by David Chill
My iPhone app told me the 10 Freeway going east out of Santa Monica was solid red, so I took a leisurely drive along Sunset Boulevard. The scenic path snaked its way past an eclectic mixture of neighborhoods including Brentwood, UCLA, and Beverly Hills. Rather than freeway gridlock, I glided past rustic canyons, scenic vistas, and lovely manicured lawns. The view ultimately morphed into the bohemian shops and trendy nightclubs of West Hollywood. Finally, I turned onto La Brea and reached the more urban enclave known as the Wilshire district. While no longer as fashionable as it might have been decades ago, the area was a testament to how aging was not always a bad thing. Whether it be whores or old buildings, respectability can be acquired if you last long enough.
I found street parking at a meter and went up to see Harold Stevens, my friendly insurance investigator. I had known Harold for years and he, more than anyone, was responsible for keeping me solvent during the slow periods. Fraud was big business in L.A., and there seemed to be a never-ending stream of work coming out of Harold's office.
Walking through an art deco lobby, I took a slow elevator up to the 11th floor and then walked a good 50 feet along uneven carpeting before I found his office.
"Knock, knock," I said, opening a door with the name Differential Mutual Insurance, Claims Analysis embossed in old style gold lettering.
A tall, portly man in his 50s with male pattern baldness got up from behind his large desk. Whatever hair he still had was on the side of his head, and it was always jet black. The idea of shaving his head was an anathema to Harold, who was clearly old school. We had known each other for 10 years. starting when I was still on the job at the LAPD. He reached over and we shook hands.
"Burnside," he exclaimed. "Thanks for coming so quickly. But we could have done this over the phone."
"Not a problem, Harold. I needed to be on this side of town. And I hate being cooped up in my office all day. I like seeing the outside world. Especially on a Monday."
"I like seeing the outside world too," he said in a resigned voice. "But here I am."
"For you that's probably a form of golden handcuffs."
"Yes, yes, it's a double edged sword," he smiled. "That's where you come in. Have a seat. Let me tell you about this case."
"I'm all ears," I said, pulling up a comfortable chair facing his desk. Unlike the spartan decor in my office, Harold's surroundings featured hardwood flooring, mini-blinds drawn halfway, and a beautiful oak desk. There was enough paperwork on his desktop to communicate he was a busy executive.
"Okay," he started. "Listen to this. A woman takes out a renter's policy a couple of months ago. Name's Noreen Giles. Moves into a bungalow, not too far from here, actually. One of those adobe-style places they used to build back in the 1920s."
"Those types of houses are nice if they're kept up."
"And it seems this one was. Just off of Cahuenga, near Melrose. So she has this renter's policy for a couple months. Then she goes and files a claim last week, saying she lost over $100,000 worth of valuables in a burglary. There's the usual electronics equipment, some artwork, and too much cash lying around. But most of the claim involves jewelry."
"Isn't there a limit on how much carriers will pay for jewelry losses?"
"Yes and it's normally about a thousand dollars. Except when the insured takes out a floater for individual pieces that are very expensive."
"And Ms. Giles took out a floater."
"She took out quite a number of floaters. They were all appraised when the policy was written. Seemed legit at the time. I mean this is L.A., there are some people out there with a lot of dough."
"Sure. Any other red flags? Other than the claim is large and was filed right after the policy was issued?"
"Yeah," Harold said, wiping his face with a large hand. "She had receipts for everything. Mostly from Harry Kingston Jewelers."
I whistled softly. "Champagne tastes. And you don't think she's just well organized."
"That's a maybe yes and a maybe no. My gut says no."
"What does she do for a living?" I asked.
"Realtor. Same as her husband. Can't imagine they're prospering in this economy. They advertise themselves as Giles & Giles, a real estate partnership."
"Sounds romantic."
"Yeah. Hopefully when you and Gail get married you can separate business and pleasure. The two of you both having careers related to law enforcement."
"That should be the least of our problems," I said. Gail Pepper and I had been together for almost four years. For much of it we were separated by distance while she was earning her law degree up at Berkeley. She finished last June and started working for the L.A. City Attorney's office at the beginning of this year.
"Hey, how's Gail holding up with everything? The women are the ones who do all the work when it comes to weddings. Our job is to basically show up and say I do."
"She's fine. But I'm handling a few things," I said, suddenly struggling to remember what they were.
"Uh-huh. When I got married, all I really had to do was make certain I had the address for the church. That and write some checks. The big date's coming up for you, huh?"
"One month," I swallowed. "It's getting closer."
"I'm hearing something less than exuberance."
"Oh, it's nothing. Gail's great, I've got the perfect partner for me. It's just a big step. An adjustment."
"At your age, absolutely. but you'll adjust. This is going to be good for you," Harold said. "Once a guy gets past 40, it's tough to hook up with someone. You get set in your ways. And that's why you need a woman in your life. Creates a good balance."
"True," I said.
"How's Gail liking her new job?"
"Loves it so far. She's prosecuting a ring of people caught stealing letters out of mailboxes. They were mostly after the bill payments so they could wash the checks."
