Strange Bedfellows v5

by Paula L. Woods

  The current chief had achieved only moderate success with his plan, but neither it nor a lottery win had made Burt trade in his shield for a five-iron. “I was just burned out,” he admitted. “Too many morning shifts, too little sleep, and no end in sight. So I got off the hamster wheel and started helping out my wife at our flower shop.”

  “You and Angie own a flower shop?”

  Burt hiked up his shoulders. “It’s just a fifty percent interest. We put some money into Angie’s brother’s flower shop after he died. Used a chunk of my retirement to do it, so I’m working a couple of afternoons a week, keeping an eye on my investment for me and my sister-in-law.”

  I pulled out my notebook and asked for the name. “God knows I want your retirement to be a success.”

  “Tip-Top Florists, over in Culver City.”

  I had the strange yet familiar sensation of hairs rising on my neck, usually a sign of my sixth sense working overtime, warning me that something was amiss. Burt must have seen the look in my eye because he asked if I was okay. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  I flipped my notebook shut. “What? No, I-I just can’t imagine you arranging flowers is all.”

  “I do deliveries mostly. That and the golfing pass the time until I get my ticket back from BSIS.”

  “You’re getting your P.I. license?”

  “Why not? There’s a guy retired out of Hollywood Division who’s had his own agency for over fifteen years!”

  “I’m not being critical, Burt. I’m just surprised is all.”

  “I’ve got more than enough hours to qualify. But until the paperwork comes through, I’m doing a little consulting on the side.”

  “Consulting? Who with?”

  “Companies from here to San Diego would jump at having an ex-LAPD cop evaluate their security procedures.”

  Pete Collins and his roughneck staff’s handling of Chuck Zuccari’s security flashed through my mind. “I think you’ll run rings around most of them. You’ll probably be bored.”

  “It’ll be different, that’s for sure. But the pay is a hell of a lot better than working as a cop, and the hours ain’t bad either.”

  “There are some benefits to being on the department,” I argued.

  “I do miss some of the funny shit that happened on the street,” Burt admitted a bit wistfully. “Remember the Leimert Park Lothario? Dude’s wife is working double shifts in the emergency room at California Hospital, trying to get enough money for a down payment on a house in Baldwin Hills, while her husband the hairdresser is running the women through their apartment, two and three a night, giving them a little more than a shampoo and a trim.”

  “And then the wife comes home sick one night and finds him doing the horizontal bop with a hostess from some neighborhood club.”

  Burt nodded. “Popped him two times in the ass with a twenty-five she kept in her purse.”

  “What was it she said when we arrived on the scene?”

  “‘Don’t take him to the hospital,’ ” Burt piped in a high-voiced imitation; “‘they’ll save his sorry ass and I want him to suffer!’ ”

  I pointed in his direction. “And you talked her into giving up her weapon.”

  “Whole time, she kept repeating, ‘Suffer, baby, suffer!’ ”

  “That was funny,” I agreed, feeling a rush of adrenaline even at the memory of that night. “Scary, but funny. I learned a lot from you on that call.”

  Burt’s face grew somber. “It was Romper Room compared to what I was seeing on the streets those last few years. The gangs and drugs made the job too unpredictable, and too dangerous, even for a veteran like me.”

  “And you never considered going behind a desk full-time?” I said, repeating something Dr. P. had suggested to me. “I remember a rumor going around back in the day that you turned down a promotion and a desk job at Parker Center to stay on the street.”

  Burt ducked his head. “Nah, I’m not cut out to push paper,” he scoffed, his tan not quite concealing the flushing of his skin. “Although one of the shrinks over at BSS tried to talk me into it.”

  I could feel my adrenaline surge again, every nerve coming alive. “You’ve been to Chinatown?”

  “How many times!” He grimaced as the server brought our drinks.

  “You’ve been more than once?”

