Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3)

by David Chill

  I didn't say anything, and at this point we were near the loading dock. Eddie said he had some things to discuss with his brother and sister. He gave me his mother's address in Manhattan Beach and told me I should stop by and visit her. She was in mourning but she seemed to perk up when SC people dropped by.

  "We see things differently, but I appreciate your trying to help my family," he said, as he slapped me on the shoulder and walked away.

  *

  I watched Eddie Larson walk down the hall as I tried to sort out our conversation. But before I could get very far, I heard my name being called.

  "Señor Burnside?"

  I turned and saw a slender Latino man moving awkwardly towards me. He used a black cane to steady himself, and hobbled a little as he walked. I recognized him as Sal Valdez, the union shop steward.

  "Have you a moment?" he asked.

  "Sure," I said and followed him to his office. Unlike the richly upholstered, plush surroundings of Miles' office, Valdez' space was small and spartan. He had a gray metal desk that held some stackable letter trays, a round pencil cup with a dozen pens of varying sizes standing in it, and lots of papers spread here and there. Half a cup of cream laden coffee sat nearby. Valdez closed the door behind us.

  "Please sit down," he said.

  "You have a third leg," I observed.

  "What?"

  "You're using a cane to help you walk."

  "Oh yes. I had hip replacement surgery a few weeks ago."

  "That's a pretty quick recovery period."

  "It still hurts. But there have been great advancements in the surgical field. This is now considered a routine procedure. The cane helps, it's incredibly sturdy. And I'm walking over a mile a day now, so I am improving."

  I pulled a hard folding chair lined with scratched paint towards me and eased down into it. "What's on your mind?" I asked.

  "Have you found out anything about Miles' death? Who was involved? Anything at all?"

  I shook my head. "No. That's the job of the police. Why?"

  "It's vital that the killer be apprehended. Quickly."

  "I would agree. What's your concern?"

  He drew in a deep breath. "The police have labeled me as a person of interest in the murder."

  "Tell me more. How did they come up with that in their investigation?"

  "They have no proof, they've backed into it. I forgot my badge on Saturday morning. Miles let me in. He was near the entrance. It seemed like he was waiting for someone."

  "Meaning?" I asked.

  "He seemed surprised to see me. And he kept looking past me to see if anyone else was coming."

  "You normally work Saturdays?"

  "Nights, weekends. I work very hard. I spend long hours here. In addition to my regular duties, I've taken on being the union rep."

  "So Miles let you into the building."

  "Yes. I went into my office and began working. That was about 6:00am. I have to be here early. Then maybe an hour later I heard screaming down the hall. I went down to see what was happening and there was the body."

  "Who found him?"

  "One of the clerical people. She went in to get a signature or something. Apparently he had been dead for close to an hour."

  "Around the time you arrived at the office."

  "Yes."

  "So how did the police make the jump to start considering you?"

  Valdez wiped his face and looked down at the floor. "My entry into the building was recorded. They say Miles let in two people around that time. I was one of them. I acknowledged that. They haven't found the other person."

  "And the video cameras weren't focused on anyone's face."

  "No. And the combination of the union dispute, along with my early arrival has the police trying to link me to the murder."

  "Let me ask you a question. Do you happen to own a gun?"

  Valdez took another deep breath, "I do. I have several, although I was reluctant to tell the police initially. They have them now. The police did a full search of my home yesterday, but obviously they didn't come up with anything concrete, because I didn't do this. My guns haven't been fired in over a month, the last time I went to the target range. And Miles was shot with a different type of gun, but the police are still looking at me as a suspect. I have no idea why."

  It was my turn to take a deep breath. There was no good way yet to confirm or deny whether Valdez was being honest. But the fact that he sought my help was one small indication that he might be telling the truth. People who are guilty often obfuscate the facts to try to create an alibi they can hide behind. Some often show no fear whatsoever and practically dare law enforcement to find something. Valdez didn't strike me as displaying either of these indicators.

