Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3)

by David Chill

  "What's that?"

  "They took me to dinner at some place in Hollywood. Said they wanted me to sign with them. Told me they'd be my agent after I finished playing at SC. Said it was all legit, no one would talk until I turn pro in two years. They even said they would get me an apartment in the Marina after this semester. Keep taking me on trips, buy me a nice ride, get a big flat-screen, the whole deal."

  "What'd you say?"

  "Said I didn't know about all that. It didn't sound right. They were pushing real hard. Wanted an answer right then. But I said I needed some time."

  I nodded. The agents stood to make 10 to 15 percent of whatever Marcellus made as a pro athlete, and that translated to millions of dollars. Passing along some spending money, a car, a cool apartment, and taking him on some plane rides were a small investment towards a big payoff.

  "And so you went on another trip with them to Vegas yesterday."

  Marcellus nodded.

  "You thought they were okay."

  "Yeah."

  "Then you found out different."

  Marcellus stopped eating and put his fork down just as my breakfast was placed in front of me. "You know how this shit works?"

  "I know how blackmailers operate. They give you things for free and then want a really big favor from you in return. If you don't give it to them, they hold something over your head."

  "Yeah. They said they just wanted to chill in Vegas. But that's when things got ugly. They said if I didn't sign with them, they'd let the NCAA know about these trips and my eligibility at SC would be gone."

  "What did they have?"

  "They showed me some pics they shot in Vegas. It was crazy. They said it was enough to end me, I'd get kicked off the team. I'd be out of football for two years until the NFL could draft me. I'd just be layin' around. They'd see to it I'd be done with football."

  "But if you sign with them the pictures wouldn't get out."

  "That's right."

  I took a good look at Marcellus. His physique conveyed strength and maturity, but he was still a teenager, and teenagers don't always make the smartest decisions. These decisions are usually not harmful and they're part of the growing-up process. Most of us have done some stupid things as kids. But most teenagers are not public figures, they don't get their faces on TV, and they're not on a full scholarship at a private university. And most will not have the slightest chance to make tens of millions of dollars by playing pro football.

  "So what did you do?" I asked.

  "I bailed."

  "You didn't sign."

  "No. Everything felt wrong."

  "Okay. So how can I help you?"

  Marcellus sighed. "This situation is wack, man. I don't want them around. If I was in Miami I could have my boys get rid of them. I just don't know anyone here."

  Now I really didn't like where this was going. "I'm not in that line of work," I told him. "I can help you, but I can't do that."

  His eyes looked down and it seemed like his whole body sagged for a moment. "What can you do?" he asked.

  There are few things in the world more galvanizing than someone who looked like they were in deep trouble and had few options. "I can start by talking to them. You mentioned Eddie Larson, but I've heard rumors the agent is Cliff Roper."

  "Eddie works for Roper," Marcellus nodded.

  "Okay."

  "And you'll help me out of this mess?"

  "I'll try."

  "Is that good enough?"

  "I don't know," I told him. "Let me look into this."

  *

  The drive down to Malco headquarters only took a few minutes. The swarm of police activity from two days ago was gone, although there was extra security personnel standing watch at the front entrance. I flashed my Malco badge at them and they instructed me to swipe it before I could gain access to the building. My card worked and they stepped aside and let me pass.

  The atmosphere inside was subdued. People went about their work quietly and everyone had a stoic expression on their face. I walked down the hall towards the corner office, the one Miles used to occupy. Peter Larson was seated at the big maple desk, poring over some spreadsheets. Sitting facing him were his sister Isabelle and Glen Butterworth.

  "Good morning," I said.

  The three of them looked up in unison. "Burnside," Peter said. "Come in."

  Everyone rose, we shook hands and Peter went and closed the door. Motioning us to sit, we all moved over to the burgundy couch.

  "I'm surprised you're working today," I said. "All things considered."

  Isabelle sighed. "The business needs attention. Someone has to run it. But our brother is in town. He's with our mom."

  "I'd like to meet him," I said.

  Butterworth frowned. "Why's that?" he asked in the deep voice that was starting to get under my skin.

  "His name has come up. Ancillary investigation. Don't think it has anything to do with Malco."

  "Uh-huh," Peter said blankly and then changed the subject. "I heard there was a murder in Vegas. Security guard. Awful thing," Peter said.

  "Awful," I repeated.

  "Tell me what you found out there."

  "You have thieves working in your Vegas operation," I said.

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "How do you know this?" Isabelle asked, eyes wide.

  I pulled out my phone and showed them the pictures of the brand new set-top boxes that had been discarded in the trash.

  "Someone's throwing away product?" Peter asked.

  "No. They're dumping brand new receivers in the trash. Looks like empty boxes from a distance. Then late at night someone comes by, maybe in a garbage truck, and takes the receivers away."

  "Good lord," Isabelle said. "That's outrageous. Did you see who was doing this?"

  "Yeah. Couple of guys working on the loading dock. Didn't see any badges on them. Hard to tell if they were employees or not."