  “The first time was when my second partner got shot on the job. Then I had to shoot a kid high on crack who attacked me with a knife a couple of years ago and got sent back again. The last time was right after the riots. Every time I thought I’d never be back on the street. That last time, I was right.”

  “You retired how long after Rodney King?”

  Burt grinned, his eyes getting lost in a mass of crow’s feet. “My last session in Chinatown was July twentieth last year, and I retired August thirty-first.”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if the sky had cracked open and rained elephants. Burt caught my expression and leaned forward. “What—were you there about then?”

  I scanned the room for familiar faces. “I wouldn’t want it to get around . . .”

  “Who the hell am I gonna tell?”

  “Well, for a man who ‘still has his sources’ . . .”

  His look was mischievous. “I got you to spill your guts with that one, didn’t I?”

  I relaxed a little, even though I knew I’d been played. “You old dog!”

  “How many sessions?”

  “Four after the riots. And you?”

  “Eight,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was surprised they kept me that long, there were so many of us back then.”

  “No one I know went to BSS after the riots!”

  “Grow up, Charlotte!” Burt shook his head and emptied the first of two creams into his coffee. “There were plenty who did, but they’d never admit it. No cop worth his badge wants people to think he’s crazy.”

  “You ain’t said nothing but a word there.”

  “But you know what my shrink said? ‘If you think you’re crazy, there’s a good chance you’re not. It’s the ones who think they’re normal and everyone else is nuts that you’ve got to worry about.’ ”

  Steve Firestone and the way he had manipulated me and Gena came to mind. “Amen to that.”

  “It’s why I finally had to get out. There was just too much denial, and I’m not talking about a river—or rivers—in Egypt, get it?”

  Burt’s deep laughter drew the attention of the few early birds at the counter. “I’m seeing one of them right now.”

  “One of what?”

  “A BSS shrink!” I hissed.

  “Is it Dr. Betty?”

  “I saw her the last time, but she’s not available now.”

  “Probably speaking at a conference or teaching a class somewhere.” At my surprised look, he said: “Don’t you know who Betty Frasier is? When did you graduate the Academy?”

  “May of ’seventy-nine.”

  “Then you should have run into her. Dr. Betty was deep into the POWER Program with the boots.”

  “I was involved in the program, but I don’t remember her being connected to it.” A lawsuit filed by Fanchon Blake, a female LAPD sergeant, in the early seventies had been settled a few years before I came on the department. As a result of Blake v. City of Los Angeles, the LAPD was under a consent decree to hire and promote more women and minorities. A number of us, from the diminutive Billie Truesdale to some of my other black and Latino sisters and brothers in blue, would have never gotten on the LAPD if it hadn’t been for Sergeant Blake. And couldn’t have stayed on the job if not for Positive Orientation for a Winning Response, aka the POWER Program. “I wish I had known that when I was seeing her.”

  “Dr. Betty’s not one to toot her own horn.”

  “You seem to know a lot about her.”

  “I was one of the first mentors she identified to work with the new crop of female boots. Why do you think they paired me with you?”

  “I had no idea.�
��

  “You weren’t supposed to. I caught a lot of flak for it, though. Some of the old-timers said I was part of”—he looked around to see if we were being overheard—“the Pussy Posse.”

  That sounded about right for the Neanderthals I knew in Southwest. “But you never let on.”

  “Why should I? I was closer in age to you than the gray hairs who were riding my ass, so I felt like we were on the same side. Anyways, you young ladies—er, females—had enough to worry about.”

  I swallowed a bit of my omelet, trying to decide how to proceed. “I appreciate you telling me about Chinatown. Doesn’t make me feel like such a freak.”

  He saluted me with his mug. “Or at least you’re a freak in good company.”

  I pushed my food around on my plate a bit longer, hoping Burt wouldn’t notice I’d stopped eating. “I wish BSS had been around when Perris got shot. Maybe it would have helped him stay on the job.”

