Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  Ellen took a deep breath. "I don't know when it happened, but visits from the police are starting to become a regular event now. We've had to bail him out of jail half a dozen times. He leaves and doesn't came back for days. Oh, he's a grownup, he can do what he wants, but sometimes he comes home disheveled and looking like he hasn't slept in forever."

  "Does he talk to you about things?"

  "Not much. I've tried, believe me. Ted was the model child growing up. Polite, respectful. Oh, he was always athletic and good looking and he could get by on that for a while. Played baseball, football, basketball, soccer, you name it. And he was smart. You know he was offered a football scholarship to Stanford. They said he would have gotten in just on his grades alone. But they had already recruited a five-star quarterback; that's why he went up to Oregon. You know, schoolwork came easy to him. Everything just came easy to him. Maybe too easy."

  "Sounds like the golden child."

  "Yes, and Marvin, his dad, sensed that and tried to toughen him up. He'd pitch batting practice to him and intentionally throw at his head. Oh, he'd be wearing a helmet, it wasn't dangerous. But at the same time Ted was shooting baskets or throwing a football, Marv would quiz him on everything from math equations to world history to Peyton Manning's passing statistics. Made him think about multiple topics at once."

  "So his father was involved with his sports career," I mulled, aimlessly.

  "Oh yes. One night during his sophomore year, after Ted played poorly in a big game, his father made him walk home. Four miles. Uphill. Rode alongside to make sure he didn't call a friend to give him a ride. Marv had this idea that these tactics would somehow help him handle the stress that comes with being a pro athlete one day."

  I didn't bother to ask how that one worked out. Some people's ideas of child rearing should be vetted through a professional. Ted Wade's dad seemed to think being tough on his son growing up would result in his son being tough-minded as an adult. When executed properly, and with the child knowing he was deeply loved, that strategy might work sometimes. When executed poorly, the results could be disastrous.

  "It sounds like it might have worked to an extent," I said, trying my best to be ingratiating. "He was starting QB at Oregon. Played in the NFL for a couple of years."

  "Yes, we're grateful for all of that. We just need to get him back on the straight and narrow. But it's much harder to do now. He's an adult. He doesn't listen to us anymore."

  "He's his own person. Kids grow up and get to make their own choices."

  "I know. Good and bad. But we've gotten off track. What was this about a shooting? What happened?"

  "This is actually related to his agent. Or former agent. Gilbert Horne. I believe he's a relative."

  "Gil?" she said incredulously. "Yes, he's Ted's uncle, my brother-in-law. Actually ex-brother-in-law. My husband's sister divorced him years ago. What's wrong?"

  "I'm just trying to locate him. There was an incident a few days ago at the Horne residence. Someone fired a gunshot at either him or his wife. Maybe at both of them. No one was hurt, but we've been unable to locate Gil since."

  Ellen raised her arms in resignation. "You know, I can't say as I'm totally shocked. Gil isn't the most savory person and doesn't run with the most upstanding crowd either. I was very concerned when Ted hired him as an agent, but that was Ted's decision. I think Ted helped Gil more than the other way around."

  "How so?"

  "Ted got some of his teammates to sign with Gil for representation. I think Gil leveraged the relationship."

  "Leveraged is an interesting word."

  "I could use others," she said, the bitterness starting to come out.

  "Gil was probably not the best role model," I agreed.

  "No, and once Ted signed that contract, the problems seemed to spiral out of control. I think in college, his life was very structured. Once he moved out into the real world, Ted went under Gil's wing and began to make bad choices."

  "When was the last time you saw Ted?"

  "Yesterday," she said. "He didn't come home last night. But like I said, that's not unusual."

  I tried to find a few reassuring words. Not many sprang to mind. I looked around the magnificent living room and marveled at it. "Anyway, it looks like Gil negotiated a good contract for Ted. I imagine that helped him buy this house."

  Her eyes widened. "Gil nothing. This is the home Ted grew up in. He went to Peninisula High School. He got a big contract, sure, but a lot of that money is gone. That's why he's back living with his parents."