  "And I'll bet they're the ones who spray painted the security cameras," Butterworth mused.

  "Yeah, funny thing about that. Barber said he installed a second set of video cameras that got activated when the first cameras were tampered with."

  "I know," Peter said. "Dad ordered them installed last week."

  "Problem is the cameras aren't facing the loading dock," I said. "They're facing the fence. And they didn't have a zoom on them, so all we got are some wide shots that don't show much. Whoever killed the security guard was too far away to be identified."

  "And these guys got onto the property in the middle of the night."

  "Yeah. There was no damage to the fence and the lock hadn't been broken. So I'm thinking whoever stole the merchandise most likely had a key."

  "Maybe it was the garbage company," Isabelle suggested.

  "They don't usually work in the middle of the night on a Saturday. And even if it was, someone on the inside was moving product into the trash bins."

  The three of them sat back and looked askance. Peter and Isabelle appeared lost, as if waiting for someone like Miles to step in and give them guidance.

  "I would bet the same tactic is being used here," I continued.

  Peter looked at Butterworth. "You need to make sure the new cameras are pointed directly at the trash bins. I want to know who's wheeling this stuff out."

  "Sure," Glen said, continuing to frown."I don't get how that could have happened."

  I looked around at the nicely appointed office. "And one other thing. My interaction with Adam Barber left something to be desired."

  "How so?" Peter asked.

  "He said there was no merchandise being stolen and the inventory reflects that. He told me to go look at the books and I'd see."

  Isabelle glared at me. "We're not showing our financial reports to an outsider," she said in a miffed voice. "You're just here to investigate theft of merchandise."

  "And that's what I'm doing," I responded evenly. "Of course I may have to bill you for combat pay."

&nbs
p; "What are you talking about? We're paying you an awful lot."

  "And I'm earning it. After I left the Vegas warehouse, a couple of thugs tried to rough me up. They picked on the wrong guy."

  "Who were they?" Peter asked.

  "They weren't kind enough to tell me their names. They were driving a white pickup and a motorcycle. They ran me off the road and started something. I finished it."

  "You don't think they're associated with our company, do you?"

  "I have no idea, Peter," I shrugged. "Maybe they're just goons Barber hired on the side. I don't mind cleaning their clocks, but it strikes me that not everyone in management here is working towards the same goal."

  "And you think Barber's part of all this?" Peter asked.

  "He sure didn't seem happy I was looking into things. And he didn't respond to the tip on how the product is going out through the trash bins."

  "Sometimes in companies," Isabelle said, "People get into self-preservation mode. Maybe he felt you were intruding in his area."

  "I was."

  "I'll talk to him," Peter said. "We have enough issues to deal with. We don't need any more political in-fighting."

  "More political infighting?" I asked.

  Peter and Isabelle glanced at one another haltingly. "It's a family matter, Burnside," Peter said.

  "Okay. I don't need to look into every nook and cranny of your business. And I certainly wasn't implying you need to show me your books. But all of this seems interwoven. In a family business, the family and the business get hard to separate."

  "Look we appreciate what you've found out," Isabelle said. "And I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I'm not sure how you can help us going forward. We'll pay you for your time, but I think we have a good handle on things now."

  "Thank you for the compliments," I said. "But you didn't hire me. Your parents did. And until your mother tells me otherwise, I'm still working this case. I owe it to her and I owe it to your father."

  Peter tilted his head. "Just what else do you think you can come up with? Who killed Dad?"

  "I don't know. Ultimately that's the job of the police. But something related to the business resulted in your father getting shot. So maybe I can help here."

  At that point, the door opened and in walked a short, well-built man with long blond hair. He moved with a strut and had a cocky expression on his face.

  "Well excuse me," the little man said, using a big voice. "I do hope I'm not interrupting an important board meeting. One I wasn't invited to."

  Peter looked at him oddly. "We weren't expecting you here this morning," he said. "I figured we'd see you later today at the house."

  "I thought I'd stop by and see how things were going," he mused and looked at me pointedly. "I don't think I know you."

  "Your loss," I replied.

  The man smirked. "What's your name?"

  "Burnside. What's yours?"

  "Eddie Larson," he said, and reached out to shake my hand. "I've heard your name tossed around. Figured you might be here."

  Chapter 10

  As an only child, I never got to experience the relationship between siblings. My psychology classes taught me while they share the same parents, grow up in the same household, and have physical traits in common, they could often have remarkably different personalities. Depending upon the tone the parents set in the household, their relationships could be very close or very strained.

  My reading on the subject taught me that older siblings are sometimes favored, leaving younger ones pining for parental attention. This pining does not always go away when they reach adulthood. Without a much stronger background in psychology, and lacking a deep interaction with the Larson clan, I could only make superficial judgments. But from what I saw, these siblings had very complicated relationships, with both each other and with their father. And when a lot of money is thrown into the mix, the situation could only get more complex.

  The molecules of the office changed immediately when Eddie Larson walked in. Peter and Isabelle seemed very uncomfortable, and quickly excused themselves to go back to work. I got the distinct feeling they were happy to distance themselves from their younger brother. Eddie suggested we take a stroll around the office.

