Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3)

by David Chill

  "Gentlemen," he said, getting up and shaking hands. "Nice to meet you."

  "Likewise," I said. "We have the sting set up for Billy Ray Fox later today. Juan said he'd help bring him in. I have a client who'll press charges. She's pretty ticked off."

  Mark Lutz nodded. "Okay. I've got half a dozen more victims who say they'll testify. This guy'll go away for a while. No doubt."

  "Great."

  "But you said you had something else."

  I turned to Valdez. "Sal, you want to take the lead here?"

  Valdez began showing Mark a potpourri of doctored financial statements, forged checks and email communications that linked Isabelle Larson, Glen Butterworth and Adam Barber to everything from fraud and conspiracy to outright grand theft. Mark Lutz maintained little expression on his face as he listened and processed things. He waited until Sal was finished before he spoke again.

  "What you've put together is impressive. But it's all been gathered illegally. You've taken company-owned property. Not to say a case can't be built here. There's an obvious amount of large scale criminal activity. But you're also talking about a privately held company. And one of the principal ringleaders is the daughter of the CEO. Well, former CEO to be accurate. And I'm not sure what her equity position is within the company. I know it's unlikely, but she could practically argue she's stealing her own money. The issue will be who is filing the complaint here?"

  "Isn't this a corporation?" Sal asked.

  "Yes it is, but I gather it's wholly owned by the Larson family."

  "And because this is essentially a family business, we have to involve a family member?"

  "Yes and given the circumstances that arose over the past day or two, there may be a lot of difficulty in doing that," Lutz said, wryly.

  Valdez looked a little crestfallen. "This seems so wrong."

  "It's not a lost cause," Lutz continued. "This is something the IRS would be very interested in. And there could be some RICO implications too. But moving a lot of these charges forward is going to require cooperation and support from a family member. It isn't as simple as just getting a warrant."

  "Not going to be such an easy thing to get a family member to press charges against another member of the Larson clan," I said.

  "Not easy," Lutz repeated, "but this is obviously one strange family."

  We thanked Lutz and walked out of his office and out of the building. Neither myself nor Valdez spoke until we climbed into the Pathfinder.

  "I am so disappointed," he said blankly. "It feels like justice is hard to come by. I can't imagine Mrs. Larson or Peter believing any of this about Isabelle."

  "We'll see. Clara's got a lot to deal with right now. Her whole world has come crashing down."

  "Yes," he said. "Mrs. Larson has been dealt a rotten hand."

  Sal had no idea just how rotten that was. And while I wasn't sure having a union leader in the room would be helpful here, Sal had played a critical role in our getting us to where we were now. I needed to show Clara what had happened, and maybe now was the time for everything to be placed on the table.

  "I guess we go see her," I finally said.

  "I guess we do."

  *

  On the drive to Manhattan Beach, I tried to piece everything together in a way that was logical and explainable and made sense. But nothing about this situation was logical or explainable or made any sense. This case was stitched together through a series of despicable acts by despicable people. I suspected there would be no happy endings for anyone involved.

  I parked the Pathfinder in the same space I found the other night. The morning air was a little damp by the beach, but the sun was coming out, breaking through the marine layer. We knocked on the front door and Clara Larson opened it. She did not look well.

  Clara appeared disheveled and her eyes were red. She was dressed in a maroon jogging outfit and her white helmet of hair was unkempt. Her face was lined with pain, her eyes were cloudy and unfocused, and her movements unsteady. She invited me in, but as I moved inside I had to grab her arm to keep her from tripping and falling onto the gold tile floor. I led her to a thick, tawny colored sofa in the living room and sat down next to her. I searched for words I could say. None came quickly. But I had to start somewhere. After a few long minutes, I spoke.

  "I'm sorry Clara," I said in a low voice. "I'm so sorry."

