Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  "Oh, Burnside. You've really gotten your pecker in a wringer, haven't you?"

  "Mine feels pretty good right now. How does yours feel?"

  "You just don't know what you're looking at, do you?"

  "Sure I do. I'm a looking at a lazy detective. I'm looking at a stupid cop who takes the easy way out. I'm looking at someone who wanted a gold shield so he wouldn't have to put on a blue uniform every day and look like everyone else. I'm looking at a vain police officer who gets his manhood from a badge."

  Johnson's mouth curled again in that nasty way of his. "You're looking at someone who's going to knock your teeth out in a minute."

  "Go ahead and try," I sneered. "But open a window first. That way someone might hear your cries for help."

  Johnson's mouth curled even further and his voice growled with anger. "You better start talking about your activities this week," he growled. "Right now. It'll make life a lot easier for you down the road."

  "Tell me why I should."

  "Why you should? Maybe to avoid having to take your last breath lying on a gurney with a needle sticking out of each arm. If you're lucky you'll get 30-to-life. Keep being a jackass and you'll wind up on death row. Are those good enough reasons?"

  "You'll have to do better than that," I said.

  Johnson took a breath and pretended to be deep in thought. "We'll put aside your role in the Horne murders for a moment."

  "Oh, please do. You've wrapped that one up. Put a bow on it and everything. Cliff Roper's your man there."

  "Maybe he did it with your help."

  "And maybe you're making this stuff up as you go," I said.

  "Oh no, I don't think so. Let's see. You encountered Oscar Romeo a number of times. First at Patrick Washington's house. Then you were snooping around the Horne residence after the murders. Looking to see if there was any evidence lying around that you needed to get rid of. Then you discovered Oscar was there. Oh, yeah. We talked to that neighbor, that famous screenwriter. We know all about your comings and goings. You kept heading back to that dealership where Oscar bought his cars. Then you followed Oscar down to Ted Wade's house in P.V. and picked a fight. Took a walk with Oscar right after that. You threatened him then and there? Pretty interesting how you seemed to know where he was all the time. Just how does that happen?"

  "I'm a lucky guy. I carry a four-leaf clover with me."

  "Uh-huh. And then Oscar winds up dead, his body tossed in a dumpster next to your apartment. What's the matter? Was he too heavy to move anywhere else?"

  "If I had killed him, would I really have left the body right by my home? Is that what you think? Are you that stupid?"

  "What I think," Johnson said, in a measured voice, "is that you dumped the body there to make us believe someone else did it. Make it so obvious, we would never be foolish enough to imagine you had done it."

  "Wow, you're a genius, Johnson. Another Sigmund Freud. You piece that together yourself, or did you get help from some inpatient at a psych ward?"

  "You're a real smartass," he said. "But I think this time you've out-smarted yourself."

  "Tell me something. You discovered the body yesterday, right?"

  "Wow. You watch the evening news."

  "But the body had been there for 24 hours."

  "And you've got an alibi for where you were on Saturday."

  "Indeed I do."

  "So tell me, smart guy, where were you on Saturday?"

  "I was at home in the morning and at the USC spring game in the afternoon. Down at the Coliseum."

  "Oh that's convenient. Who were you with?"

  "Cliff Roper."

  Jim Johnson smiled. It was an ugly smile. His teeth were straight and his mouth was big but it was the type of smile formed by a broken person who didn't see humor in anything. It was the smile of a man who looked like he was about to bite something.

  "Oh, that's priceless, Burnside! Just priceless! Your alibi is that you were with a guy who's out on bail for committing double murder. And the football player who got whacked this weekend was a client of Cliff Roper's partner. How perfect is that? I can't wait to see the look of the jury when they hear you spin that yarn to them. Better confess now, Burnside. The trial is going to be an afterthought."

  "I guess you forgot the other 25,000 people at the Coliseum. Not to mention the dozen or so people who came up to us there."

  "We can work our way around that."

  I suddenly started getting a little uneasy. I didn't like the sound of that one. Lazy cops sometimes took liberties with evidence. But there was no way this one was going to get pinned on me. The evidence was circumstantial and the police investigation was shoddy and full of holes.