"Nice world we live in," he said dryly. "But we know that from our jobs."
"There are still a lot of good people around," I pointed out. "We just see too much of the underbelly."
"Well, I'm glad you finally found someone nice," he smiled.
"I was waiting for the right girl."
"And you got her. Don't mess it up."
I smiled. "I will do my utmost best."
"Hopefully I'll see you before the wedding."
"Hopefully I'll get paid quickly by the Differential. Weddings today are expensive."
Harold smiled as I got up to leave. "I'm sure you'll finish up on Mr. and Mrs. Giles before then. But I know what you mean. Everything's expensive these days. Wait'll you have kids."
I smiled too, although a bit more apprehensively. "One step at a time, my friend. One step at a time."
*
The Hollywood Division of the LAPD was located about ten minutes away from Harold Stevens' office, a few blocks west of Vine and a block south of Sunset. The Division was in a nondescript red-brick building that was off the beaten path, enough so that tourists would never notice it, but still set in the heart of Hollywood. While this area had been seedy for many years, a redevelopment project was slowly starting to make progress. Some new office buildings had been constructed, and some nicer shops and restaurants were springing up. But a complete turnaround of the Hollywood district was going to take a while.
I stowed my .38 special in the middle compartment of my Pathfinder, not wanting to have it confiscated after walking through the metal detector. Walking purposefully down the hallway, I quickly found the office I was looking for. Rick Taggart was a former colleague, a detective I had known for years. But when I looked around, his chair was empty and his desktop was uncharacteristically tidy. Nearby sat a short, stocky, barrel-chested plainclothes officer. He had short dark hair and muscles that were bulging out of his short-sleeve shirt.
"Hi," I said, approaching him. "Would you happen to know if Detective Taggart is around?"
"He's on vacation. Gone to Maui, lucky stiff. Can I help you?"
"The name's Burnside," I
said, handing him my card. "I was hoping to speak with him about a case I'm on."
"He'll be back next week. I'm Sean Mulligan. I got a few minutes," he said, and motioned for me to take a seat. "Your name sounds familiar."
"I get that a lot."
He peered at me. "You play football?"
"I did. Played at USC."
Mulligan smiled. "I remember now. I wish I could have played there. But USC didn't recruit me because I'm only 5-foot-9. Too short for a linebacker. At least in their book."
"Did you play somewhere else?"
"Fresno State. The highlight of my career was the night we beat SC in the Freedom Bowl. Walking off the field that night, it felt like I got vindicated."
"I remember. I was watching that game from the stands," I said, cringing at the bad memory. The game was held on a cold, rainy night down in Anaheim, and the Trojans didn't play well. It later came out that one of the ball boys hated USC and was keeping the football dry when Fresno State was on offense. When USC had the ball, he made sure it had been soaking in water and was difficult to throw properly.
"Bad night to be at that game," he sympathized. "You probably got drenched."
"It's never fun to play in a downpour either. But I know that when you're winning, you don't notice it as much."
"Oh yeah," he smiled. "That's a fact."
I looked across at Sean. "Been with the department a while?"
"A good while," he laughed. "Spent four years in the army. Started here after my tour ended."
"Were you over in the sandbox?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Afghanistan mostly. Glad to be back. This job is easy by comparison. The land mines in this city are easier to spot."
"I can imagine. I spent 13 years on the job here. Worked out of the Broadway Division."
"Uniform?"
"Mostly. Spent the last few in plainclothes," I said.
"Why'd you leave?"
"Long story," I sighed.
"I've heard 'em all," he shrugged. "What's going on today?"
"Does the name Gilbert Horne ring a bell?"
Mulligan shook his head yes. "Sure," he said. "The other night over on Lookout Mountain. I assisted on that one." He turned to a computer and typed a few things. "Yeah, here it is. I remember. It was the wife, April Horne, who filed the complaint. Shots fired at a residence, we came away with two bullets lodged in the exterior of the house."
"Anything else?"
"What's your angle?"
"I have a client who's been tagged as a person of interest."
"Oh yeah. The business partner. What's his name again?"
"Cliff Roper."
"Roper, right. The wife said the gunman was after her husband. But the husband wasn't around when we spoke to her. She said he feared for his life, so he went into hiding. Disappeared."
"She say where the husband was?"
"Nope," he said. "Guess they don't trust the police."
"How many shots were fired?"
"Complainant reported a series of shots, but we only found two bullets. Forensics went over them after they pulled them from the outside wall. They were 9mm, could have come from a Glock. The wife said her husband was having a dispute with his business partner. The business partner owns a Glock. Not hard to connect the dots."
"Were you the one who followed up with Roper?"
"No, the investigating officer is Jim Johnson. But I doubt he got anything, or else I would have heard. There are a lot of Glocks out there, we can't just pin this on the partner. Not with what we have so far. The odd thing was that Roper said his gun had just been stolen. Very convenient timing."
"I know. He said he didn't bother to file a report."
Mulligan shrugged again. "Business relationships go sour sometimes. I've seen more than a few of these. It's a variation on a domestic dispute."
"Is this Jim Johnson around?" I asked.