  She nodded absently and paused for a moment to catch her breath and focus her thoughts. I looked around the room at the plush surroundings. In addition to a variety of USC memorabilia, a series of brightly colored African masks were hung along the far wall.

  "I feel as if I'm caught in a bad dream," she said. "A week ago, we had a minor problem with theft at the company. Today my life has become a complete catastrophe."

  "I cannot even imagine what you're going through. Again, I'm very sorry."

  "It's not your fault, Burnside. I just don't understand any of it."

  "I'm not sure anyone fully does."

  "How could Eddie have done this? Is it really true? And everything else? As a mother I find all of this to be insane. It makes no sense."

  "I can understand why it's hard to believe."

  "The police say you provided them with documented proof. But they didn't go any further. Just what is this proof you have?"

  "I'll show it to you," I said, and removed a copy of the DVD from my pocket. "It's gritty. I have to tell you that before you see it. You need to be prepared. And I want to give you the option of not seeing it. It has to be your choice."

  "Oh I want to see it," she said. "It's better to know than to not know. I'm not going to live in a world of darkness. I want the truth, unvarnished as it might be. I have to know what happened to my family."

  "Understood. And if you're up for it, Sal has some things he wants to show you."

  I walked over to the Larsons' elaborate entertainment center to slip the DVD into the tray. I then turned on what had to be an 80 inch 4K TV that was mounted on the wall facing the sofa. A minute later an image appeared on the screen. It was a little grainy, but there was no question about who was who. The sound was very clear.

  On the screen we saw two figures enter the office and sit down on the couch. From what Juan had told me, Miles had greeted Eddie at the front entrance on Saturday morning and ushered him into the building. We were able to make out the audio of the father-and-son exchange.

  "How long's it been since you came by the old office?" Miles asked.

  "A long time, Dad. Too long."

  "I always dreamed the three of you kids would take over for me one day."

  Eddie gave a laugh. "You've got Peter and Isabelle. That should be enough. More than enough, actually."

  "Yeah, but we can always use another good mind working the business. That stinking Eagle Cable group. They just keep pecking away at us."

  "What are they doing now?"

  "They're dinging us for everything. They're doing surveys of customers and these bastards fine us if we get low scores. Even to the point of not paying us at all. They're a pack of damn criminals, they are. They just want to keep us from our money."

  "Almost as bad as the IRS, Dad?" Eddie smiled, seemingly knowing the response.

  "Oh, hell. Nothing is as bad as the IRS!" Miles crowed.

  "How much trouble is the business is really in, Dad?"

  "Eh. Look Eddie, it's not good but we'll weather the storm. Every few years the cable companies merge, and it takes the bloodsuckers a few years to pull their heads out of their asses and make a run at us. That's the window when we start making a lot of money again."

  "Well until then at least you're getting some cash from Roper."

  "Yeah, that's gravy. Easy for me to introduce players to him. If a guy hits it really big we all laugh our way to the bank. Those endorsement deals are unbelievably lucrative. And that Megawatt kid is a can't miss. Don't let that beast get away. Get him signed, sealed and delivered as soon as possible."

  "I'm on it Dad. He's
money. I'm reeling him in. Don't need to worry about that one."

  "Eh, that's good. I don't know how you met up with that Roper fella but it's been a lucky thing for us."

  "I've helped him out of some jams."

  "You know, you never really talk much about what you do. I know you work with some of those big shots on Wall Street now and then. Of course without a college degree I'm surprised they'd hire you as a consultant."

  "I'm a specialist. I do things others can't do. Or won't do."

  "Eh, well I'm glad you found your niche. I'm actually impressed you've been able to strike out on your own and be successful."

  "You don't think Peter or Isabelle could do that?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. Isabelle makes some poor decisions. Like having a fling with that operations chief we hired. That Butterworth. Always struck me as a bit of a huckster. Part of why I hired a private dick recently. We have a lot of product missing. I know that Valdez guy is out to get us. I just can't pin it on him. Those Spanish guys are pretty slippery, too"

  Eddie stared at him. "And Peter?"

