known. And as it is four people are dead, and these are four people I could give a rat's ass about. A drug dealer, a hooker, a pimp, and his assistant. Even if we didn't solve all their murders, there's hardly gonna be a public outcry. Let's get practical here."

  "Sure," I said. "Practical."

  "By the way, we found Salvo's shotgun underneath the seat. Came back from Ballistics, fired three times just like you said. Everything checks out, so you're clear on that. No charges'll be pressed. Clear case of self-defense. You're off the hook."

  "Good," I managed. "What a relief."

  Lafferty reached inside a drawer, pulled out a thick, bulky envelope and passed it to me. "For being such a help to us, here you go."

  I opened the envelope and found my trusty .38. "Thanks."

  "It was in Salvo's glove compartment. Hey, like I say, I appreciate your work. Go get some rest. I owe you one."

  "Maybe more than one. You interested in a cocaine nest?"

  Lafferty's eyebrows rose. "Always."

  I told him about Evan Wurman but was vague about how I found out. Lenny Caputo's name never came up. After giving Evan's Westwood address, I pocketed my weapon and started to leave. It was true I needed some sleep, and maybe even a hospital bed to crawl into. But I also had a feeling this case had yet to conclude. Again I was in the minority.

  "See you around, Burnside."

  "So the Robbie Freeman case is closed?" I asked.

  "Closed," he repeated. "Signed, sealed, and delivered."

  Chapter 16

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I got over to Robbie Freeman's apartment building. The weather was slightly more temperate, but it was unfortunately offset by the now-broken air conditioner in my rented Focus. Open windows were marvelous for touring along Pacific Coast Highway on a warm Sunday afternoon, but rather unpleasant on a smoggy inner-city commute during stop-and-go traffic.

  I walked past the doorman who was still dressed in his official grey frock with gold tassels. He didn't appear to be sweating and this was because he mostly stayed in the lobby which was as cool and brisk as a spring day in Aspen. The same balding security guard was hunched over a paperback, and looked up frowning when I cast my shadow over him.

  "Will you sign in please?" he said, pointing to the registry.

  "I'm not staying," I said, and quickly flashed my identification. "I'm conducting a follow-up investigation of the Freeman murder that happened here last week."

  His eyebrows jumped and I didn't need to get into more detail. A look which was either borne out of respect or apprehension crossed his face. Apparently he didn't recognize the fellow who had been standing right next to him when Robbie Freeman came crashing down from the penthouse balcony. He also didn't bother asking if I was with the police department. Good help is hard to find.

  "Yes officer," he snapped. "How can I help you?"

  "For starters," I said as officially as possible, "where were you at the time of the incident?"

  "Right at my post," he declared. "Right here."

  "And who do you remember being at this party in 2201?"

  "Oh, a whole bunch of young men. Fifteen, twenty guys maybe. College kids they were. Early twenties, in pretty good shape all of them."

  "Any names?" I asked.

  "Sure," he said, reaching over for the registry. "We have all of our guests sign in before they go upstairs. It's our policy here."

  This was easier than I thought it would be. I took the book and opened it to the night of the party. There they were. Evan Wurman, Lenny Caputo, Norman Freeman, Max Brewer, Scotty Haid, and another ten names you could build a football team around. And maybe a murder trial as well. They had all signed in between eight and nine o'clock on that fateful night, and none of them had bothered to sign out.

  "How come none of these people signed out when they left?" I asked as suspiciously as possible.

  The guard cleared his throat. "As I recall it, the police interviewed everybody after the party. An event of this sort has never happened at Tiverton Gardens, so we weren't operating according to standard procedures."

  I cupped my ear. "Again?"

  "Uh, to be perfectly honest, we forgot to ask people to sign out. It was an oversight. It won't happen again."

  I looked him in the eye. "Better not," I warned. People like this helped me enjoy my job so much. "Records need to be accurate."

  "Yes sir. I think you should know however that someone came by here trying to get back into that apartment the day following the incident."

  "Who was that?"

  "It happened early the next morning so I wasn't on duty. All I know is they were refused access. The police have sealed off the apartment, as you know."

  "Of course," I said. "Has anyone had access since then?"

  "No sir. We follow police orders to the letter. Besides, we're not allowed to keep keys to tenants' apartments. There was a burglary problem a while back and apparently one of the old security company's personnel was breaking in. We have to go through the property manager now."

  "Can't trust anyone these days."

  I looked through the registry once more and while no names sprang out at me, one guest, Chris Wynne, signed in to visit apartment 2304. There was one problem with that.

  "How many floors to this building?" I asked.

  "Twenty-two."