"No, he comes in later. I can let him know you were here." Mulligan pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down a phone number. "You can reach him on his cell if you want."
"Thanks," I said. "You've been very helpful. P.I.s don't always get a lot of cooperation from the department."
Mulligan smiled. "I played at Fresno State, but I've always been an SC fan at heart. Grew up in the O.C. The Trojans are big down in Orange County. I have to warn you about Johnson, though."
"Don't tell me."
"Yeah," he smiled. "Johnson hates USC. He's a UCLA guy. Bleeds blue and gold."
Chapter 3
I did a bit of research on my iPad and learned that Patrick Washington, one of Horne's former clients, lived a few blocks north of Sunset in Beverly Hills. For me, that was good news; it was on my way home.
Beverly Hills is one of the most famous communities in the world. Sitting between Bel Air and Hollywood, it is an independent city. Its boundaries extend from what's considered a relatively low-rent district south of Olympic Boulevard, up through the foothills leading to Mulholland Drive, the highest point in Los Angeles. Of course, the so-called low rents were at a level the average Joe could never begin to afford.
Patrick Washington's home was on Roxbury Drive, in a beautiful section of this beautiful city, albeit not the pinnacle. The house was a large, stately, two-story structure, painted white with black trim, and surrounded by palm trees. The circular driveway had a number of expensive cars parked unevenly, and they included a Porsche, a Jaguar and a Lamborghini. I pulled my black Pathfinder next to them, suddenly wishing I had taken the time to have washed it this week.
I rang the doorbell, and after about 60 seconds the door opened and I found myself facing a very large human being. Patrick Washington was black, stood 6-foot-8 and had to weigh at least 325 pounds. Not that he was soft, mind you. He was very big and very solid.
"Help you?" he asked.
"Hi Patrick. Name's Burnside," I said, and flashed my gold P.I. badge, which really wasn't a badge so much as it was a fancy-looking plastic shield. I had designed it to impress people and throw them off guard. At first, it looked like I was with the police, which is enough to give even the toughest guy a moment of pause. By the time they learned I was no longer with the LAPD, I had commanded their attention, and they were less likely to slam the door in my face. Even if they did, I was often able to pry some information out of them first.
"What's up?" he asked cautiously.
"I'd like to talk to you for a minute. It's about the shooting that happened at Gilbert Horne's house."
"Oh yeah" he said. "I heard about that."
"May I come in?"
He opened the door and led me into a living room that had a long, gray leather couch and a number of recliners spaced around the room. An 80-inch 4K TV was mounted on the wall, and three or four game controllers were sitting on the couch. Some voices could be heard from another room. Patrick moved the controllers to a glass coffee table and motioned for me to sit down.
"So how can I help you?" he asked.
"I understand you were a client of Gilbert Horne."
"Used to be. I fired his sorry ass a few weeks ago. That punk messed up my deal with the Raiders. He faxed my contract an hour late. Tried to blame it on everyone but him. Cost me millions. Because of him, I probably won't be able to play on the West Coast this year. We're looking at Green Bay or Cincinnati. I'm an L.A. guy, grew up in Gardena. But I'm gonna be freezing my nuts off because my stupid agent couldn't do his job right."
"You sound really ticked off."
"Uh-huh. This guy made a ton of money off me, and he couldn't do the most basic thing like fax a contract on time. And now, the best deal I can land gets me $1 million a year less, and no guaranteed money."
"That's a rotten deal."
"Tell me about it."
"You know any other players, clients who had a problem with him?"
"Yeah, there's a lot of them. He represented some basketball players too. Not A-listers, but guys that can play pro ball. He didn't negotiate their contracts right either. No guaranteed m
oney and a couple are looking to play in Europe next season. Got them on the wrong NBA team, was a bad fit. They didn't play up to their potential."
"You can add me to that list," boomed a deep voice, and another large human being, although not as large as Patrick, strolled into the living room. "My deal with the Chargers earned me a lot less than guys who couldn't carry my jockstrap. Plus Horne screwed up my shoe deal."
Into the room walked a muscular, good-looking young man, solid and thick, and not an ounce of fat on him. He had the golden skin tone of someone who might have been from one of the Pacific Islands, but his face was unusual and it was hard to pinpoint his ethnicity.
"I'm Burnside," I said, holding out a hand, which he shook with the grip of someone used to lifting 300-pound weights every day.
"Oscar Romeo," he said.
"Sounds like you were both pretty ticked off at your agent."
"We were," Oscar responded. "But what's your interest here?"
"I'm just doing some background work on the shooting. Strictly routine."
"Okay," Oscar said. "So things were good in the beginning. Horne did some things right by us. Got us some good money."
"He also did some quirky things," said Patrick.
"That's right," Oscar laughed. "He once told us if anyone ever needed to pee in a cup, he could always get piss that was trustworthy."
Patrick laughed as well, but more caustically. "Yeah, players who were using figured they could count on him when they suspected a drug test was coming. These guys didn't know the league had changed the rules on drug tests. Made you take a leak right in front of them. Gil said he could always get things done. Usually the things that fell somewhere in the gray area."