  "Who is the investigating officer?" I asked.

  "Roberto DeSanto. I thought he might be Latino also, so he might give me the benefit of the doubt."

  "Don't count on it," I warned. "Even if he shares your ethnic background, cops have no mercy on their own. Their reference group is other cops." I didn't bother to inform him DeSanto was actually Filipino.

  "Then how do I prove my innocence?" he implored.

  "Cooperate. Don't hide anything. If they suspect you're not being up front with them, they'll look for anything and everything to tie you to this. Good cops don't manufacture evidence, but there's nothing to say they won't arrest you on what they've got, and then let the City Attorney sort it out. Stranger things have happened."

  Valdez kept looking down at the floor. The linoleum was pretty battered but something else was eating at him.

  "Anything more you want to share?" I asked.

  "With Miles, um, gone, there's rumors of layoffs. There are financial problems with this company. They seem to go way beyond the thievery."

  "How do you know this?"

  "It's an open secret. People talk. The cable company has made so many demands, they threaten to stop doing business with us unless we comply. They are always setting greater requirements for us and then cutting our pay if we don't fully deliver. I felt for Miles. He had to make some tough decisions."

  I sat back. It was hardly a stretch to think the thefts, the financial issues and Miles' death were somehow connected. "Go on," I said.

  "Even with Miles still here, this was being rumored. Plus, Miles had a love-hate relationship with the employees. He appreciated the work we did, but felt all of the money belonged in his pockets. With Peter and Isabelle it's not love-hate. There's no love there at all. They have dollar bills in their hearts."

  I shrugged. "Sounds like a lot of business people I've met over the years. Remember that we're all here for a reason. The purpose of a business is to make money. How the money gets divvied up is where things sometimes get dicey."

  Valdez nodded quickly. "You seem very wise," he managed.

  "I'll let you know if I come up with anything that can help you," I said, and then I thought of something. "Sal, if you're aware of any financial improprieties here at Malco, that's something which could assist both of us. It would be really helpful if you could provide some documentation. You might be the only one who's close enough to get to this info."

  Sal sighed. "I'm aware of quite a bit. Getting documentation is another story. Let me see what I can do."

  We shook hands and I walked out the door and down the hall. I had no idea who killed Miles, who was stealing from the company, or if anybody in the business world ever bothered to tell anyone the whole truth. I sometimes felt I had a much easier assignment in my career. Dealing with hardened criminals.

  *

  The Malco offices were just a short drive from the Broadway Division. It was mid-morning and a hazy, milky white sky was stretched over South L.A. The temperature was warm, and filtered sunlight struggled to crack through the layers of smog. By mid-afternoon this area would likely be treated to a blue sky and clear sunshine. But it often required a few hours for the sun to burn its way through the marine layer that often engulfed the region.
r />   Juan Saavedra was reviewing some papers and was leaning back in his chair. A pair of rimless glasses sat at the tip of his nose. I knocked as I entered, and sat down on a vinyl covered blue chair facing the desk. Juan looked up.

  "You should consider bifocals," I said.

  "Thanks for the tip," he said. "Just make yourself at home there, Burnsy."

  "I try to be comfortable wherever life takes me."

  "Uh-huh. Nice attitude you got there. Let me know when you want to join the rest of us. Have a good time up in Vegas? Hope the dice tables were hot."

  "I'm not big on gambling. I prefer sure things."

  "You should play the stock market, Burnsy."

  "Isn't that a form of gambling?"

  "Not the way Wall Street runs things."

  "Cynical this morning, aren't we?" I commented.

  "I've had better days. How's the Malco investigation going?"

  "I was going to ask you the same thing. I heard you have Sal Valdez as a person of interest."

  Juan shrugged. "We don't have a lot. We know he was let into the building by the victim. Doesn't mean anything, there were a few others already there, and Miles let someone else in also. But Valdez has some holes in his story. First he told us he didn't own a gun but turns out he's got three of them in his house."