  "You can do whatever you want and mishandle whatever evidence you get your grubby paws on. But I keep waiting to hear a motive and I'm not getting one. Why on earth would I want to kill three people?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you just had 10 grand in cash dumped into your bank account."

  I stared at him, but I shouldn't have been surprised. Privacy was a commodity that had disappeared long ago in America. Whatever you do, wherever you go, someone could find out about it. There were cameras on many street corners, devices grabbing every license plate number of every car that drives through an intersection. Mobile phones that tracked your every move, wherever you went. So law enforcement accessing someone's bank records was not all that unusual. Whether it was legal or not was another question.

  "That $10,000 was my investigation fee from Cliff Roper," I told him.

  Johnson smiled again. "Oh this is getting better and better. You get paid 10 grand to go ask a few questions? I say Roper paid you to knock those people off. Now you can go share a cell with him in San Quentin."

  I was getting more and more irritated with this line of questioning. "Have you bothered to track Oscar's cell phone? I know he still had it on him because that's what it said in the Times article. Once you analyze the GPS inside Oscar's phone you'll figure out how long he'd been in the dumpster. Then you can work backward and figure out time of death. And then you can track my cell phone and see where I've been the last two days. You'll be mighty disappointed when you find out there's no match."

  Johnson took a breath. "That doesn't mean anything," he stammered. "That doesn't exonerate you. That doesn't get you off the hook."

  "Oh it will," I countered. "You have nothing on me and you know it. You were hoping I'd come in and start crying and confess this morning, weren't you? Make everything easy, wrap things up in a nice package so you don't have to dirty your hands by doing real police work? I guess you figured lightning would strike twice, the Horne murders and Oscar's murder all neatly solved and wrapped up. Sorry to disappoint. But there's still a killer at large. And someone better get on them. They're covering their tracks now. By the time you get around to them, there'll be nothing to find."

  "Okay, wise guy. Let's have your cell phone. We can determine that easy enough."

  "I don't have it on me," I said. "You can check. But if that's what you want, go do things the right way and get a court order. And send someone else around to pick it up. I won't surrender it to you. Your credibility is shot. And from what I hear, I'm hardly the only one around here who thinks so."

  Johnson's nose wrinkled in anger. I stood up.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "I came here voluntarily. And unless you're going to charge me with something, I'm leaving. But you're not going to charge me with anything and you know it. You don't have jack on me, other than a stupid hunch and a pathetic amount of circumstantial evidence. You place me under arrest now and I'll make it my life's mission to have your badge on a silver platter. And if you've done your homework on me, you know I can deliver. When I get my teeth into something, I don't let go. I would suggest you start doing some real detective work and stop being a pussy and taking the easy way out."

  I walked out of the room and down the hall. No one followed me. I passed what served as a ki
tchen and took a quick look at the institutional coffee machine and the black swill they offered here. Even someone like Jim Johnson got his coffee elsewhere. I walked downstairs and approached the Highlander. A meter maid had placed a parking ticket under the wiper blade. I looked up at a sign which told me street sweeping was that morning. Getting into the Highlander, I drove quickly down the street. The ticket blew off after about three blocks.

  Chapter 23

  I decided I could use a friendly face right about now and headed down La Brea to stop in on Harold Stevens. He seemed to welcome my presence, and unlike Jim Johnson, it was not so he could mess up my life. His reaction was a comforting change of pace.

  "Come in!" he boomed happily. "Good to see you! I've been wondering about you lately."

  "Join the club," I said, and took a seat. "It's been a busy week. But I've got something for you on the Giles couple."

  "Do tell."

  I related the life of crime the two of them had chosen, the numerous insurance companies they had defrauded, the jewelry stores they manipulated, and clients they had burglarized. They were realtors who didn't sell many houses, Noreen and Will Giles made their living on guile. They lifted whatever valuables they could when their clients were away, and then filed false claims with insurance companies. I passed Harold photos of the jewelry their latest victims were relieved of. He perused them and tossed them onto his desk.