  "It's been a few years since I walked through this place," Eddie mused.

  "I hear you work on Wall Street."

  "Something like that."

  "That's an interesting answer. Either you do or you don't."

  "I work for some very influential people. High up in the investment banking world. I'm something of a consultant. A problem solver. A fixer."

  "Sounds a little like what I do. Except I'm better at taking things apart than fixing them."

  "Ha," he said absently, looking down the hall. "Just what do you do?"

  "Private investigator."

  He didn't answer right away, taking his time thinking about it. "Mom hire you?"

  "No, it was your Dad."

  Eddie looked at me. "Why?"

  "He believed there was employee theft going on here."

  "Find anything?"

  "Yes. It's happening in Vegas. Most likely here too, but there's no direct proof yet."

  "Who's doing it? My money's on the union guy."

  "That's what your father thought. No indication that's the case."

  "Therefore you're still poking around," he mused.

  "Still am."

  Eddie laughed. "You sound like a consultant. Just like me. You go in and work on one problem and you find a few more. Rack up those billable hours."

  I shook my head. "That's not what I do."

  Eddie waved me off. "Relax. I get it," he said.

  I stopped for a moment to get his full attention. "So how did you come to know Marcellus Williams?"

  He studied my face and didn't answer right away. Eddie had the same clear blue eyes as his brother and father. Their features had similarities. But while Miles and Peter were intense and earnest, Eddie was light and breezy. I got the feeling not much worried him.

  "How do you know him?" he asked, invoking the old saw of answering a question with a question.

  "I used to play football with Johnny Cleary. Back in the day."

  "Oh, you're an SC guy? That explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "Why Dad hired you. Crazy about the Trojans. He bled cardinal and gold. Got Peter and Izzy into it, too. I'm the black sheep. I never got into all that 'Fight On' stuff."

  I understood. Years ago I recall seeing someone wearing a t-shirt that said "It's a USC Thing" on the front of the shirt, and "You Wouldn't Understand" printed on the back. It seemed to capture the wide chasm between Trojan fans and non-fans.

  "USC's a place that's about tradition and legacy. They focus on keeping the heritage going," I told him, "but it's not that different from a lot of other schools. We've just won more football games."

  "Yeah, Dad was into that. Big time. Uh, how much do you know Marcellus and his situation?"

  "I know some things. He's worried about keeping his eligibility. Some agents are pressing him to sign with them."

  Eddie laughed. "Imagine that. Agents behaving badly."

  "So what's your involvement with Marcellus?"

  "I'm just the front guy," he said. "I'm working for some people who are trying to sign him. I get a commission if it happens."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  "I have other ways to make a living," Eddie shrugged. "I got involved here because of some connections."

  "Marcellus would like you guys to back off."

  Eddie folded his arms onto his chest. "That's not how agents work. Not in their DNA. Like salmon. They only swim upstream."

  "Is blackmail in their DNA?" I asked, watching him carefully.

  He let out a chuckle. "I'd be a little careful about throwing that term around."

  I felt a little anger building. "And I'd be a little careful about moving forward with releasing anything about Marcellus. The only ones you'll hurt are the kid himse
lf and people who follow the football program and care about the university."

  Eddie sneered. "Like I give a damn about them. Pack of old farts. I get tired of the rah-rah junk. These players today are just biding their time until they're eligible for the NFL. They have to be three years out of high school before they can play pro football. What a racket. In the NBA they only have to put in one year of college. In baseball they can jump straight to the big leagues, right out of high school."

  "This is football. They have to wait their turn. So do the agents."

  "Hey, it's all about making that coin. The sooner they start getting paid for what they do, the happier they are. This college sports stuff is all about the money. Everything's about money."

  I thought back to all the time I spent as an athlete in college. Working in the weight room, running miles each day, doing drills. The NFL had been a dream of mine too, but I knew it could be fleeting. The injury to my knee ended my career in pro football before it even started.

  But as they say, when one door closes, another one opens, and that door led me into a career in law enforcement. It was certainly not as lucrative, but it gave me a certain satisfaction that sports did not. And pro football careers have a small shelf life. The average tenure in the NFL is very limited, and once you're done, you're done. Some players go into broadcasting or coaching or scouting or working in the front office. But most drift into other things. And while the money can be big, for many athletes it's gone in a very short time.

  "I wouldn't call it a racket," I said, trying to choose my words carefully and not blow up. "But to an outsider, I can see why you might be cynical about it."

  "It's all about money," he continued. "Everything is. Colleges, sports, this place here. I'll bet Dad was killed over money."

  "Is that what you think?" I asked in a low voice.

  "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. Probably. Who knows. I have a feeling the truth may never come out."

  I didn't respond, partly because I had a nagging feeling Eddie might be right about that.

  "Don't worry so much about Marcellus," he continued. "These things take care of themselves. Everything will be okay with the kid. The agent doesn't want to hurt him. Marcellus' success is his success. You'll see."