  "And none of them are a match with the murder weapon."

  "That's right," he sighed. "Valdez and Miles had their differences, but it still doesn't add up to murder. At least not yet. We also learned a few of the installers have criminal records. I think you did a ride-along with one of them."

  "Chase?" I asked.

  "Yeah, little tough guy with the oversized moustache? Damn, I can't figure out how he eats with that thing."

  "What was his rap sheet like?"

  "Mostly this and that. A DUI, disturbing the peace, a few assault and battery charges. Oh yeah, carrying a concealed weapon. A couple of those charges stuck, he's on probation. One more and he gets jail time for sure."

  If it's murder, he'll go away for good, I thought grimly. "Is he a suspect?"

  "I don't know. He had a few dealings with Miles, but from what I can gather they worked together okay. Still, we're keeping an eye on him. Anything you care to share?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing unusual. Chase said Miles liked him. Helped Miles out in some way. That might be worth following up on. I think Chase may know something. But what I know about Chase is pretty vague."

  "Yeah, everything here is pretty vague. We're about as close to solving this one as Vegas Metro is to solving that security guard murder."

  "You heard about that one."

  "You forget that us cops talk to each other? Two murders in two days, each one related to the same company, Malco?"

  "I'm still trying to piece all this together myself," I said. "There's definitely employee theft going on. Maybe Miles found out who it was and confronted them. But that doesn't explain Vegas."

  "Nope. The pieces aren't fitting together so nicely here. I'm hoping someone at the company might come forward. This is an inside job and it may take someone on the inside to help out."

  "That'd make our jobs easier. Say, I was wondering if can you direct me to someone who works in Financial Crimes."

  "Sure. They'd be over at the Parker Center, downtown. Guy to talk to is Mark Lutz. Why?"

  "One thing is related to that Billy the Fixer. I want to get a little more info on him. But as far as Malco goes, don't worry. I've got someone from the inside trying to help out."

  "Who's that?"

  "I'd rather not say."

  "Jesus Christ, Burnside! You still playing that Lone Ranger crap?"

  "It's delicate," I shrugged. "But I'll keep you in the loop."

  "You're a joy to work with, you know that?"

  "I've been told worse."

  "So now, anything else I can do for you? Maybe change the oil in your car?"

  "No, Juan," I said, standing up to leave. "I'm good."

  "Hey, you know you promised me some tickets to the UCLA game if I helped you out with the sting on Billy the Fixer. The game's coming up on Saturday and I already promised my kid. Am I getting those 50-yard line seats?"

  I gulped. My last few days had been so full that this had slipped my mind. "I'm on it, Juan. I don't know the yard line yet. But I'm making progress."

  Juan shook his head and went back to looking at his paperwork. "Yeah, progress," he said "I prefer results."

  *

  I returned to my office on Olympic Boulevard. The air felt a little musty inside, so I opened a window. A couple of high school girls sat at the bus stop bench staring vacantly into space. I checked voice mail and heard back from Amanda Hertz, who was able to get access to a vacant house we could use on the Westside. I took care of some busy work and also left a message for Johnny Cleary about Saturday's game.

  With the sting coming up, I started doing some background work on Billy the Fixer. A quick search on the Internet revealed some interesting things. Amanda told me Billy was a thief, a con artist and a convicted felon. I now learned he was also an ordained minister. His church was one I had never heard of. Not really a surprise.

  Billy's website was very professional and presented photos of smiling, muscular technicians working away. He wrote about the need to be energy-efficient and how that could save a customer money. He listed numerous references. I almost felt like having an air conditioning unit installed in my apartment. Fortunately, that's unnecessary in Santa Monica. More fortunately, I knew Billy was a wanted criminal and the cornucopia of technical information and pictures he displayed were most likely scraped from someone else's website.