  I drew in a breath. "I'm sorry. I made the mistake of assuming the money he got from the NFL bought this house. It's very impressive."

  "It is a very nice house," she agreed, with a measure of pride. "But you don't have to be a football player or a get-rich-quick artist to buy one of these things."

  "Okay," I said, looking out at the gorgeous view of the Pacific and starting to wonder myself. "What's the secret?"

  "No real secret," she told me. "My husband worked his way up the corporate ladder. He's retired now."

  "What type of work did he do?"

  "He used to be President of Nissan."

  I drank this in. No real secret to living in luxury. Just get a cushy job that pays you millions of dollars.

  *

  It's unusual to find a football coach at home at almost any hour of the day. But when I called Johnny Cleary's number, he picked up and said he was indeed at his house in nearby Rolling Hills. A Tuesday afternoon in April is usually not the busiest time for the head coach of a major college football program. The annual spring game was coming up, which meant spring practice was almost over, the seniors' pro days had been completed, and the NFL draft was still a week away. But there are always things to do, be it check in with future recruits, review tapes from the spring practices or be available for interacting with wealthy alumni. Following the USC Trojans' 12-1 record last season, punctuated with a No. 3 national ranking, Johnny Cleary apparently felt he had earned an occasional afternoon off.

  Johnny's house, while very nice, was nowhere near the grandiose estate the Wades lived in. His was a two-story structure on a good size lot, with a garage that would house only a pair of vehicles. The driveway was nowhere near as long as the Wades' so I parked my Pathfinder on the street.

  "Welcome," Johnny said, as he ushered me in. "I've been meaning to have you and Gail over. I feel especially bad about it since I'm slated to be best man at your wedding."

  "Just prepare a good toast," I smiled.

  "Oh yeah. I've got some things in mind," he smiled back, albeit a tad devilishly.

  "Uh-oh. I think I'll need to vet this."

  "Nah, you'll be fine. A little humility never hurt anyone."

  "I'm sure you're learning about that. Mr. Celebrity," I said.

  "Oh yeah. Being in the public eye has its downside. People I don't even know walk up to me now and act like I'm their best friend. Or have a special play they think I should run."

  We walked into his back yard and sat down on lounge chairs. Johnny poured me a glass of iced tea. I looked out beyond his ranch-style redwood fence and saw vestiges of the ocean in the distance. I guess this is what realtors mean by partial ocean view.

  "You played pro football for 10 years," I said. "So people knew who you were. Back in the day."

  "Yeah, but back then I wore a helmet and hardly anyone saw my face. Even as an assistant, I was pretty much anonymous. Now the TV camera pans over me a few dozen times every game."

  "Just wait until you win a national championship," I said. "Your life will really not be your own."

  Johnny smiled a relax smile. It was always better to see him during the off-season. "I'd live with those consequences," he assured me. Many years ago at USC, Johnny had been among the best cornerbacks in the nation. He played a position at which any failures were highly prominent and success meant remaining relatively inconspicuous. The level of preparation Johnny went through as a player ultimately reaped big di
vidends. In addition to making him into a great player, his tenacity made him well-suited to be a football coach later in life.

  "So what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" he asked. "Not that it isn't good to see you. It's just that social calls aren't really in your DNA."

  "Or yours," I added, and we both laughed. I had known Johnny for over 20 years and we had played together in the secondary at USC. We could go a long time without seeing one another, but when we did, the easy familiarity returned immediately. Friendships like these were golden. And rare.

  "I'm working on a case," I said.

  "Big surprise. Who's in trouble now? Hopefully not one of our guys again."

  "Nope. It's actually an agent. Gilbert Horne. Someone tried to shoot him the other day."

  "And you're looking for the guy who did it."

  "I am."

  "Bet you have a long list to go through," he laughed. "I'm glad I have an alibi."

  "Yeah, there seems to be more than a few people unhappy with him."