  "Okay," Harold said. "This is good work. We have enough to deny their claim. But I don't know as we have enough solid evidence to put them away. And even if we did, it would probably only be for a period of time. After that they'd go back to their same old habits. They're career criminals and they do only one thing. Steal."

  "Quite true," I said. "Their most recent victims wanted to go after them with a gun. I had to dissuade them."

  Harold nodded. "You made a good call. Crooks like this expect retribution from some of the saps they rip off. I'm sure if any of their victims confronted them, they would react pretty quickly. And probably violently. People like that are quick on the draw. They have to be. They have a lot to lose."

  "They could stand to learn a lesson," I said.

  Harold tilted his head. "Maybe," he replied. "I'm not a fan of vigilante justice. But I also know that thieves like these are usually not redeemable. They just go back to stealing when they get out of jail. I see it over and over."

  "They're XYY," I joked.

  "What's that?" Harold frowned.

  "XYY is what they used to refer to as the genetic makeup of a criminal."

  "You pick that up at USC?"

  I smiled. "I think it might have been off some graffiti scrawl."

  Harold smiled back. "You're a veritable gold mine of information."

  "I get that a lot."

  "So it sounds like you might have a plan?"

  I told him. Harold smiled and said he'd help arrange for some police backup. Leaving his office, I drove over to the Giles home and parked down the street, close enough so that I could see them coming and going, yet far enough away so that I was not noticeable. It was a quiet neighborhood, and in the 30 minutes I waited, the only activity I saw was a neighbor walking an Irish Setter.

  There were two cars in their driveway, a silver Honda Civic and a red Dodge Dart. This posed a problem if both Noreen and Will left at the same time. That is to say, I could only follow one of them. I reached into the glove compartment and retrieved my pistol and slipped it into the holster. And then sat back and waited. Fortunately, Noreen Giles made it easy. She not only departed by herself, but she was carrying a brown satchel, in addition to having a black purse slung over her shoulder. The satchel might contain nothing more valuable than some random papers. But I had a feeling that was not the case.

  Wearing slacks and a denim jacket, she drove off in the Dodge Dart. I maintained a short distance behind her. In most tail operations it was not uncommon to be two or three cars behind. In L.A., however, that could easily result in losing the tail. So many drivers blasted through yellow and even red lights these days that it was imperative that no one block my access to her. Since I was driving a different vehicle than last time, I didn't imagine she would notice it was me tailing her. I also didn't imagine she'd be suspecting anyone at all would be following her.

  I stayed behind her down La Brea and onto the 10 Freeway going towards downtown. I wondered if she'd head to the jewelry mart, a small area near Pershing Square. But she drove straight through the downtown interchange, past the four-level, and exited at Caesar E. Chavez Avenue in Boyle Heights. I hadn't expected her to end up in East L.A.

  During the earlier part of the 20th century, Boyle Heights was a bustling Jewish neighborhood. What is now Caesar E. Chavez Avenue was previously called Brooklyn Avenue. That was not a name given by happenstance, but rather to welcome New Yorkers who were thinking of moving west. The neighborhood eventually gave way to other ethnic groups. The Jewish community moved into the Fairfax district, and eventually on to Beverlywood and up into the Valley enclaves of Encino and Tarzana. Jews were replaced in East L.A. by Mexican immigrants, so the Boyle Heights of today bears little resemblance to the one that existed prior to World War II. Back in the 1990s, the city officially removed Brooklyn Avenue from the map, and Caesar E. Chavez Avenue was born. But as in any transitional community, a few stragglers remained, those who either couldn't afford to move or chose to stay because of familiarity with the area.

  Noreen Giles parked in front of a group of aging shops that lined most of the street. One of those was Bernie's Loan & Jewelry Shop. On one side of it was a hair salon, on the other was an adult bookstore. The sidewalks looked as if they hadn't been swept in years. I parked right behind Noreen and quickly hopped out of my Highlander. I ran over to the Dart's passenger door and when she turned off the engine, the automatic door locks immediately opened on all four doors. This was a convenience feature which mostly showcased the ingenuity of an automotive engineer. It also served to put the driver in potential danger if a criminal wanted to quickly enter the vehicle. Or a cagey private investigator.

