by David Chill
The lock on Miles' office door clicked a moment after we walked out. I slipped the DVDs into my jacket pocket and we walked through the lobby and out the front door. The night had grown considerably cooler and I was glad I wore my jacket. But as we turned to go into the parking lot, a deep male voice boomed.
"Hold it right there you two!"
We looked up and stood face-to-face with a tanned man with a head of thinning, silver hair. The head of security at Malco was waiting for us. Glen Butterworth had a malevolent expression on his face and a chrome plated 9mm Beretta in his hand.
Chapter 13
The night air was chilly and silent. The three of us stood motionless as we surveyed the scene. While Chase had no business entering Miles' office, I did have security clearance and had been hired by the widow of the company founder to do an investigation. Chase's reason for being here was more vague, but I could justify it by saying he was assisting me in the investigation. But when someone is pointing a gun at you, logic and reason take a back seat to sidling out of the immediate dilemma.
"I'd be a little careful with where you're pointing that thing," I started.
"And I'd stop giving me directives if I were you," Butterworth replied, in that baritone voice I now fully despised.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I think I'll ask you the same question," he said, pointing the gun menacingly. "And you go first."
"Okay. Clara hired us to investigate. This is part of the investigation."
"At 11:00 at night? Just what kind of an investigator are you?"
The kind that doesn't like guns pointed at him, I thought. "This is when my business gets done," I said, trying to deflect things.
"And what did you find out tonight?"
"Nothing worth knowing," I lied, getting nervous about the DVDs in my pocket. "What brings you here?"
"I'm the head of security, asshole. I got an alert that someone came through the front door after hours. My guard said he combed through the building, but the lazy ass couldn't find anyone. But there was also no indication that anyone had left. I just came down and waited. Figured you wouldn't spend the night in there."
"Cagey," I mused. "Too bad we didn't find anything."
"You were in there for almost three hours. That's a lot of time spent to find nothing."
I shrugged. "Some nights are better than others."
"And this one's going to get worse for you. If you want to see tomorrow, you better start talking."
My mind raced. Deflect as much as possible. "I told you about the thefts going on in Vegas. And Adam Barber. All that should be pretty easy to stop."
Butterworth grinned. "And why would I want to stop that?"
A long period of silence passed, as the moment of clarity began to settle in. "I didn't know you were part of this," I said, choosing my words carefully.
"Yeah, you're a great detective, aren't you?"
"Of course I wouldn't have thought Isabelle would be stealing from her own father."
Butterworth paused and seemingly began to recalculate. "Oh so you figured that out, huh? How'd you do that?"
"I didn't. I took a shot. You just confirmed it."
"What?! The hell I did. Just what do you think you know?"
"This part all makes sense now," I told him. "You and Isabelle have been having an affair. I guess you didn't realize that's an open secret around here. The company is losing money. The two of you cooked up a scheme to steal merchandise. You run operations, she runs finance. Your crew wheels the product out the back door like it's trash, so no one suspects anything. The product is then sold off. Isabelle cooks the books so no one can figure it out."
Butterworth stared at me. "Maybe you're not so dumb after all."
"What's Peter's involvement here?"
"Peter?" he scoffed. "He's an idiot. A sycophant. He thinks he'll inherit a profitable company. He has no idea what shape it's in. Isabelle knew. Miles knew. Peter just sees what he wants to see."
"And Eddie?"
He hesitated for a moment. "Eddie's a free agent. He's separated from the business. Oh he thinks he'll get his share one day. But there won't be anything left by then."
"Because you'll have taken it all."
Butterworth laughed. "You still don't get it, do you? This company is being bled dry by the cable company. They pay less and less and demand more and more. There's a reason cable companies have stopped using their own installers. They can hire outside third parties like Malco and then work them to the bone and cut their rates each year. Malco is like a dead man walking. Peter just doesn't know it yet."
"So you're just getting your share while you can."
"Yeah," he sneered. "I'm a businessman. That's what we do. Get our share."
"You have an interesting definition of business," I said, trying to keep talking and distract him for as long as I could. When a criminal starts to acknowledge his crimes, it's often a prelude to killing someone. Thieves sometimes have a need to talk, not necessarily because they have a conscious desire to get caught, but rather to demonstrate how smart they think they are. The ones with consciences probably do have a deep seated need to be found out and punished. But the criminal world is loaded with sociopaths, unburdened by any sense of guilt. Understanding whether or not you had a sociopath on your hands could not be determined in a five-minute conversation.
"Look, I've worked in security for almost 30 years," he said. "I've seen it all. You wouldn't believe the type of crooked enterprises I've been around. Some of the most clean cut people you'd ever want to meet are ripping off their customers left and right."
"And did you just decide to join them now?" I said.
"Uh-huh. Yeah. This place was a dream. Ripe for the picking. Old man who founded the company is still there, maybe losing his edge. Idiot son's been anointed as the next CEO when his father dies. Middle aged daughter desperate for love, willing to partake in a scheme. The company still had good cash flow, but profits were shrinking to the point where Malco would soon be a house of cards. Oh yeah. This place was perfect."