  Burt shifted in his chair, took another sip of coffee. “I doubt it.”

  “Well, he sure needed someone to talk to back then. Still does, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Is he in trouble again?”

  I looked away, suddenly not sure if I should even be having this conversation.

  “What’s this all about, Charlotte? I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  It took a while for Burt to drag it out of me, asking a few clarifying questions here and there, his cop instincts leading him to zero in on the stunt Perris had pulled at my house. “Which files were these?”

  “Some of my husband’s gang files, the ones about the Black Freedom Militia.”

  Burt set down his mug, sloshing liquid over the side and across the table. “Damn!” he exclaimed.

  I handed him my napkin to wipe up the mess. “The day it happened, Aubrey wondered if there was something in those files that could pertain to one of Perris’s current cases. I thought I’d ask you, since you used to ride with him.”

  “I don’t know anything about Perris’s current cases!”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, Charlotte.”

  “Has he been in touch with you?”

  Burt shrugged as he finished off his second biscuit. “I talked to him a few times after I saw him that night during the riots, but not about anything specific.”

  So maybe one of my other suspicions about Perris was correct. Maybe he wasn’t reliving the old days with cops or his frat brothers but tipping out on his wife. “What did you talk about?”

  He bristled a bit at the question. “Nothing much.”

  “Did you talk about Q-Dog?”

  “Who the hell is that?” he snapped.

  “One of the members of the old Black Freedom Militia. Louise thought she heard items talking about some Q on the phone one night, so I thought maybe—”

  “It was personal, okay?”

  “I’m not trying to pry, Burt, I’m just trying to figure out if my brother is in trouble again. I’m afraid any night the phone will ring and I’ll have to bail him out of jail on a DUI, or worse.”

  Burt sat staring at his half-empty cup, remaining in that position even after our server poured him a refill. Then, as if she had pulled a string, he began doctoring his coffee, eyes averted. “I don’t think Perris has ever forgiven himself for what happened to your husband and daughter.”

  Burt’s observation sparked a memory, of how Perris had sat in my kitchen table about a month after they were killed, drunk on Keith’s Rémy Martin, crying over him and our baby as hard as I had if not harder. “Perris got shot the day it happened! No one blamed him for that!”

  “Yeah, but he was on his way to your house that day, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” When Cinque Lewis heard about Keith’s research into gangs, and how his girlfriend, Sojourner Truth, had given him information about the Black Freedom Militia, he’d made threats against Keith, Erica, and me, which the LAPD took very seriously. A patrol car was stationed outside our house, and an officer was assigned to escort Keith and me everywhere we went on campus. Perris was on his way over to our house to start his voluntary shift when he got shot—a shooting that was never solved and that I believed contributed to his leaving the department. “But that’s no excuse for taking those files without my permission. Or for him looking for answers in a bottle.”

  “Or the end of a coke spoon,” Burt agreed, stirring his coffee.

  Recalling how I’d lost my young family made the pain of that day feel fresher and closer than my breath, which had suddenly grown sour at the thought I might lose Perris all over again. “Burt, those files were all I had left of my husband’s work, of what was important to him. Perris had no right to steal them.”

  “You were what was important to Keith, Charlotte. Don’t you think he would want you to move on? After all, it’s been almost fifteen years!”

  An eerie feeling came over me, as if someone was walking over my grave. “How can you say that? You never met Keith!”

  Burt’s tan glowed with embarrassment. “I just know what I’d want Angie to do if I got killed, and what I’ve always told her, is all I’m trying to say. Perris tells me you’re living with someone. Would he want to have Keith thrown up in his face all the time?”

  How did Aubrey feel about that argument last night? We hadn’t made love afterward, or any other night in the last week or so since Perris had taken those files. Was my obsession with getting back a piece of my past jeopardizing my future?

