Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  With that, Shelly slammed the phone back down on the set. It made a loud sound, but the person on the other end would never know that. To them it would just sound like she had hung up normally.

  "Tough day?" I asked politely.

  She glanced up at me and groaned. "Oh, not you. Not now. I have enough problems."

  "It's so nice to feel appreciated. I figured you might want me to update you on my investigation."

  "At this point, I could care less," she said and lit a cigarette. "If the governor's teenage daughter wants to run away, that's her business."

  "Guess you have bigger problems," I mused, figuring she'd miss the sarcastic underpinnings.

  "You betcha," she responded. "We went from being ahead by four points a couple of days ago, to now being down by four. This is a nightmare scenario. We cut a new set of ads yesterday that begin airing this afternoon."

  "Oh? How are you spinning this?"

  "Well, mister political consultant, Politics 101 says when you make a mistake and your opponent attacks you on it, you focus on the opponent's aggressive tactics. We call it jiu-jitsu. Use the opposition's strength against him."

  "Ah, clever. So you're painting the governor as the victim here."

  "That's the plan," she said. "Unless you have a better idea, you being such a master of political strategy and all."

  "I wouldn't dream of telling you how to run your campaign," I said.

  Shelly Busch lit another cigarette. "I'm glad I won't have to listen to your opinions," she said. "I get enough amateur advice."

  "But I do need to tell you. Things might get worse."

  She stared at me. "Really?"

  "Yes. I know a few reporters at the Times. They believe Molly was in a romantic relationship with Diego Garcia. It's just a matter of time before they run it. Thought you might want to know."

  She expressed very little surprise at this nugget of information and tapped some ash into a nearby garbage pail. "Thanks. But a romance is not such a bad thing here."

  "Oh?" I remarked. "Why's that?"

  "Might improve Rex's standing with the Latino community. Couldn't get much worse right now."

  I peered at her. "Anything to win an election. Even if it means pimping the governor's daughter?"

  Shelly Busch took a long drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke directly at me. "I wouldn't put it that way. We're just trying to stem this tide. You've really got a vulgar way of describing things. It's very off-putting."

  "Sure," I said. "When one kid gets murdered and another goes missing, I spend a lot of time worrying about what people think of me."

  "Maybe you ought to."

  "And maybe if you blow any more smoke in my face I'm going to shove that cancer stick up your nose. With the lit end first."

  She stared at me, took another puff, and this time blew the smoke discreetly toward the ceiling. "I forgot. You're a tough guy. You hit women if you don't like what they do?"

  "Not as a general rule," I said.

  "How noble."

  "You want to tell me about being noble?" I started, feeling the anger rising. "Someone whose interest in a missing teenage girl is grounded on whether you can use her as a campaign tool? That the girl's safety is secondary to getting your boss re-elected?"

  "You've got a lot of stones, you know that? We're paying you to do a job, not lecture us on civic responsibilities."

  "Tell me something. Why does the governor stay in a suite downtown rather than go home to his wife each night?"

  She gave me a curious look before responding. "Because his time is valuable and he doesn't need to waste it driving back to that nut job he calls a wife. Whenever he spends the night at home, he comes back in a tizzy. We have less than two weeks in which to finish a campaign and every minute counts."

  "Sounds like he's a real happily married man."

  "And just what do you know about his marital life? You can't even do the simplest thing like find his daughter before she gets herself wrapped up in a murder investigation."

  "Who's he sleeping with?"

  The silence in the room seemed to last indefinitely. Shelly Busch looked at me and then out the window. An eternity seemed to go by before she started speaking again. I didn't push her. I simply waited. Me being so noble and all.

  "I have no idea," she finally responded. "Why are you asking me that?"

  "Because that's why men stay in hotels. Something's going on here. Campaign or not, happily married men normally want to be home in bed with their wives, if they have that option."

  "My," she finally said, "you are quite the investigator. But I don't know every aspect of his life. Just who do you suspect?"

  "I wouldn't know where to begin," I said. "And I'm not here to investigate the governor. But this all seems tied together. And after meeting his wife, I wouldn't be at all surprised their marriage is on the rocks. Or why the campaign is keeping her at arm's length. Nicole Palmer's like the crazy aunt a family keeps locked in the attic, hoping word won't leak out about her."

  "What?! You met his wife?! What made you think you could do that?! You had no business approaching Nicole. That's outrageous. You should have vetted this with the campaign first. You've gone way beyond what you were hired to do."

  "No, I'm doing exactly what I was hired to do."

  "And just what did Nicole tell you?"

  "Nothing that helps me find Molly. And frankly I'm not convinced anyone around here really cares if Molly's found or not."

  "You can't continue with this," she said, pointing a finger at me. "We can't have you talking to whomever you want. You're dismissed. You can keep what's left of the retainer, but you're fired as of right now."

  "Sorry. But my answer is no."

  "No?!" she sputtered, her voice rising. "What the ... you don't get to say no! You're finished here! Get it? You're fired!"

  "I don't think so. I was hired by the governor."

  "I speak for the governor. You're fired."

  "The governor's the only one who can request I stop the investigation."

  "Request?!" she screamed. "What the hell are you saying here? Are you implying you'll continue this investigation even if the governor of California orders you to stop?!"

  "I'll consider it," I said evenly. "And then I'll decide."

  Shelly reached over and stabbed her cigarette in the ashtray a few times. She then reached into her purse, pulled out a fresh one and lit it.

  "You have no idea what kind of shit storm is about to come down on you."

  I shrugged. "I've dealt with worse. And for the record, I didn't start my own agency just so I could take orders from power-hungry egomaniacs that think they can push me around."

  "Well," she said, glaring at me. "I'm generally good at sizing people up. But I was certainly wrong about you."

  "How's that?"

  "You're a far bigger pain in the ass than I could have ever imagined."

  I smiled broadly and said nothing.

  "You think that's funny?" she demanded.

  "Not exactly," I said. "I just think It's nice when someone finally gets me."

  *

  The cloudy sky had turned even more dark and ominous by the time I reached the Rampart station. A light rain began to fall on my drive over, and now started to increase in intensity. This was an unusual weather pattern we were having, some days warm, some days cool. But rain in October was very atypical for the Southland, and could presage a series of winter storms in the months ahead. After a long period of dry summer weather, rain was usually a good thing. Except when you were driving. During the first rainstorm of the season, the dried oil on the streets became wet again, and the road conditions often became slick and treacherous.

  I found Dennis Lally at his desk, his bulky frame crammed into a small chair, eating a foot-long sandwich from Subway. He was glancing through the sports section of the Times. A soft drink the size of a small bucket sat nearby.

  "Sorry to interrupt your Code Seven, Detective," I said, ma
king an LAPD reference to a lunch break.

  Lally glanced at me and reached over to take a long pull from that sugar-sweetened swill. His lips tightened as he tugged on the straw. He swallowed, belched, and leaned back in his chair.

  "I was wondering when you were going to make an appearance," he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Captain said you were cooperative with law enforcement. Hate to be questioning the top brass."

  "Juan wasn't always in management," I observed. "And it wasn't that long ago he sat at a desk like yours. And he had the same healthy eating habits."

  "I eat what I want."

  "Good for you. Just don't be surprised if cardiac arrest is in your future."

  "You sound like a college professor."

  "You don't know any college professors."

  "Smartass," he said. "You live up to your billing."

  "That should be reassuring," I smiled. "You know what to expect from me. Any luck over at Stone Canyon?"

  Lally snorted. "After I finally entered the campus, yeah. When you drove by, I was about to cuff that security guard. Most people understand what a gold shield from the LAPD means."

  I shook my head. "At places like Stone Canyon, a gold shield is trumped by gold itself."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I told the guard I was a parent. I guess they figure anyone who pays a bundle for tuition gets the white glove treatment. This is LA after all. Nothing speaks louder than money in this town."

  "No argument there. So what'd you find out?" he asked.

  "The governor's daughter is still missing. But my hunch is she's safe."

  "Gee, that's wonderful. Warms my heart. How about the Garcia homicide? Learn anything?"

  "Oh, nothing. How about you?"

  "Cut the crap. I don't want you ruining my lunch."

  "Wouldn't want to do that," I agreed. "Cost you what, five bucks?"

  "Cost me nothing. I know the manager. Whaddya got?"

  I shook my head. Cops weren't supposed to take free meals, but some of them never got the memo. "Diego Garcia was a good kid," I said. "Everyone liked him. No issues I could uncover. But one odd thing came up."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Diego was seen at Langer's a few days before the shooting."

  "So? What's odd about that?"

  "Mexican kid with very little money eating in a pricey deli. Strike you as unusual?"

  "Maybe a few friends from that private school introduced him to the finer things in life."

