by David Chill
"So you hired him."
"Yes. His bid was $10,000 which he said included a big discount. Because he liked me. He seemed knowledgeable and he seemed like a very spiritual guy as well. He kept quoting scripture, said he was very involved with his church. I felt really good about him. He asked for half the money up front. Said he needed it to buy the equipment and pay his workers. I thought I was being a smart businesswoman by negotiating his deposit down to $3,000."
"Go on."
"Yes," she continued. "So the next day he came by just like he said he would. He told me the heating furnace was bad, but he would replace it for free since we had already agreed on a deal. I thought he was being a really decent guy. Oh, I feel like such an idiot now."
"He's a con man," I pointed out."They're great actors."
Amanda wiped a tear from her eye. "And so he removed the furnace and drove off."
"And that's the last you saw of him?"
"Not exactly. He came by the next day to talk and said there was a small delay in getting parts. We had a lovely conversation. I still felt good about things." Amanda then began to speak haltingly. "He didn't show up a few days later when he said he would. Or ever again. When I finally got a hold of him on the phone, he made up some story about finding asbestos in the furnace. Said we needed to take care of that first before he could risk bringing his installers into the house."
"Did you have any further contact?"
"After constant calling, I got a hold of him about a month later. I think he just answered his phone by mistake. He made up another story about getting injured and being unable to work."
"That must have been very frustrating," Gail observed.
"It was," said Amanda.
"Any other contact?"
"No. His phone number was disconnected the day after that. I never heard from him again. And I never saw my $3,000 again either."
"Okay," I said. "I've done some leg work on this. He's changed his company name from Billy the Fixer to BRF Systems. I'll reach out to him and get him to come make a bid. I'll tell him we need to put AC in my home. That brings us to another issue. Getting access to someone's house so it will look legit."
Amanda looked at me, then at Gail, then back at me. "Will both of you be there?"
"We hadn't discussed that," I shrugged. "Does it matter?"
She hesitated. "I suppose not."
"It might come across as more believable if we presented ourselves as a couple," I said, turning to Gail. "The police will be there, so I don't see much downside. Feel like going undercover with me?"
Gail smiled. "Sure. Nothing like getting a firsthand view of how the criminal mind works."
Amanda wrinkled her brow for a moment. "I'll ask my realtor; she has a number of listings. The houses are empty. You can say the house is in escrow. It's not like Billy's actually going to start any work on it."
"No, once we lure him to a place, the police will step in and nab him. I'll make arrangements with the LAPD to pick him up there."
"The police weren't very helpful when I spoke with them," she glowered. "They said it was a business dispute. They refused to do anything."
"I spent 13 years with the LAPD and have some contacts who can be more involved," I said, thinking about the tickets to the USC-UCLA game I'd need to get for Juan Saavedra.
She shook her head. "No."
I looked at her carefully. "No what?"
"The police are worthless. I can't trust them. They're just another part of the government. I was humiliated and the police wouldn't help me. They didn't even attempt to make an effort to help. You can make a citizen's arrest. Just get him to come by to make an estimate."
Gail and I looked at each other. "Just what is it that you want?"
Amanda licked her lips. "I want to talk to him. I want to confront him. He has something of mine."
"What does he have?" I asked.
Amanda shook her head. "That's private."
I sat back. "I don't know about this."
Amanda blinked a few times. "Does this mean you won't help me?"
"I'll help you, but you have to let me do it my way."
She looked down at her cup of tea. "So what does he wind up getting? A slap on the wrist? A fine? I won't get anything back, will I?"
I sighed. "Given what we now know, Billy has done this to other people. This is no longer a business dispute, it's a criminal enterprise. I'm sure he'll get jail time."
"How much?"
I looked at Gail. "Any thoughts?"
"In California," Gail said, "it's considered grand theft if the value of the stolen items exceeds $950. If it's repeated grand theft, he could be looking at 5 to 10 years," she said. "Especially since he has a criminal record already."
Amanda pursed her lips and turned back to me. "All right," she managed. "If the police need to be involved, then they need to be involved. But that's why I'm coming to you. I don't like it when things don't go properly. You think you can make this right?"
"I'll do everything I can. And I'm good at what I do. But there's only so much the law can fix. They can put Billy away and afterwards you can take Billy to civil court to try to recover your deposit. But I'm not going to lie to you. It won't be easy to get your money back, or whatever else he stole from you. Sometimes that just becomes the price you pay for a mistake. But honestly it sounds like a mistake anyone could make. I wouldn't beat yourself up over it."
"All right," she said quietly.
"All right then," I said. "I'll connect with Billy and we'll set up a sting next week. If we can find others who have been swindled, all the better."
She continued looking down at the table.
"And you'll arrange something with your realtor," I continued.
"Yes, she said. "And thank you."
I said thank you in return, just to make sure all matters of politeness were properly demonstrated. Gail and I rose and walked out, leaving Amanda to ponder her thoughts. The morning sunshine was warm and draped us as we walked down a street lined with tall, slender palm trees.
"What do you think?" Gail asked.
"I don't get the feeling she's good with this. Let's see how things play out. She needs to come to grips with it in her mind."