  "I don't know. I wonder if Peter really has the stones to make it on his own. If I wasn't around, I get the feeling things would be even shakier than they are right now."

  "You know that's the reason I'm here this morning, Dad."

  "Eh, how's that? You told me you'd be in awful early."

  "Yeah. I couldn't have anyone around to see this."

  "See what?"

  In what seemed like an effortless motion, Eddie Larson had a pistol in his right hand and aimed it at Miles. Stunned into silence for a second, Miles' mouth was open but no words came out. Slowly he began to rise from his chair.

  "Now look here Eddie, I don't know what this is about."

  "I think you do, Dad. It's about you."

  "I'm your father for crissakes! What are you doing?"

  "Father? You've been a lousy father from the day I was born. Everything was either your way or the highway. I chose the highway. But that's not why I'm going to do this. Not at all."

  "Then why?! What the hell are you doing this for?!"

  "It's business, Dad. It's like you taught us. A long time ago. Everything comes down to money. Dollars and cents. Everything we do."

  "Well, uh, yes ... but how the hell does that have anything to do with your pulling a gun on me? Your own father!"

  "Because," Eddie said carefully, as if he were speaking to someone very slow."I'm being paid a lot of money here. It's like this, Dad. Peter wants to run things now at Malco."

  And with that, a loud pop was audible. Then another pop, and then another as Eddie lowered the gun and continued firing until Miles fell helplessly to the floor. Placing the gun back into his jacket pocket, Eddie surveyed the room for a long moment. At one point he looked directly into the camera, fixating on what he likely thought was only a commemorative football helmet. He was obviously unaware that it was recording every move he made.

  Eddie left the office and the video stopped. I reached over for the remote and turned the TV off. Clara Larson sat very still next to me, and while she wasn't moving, a long, steady stream of tears were sliding down her face. Sal Valdez sat motionless on the couch. We continued to sit in silence for a few long minutes before I spoke again.

  "I'm sorry I had to show you that. I can't even imagine what you're going through."

  Clara struggled to find her voice. "I had to see it. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes. That explains some things. I haven't heard from Peter since you had Eddie arrested."

  "Peter's been arrested, too," I told her, but I wondered if she even heard me.

  "And I haven't heard anything from Isabelle, either," she said.

  Valdez spoke. "Neither Isabelle nor Glen Butterworth showed up for work the past two days. My guess is the two of them have disappeared together. You may not hear from her again."

  "But why?"

  "She and Glen were behind the theft of the set-top boxes," Sal continued. "That guy they sent up to Vegas, Adam Barber, he was also part of the ring. Isabelle thought the company was going under soon, so I guess the three of them figured they'd get their share now while they could."

  Clara looked at me. "Isabelle wasn't part of the scheme to shoot Miles?"

  "No," I said. "Not from what I can tell. And that's what made this investigation so difficult to unravel. There were two conspiracies being played out simultaneously. Peter and Eddie were plotting to kill Miles, so Peter could take over the business. Isabelle was looting the company because she didn't think there would be much left once the cable vultures were done with them. She had more knowledge of the finances. All Peter saw was an opportunity to be king. And Eddie, well, you just saw how he makes his living."

  "No matter that it was his own father."

  "Didn't seem to faze him," I said.

  "And Peter paid Eddie to do this horrible deed."

  "Yes."

  "And Isabelle would steal from her own family."

  "She had some help, but yes."

  Clara choked for a moment. "One week ago I had a husband running a business and three children with careers," she managed. "Today my husband is dead, my two sons are in jail and my daughter has disappeared. I suppose I still have a business, but not much of one apparently."

  "Again, I'm sorry. But even a week ago, what you had wasn't what it seemed to be. You weren't seeing the whole picture. It's not your fault. You were screened from what was really happening."