  But even while I was wondering, the little voice in my head was shrieking: But you only moved in with Aubrey the beginning of this year! Which meant Burt had spoken to Perris not just right after the riots in the spring, but sometime in the last two months. And, if my instincts were right, they had talked about my cases, my personal life, and God knows what else. The question was—why?

  “Aubrey’s a good guy,” I said carefully, praying my response hadn’t been noticeably slow in coming. “He’s been a friend of Perris’s since they were kids, you know.”

  Burt put his hand over mine, causing my stomach to churn. “I’m sure Perris only wants you to be happy, Charlotte. He wouldn’t want you to start up a new relationship with all of that old baggage along for the ride.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck were screaming at me to get the hell out of there. I glanced at my watch and put a twenty on the table as I stood up. “I’m sure that’s all it is. Maybe it’s better Perris keeps the damned files. Why be reminded of the past when I’ve got such a bright future?”

  Burt’s cheerful smile exposed a few too many teeth. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I made myself pat him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Burt. This has been very helpful.”

  Before I could leave, Burt grabbed my hand and pressed a card into it. “Here’s my number at the shop. I’m there Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, if you ever need anything.”

  I glanced at the card, its logo of a top hat filled with a floral bouquet sending chills straight through me. I let the card drop to the bottom of my purse. “Thanks.”

  “You want me to speak to Perris? Maybe I can talk some sense into him.”

  “My family’s tried, Burt, so I don’t know what more you could do.” I made sure I was looking him in the eye when I said: “Unless you can get him to give back those files.”

  His gaze flickered only for an instant, but it was long enough to tell me what I needed to know. “Damn!” I exclaimed, making a show of checking my watch again. “It’s ten after eight. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got interviews down in Irvine.”

  We said our good-byes on Pico, Burt moving east in the direction of the golf course and I hurrying to my car. I headed west, a direction that would lead me to the freeway and Orange County, checking my rearview mirror all the while, just in case Burt was watching me. When I was certain he was out of sight, I doubled back and sped east on Pico toward my real destinatio
n, my head crammed with memories and a dimly outlined objective.

  My old house in the Fairfax District was a couple of miles east of John O’Groats, in an area a lot of black folks consider the Westside but most whites think is a half step above the ghetto. But for me the old Spanish Colonial–style homes and independently owned businesses in my ’hood were every bit as desirable as those on the white folks’ Westside—a John O’Groats there versus a Maurice’s Snak ’n’ Chat here, the latter owned by a black woman whose tacky decor, down-home cooking, and sharp tongue drew celebrities like Keenan Ivory Wayans and Johnny Carson, and tourists by the busload.

  But, as my real estate agent reminded me, O’Groats and the Westside had one advantage over my neighborhood that could not be denied: location, location, location. So it wasn’t surprising that the FOR SALE sign, which had been in front of my house for a few weeks, had attracted no offers, nor did I expect it to any time soon, given how slowly properties were moving anywhere near the riot zone. And although my neighborhood had suffered only a fraction of the devastation of most others, there were gaping holes where my favorite Indian restaurant and a handful of other businesses had been—absences that hurt as much as losing a member of the family.

  It was eight-twenty when I arrived at my house. I knew I’d have to move fast to make it to the office before driving to Irvine for our interviews at ten. I waved a quick hello to Mrs. Franklin, who was just getting into her car, opened my front door, and scooped up a pile of junk mail that had fallen on the floor. My footsteps echoed in the living room, which held only a sofa and coffee table. On the coffee table were a photograph of the Justice clan and some dried-up flowers that someone in my family had bought when they spruced up the place for that first broker’s open house. As I hurried outside to toss the flowers in a trash can, I was reminded of the time after Keith and Erica’s funeral, when I hadn’t had the energy to dispose of the floral arrangements that had been sent by our friends and families, Keith’s colleagues at the university, and the members of my grandmother’s church. After a couple of weeks they had dried and rotted so badly that at the instigation of my mother, her housekeeper had been dispatched to throw them away.