by David Chill
And at that point, my cell phone rang. The number was blocked, but I decided to answer it anyway. Receiving an ungodly number of telemarketing calls had made me skeptical of always picking up, but tonight was different. Maybe something had just happened back at Royce Hall, maybe the governor wanted a word with me. This seemed like a night I should not let a call go unanswered. It turned out to be a wise move.
"Burnside," came a familiar voice on the other end.
"Hi Juan," I said. "You're working late."
"I am indeed. And I'd like to talk with you."
"What's up?" I asked.
"You were asking me about Stone Canyon School this morning. You wouldn't say much about it, but we're dealing with a homicide now. So you'll need to come over here and be a lot more forthcoming."
"Okay," I said, my stomach getting tense. "What can you tell me right now?"
"Oh, I can tell you something," Juan replied tersely. "Details will follow when you get over here. But the homicide involves a Stone Canyon student. Turns out you were looking into them."
I closed my eyes. "Go on," I said grimly.
"Everyone was shocked. No gang ties, that's for sure, but you never know how these things escalate. Victim took two in the head. Close range. Suspect drove off quickly. Could have been a drive-by, could have been premeditated. We got no license plate, no nothing. Just one dead kid. Name's Diego Garcia."
Chapter 5
I dropped Gail at home, taking a few minutes to escort her up to our apartment. She kept insisting she was fine, and reminded me she had once worked as a campus security officer. I reminded her that a woman who is seven months pregnant is in no condition to deal with adverse situations. And after Juan's phone call, I was taking no chances with whatever evil was lurking in the world.
The crime scene was across the street from MacArthur Park. It was past 10:00 pm by now and the night had turned cold, or whatever passed for cold in Los Angeles. Across the street, a crew from one of the local news trucks was setting up a shoot. I slipped under the yellow-and-black striped police tape and found Juan Saavedra giving directives to a pair of young, uniformed officers.
"No one from the media enters the area. No one. They stay over there in the park," he said, pointing a finger at them for emphasis.
One of the uniforms noticed me. "Should I get rid of this one, captain?"
Juan turned and looked at me. "Nah, he's not media. He's not a cop either. I don't quite know what the hell he is."
"That's quite an introduction, Juan," I said.
"Best I can do at this hour," he said, dismissing the uniforms. "Rookies. Got to start someplace."
"I remember my first day on patrol. My partner had been on the job for almost 20 years. He gave me an interesting piece of advice."
"What was that?"
"He told me whatever my instincts were, to stop and do the opposite. That's how you become a good cop."
Juan shook his head. "Old-school thinking."
He motioned to a detective, and the three of us walked to a more private area of a not-so-private crime scene. The detective seemed close to my age, 40-something, but he was short and squat. He wore a black windbreaker that was two sizes too big and had shaved his head to divert attention from male-pattern baldness. His name was Dennis Lally.
A sheet had been thrown over the body, and more than a few uniformed and plainclothes officers were milling about. When a shooting happens, there are plenty of things to do, but a show of numbers also serves to try and put the community at ease.
"So I understand you were down here last night," Juan said. "And you met with the victim."
"You do good police work," I remarked.
"Jeepers, thanks. I live for your approval."
"How did you find this out?"
"Look, we talked to the parents. But they only told us so much, they were just overwhelmed by all this. Weren't too forthcoming. They're scared about something else. Thought you might fill in the details."
"They told you I was down here?"
"Yeah, but not until we asked them specifically. We found your card in Diego's pocket."
"Ah."
"So what do you know?"
I thought for a moment. Rex Palmer was a client, and he had asked me to be discreet. But now a murder had been committed, and his daughter, like it or not, had become a part of the investigation. And keeping details from the police was not always such a good idea.
"You've heard the name Molly Palmer?" I asked.
"Governor's daughter," Juan said. "Go on."
"She's a student at Stone Canyon, too. Been missing for three days. Rumor has it she and Diego had a thing going. Maybe yes, maybe no. But she was here on Sunday. There was a confrontation with another girl and Molly left."
"And you didn't think to mention that to me yesterday when you dropped by," Juan remarked.
I shrugged. "Who knew it would turn into this?"
Juan stared off in the distance for a moment and then focused on Lally. "This case just got escalated," he said.
"What does that mean?" Lally asked.
"It means," Juan said, "This may be front page news soon. Despite how it may look, I don't think we can conclude this is just a random drive-by. It also means you need to tread very carefully with the media. Someone's bound to pick this up. We don't know the daughter's involvement yet. But you have to be careful about what you say."
"What's this guy's role?" he asked, pointing in my direction.
"He doesn't have an official role. Burnside's a P.I., used to be on the job. He can be helpful. He can also be a pain the ass. See if you can figure out a way to coexist."
"Captain," Lally protested. "This is an official police investigation. Last time we let one of these jokers help out, the evidence was thrown out of court and the perp walked. What do we need with a private dick muddying up the waters?"
"I prefer private investigator," I pointed out. "Private dick is so 20th-century."
"Just stay out of my way," Lally said.