  "Oh but it was my fault, Burnside, it was. I didn't pay attention to what was happening. I didn't step in when Eddie left years ago. I could have insisted Miles help him. I could have been more involved in the business, understood more. It is absolutely my fault. But Mr. Valdez, you have something more?"

  Sal spread out the documents on the coffee table and spent the next half-hour taking Clara through the levels of financial schemes and machinations that had plagued Malco. He turned on Isabelle's laptop and opened up countless pages, documenting how they had transferred money to off-shore accounts, developed a relationship with a Swiss bank, and even arranged with someone for money laundering. It was a Halloween bag of embezzlement and theft. It was larcenous behavior that could have only been achieved by someone in whom Miles Larson had put his utmost faith and trust. And while Peter had arranged the murder and Eddie had committed the act, I had a funny feeling this financial scheme was the betrayal that Miles would find the most disturbing. It involved, of course, his money.

  And oddly, the pain Clara had exhibited just a short while earlier had seemingly begun to dissipate. Instead of grief, her expression had been replaced by anger. She no longer displayed the helpless look of despair. Rather, a gritty, steel backbone started to emerge as she began to clarify how these events had shaped her world. Her brutal honesty was impressive and that was perhaps a start towards trying to make herself whole again. Her life would never ever be the same, but she seemed to be able to quickly accept the unpleasant things she had to do, and the difficult road she would have to go down. She would have to do it alone and it would be filled with agony. Losing your whole family in such a short period, even within a scenario that had taken years to play out, was tragic beyond imagination.

  "They start out crawling on all fours," she said, her face riddled with intensity. "Then you help them to stand on their own two feet. But it wasn't supposed to end like this for my three children."

  *

  Sal told me he had a friend nearby who he wanted to visit, and they would give him a ride to pick up his car the next day. I offered to let him stay with me longer, but he said he needed to get home eventually. With Butterworth seemingly gone underground, the risk to Sal was probably minimal. I thanked him for everything; he had taken some really big risks to uncover and protect the truth.

  My drive home from Manhattan Beach was a sober one. I went up Vista del Mar, the coastal route that offered a gorgeous view of Santa Monica Bay, and wound my way through Dockweiler Beac
h and the Ballona Wetlands. This was the morning commute some people employed to get to the Westside and to avoid the slow moving freeway traffic. By now, rush hour was over and I had the road largely to myself. It made the drive easier, but the magnitude of what had happened, and the devastating impact on Clara, still weighed heavily on my mind.

  I went to my office and did some paperwork, hoping to take my mind off of the Larson family for a little while. The Malco check had finally cleared, so I paid a few bills, including my office rent. I received another confirmation call from Amanda Hertz. We were all set for this afternoon's meeting with Billy the Fixer. I reviewed my files on Billy and thought about how this afternoon would go. But as hard as I tried to focus, the face of Miles Larson, moments before he died, kept haunting me. He broke into my thoughts and occupied my mind. Miles had raised a monstrous brood. Sophocles would have had a field day studying them.

  I always thought I'd have a family. I kept telling myself that one day it would happen, although my window for doing so was narrowing. But would I even want a family after seeing this type of an ending? Being a parent struck me as a lifelong job, one that you took on and never gave up. I kept reminding myself that what happened to the Larson family was an aberration, an anomaly, a gross exception to the rule. And I decided that if I were to have a family one day, the emphasis would not be on money or on business or on careers or on getting whatever you can in any way you can. There was a better script to follow and a better way to raise children. I knew it. I just struggled to figure out why Miles Larson didn't know it. Maybe the strategy that Miles' father employed, throwing Miles out of the house at age 18, was not the best parenting model he could have used. If he only knew how things would end up.

  Gail and I had a late lunch before driving over to the house that Amanda had secured for our meeting with Billy. It was on a quiet street lined with silver maple trees, and there was an 'In Escrow' sign in the front yard. We arrived a little before 4:00pm and Amanda was waiting by the front door.