"She's still harboring a lot of anger."
I smiled. "Hell hath no fury."
"That's for a woman scorned, not swindled," Gail reminded me.
"Sometimes there's no difference."
Gail gave me a faux response of shock and playfully punched my arm. "You're something else, you know that?"
"I do. How was your maple bacon biscuit?"
"It was more of a scone. Personally, I think this craze of loading bacon into everything has gone a little too far."
"When we've reached the stage of infusing bacon into milk shakes, you have to believe the apocalypse can't be too far away."
At that point my cell phone buzzed and I excused myself to walk a few steps away, underneath the awning of a shoe repair shop. The number was blocked but I recognized the voice on the other end of the line immediately. It was Juan Saavedra.
"Hey Burnsy. You hear what happened?"
"Probably not," I said.
"There was a shooting over at the Malco offices early this morning. One body found, multiple gunshot wounds. Looks like it was an inside job."
My body tensed. "Someone in the family involved?"
"Oh yeah," he said. "Real involved. Miles Larson is dead."
Chapter 6
When I arrived at Malco, the crime scene folks were busy at work. Yellow tape was spread out across the parking lot to keep the locals from wandering in and disturbing the investigation. I parked on the street and started to enter the premises, ducking under the yellow tape.
"Hey you," yelled a stocky man with a crew cut wearing a bright yellow private security windbreaker. "You belong here?"
"Guess I don't look the part anymore," I said. "Imagine that. Thirteen years on the job, all for naught."
"Huh?
You got some I.D.?" he demanded.
"I was asked here by Juan Saavedra."
"Who's that?"
"Chief of Detectives. Broadway Division."
"Uh-huh. Wait here," he sniffed and walked into the building. A few minutes later he emerged with a cup of coffee. It wasn't for me.
"Okay. Go on in. But don't touch anything. There's an investigation going on here."
I refrained from verbalizing the smart aleck remark I was thinking, and then complimented myself on using self-control. Perhaps this might be a stretch project after all.
A bevy of activity was going on inside the building. Both uniformed and plainclothes police officers were huddled about, along with a number of medical examiners. I glanced into Miles' office, where a sheet had been spread out on the floor next to the big maple desk. Juan Saavedra was talking with a pair of detectives, giving them instructions. He looked my way for a moment, held up a finger indicating he wanted me to wait, and spent another minute speaking to his crew before walking over to me.
"Thanks for coming, Burnsy. Didn't mean to interrupt your weekend," he remarked.
"All part of the job," I said.
"I gather you were here the past couple of days."
I nodded.
"Anything you want to tell me?"
"Nothing much to tell. Miles had union trouble, the employees were unhappy about facing a pay cut. There's been some theft of merchandise in different locations, but not a lot to go on yet."
"Basically you're saying you know as much as we do."
"Maybe less. When did this happen?"
"Not sure just yet. Miles gets here at 5:00 am most days, and Saturdays are no exception. Only difference is he was planning to go to the USC game later this afternoon."
I frowned. "They're playing away today. In Tucson."
"Apparently that wasn't an obstacle. We found a pair of game tickets in his pocket. His wife said he had chartered a private jet to fly them out there for the day."
"So someone knew he'd be here."
Juan shrugged. "Maybe yes, maybe no."
"How's that?"
"Miles used his security badge to enter first thing in the morning. No one else did for another hour. But then around 6:00, Miles' badge was used twice more to gain entry. Body was found about an hour later."
"So maybe Miles let whoever it was in. And that person didn't need a badge to swipe to access the building."
"Pretty much sums it up."
"Don't they have security guards here 24 hours?"
"Oh they do," Juan sneered. "Apparently the Elmer Fudd they hired was asleep near the loading dock."
"He admitted it?" I asked, eyes wide.
"Didn't have to. The security cameras back there captured it."
"Let me guess. No cameras were placed in the main offices."
Juan paused for a moment. "That's where it gets a little hazy. The cameras outside the main entrance captured someone entering the building and showed Miles shaking hands with them. But it's too vague to make out who they were. There was a video camera in the lobby that should have captured the person's face, but it's been tampered with. And there's no cameras in the hallway or in Miles' office. At least none we've found."
"Tampered with?"
"Some joker spray painted the lens."
"So where does that leave you?"
"Right now, nowhere. But at least you have an in here with the Larsons. That's why I called. Why don't you go down the hall and talk to DeSanto. He's lead detective on this. I think he's with the family."
"Sure."
"Anything you can find out will help. But anything you find out needs to come straight back to me or DeSanto. Clear?"
"Crystal clear. As clear as a pristine lake, deep in the heart of the Swiss Alps."
Juan shook his head. "There you go again with the funny talk."
I walked down the hallway and passed a number of closed doors, but a flood of light spilled out at the end of the corridor. I walked down past the paintings of scenic landscapes, interspersed with photos of USC football games. I looked into the open office and saw a group of people that included some familiar faces.
"Hello," I said quietly, as I entered the office. "Pardon me for intruding."