"How did murder get mixed up in this?"
He gave me a funny look. "Just what do you know about what happened to Miles?"
"I know who did it."
Butterworth's mouth hung open for a minute. The thought that I had learned who killed Miles was too juicy to leave untouched. Butterworth stopped for a moment before figuring out his next move. I thought if I could lead Butterworth inside the building, I'd have a chance to turn the tables on him.
"Tell me," he said.
"You know, life can be full of surprises," I said. "This one definitely surprised me."
"Right. So who did it?"
"You wouldn't believe it. I'll need to show you. The evidence is inside," I said, my mind whirring with thoughts. I needed to get him inside. "It's in Isabelle's office."
Butterworth stared at me. "Okay. Let's go. You guys first."
He motioned for Chase and I to start moving towards the building. As we approached the front entrance I stopped and looked at him.
"My badge doesn't work anymore," I lied, "we'll need to use yours."
Butterworth pulled his badge from his back pocket and waved it in front of the pad. I made no move at this point, but raised my arms to chest level and kept them that way. The door unlocked and we walked back in, moving down the long hallway towards Isabelle's office. As we approached, Chase and I stepped aside for Butterworth to unlock Isabelle's door, too. Stepping forward, he was now to the left of me, but kept the gun nestled in his right hand. They say all criminals make at least one mistake, and this was his. He stopped paying attention for a moment. He let his guard down. He assumed that because I had not tried anything at the front entrance then I wouldn't try anything here. And there are few mistakes worse than assuming.
Butterworth gave me only a sideways glance as he waved his badge in front of the pad next to Isabelle's door. He pointed the gun directly at me but his eyes were focused on unlo
cking the door. And as the badge yielded another click, he reached for the handle. At that moment I slammed my left hand down on his right forearm. Grabbing the arm tightly, I jammed it downward so the gun was facing the floor. I then jerked his body back a step and drove my right foot solidly into his groin. He yelped in pain and doubled over. I yanked the gun out of his hand and took three steps backwards.
And at that point, the door to Isabelle's office swung wide open and someone emerged from Isabelle's office. Quickly surveying the scene, Sal Valdez glanced at Butterworth and then back at me.
"What's going on here?" he asked.
"Long story," I responded.
At this point, Butterworth began to straighten back up, although the look of agony was still on his face. "You guys aren't getting away with this," he said hoarsely. "You're in deep shit."
Sal took an unsteady step towards him. "From what I've learned, I think it is you who will have the problem. A really big problem."
Butterworth mouth curled into a snarl. "You can go to hell! God damn spic bastard!"
And with that, Sal Valdez raised his black cane to shoulder level and swung it angrily at Butterworth's face. The blow hit him across the cheek and Butterworth spun around before falling to one knee, and starting to moan.
"That's a really sweet swing," I observed.
"I used to play baseball."
"What's that thing made of?"
"Solid hickory. It's called the Bad Ass cane. I use it because of my hip. But look, this is a rough neighborhood. You never know when you might need some help."
I shook my head and laughed. The last place you'd think you need a blunt instrument is in the hallway of your own workplace. The last person you'd think you'd need to use it on is the guy in charge of security. Taking a glance over at Chase for the first time however, I saw he was far from laughing. In fact, during the whole episode, Chase did not utter a single word. I wasn't even certain he drew in a breath.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Jesus," he gulped. "How did you have a normal conversation with someone holding a gun on you?"
I shrugged. "Experience I guess."
*
The police arrived shortly after we dialed 911. Chase asked if he could leave and we just pretend he hadn't been there, but I reminded him that Butterworth or Valdez would probably let it slip. I told Chase he had nothing to worry about. He was an employee of Malco and it's not a crime to enter your place of employment, even if it's after hours. And there were going to be far bigger problems to deal with at this company.
In the few minutes before the police showed up, we moved outside and I went over and locked the DVDs in the glove compartment of my Pathfinder; Chase hid his in his van. Juan Saavedra and Roberto DeSanto were going to be the first ones to look at my DVD evidence. I didn't want it being handled by the midnight shift. We had worked too long and too hard to get this, and I wasn't going to risk it moving into hands I did not know. I talked briefly with Chase and we agreed to be as vague as possible, we were here looking for evidence in the investigation and found nothing. Chase was with me because he knew where things were in the building. Valdez was working late, and that was one aspect we wouldn't need to fudge.
"Sal," I said, before the police arrived, "just what were you doing in Isabelle's office?"
"Actually I was doing some work for you, señor," he answered.
"Me? What work was that?"
"Looking through some of her financial statements. I found a lot of things that don't line up. Bank statements that don't match the internal documents. Emails to and from Butterworth that point to collusion and embezzlement, among other things. I imagine they'll need to go through her computer to find out the whole stinking mess."
I frowned. "If she gets wind of what happened tonight she may race down here and grab her computer."
Valdez smiled. "No worries, señor," he said, and patted his briefcase. "I got that taken care of."
"Maybe you should put that in your trunk before the night shift gets here," I suggested. "There's a fine line between gathering evidence and employee theft. And we want to make sure all this gets into the proper hands."