  "We've had nothing but problems with agents and their runners. I finally had to close off practices just to limit their access to players. Horne was one of the reasons."

  "I imagine he was aggressive. But I'm also looking for Horne himself."

  "Who's your client?" Johnny asked.

  "Cliff Roper."

  "Jesus" he said, shaking his head.

  "Yeah, another prize."

  "I'm glad my primary concern these days is beating Stanford and Oregon. Mostly that is. Keeping the agents away from the players has become a regular part of a head coach's job these days."

  "I know you had a problem with Cliff last year."

  "Yeah, and I appreciate your getting him out of my hair. Trying to blackmail a player into signing with his agency was disgusting. How can you have him as a client?"

  "I could be wrong, but I think he may have been wrongly accused here. The world can be complicated. Not all the bad guys are bad all the time."

  "And you think that's the case with Roper?"

  "Maybe. Call it a gut-level hunch. And there really are quite a few other people who have motives here."

  Johnny stretched his body and then relaxed. "Anyone you want to talk about?"

  "How about some of his former clients? Patrick Washington, Oscar Romeo, Ted Wade. Maybe Brendan Webster too."

  "Know 'em all. They're from the region. The first three played up at Oregon, I guess that's the connection, Horne went to law school there. We tried to recruit all those guys."

  "Thoughts on them?"

  "Sure. Patrick was the stud. Big, athletic, dominant. Anytime you can pile protoplasm that high, you're willing to take a chance, but Patrick was a sure thing. Hurt to see him pick another school in our conference, but that's how it goes sometimes."

  "Can't land every one."

  "Nope. And every other school recruits hard these days. College sports has hit the big-time. The money involved now is just off the charts."

  "What about the others?"

  "Let me think. Oscar was a big-time hitter, always the hammer, never the nail. Guy was strong as an ox, loved to light things up. Any receiver running a crossing pattern had to be wary of Oscar. He'd lay in the weeds and launch himself into the receiver when the ball arrived, sometimes a little early. He got flagged for a lot of penalties at Oregon. Still does in the league, and now they're taking a big stand against spearing. Too many concussions, on both sides of the ball. I sometimes wonder if Oscar didn't get his bell rung too many times himself."

  "I know that from my own experience," I winced. "Two big, quick guys banging helmets when they're coming at each other at full speed. Both of them pay a price."

  "True. Even quarterbacks aren't immune to this, but the league tries harder to protect them."

  "What do you know about Ted Wade?"

  "Oh, he was a guy we really wanted. He had the classic build, 6-foot-5" 240 pounds. Definitely a specimen. Smart kid, fast, had a good arm. Should've made it in the NFL but something happened. Too much partying, I don't know. Rumor was he used a little too much HGH."

  HGH stood for Human Growth Hormone and was not an uncommon supplement for athletes these days. Guys who took it were quickly able to bench press far more weight than they ever could without it, and as a result their bodies soon became taut and ripped.

  "And Brendan Webster?"

  "Great athlete, sad story. Injuries took him down. I see him with a few of our former players sometimes. More of a hanger-on these days. So what does this all have to do with Gilbert Horne?"

  "All these guys were represented by him at one point. And it sounds like he didn't do such a good job at it."

  "Generally not a reason to shoot someone," Johnny pointed out wryly. "But when there's a lot of money on the table, things can get ugly. Especially if there's something personal at stake."

  "For some guys, there's nothing more personal than money."

  I thought back to when Johnny and I played together at USC. Our ultimate goal was to go into pro football. Playing in the NFL has been called a really bad job that pays really well. But for us, money was just one motivating factor. There was also the challenge of seeing how good we were, and whether we could succeed at the next level. And there was nothing quite like basking in the deafening cheers of a packed stadium.

  Relative to the times, good players made a nice living back then, but it was peanuts compared to the huge contracts being thrown around today. Johnny played in the league for 10 years, but my football career was de-railed by a knee injury, chasing a car burglary suspect across the USC campus during my final semester. It led me into a satisfying career in law enforcement, but lucrative would never be a word to describe it. Whatever regrets I had had vanished many years ago. Sometimes your path in life is pre-ordained.