  I drew my .38 and jerked open the door. I had no idea whether Noreen Giles was packing a weapon, but thieves often do. No sense taking chances. Plus, a gun gets the message across so much cleaner and so much faster. Climbing in, I pointed my weapon at her in as menacing a manner as I could. It was probably a good act. She gave a startled scream and jumped back.

  "Don't make another sound," I growled. "Drive around the corner."

  Noreen Giles fumbled with the keys for a moment and wound up dropping them in her lap. Her breathing was heavy and she looked on the verge of tears.

  "Oh my God!"

  "I said don't make a sound. Do what I say and you won't get hurt," I said, with a snarl. Playing the role of a bully was fun when the person you were bullying was a career criminal.

  She finally inserted the key and turned over the engine. Putting the car into drive, she accelerated slowly to the corner and jerked to a stop. A pedestrian was crossing the street and I lowered the gun down to a level where they couldn't see it. She waited until they reached the curb and then made the right turn. After driving partway down the block, I told her to pull over. A small, dark car behind us followed and stopped a few car lengths back. Maybe they were following us. Maybe not. But I had other matters to deal with. Noreen Giles stared straight ahead, her lower lip trembling. Finally she spoke.

  "Are ... are you going to kill me?"

  "Shut up," I said. "Open the satchel. And remove one thing at a time."

  She followed my directive and pulled out a diamond necklace. I directed her to lay it on the console between us. Then out came a number of earrings, bracelets and rings. With my left hand I took out the paper copies of the stolen items that the Pelletiers had provided. I examined the pieces and they matched up perfectly. I put the copies back in my pocket and instructed Noreen Giles to put the jewelry back in the satchel. She complied without saying a word. At first anyway.

  "Hand
it over," I said.

  "You're not going to get away with this," she said, her voice uneven, but finally finding some bravado.

  "I'm shaking in my shoes," I said. "But really, I'm not getting a bad feeling from it."

  "You just wait," she stammered.

  I laughed in her face. "Oh yeah? What are you going to do? Call the cops? Tell them that I stole the jewelry that you stole from your open house yesterday? Is that your story? Get real. You and your husband are professional thieves. Or were. You're out of business. As of right now."

  Her face tightened and mine did too. I took the satchel and placed it on my lap. I told her to drive around the block twice before instructing her to turn right into an alley behind the row of stores. The small dark car followed us the first time around, but not the second. They must have known they'd been made. I told her to park in the alley. Getting out of the car, I ordered her to follow me and we walked over to a narrow staircase leading into a cellar. Patting her down, I pulled a can of pepper spray out of one pocket of her jacket and a switchblade knife out of the other.

  "You come prepared," I remarked, glad I had brandished my pistol early on. "Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head," I ordered.

  "Oh God."

  "It's not as bad as you think. I'm not going to kill you. But you are going to jail."

  "You don't really work for the insurance company, do you?"

  I smiled. "In a manner of speaking, I do."

  Taking her wrists and pinning them behind her back, I removed a pair of plastic flex handcuffs and tied her hands behind her back. Extra tight. I then pushed her gently so she toppled over on her side.

  "Hey wait a minute, you're not going to leave me here like this, are you?!" she said, alarmed.

  "No," I replied, and walked over to a trash bin. Reaching inside, I found a rag and walked back and shoved it in her mouth to prevent her from screaming and attracting attention. I then went over and retrieved the satchel, put on some gloves, and pulled out the diamond necklace. I slipped it into the pocket of her denim jacket, the same one that had held the switchblade. I heard her try and say some words, but the rag blocked her speech. And the handcuffs blocked her from removing the rag. I got into her Dodge Dart, drove back around the corner and parked it in back of my Highlander. The car that had been following us was nowhere to be seen. Feeling a little more comfortable, I took her car keys, walked down the block, and threw them into a storm drain.