  The customer review sites on the Internet put forth an impression Billy had been installing HVAC systems very capably for years. Some people likely hired him because he had some good references. Then the reviews started turning negative. Customers posted that they had paid a deposit but he never finished the job. Or they paid for a new system and he installed one that was on its last legs. Interspersed in these complaints were a few glowing testimonials about how Billy was very honest and skillful, and how they were so glad they had hired him. I could only imagine the sermons he was preaching at his church.

  I dialed the number on Billy's website. After four rings I heard an announcement that said they would be playing some music while they connected me. For the next 60 seconds I listened to a song by Cheap Trick, when all of a sudden there were a series of clicks and a male voice came on the line.

  "Hullo?"

  "Is this Billy?"

  "Who's this?" he said, answering the question with a question. Ah, so smart.

  "My name's Jack. I saw some reviews of yours. We just bought a house and I need to get central air installed."

  "Where do you live?"

  I hesitated. Amanda's message didn't say where the property would be. But lying to a liar didn't seem to strike me as a problem. "Near Beverly Hills," I said. "Westside. Where are you located?"

  "Oh I work all over," he said, the interest in his voice becoming more obvious. "In fact, I'm just finishing a job in Beverly Hills. Yeah, I'm installing the AC and heating in Kanye West's house. Huge job, he's got a mansion. But he loves our work. Do you know Kanye?"

  I thought of saying we were neighbors but there's only so many lies I can tell before my tongue feels like it's about to snap off. "No, never met him," I said, but quickly added, "if you're doing work for Kanye you must be good."

  "Oh hey, I'm the best," he spouted. "Why don't we set something up."

  "Yeah, I'll need to check with my wife on our schedule," I said, needing to buy a little time for a small item like getting the address of our house. "When are you available?"

  "Like I say, I'm finishing up in Beverly Hills. I'll be there the next few days. Just tell me when you want me to stop by and look things over."

  We hung up and I called Mark Lutz at the Financial Crimes Unit of the LAPD. I mentioned Juan Saavedra's name and he said he'd help me as mu
ch as he could. I asked him to check into Billy the Fixer, aka Billy Ray Fox. Lutz put me on hold and came back on the line a few minutes later.

  "Yeah, you're right. We already have a warrant out on him for parole violations, but there's been half a dozen complaints filed for fraud. We're strapped on resources, and if he's not a violent offender, he's not the highest priority. Still, we don't turn our backs on this. If you have a way to collar him, let me know. We'll work with the prosecutor and put him away."

  I thanked Mark for his help, and called Amanda back and left a message. Compared to the Malco case, this one felt almost too easy. Just then, my cell phone rang and the voice on the other end was a surprise.

  "Burnside, this is Jason Chandler from Vegas Metro. I understand you were asking for me yesterday."

  Today seemed like my lucky day for getting in touch with the men in blue. "Detective," I said. "Thanks for calling. Yes, I was hoping to get some help on a case. I understand you're acquainted with Kyle Otto."

  "Big Kyle? Sure. I stop by for a pizza every now and then. Good guy. How do you know him?"

  "We played football together at USC. Long time ago."

  "Yeah, yeah," he exclaimed in an enthusiastic voice. "I remember you. Free safety, right? You were a big hitter if I recall."

  "Still am, Detective."

  "Ha! You know, I've been meaning to go by Kyle's place, haven't been there in a while. I'll ask about you."

  I imagined whatever pizzas he was ordering would be on the house, but kept that little dig to myself. "I'm sure you're aware of the shooting at the Malco warehouse."

  "Yeah, sorry you had to spend a lot of time here yesterday. Routine procedure, you know the drill."

  "Understood. I've been through the wringer with Internal Affairs at LAPD. Never fun."

  "Never fun," he repeated. "So is there something I can do for you?"

  "As a matter of fact there is. There's a sports agent named Cliff Roper. I was wondering if you could check him out. He spends a lot of time in Vegas. Anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary."