Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  I took this in, but felt the need to change the subject. "You guys play together growing up?"

  "Yeah, started in Pop Warner. Then high school. Down in Gardena. Same class."

  "Must have been a terrific team."

  "CIF champs our senior year," Oscar said proudly.

  "I'm sure that felt great," I said.

  "You play football?"

  "I did. Played at Culver City High. We made it to the CIF title game my senior year. I also played at USC. About a million years ago."

  They glanced at each other and smiled. "Not our favorite opponent. We went to Oregon," Oscar said. "Had too many tough losses against SC. What position did you play?"

  "Free safety."

  "A safety?" he teased. "Oooh. You must have been pretty smart."

  "Still am."

  "Ha! Yeah, for me the physical part of the game came easy. I play Mike linebacker. Learning to bark out the right defensive signals took awhile."

  "It's tricky," I acknowledged. "The simpler the offense, the more complex the defense has to be."

  Oscar agreed enthusiastically. "You got that right. Otherwise the quarterback can just pick you apart. Learned that from experience. Sounds like you know the game."

  "Some things never leave you," I said, and decided to move the conversation along. "So tell me something," I asked. "How did guys like you ever get hooked up with this agent, Horne?"

  "It was through Ted Wade," Oscar said. "Played with us at Oregon, came in the same year as us. Good guy. He said he had an uncle who was an attorney, represented a few MMA guys, Mixed Martial Arts. Now he was looking to represent football players. We met him, seemed sharp, seemed hungry. We went with our gut."

  "It's tough out there," Patrick pointed out. "We had agents approaching us all the time. Trying to figure out who was real just wasn't easy. Figured we'd go with someone who had a connection with us."

  "Ted Wade," I recalled. "He didn't play very long in the league, did he?"

  "Nope," Patrick said. "For a QB to make it in pro football it takes more than just a live arm and a big body. He's gotta be mentally tough, be a leader. Ted was a smart guy, but he wasn't a hard worker. Coaches liked to say he looked like Tarzan, played like Jane. He partied a little too much."

  "Senior year in college, we voted him team captain," Oscar said. "On the outside, everyone thought it was because he was a good leader. But within the team, we just wanted him to grow up. We figured making him captain might give him some responsibility."

  "Did it work?" I asked.

  "It helped," he acknowledged. "Our senior year was a good year, we won the conference and played in the Rose Bowl. And Ted, he was a first round draft pick, went to the Bills. Got some really good money at first, hung on for a couple of years. But the NFL is no nonsense. It's a grown man's business. You either make it your focus in life or you're out."

  "Where does Ted live?"

  "Down in P.V." he said. P.V. meant Palos Verdes, a beautiful, hilly peninsula in the South Bay that overlooked the ocean. Next to Beverly Hills, it was probably the most expensive area in L.A.

  "Lot of local guys play up at Oregon now?" I asked.

  "Yeah," Patrick said. "They recruit heavy down here. A lot more talent in So Cal than in Oregon. For me, I wanted to get out of the hood, get some separation. Playing up in Eugene was far enough away so we didn't have to be around certain guys. But close enough so we could get home easy enough. It's a lot closer than Alabama or Florida State. Those were the main offers I was considering."

  "Makes sense. Anything else you can tell me about Horne? Something that might help figure out why someone might want to shoot him? I know you guys were angry about what he did, but I can't imagine your taking that step."

  Oscar looked at me. "I heard he had money problems. But Gil always had money problems. First contract I signed with him, we got my bonus check and he took me right down to the bank and opened accounts for both of us. That's how he got his commission."

  I didn't bother to tell him that that's how this normally worked, the teams don't write separate checks to the agents. It's up to the agent to get his commission straight from the player. "What about his partner, Cliff Roper? You know him well?'

  "Not really," Patrick said. "I've met him a few times. When we were over at their offices, Roper would sometimes barge in and interrupt our meetings. It seemed to get on Gil's nerves. But Gil was our agent so when I'd go up to the office I mostly met with him."

  I remembered something. "Either of you know a guy named Brendan Webster?"

  They looked at each other. "Sure," Oscar said. "Why?"

  "Just wondering. His name came up."

  There was an empty silence for a long minute. Finally Oscar spoke. "We played with him at a high school all-star game. Must of been a few years ago. He was at Texas A&M, but he kinda went downhill. Injuries and stuff."

  "Still see him?"

  "Yeah," Patrick said. "He hangs around. People use Brendan for security now. You would think big guys like us don't need it, and we pretty much don't. But when we're out in public, at a club or something, it helps to keep strangers at a distance. We're out to have a good time, not sign autographs and pose for pictures. It's easier to have security say no."

  "Okay. Any other thoughts?"

  Oscar thought for a moment. "You talk to Horne's wife?"

  "Not yet," I asked. "Why?"

  "Her head's a little messed up. Not to say she had anything to do with this. But they had problems. You know. Marriage and all that. She's a lot younger than him."

  "Okay," I said. "Any idea where Horne might be now? I understand his wife said he was in hiding."

  They both looked at each other and smiled. "He liked to hang out at this hotel in the Marina. The Seaside."

  I made a mental note. "Anything else?"

  "He owns a car dealership by the beach," Oscar said. "That's where we both got our rides. Mine's the blue Lamborghini. If the dealership closes, I may be doing the upkeep myself."

  "Know anything about cars?" I asked.

  "Actually, yeah. Dad owned a repair shop in Torrance for years. I used to work there part-time during the summers. Once I got drafted into the NFL, I helped Dad retire."

  "Nice," I commented. "But Horne must have been doing great at one point to be able to buy a dealership that sold cars like that."

  Patrick laughed. "Yeah, but that's not how he got it."

  "How'd he get it?"

  "He won it."

  "Won it?"

  "Oh yeah," Oscar laughed. "In a poker game. Pretty high stakes, huh? But that was Horne, that was what we loved about him at first. Guy lives on the edge. I'll give him that. But he's dealing with a lot of adversity right now. They say adversity builds character, but in Gil's case, I'm not so sure."

  "I'm not so sure of that either," I said. "For most people, going through adversity tends to reveal character rather than build it."

  Chapter 4

  Bay City Motor Cars was located on Lincoln Boulevard, about a half-mile from Pacific Coast Highway. The dealership was close to my apartment, making it a convenient last stop of the day. I parked my dusty Pathfinder a block away and walked over. A homeless man lay asleep in front of a shuttered florist, his leg strategically wrapped around a shopping cart overloaded with personal belongings. Most of them were stuffed in trash bags.

  I walked through the lot purposefully, avoiding eye contact with a group of salespeople who stood milling around. Entering the palatial showroom, the air suddenly became more rarefied, and a cool quiet atmosphere draped the room. The floors featured a polished white marble and the high beamed ceiling stretched a good 40 feet in the air. I picked up a brochure which had photos of the latest featured models, along with a variety of metrics delineating how each vehicle was better than the one before. In the last section were photos and biographies of the employees. A brief note from the owners was on the back pages, thanking customers for their patronage. One of the owners was Duncan Whitestone. The
other was Gilbert Horne.

  "So which one would you like?" asked a handsome, middle-aged man wearing a gold v-neck sweater and a broad smile on his face.

  I smiled back. "Can't decide. They're all spectacular."

  "They are, aren't they?" he agreed, and extended his hand for a shake. His big palm was warm and soft and he held mine for just a split second too long. "I'm Jason Greene. What are you driving now?"

  My mind raced. "I used to drive a Mercedes," I said, thinking back to that one instance, a few years ago, when I needed to drive an inebriated client back to his home.

  "Oh, Mercedes builds wonderful machines," he gushed. "And they're actually a great value."

  "Are they?"

  "Oh my, yes," he said, beginning to build a head of steam. "They totally hold their worth over time. Doesn't matter when you're done with it, you can always sell a pre-owned Benz. People in this town love Mercedes. These vehicles can be 20 years old and someone always will want it. Driving a Mercedes makes a statement about you."

  I shuddered to think what statement my Pathfinder made about me and decided to change the subject. "I'm actually here to see Gilbert Horne. Is he available?"

  Jason Greene's smile disappeared quickly. "His office is just down the hall," he said, his voice suddenly losing its brimming enthusiasm. He pointed a finger toward a corner of the showroom. I followed his direction and glanced down the hall, but when I turned back to thank Mr. Greene, he was nowhere to be seen.

  I walked slowly down the corridor taking things in. The walls were lined with artwork. At the end of the hall was a vestibule with a handsome, well-groomed, middle-aged woman sitting at a desk. Though she was seated, I could tell she was tall, with a decidedly statuesque figure. A younger woman, tall and shapely herself, stood in front of her desk, chatting away with her. Two offices sat nearby, both with their doors closed.

  "May I help you?" asked the woman seated at the desk, whose name plate read, "Betty Luttinger."

  "Hello Betty," I said. "I'm looking for Mr. Horne."

  She frowned. "Did you have an appointment?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Oh, Mr. Horne doesn't come in much. And when he does it's at very irregular times. He comes and goes," she said.

  "How about Mr. Whitestone?"

  "He's gone for the day, I'm sorry. May I ask what this is regarding?"

  I handed her my card. "It's a personal matter. When do you think I can get on Mr. Whitestone's calendar?"

  "Oh, he's usually here in the mornings. But he's very busy. Perhaps I can call you with some times? But it would help if I knew more about what this was regarding."

  "To be honest, I'm looking for Mr. Horne and was hoping to get some insight as to where he might be. He hasn't been seen in a few days. Some people are worried. I was hoping Mr. Whitestone might be able to shed some light."

  "Gil is missing?" frowned the younger woman standing next to us. "Do you think something is wrong?"

  "Hard to say," I answered. "That's why I'm here."

  "I'll call you as soon as I can," Betty said, concerned. "This is very disturbing news."

  I smiled at her. "Appreciate it."

  "I'll walk you out," the young woman said. "My name is Christy. Christy Vale."

  Christy was nicely dressed and nicely coiffed. She was both slender and buxom, and her thick, golden blonde hair cascaded down past her shoulders. Her eyes were large and green, and she had the kind of high cheek bones that enhanced an already pretty face. She wore a smartly tailored cream-colored business suit, but under it was a low-cut scarlet top that revealed plenty.

  "How long have you worked here?" I asked.

  "Oh, a few years. This place is like home. In fact, my husband works here too. We actually met at the dealership. He's the service manager."

  "You work at the same place. Is it hard to separate your home life and your business life?"

  "Oh, sometimes," she said with a sad smile. "We try not to let work interfere with our off-hours, but this place is such a big part of what we do. Why do you ask?"

  "I'm getting married soon. My fiancé works in a similar field."

  She smiled warily. "It does take some effort to separate work and play. Taking breaks from each other occasionally helps. But congratulations. Are you planning a big wedding?"

  "Not really. Maybe 50 or 60 people. We're trying to keep it intimate."

  "I think those are the best kind," she said, as we walked onto the lot. "We had over 200 guests at our wedding, it was crazy. Seemed like everyone from the dealership was invited. But we were lucky. The owners gave us a nice big bonus before the wedding, and that took care of most of the cost."

  "That's great," I said. "If you can't be rich, have rich friends."

  "Oh, isn't that the truth! Especially in this business, things are so up and down. Thankfully Isaac is on salary here. When I make a few sales it's great, but some months are better than others."

  "I know that for a fact," I agreed. My business had more than its share of peaks and valleys.

  "Listen," she said, lowering her voice. "Would you like to take one of these out for a spin? You never know when you might be in the market."

  I walked over to a red Porsche 911 Targa and did a circuit around the vehicle. The Monroney sticker on the driver's window listed the price at over $100,000. "I don't know that this is a market I'll get to for quite some time," I said. If ever.

  "Even still, you never know," she said. "I just need your driver's license to show the manager."

  I looked back at the gleaming Porsche. "Sure," I said, wondering why she was bothering with this. Most salespeople qualified a buyer right away. Judging from my attire, which consisted of a casual shirt, tan dockers and a pair of Nikes, it was unlikely that I fit the profile of a prospective Porsche buyer.

  Christy Vale glanced at my driver's license. "Oh, you live in Santa Monica, too. And north of Montana!" she gushed excitedly. "Impressive. When the real estate market comes back, you might very well be in the market for a car like this."

  She skipped off to get the keys. I didn't bother to tell her that I had a rent-controlled apartment and my most expensive possession was an 8- year old SUV. The volatile swings of the L.A. real estate market left my finances completely unaffected. I walked around the blatantly expensive sports car three times, and it still didn't seem like anything I would ever buy. Even if I hit the lottery, I would probably just trade in my Pathfinder for a newer version of the same model. Maybe add leather seats.

  Christy came back and climbed into the driver's seat, and motioned for me to enter on the other side. "I have to be the one to pull out of the lot. Something to do with our insurance."

  Steering the vehicle slowly through a ridiculously expensive cascade of motor cars, she pulled into the street. Despite Lincoln Boulevard being crowded with cars, she expertly navigated the vehicle in and out of traffic. We sped north toward Montana Avenue, as she simultaneously engaged the clutch and shifted the transmission in a smooth and effortless manner.

  "You drive like a pro," I commented.

  "Oh, I'm good at working a stick," she smiled. "Lots of experience."

  We reached San Vicente Boulevard, where she pulled over to the curb. "Look, I actually was hoping to talk with you in private," she confided.

  "I'm hurt. You mean I don't strike you as a Porsche buyer?"

  Christy threw back her head in laughter. "No, not at all. Maybe if you had on gold chains, wore an $80 haircut and got your fingernails manicured."

  "Obviously not me. So what's on your mind?"

  "It's about Gil," she said, her smile slowly evaporating and a more somber expression taking hold. Looking at her closer, I noticed a small scar over her left eye.

  "Go on," I said.

  "I'm really worried about him," she said, taking a deep breath. "Gil is a good friend and, you know, he's been very generous to us. Paying for our wedding was all Gil's idea, Duncan didn't want to give us any bonus at all. But Gil was the one who helpe
d out a lot. He's been really good to us. We owe him so much."

  "Does Gil have any problems you knew about?"

  Christy sighed. "He has more than his share. Seems to come with the territory of being rich. Gil is nice, but his life is so disorganized. He gets distracted easily. I heard he was having cash flow problems lately. And I'm sure that led to his marital problems."

  "How long's he been married?"

  "Oh, about four or five years. I'm not sure if this is his second marriage or third. Or maybe even fourth. He's such a flirt, it's no surprise he moves from girl to girl. But he picked a real bitch with this one. April is out for one thing. Money. And once the money spigot gets turned off, I'm sure she'll hook up with the next rich guy."

  "Did you know someone fired a gunshot at Gil the other day?"

  Christy's green eyes widened even more, and it was apparent she had not been aware. Her mouth became slightly agape but then closed quickly. "That's awful," she managed.

  "Any thoughts on who might have been involved?"

  She started to shake her head and then stopped. Looking down, she tried to focus her thoughts. I waited until she composed herself. "Gil owed people money. Some bad people. Really bad people. He was worried. He even got a hold of a pistol. For protection. Although I don't think he even knows how to use it properly. I'm more concerned he'd use it on himself before he'd pull the trigger on someone else."

  I made a mental note of this. "Any idea who he was involved with?" I asked.

  She looked down and shook her head no, and I sensed she was shutting down. Time to move in and push some buttons.

  "You seem to know a lot about Gil and his issues. That's unusual for an employee. If you know something and aren't telling, it could get him into more trouble. I'm trying to help here. Your silence might actually get him killed."

  She gasped for a moment at the thought and then swallowed hard. "Some people came by a few days ago. A couple of goons. They marched into Gil's office and locked the door. Betty said she heard a scuffle but none of us could get in. We heard Gil keep saying, 'Okay, okay, you'll get it, you'll get it.' They kept demanding something called a vig or maybe it was vigorish. Then they walked out and Gil was just white as a sheet. He wouldn't say what was going on. But he left the office right away and he hasn't been back since."