Clara Larson's eyes widened. "Come in, Burnside," she said, her face tight with stoicism. In the room with her were Peter, Isabelle, Glen, and a few other men I did not recognize. One was wearing an LAPD issued gold shield on his belt. Clara turned to him. "Detective, this is the private investigator I was telling you about."
The detective was slender and had a thin moustache. He reached over and shook my hand. "I'm Roberto DeSanto."
"Burnside."
"I understand you know the Larsons."
"Yes," I said turning to the family. "My condolences. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"We appreciate that," said Peter. "This is unbelievable."
"I can only imagine what you're going through," I offered.
Glen Butterworth, tanned and silver haired, moved towards me. "I'm Glen Butterworth," he declared in his deep baritone voice. "I don't believe we were ever formally introduced."
"I know who you are."
"Right. In addition to being operations director, I head up security here."
Under ordinary circumstances I would have told him that's nothing to boast about, but with the family sitting nearby, discretion was advisable. I said nothing.
"You did a ride-along with Chase yesterday. Did he say anything that might shed some light on what happened today?"
I shrugged. "Nothing you don't already know. Employees are bitter with the prospect of taking a pay cut. They're looking at some union action. No one's happy."
Glen sneered. "Chase is a malcontent. Peter, you should have fired him when you had the chance."
"If we fired every malcontent, we wouldn't have much of a company left," Peter sighed. "Besides, Dad liked him. I don't know why."
"I wouldn't rule Chase out as a suspect," Glen said. "There's something fishy about him."
DeSanto spoke. "We're not ruling anybody out. We'll conduct a thorough investigation here. I understand you've had some theft, which is why Mr. Burnside was hired."
"Yes," Peter said dryly. "The police couldn't crack the case. "
DeSanto rolled his eyes and turned to me. "Anything else you can add here?"
"Not much to add. Other than the installers know that theft is happening up in Vegas, too. Chase told me it's much worse up there."
"Vegas?" Glen repeated. "How would Chase know about that?"
"I'm not a mind reader, bud."
Glen gave me a look and then continued. "The Vegas operation shouldn't have problems. I just promoted one of our guys from here a few months ago to run their warehouse. Adam Barber. He's solid."
"I don't like hearing about this stuff now," Peter said disgustedly. "That's the type of thing you should have been on top of, Glen."
"Sorry, but I wasn't aware of any theft issues up in Vegas," Glen protested.
"I think it's worth looking into," Peter said, turning to me. "I want to put a stop to this stuff right now. You feel like taking a trip up to Sin City, Burnside?"
Sin City. Lost Wages. It felt like Las Vegas had more than its share of nicknames. I had been to Las Vegas a few times and didn't like the place. Vegas was a town where people let their inhibitions down, where anything goes. Simply walking down the Strip allowed you to see a side of humanity that was strikingly unpleasant to me. It was a wall-to-wall mass of people smoking and drinking freely on the street. Everyone from hustlers to pimps to hookers were openly selling their wares. And that was the public side of Vegas.
"Wait a minute," Isabelle broke in. "I don't think we need Burnside poking around into every part of our business. In fact, after what happened to Dad, I don't know that we need him at all anymore."
"We still have a business to run," Peter responded. "And I don't see how the two events are related. I'm sick about what happened to Dad. B
ut Dad always told us, watch the money. I don't think he'd have wanted us to ignore this. That's why I want Burnside to go."
"I can't imagine what he's going to find up there," said Isabelle, shaking her head. "And frankly I think we have bigger fish to fry. With Daddy and all."
"Maybe we let the police handle things," mused Glen. "Or bring in the F.B.I."
"The F.B.I.?!" Peter exclaimed. "Dad used to refer to them as the Federal Bureau of Incompetence. He'd be furious if we did that. Look, we have a damn theft problem here. And it sounds like it's gone way beyond just L.A. This is the way we're going to get to the bottom of things."
"Peter, look, we have things under control," Glen said. "The latest inventory reports from Isabelle showed only normal shrinkage up there. No different from the Arizona warehouse."
"This is sounding like a fool's errand," said Isabelle. "I think ..."
"Stop it!" a sharp voice declared, cutting through the din and silencing the room. Clara Larson had nothing if not presence.
"Now see here!" she continued. "I do not want any more of this bickering. Not today. I don't see a problem letting Burnside continue. In fact I want him to. If Peter wants him to check out the Las Vegas operations, let him check it out. He may be the only eyes and ears we have into what's happening to this company. And I have to wonder if the thefts that are going on now are related to what happened to Miles today. Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. But I want to find out everything and I want to find out now. I want Burnside involved."
The room became eerily quiet. Even the breathing seemed muted. Clara's facial expression, set between that helmet of white hair, seemed to hold a focused intensity that went beyond anger. She seemed determined and unyielding and defiant. I was surprised when anyone else dared to speak.
"Mom," Isabelle said softly. "I vote we should let the police handle all this."
Clara looked at her for a long moment, and her tone softened, but her resolve was unchanged. "This is a corporation, dear. It is not a democracy. We don't vote on things."
"But Mom ..."
"That is my decision," Clara declared with an air of complete finality. "The police need to do what they need to do. But so do we."