  "Any idea who this Chris Wynne is? The one going to the twenty-third floor?"

  The guard frowned and examined the register. "No sir. I can't recall."

  "Indeed," I sighed. "Is this the only entrance in the building?"

  "No sir. There's the garage. But even still you would need a key card to get into the building. Then you could take the elevator up."

  "And leaving the building you could take the elevator down to the garage and exit that way. So you wouldn't have to sign out."

  "Yes, but you’d also need a key card. And that would be against our procedures."

  I nodded blankly. Of course.

  *

  I took a personal look at the subterranean garage and decided that it would be easy enough to walk in and out despite the iron gates that could only be activated by a key card. Satisfied, I went back to my little Focus and found a parking ticket slapped unceremoniously beneath a windshield wiper. I walked around to the side of the car and double checked to make sure I wasn't in a
red zone. There were no parking meters and this wasn't the day for street sweeping. I read the ticket carefully and discovered I had parked in a restricted neighborhood zone. Meaning I wasn't one of those lucky folks who had a special permit to park in the neighborhood streets. Sixty-one dollars. I shrugged and shoved it into my glove compartment and noticed there was one from last week sitting there under a Dexter Gordon CD. A quick scan of that ticket told me I had committed the identical violation. A light bulb went on over my head and I made another mental note.

  The rush hour traffic had slowed things down considerably by the time I got back on the freeway, and moved bumper-to-bumper until traffic loosened up past Westwood. The way back to my office was peacefully uneventful. As I walked into my office a cool shot of air met me. Now that the heat was subsiding, the air conditioner was operable again. Such is life. I picked up the phone and called Captain Lafferty. He was out of the office so I left a message for him and asked for Juan Saavedra. We were connected after a few short clicks. He answered the phone by simply barking his last name into the receiver.

  "Juan, you always sound like you're in dire need of a tropical beach and a tall piña colada with one of those cute little umbrellas sticking out of it."

  "And you sound like my kids," he said, dryly. "Chill out, daddy."

  "You're raising them properly. Better that than have them wind up like one of us."

  "No argument, Burnside. What can I take off of you today? By the way, the Dodger game sucked. Seats were good but the Dodgers scored eight runs in the first."

  "That's not so bad," I mused.

  "It is when you get stalled in traffic till the third inning. They won 8-2, but as far as I'm concerned the Giants scored the only two runs when I was there."

  "Juan, you're the eternal optimist. I am too, in case you hadn't noticed."

  "Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling you want something."

  "It's your uncanny intelligence and perception, compadre. Actually I would appreciate a favor. I need to know the names of the vehicle owners that were issued parking citations outside of Robbie Freeman's building the night he was killed."

  "You've got to be joking."

  "Juan. You know me."

  "Yeah," he said. "That's the problem. Talk to me."

  "Okay. Everyone at the party was accounted for at the time of the death."

  Juan shook his head. "Except for Curt Salvo whom we've already established as the guy who chucked Robbie over the ledge."

  "Just stay with me on this. Assume Curt didn't do it. Just assume. The killer was parked in the neighborhood, and like me, probably didn't read the signs that say no street parking without a permit. They got a ticket. The killer did not belong there at the time of the murder."

  "What if the killer parked legally? What if he took the bus? What if there's a hundred tickets issued during that evening? Are you going to interrogate everyone?"

  "Juan."

  "What?"

  "I think I know who did it."

  Silence for a moment, then the obvious question. "Who?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "God dammit Burnside! If this is a wild goose chase I'm going to wipe the floor with you! I don't have time to run down your crazy ideas!"

  "Juan, it's not crazy and it won't take you a ton of time. Put a rookie on it. They love pushing around the clerks at the DMV. The reason I can't tell you is I need some solid evidence. If I bring Lafferty this hunch, he'll laugh it off and not follow up. Besides, he's closing the case. Please, Juan."

  "Forget it. I'm not gonna blow favors on your hunches, buddy. Besides, you haven't even returned that DVD of the bachelor party."

  I went to the wall. "Four seats against the Mets next week. Right behind the dugout. Plus dinner."

  He gave a sigh of exasperation and I knew I had scored a direct hit. "I'll get the meter maid records and find out the plates she dinged that night. But this better lead to something or you're on your own after this."

  It was as good as I could hope for. "Deal," I said.

  "And those four seats better be good."

  "Done," I said. "Your only worry'll be players spitting tobacco juice on your wing tips."

  *

  By the time I arrived at Neary's, dusk was setting in and the garishly painted walls of the building were becoming dull and muted. I pushed past the swinging saloon doors and let them rock and sway behind me. A jarhead with a neck the size of an oak tree stood at the entrance. He was wearing a plaid shirt open to the navel and a very large gold chain dangled about his chest. Holding out his hand, he said ten dollars. I paid him and looked around.