"You following that with an 'or else'?" I asked politely.
Juan raised his hands. "Stop. Lookit Dennis, even if I told Burnside to stay out of this, he wouldn't, okay? Following orders just isn't in his genetic makeup. That's why he's not on the job any more. And that case you're referring to was two years ago, and that P.I. never wore a badge. Figure out something where two plus two equals five, okay?"
I grinned. "The public and private sector working as one."
Lally glared at me. "You find out something, I want to be the first to know."
"Sure. Same here."
Lally stared at me and said nothing. Something told me there might be a few road bumps ahead.
I spent the next few hours shadowing Lally, overhearing conversations the police were having with the medical examiners and with various people in the neighborhood. I didn't say much, just listened. Diego Garcia had been engaged in a heated conversation with someone in a car parked near 8th and Alvarado. The car was silver and nondescript, and of course nobody got the license plate.
Diego had been leaning forward to speak with whomever was driving the silver car, when two pops were heard by people throughout the block. Diego fell to the ground and the car sped away. But according to another witness, a pair of neighborhood guys had been watching nearby, most likely because they had nothing else to do. They were too far away to hear anything, but close enough to take action when they saw Diego get shot. Both drew weapons and fired repeatedly at the fleeing car. They evidently didn't hit their target, because the car pulled a quick right turn onto Wilshire and kept going. They did however, shatter the windows of a different car that had the misfortune to be parked nearby, and pieces of glass were strewn about the street.
The pair of local guys denied any involvement, and when the police arrived they mysteriously didn't have any firearms on them. What they did have though, were rap sheets a mile long, and the police decided a night in the can might help jog their memories. It wouldn't of
course, it would just make them look harder for the person in the neighborhood who ratted them out.
I pointed this out to Lally. He told me the police knew what they were doing. As usual, I had my doubts.
*
I left the crime scene at about 1:00 am, and briefly considered buying a pastrami sandwich at Langer's, but getting some sleep was preferable to a decadent snack. Gail was up early the next morning, and by default, so was I. The Times website contained nothing about the shooting. I received a text from Virgil Hairston suggesting lunch today, and I responded by asking if we could find middle ground on a restaurant. Maybe one that offered both healthy and unhealthy choices. After a few back-and-forths we settled on an old favorite downtown. It turned out the timing would work out perfectly. My phone rang a few minutes later, and it was an unexpected caller. Xavier Bishop also asked if we could talk this morning.
For a change, the morning was warm and sunny. I brewed a small pot of French roast to get me going before heading back downtown. Fortunately, we weren't meeting until 10:30 am, which meant I had an easy drive ahead of me. If I left Santa Monica at 8:00 am on a weekday morning, it would take an hour to get downtown. Leaving at 10:00 am meant it would take 20 minutes. Remove the traffic congestion and LA could be a much more livable place.
Many years ago, the city fathers devised a plan to rebuild downtown Los Angeles. It started with a few new office buildings, included the addition of nice hotels and condos, and the development of a theater district. A small group of urban pioneers moved in briefly, but a series of economic downturns stopped the regentrification in its tracks. A number of large companies departed LA due to corporate takeovers or better tax deals in other states. The upshot was that for many years, downtown remained a mecca for only the homeless and the destitute, rather than for young professionals. The tide finally turned a few years ago with the development of L.A. Live, a large plaza rimmed with a concert hall, a sports arena, hotels, restaurants and movie theaters. The Emmy Awards and Grammy Awards were held here, and a day rarely went by without a noteworthy event taking place.
I parked in the West garage about a block from L.A. Live and walked over to a Starbucks that was tucked between a Wolfgang Puck's Cafe and a sports bar that changed names every couple of years. Even though it was mid-morning, there were plenty of people milling about. Some wore Kings jerseys, which told me there was a hockey game that night. As I approached the Starbucks, I saw a young, muscular African-American kid who looked like he could be in college. He was at an outdoor table, sitting under an umbrella that blocked the sun. He was nursing what might have been a milk shake anywhere else, but was more likely an iced Frappucino here. He had dreadlocks that hung down past his shoulders, and his massive biceps bulged from inside a tight gray t-shirt. A black baseball cap was pulled down low and he had a stoic expression on his face.
"Xavier?" I said. "I'm Burnside."
"Hey," he said, getting up and shaking my hand.
"You picked a very public spot to meet. Maybe we should go inside."
"Okay," he said and followed me in. "I figured this would be convenient. Got a radio interview in a little while. Upstairs."
I frowned as I got in line to order a very large, very strong cup of black coffee. "Why are you doing an interview?"
"Some, uh, people thought it would be a good idea to get out in front of this situation. Let everyone know my side of what happened."
"I take it these people aren't associated with the university. The school probably wants as little publicity about this as possible."
"I guess," he said. "I'm trying to figure out what to do here. Getting a lot of advice from a lot of sources. It's tough to figure it all out and know what the right thing is."
It took five minutes before I got to the front of the line and placed my order. Oddly, the barista didn't ask for any money, she just smiled, handed me my drink and told me to have a nice day. We found an open table and sat down.