  "I could see where any of these guys might throw a few punches if they got steamed," Johnny said. "I'm still having a problem thinking a shooting could be financially related. Now I'm not saying one of them couldn't have been involved in this. But if they were, there was probably something more at play here."

  "You have some good detective skills there, Coach."

  "I'll let you play the gumshoe role. But did you drive all the way down here just for this?"

  "No, I was in the neighborhood. The connection with those guys is Ted Wade. I just came from his house, he lives nearby. Horne is his uncle. "

  Johnny looked off into the distance. "Last I heard about Ted, was he was checked into Betty Ford."

  I looked at him. "Didn't know he was in rehab. His mother said he had problems, but I'm surprised she didn't mention that."

  *

  The drive back down off the peninsula was a little faster than it was going up. It was mid-afternoon, and before heading home, I decided to take a detour back to the Horne residence in Laurel Canyon. If nothing else, I was going to give Cliff Roper a day's work for a day's pay.

  I doubted April Horne wanted to talk further, so I decided to park nearby and see if anything might happen to make my trek back to Laurel Canyon worthwhile. I pulled into a space up the street that offered a clear view of both the front door and the empty driveway. I whittled away the time listening to sports talk on the radio. The hosts were busy debating which college players would be taken in the first round of the NFL draft. Nothing happened for an hour, except the blathering of radio hosts needing to fill air time. Then something did.

  A pair of near-identical Mercedes pulled into the driveway. April Horne got out of a white one, Gilbert Horne emerged from one that was silver. Both had paper license plates, indicating the vehicles were new. Almost immediately the pair began to argue. Gil Horne was gesticulating wildly with his arms, April stood with her hands on her hips. I rolled down my windows as the argument escalated into a screaming match. No real information was being disseminated, other than the mutual feeling that the other person was not morally fit to crawl with snakes, and had a long way to go before achieving the status of a cockroach. A few neighbors
walked outside to get a better glimpse of the ruckus. Finally, April stormed back into her white Mercedes and peeled away, and Gil stalked into the house. The neighbors walked back into their homes, looking a little disappointed that more of a show was not going to be performed.

  I waited a few minutes and then rang the doorbell. Little would be gained by going after April. But apparently little was going to be gained by trying to speak with Gil either. After a solid 10 minutes of leaning on his doorbell and knocking loudly, I gave up. Either he was wearing ear plugs and sound asleep, or he was simply not in the mood to speak with anyone. No matter. I could always come back tomorrow.

  The rush hour drive home was long and weary. I got back to the apartment before Gail, so I started making dinner. I chopped onions and peppers and tossed them into a pan with a few dashes of olive oil, then sautéing them until they were soft and tender. Taking the pan off the stove, I waited until Gail got home before I resumed cooking, grilling some chicken-apple sausages and slicing into the loaf of rosemary bread I had picked up from La Brea Bakery earlier in the morning. We ate, talked about the events in our day and then snuggled on the couch for a while before going to bed.

  I slept later than normal the next morning. Apparently Ms. Linzmeier was sleeping in also. Up at 6:30 a.m., I went into the kitchen to start brewing a pot of coffee. At that point my phone buzzed. It was a local number, but one I didn't recognize.

  "Yes?"

  "Burnside, this is Roper."

  "Good morning. Early for you, isn't it?"

  "Let's just say the night hasn't ended."

  "Uh-huh," I said, wondering what he had been up to now. "Good time?"

  "You haven't heard?"

  "I guess not."

  "Geez, do you even bother to watch the evening news?"

  I ignored the crack. "Not last night."

  "I need you to go and talk to Honey."

  "Who's that?"

  "My daughter."

  I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure what was more odd, that Roper had a child or that Honey was her name. My silence apparently spoke volumes, and Roper was remarkably good at reading minds.