  "Is Tiffany working tonight?"

  "Just finished up her shift. Ya like blondes? We got a new one startin' tonight. Worth stickin' around for," he said, licking his lips for emphasis.

  "Did Tiffany leave?"

  "Probably changing. Like I say, we got better."

  I sat down at a table near the entrance, and turned away the slender red head that offered a phony smile while she massaged my calf with her toe. A pretty Latina was dancing on the runway wearing only a pair of skimpy red panties. About twenty men sat in various stages of repose around the stage, an occasional dollar bill finding its way along the low black railing.

  After a few minutes, a door opened and Tiffany emerged. She had on form fitting jeans that revealed not the hint of any undergarments, and a tight red t-shirt featuring a surfer navigating a ten foot wave. The stretched words across her chest said Banzai Pipeline. As she walked out the door I rose and hurried after her.

  "Tiffany!"

  She stopped and turned around for a second but when she recognized who was following her, she immediately took off in a dead sprint. While I could normally outrace her in earth shoes, the pain in my ribs slowed me down enough so that it took a full block for me to catch her.

  "Hold it!" I yelled as I overtook her and grabbed her by the elbow. She wrenched it away from me and took a step back.

  "What the hell do you want now?" she gasped.

  "We need to talk."

  "Look I'm not a karate expert but I've got a can of mace here and..."

  "Use it and I'll turn your face into chopped meat," I snarled, a throbbing sensation growing in my rib cage. "I just want to talk to you and you better have some answers. Right now you're the only eyewitness I've got. And just because you don't want to get involved doesn't mean you aren't already."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning you may be an accessory to murder. You don't cooperate with me, I'll see to it you're turning your next tricks at the Twin Towers jail. And I don't think the dykes are going to want to pay your fees there."

  "Look, I'm a dancer, not a hooker."

  "Up there it won't matter."

  "Oh, what are you talking about? I'm not an accessory to anything! I didn't know that guy was gonna get thrown over the balcony! Curt just brought us there to do the party. What do I want to kill anyone for? Those guys are paying customers. I don't have anything against them."

  "Why did Curt want Robbie dead?"

  She averted her eyes and looked down the empty Venice street. Her face seemed a confused mass of emotions. She was about twenty-five, old enough to have been hardened by the circle in which she traveled, but even in those circles murder is not an everyday turn of events.

  "He didn't exactly confide everything in me."

  "You knew something was up. This wasn't your typical bachelor party."

  "For me it was. Another day at the office."

  "Come on," I said. "Give. Curt isn't around any more. He can't hurt you."

  "Maybe not," she sighed, "but someone else can. It's like I told you the other night. Curt didn't do it. He was in the room with us. And I saw the body go over the railing. Somebody committed a murder and if they do one, it stands to reason they'll do some more."

  "Is that what happened to Danielle?"

  Tiffany winced. "That was Curt."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because he told
me the same thing would happen to me if I opened my trap to anyone. Danielle was young. She didn't understand the rules of the game."

  I concurred. Danielle wanted out of the game, but the tentacles were already wrapped around her. Either you change who you are, like Tiffany and Judy had done, or the system eats you alive. Get entangled and the only way out is feet first. Curt may have killed her but I played a role and her blood was on my hands as well.

  "Who hired Curt to do the job?"

  Tiffany shook her head definitively. "I don't know."

  "Okay," I said. "Who hired you guys for the bachelor party?"

  "That was Robbie. He's hired us before."

  "How did he meet you?"

  "It was a while back. Somebody at LAU hired a few girls to show some kids a good time. They musta liked what they got because it's been pretty regular this year. Curt would come around and ask if any of us wanted to make some quick bucks going out on a date or to a party. The kids were real young, seventeen, eighteen, I guess. They were all athletes."

  "Who at LAU was involved?"

  "We never knew. We just did the guys and got paid."

  "Curt ever mention any names?"

  Tiffany shrugged. "I heard a few. One in particular I knew of. Used to work here."

  I nodded for her to continue. When she told me who it was, things began to fall into place.

  Chapter 17

  The sky was a deep azure blue, and there were even a few stars twinkling as I drove back home. The searing heat was breaking and a pleasant coolness draped the early evening sky. The Santa Ana winds had died down, replaced by an eerie stillness that was as mysterious as it was gratifying.

  I had meant to call Gail but by the time I arrived home the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. I had put in a full day, starting early and finishing late. For a change, my confrontations were verbal and not physical. Hell, I didn't even have to draw my weapon.