Valdez agreed and walked to his vehicle. Without Juan Saavedra, there might be some sticky issues when the LAPD arrived. A private eye and two middling employees roughing up a seemingly respectable corporate executive would be enough to give any police officer pause. I pulled out my phone and called Juan's home number. It rang four times before a groggy voice on the other end said hello.
"Juan, it's Burnside."
"Oh, cripes."
"Yeah, I know. Everyone loves to hear from me, especially around midnight."
"This better be good."
"It's very good. The Larson murder case is going to be closed soon."
"Oh yeah?" he said in a far more alert voice. "Tell me."
"I think I'll need to show you. Trust me, it's worth it. I can come in tomorrow."
"Crap. I'm tied up at the Parker Center most of the day. Can you stop by around five?"
"That's fine. But I, uh, got a situation here. Could use your help."
A loud sigh filled the phone. "Now what?"
"I needed access to Malco's headquarters. Getting in was no problem. Getting out had some complications. Let's just say, the head of security wasn't happy to see me."
"At a quarter to twelve at night, who would be?"
"Uh, yeah. His name's Glen Butterworth. He was part of the ring. We have a confession on grand theft, and there's going to be more on him."
"You didn't beat it out of him, did you?"
"No, but there was, ah, a slight altercation when I needed to take his gun away from him. But he actually bragged about what he had done. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins."
"Just what I wanted to hear right now," he sighed.
"No problem. In fact, the six other sins stem from pride."
"Jesus. I need to get a lecture here? All right. I'll make a couple of calls and keep you out of trouble for a day. But what you show me better be damn good."
I put the phone back in my pocket and we waited a few minutes for the initial LAPD cruiser to show up. The first uniforms to arrive were a pair of Hispanic officers, and Sal Valdez immediately greeted them in Spanish. They spoke for what seemed like five minutes before returning to their patrol car and calling for backup. Butterworth tried yelling for them to arrest us, but they simply told him to be quiet. Within a few minutes there were a half dozen police cars spread out in the parking lot, and I knew we'd be in for a long night.
It took about three hours to get everyone's statements. Juan got through to the desk sergeant and word filtered out for the officers to simply do the intake. They collected handguns, but thanks to Juan, mine was returned to me before I was allowed to leave. The uniforms were professional, and seemed to handle the routine capably. But as the officers were finishing up, one of them informed us that while we were all being released, we would likely be called for follow-up questioning.
"Wait a minute," I said to the lead officer who appeared to be in charge. "You're not detaining Butterworth?"
"Sorry, no reason to. We have nothing firm to hold him on."
"Look, this guy has admitted to embezzling and more. We have a lot on him."
"Where's your evidence?
And therein was our problem. Miles' secret office was now fully locked, the janitors were long since gone, and we had no access to a DVD player. We certainly couldn't show them the laptop Sal pilfered from Isabelle's office because that would be far more problematic for Sal. A field officer is going to first be suspicious of a computer that may have been stolen, rather than the files that were contained in the ill-gotten item. And even if they were to look at the files, it was highly unlikely that an officer working the midnight shift would be able to understand the complexities of financial fraud. Especially while we were standing around in an industrial parking lot at three in the morning.
"I think you'd need to trust us,"
I said. "I spent 13 years on the job, if that will buy me any credibility. I worked out of the Broadway Division back then."
"Why'd you leave?" he asked.
I sighed. "Long story."
"Aren't they all," he smirked.
"Look, if you let this guy go," I said, "there's reason to believe he may come after Sal Valdez. This is now a situation where you may be putting someone's life in jeopardy."
"And I keep hearing about what a bad guy this Butterworth is, but he's got a license for that weapon. Carrying it is something else. So we'll confiscate the gun for now. Best we can do."
"Would a call from Juan Saavedra help?
"Has Lt. Saavedra seen any of this evidence?"
"Not yet," I admitted.
"Then I don't think so."
And so no arrests were made and we were all allowed to leave. Despite my continued pleas to detain Butterworth, I couldn't provide them with any substantive proof on him yet; I needed to meet with Juan before we could move forward on anything. This shift of police officers were not going to be persuaded about anything tonight. Butterworth was going to be at-large, at least for another day, and we would simply have to deal with that. Sal was the one who was most at risk; the cane would only provide so much protection. Even owning a gun was no guarantee. I certainly didn't want him to meet the same fate as Henry Simon, the security guard up in Las Vegas. His death wasn't my fault, but it still weighed on my mind. Like most everything else these days.
"Sal," I said quietly, leading him away from the others, "I think it might be best if you didn't go home tonight."
His face tightened. "I can take care of myself, señor."
"I know you can. But there's a lot at stake here, and I'm sure Butterworth and his cronies can easily find out where you live."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I live in an apartment building with a security gate. My personal info is unlisted and I've made sure it's been scrubbed off the Internet. I'm not a homeowner, so there are no public records with my home address. Come and bunk with me for a couple of days in Santa Monica. I've got a pull-out sofa bed that's comfortable. You'll be safe and so will Isabelle's laptop."