"Where are you getting this advice from?"
Xavier shrugged. "Not supposed to say."
"Okay," I said, knowing he was most likely talking with an agent, something college athletes should clearly not be doing. "Just make sure you don't sign anything yet. You're thinking of going into the NFL after this season?"
"I guess," he said. "Some people say I've got to. They think I'll be a first round draft pick. If I pass that up and stay in school, I may lose out. Millions. Even one year can make a difference. Got to take that stuff seriously."
It wasn't an unrealistic concern. College football players who pass up the chance to go into the NFL after their junior season could see their market value decline if they don't have a good senior year. Or if they get injured. Or if there are better players at their position the following year. Players who had a great junior year were often advised to enter the NFL draft and forego their senior year of college. And Xavier Bishop was correct on one point. These contracts could be worth millions.
"So how can I help you?" I asked.
"I guess you know my attorney, Mr. Hoffman. He said you were like a cop or something."
"Something like that," I said.
"He also said you were a football player."
"At one time. Coach Cleary and I played in the same secondary."
Xavier's face brightened for a moment. "Hey, he didn't tell me about that."
"I played free safety. Johnny was a cornerback. We were together for two years."
"Wow. You play in the league?"
"Nope. Messed up my knee before the draft. Torn ACL. Back then they didn't have the procedures they have today. I moved into a different career."
Xavier frowned, the pained expression returning to his face. "Sorry to hear. But that's a concern of mine, too. Injuries are part of the game. You never know when it might happen. That's why staying in school is a risk."
"Guys today get insurance policies to cover that. You have options. And in the long run, there's value to earning a college degree. It helps if you want to go into coaching one day. Or maybe some other career."
He shook his head. "I know. It's all been explained. And I'll have to make my decision in January. But I feel real bad about letting my boys down. We should have beat Oregon State easily the other day, but it was close. Too close. My not being in there hurt the team. I'd like to be back for them. If not this Saturday, at least for the Stanford game next week. It'd be nice to play in the Rose Bowl again."
"So you want to be reinstated."
"Uh-huh."
"And that can't happen until these assault charges go away."
"Right. You get the picture."
"So tell me what happened with your girlfriend. Her name is Desiree?"
Xavier said yes. He sat back in his chair and took a sip on what was no longer an icy drink. He drummed his fingers on the wooden table. A few people sauntered by and took long glances at him, their faces conveying the sense they had seen him before, but couldn't quite place where. It was a phenomenon unique to LA. The guy you recognized as you were walking down the street might work in your building. Or you might have seen him on an episode of CSI.
"It's not quite what you think," he said.
"It never is."
"I didn't punch Desiree."
"But you punched someone," I said.
Xavier looked me dead in the eyes for a long moment. "Why'd you say that?"
"Your knuckles are still nicked up," I said, pointing down at his right hand. He stopped for a moment before raising his hand to eye level and pretending to examine it.
"I'm not sure how they got this way," he said, shaking his head. "I could have dinged my hand during practice. It happens."
"But that's not what happened here. Not unless you punched someone in the helmet, and we both know that's a dumb thing to do. And All-American players don't normally do dumb things on the field."
Xavier took a breath. "Let's just say I got into a scuffle after practice."
"Any witnesses?" I asked.
&nb
sp; "No. It was private. And that's the God's honest truth."
"Maybe it is," I said. "But it makes it pretty hard for me to help you."
"What if you could talk to Desiree for me? Might help to find the guy who really hit her. The police aren't going to do any more. They think they got the right guy. But they're wrong."
I frowned. Relationship management wasn't part of my skill set. "You've tried talking with her since this happened?"
"Like I say, it's complicated."
"How long have you been together?"
"Over two years. Was getting serious. Met her family and everything."
"How'd that go?" I asked.
Xavier shrugged. "Okay, I guess. She's from a different world. Grew up just over in Baldwin Hills. They like to call that the black Beverly Hills. It's a nice area."
"Where did you grow up?"
"The CPT. Can't get more different from Baldwin Hills."
The CPT was slang for Compton, which was one of the roughest places in the LA area. Low income, high crime, lots of gang activity. The type of place you tried hard to get out of. And not a place you'd want to go back to.
"I didn't know people still called it the CPT."
"Some do. My mama listened to a lot of NWA. I guess I picked it up from her."
"Did your mom approve of Desiree?"
Xavier peered at me. "Why you asking that?"
"Just trying to sort things out. Wondering if there was an issue."
"Not exactly. My mama liked that Desiree was smart and pretty and all. Thought she would be good for me. But mama also warned me. She said there will always be girls who want you for the money and the fame. I guess I figured since Desiree's family had made it, that wouldn't be an issue."
"That she'd like you for who you are."
"Yeah. But mama said it didn't matter. Women are women."
"Was she right in this case?"
Xavier didn't answer and I didn't push him. He might not have had an answer and could possibly be searching for one. He kept a pained expression on his face and didn't say anything.
"Okay" I finally said, getting back to the matter at hand. "Look. If you didn't hit Desiree, who do you think did?"