  "Like what? High-end Pastrami? No, the odd thing was he was there with a couple of professional people, dressed in suits. They were having an intense conversation. Not sure who it was. May have had something to do with the governor's campaign staff. Just odd is all. May mean something, may mean nothing."

  "Great," he shrugged. "Thanks for the insights. Anything else?"

  "That's about it."

  "Gee," he said. "You've been doing real yeoman's work the past few days. So glad you're helping us out."

  "My pleasure. How'd you do with those two characters you picked up the other night? I take it they didn't identify who killed Diego."

  "Nope. Just that the driver did the shooting. No one else was in the car," he said. "There was also one detail neither of them bothered to reveal at first. Turns out they were Garcia's brothers. Or half-brothers. Different name. I guess they were from the mother's first marriage. The parents finally told us."

  "What do you make of it?"

  "Despite what the captain thinks about the governor's daughter's involvement, this is still gang-related in my book. The brothers' role confirmed it for me. My guess is the Garcia shooting had something to do with the brothers' activities. Probably drugs. In that world, maybe a business acquaintance with a beef goes and drills a family member. Garcia's bad luck he was born into that life. Sucks, but it happens."

  "So that's it. Case closed?" I asked.

  "Got nothing else to run with here. Kid's gunned down by someone in a car, car disappears. Ballistics said he was shot with a 9mm, but there are plenty of those in circulation. Can't find anyone in the neighborhood who knows anything. The guy who runs concessions at the Coliseum, Longley, he wasn't very helpful. No one at that school could provide much. So unless something else turns up, we got nothing. The Palmers haven't filed a missing persons report on their daughter, so that's not on our plate. But trust me, I got plenty to do."

  And then it happened. The timing could not have been more propitious. Juan Saavedra approached the two of us, a piece of paper in his hand.

  "Good to see the two of you are learning to work as a team," Juan said.

  "We're the best of friends now," I smiled. Lally rolled his eyes.

  "Wonderful. Hey, Burnsy, you making any progress for us?"

  "For you? No. Not much for myself either. Or anyone else."

  "Maybe this will give you something to chew on. Someone just called in a homicide. Body found in an alley off Alvarado. Close to where that Garcia kid got popped."

  I took a breath. "Got a name?"

  "Unidentified female. Teenager. You can follow Detective Lally down there, just stay out of the way."

  Lally didn't bother to look at me, but he did take one last bite of his foot-long and washed it down with his drink. He took the paper from Juan and headed out the door without me. I shrugged.

  "Guess I'm not getting a ride with him."

  "No, we're not a taxi service," Juan said. "But there's a few cruisers already there. You won't have any trouble finding the crime scene."

  My mind raced as I drove slowly through the rain-drenched streets. When I reached Alvarado Street, I saw six LAPD patrol cars and a group of uniforms milling about, as well as a group of plainclothes officers. I caught up with Lally, but he wouldn't let me view the body. He told me police business meant just that.

  I stood nearby and waited a few minutes. The rain eased up to a drizzle. Then I saw a pair of familiar faces. Sad faces, worried, despondent and anguished. I walked over to the parents of Diego Garcia.

  "Hello," I began.

  "Señor Detective," Mr. Garcia said. "This is so tragic. So bad."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's awful. They found her body this morning. It may have happened last night, we can't be certain. We heard about it through a neighbor. We're all very scared."

  I stared at him "Just what happened here?"

  "I can't believe someone would do such a thing. Not to a young woman. Not to Sofia. But someone did. They shot her. They shot Diego's girlfriend. Many times."

  Chapter 9

  When I was on the LAPD, I saw this tragic scene unfold far too often. Losing a child is a calamitous event, from which many parents never recover. It is catastrophic beyond anything imaginable. The world normally dictates that children are supposed to bury their parents, hopefully after a long life. When parents have to bury their child, they bury much of themselves too.

  The police interviewed Sofia's parents, and they wore the same heartsick look I had seen so many times in the past. The same look the Garcias had. They were in shock, they had no idea who would do such a thing. The locals weren't saying much, although various gang names came up as they always did. Bitter memories of scores not settled were bandied about by people in the neighborhood. They may or may not have been correct, but this kind of response would always be given. There were usually no eyewitnesses to the slaying, and the detectives were left without much to go on. Except in this case, the name Molly Palmer was now being openly discussed. Finally, Dennis Lally took me aside.

  "Okay. Looks like your missing girl case is now priority one," he said.

  "Sure," I said. "Everyone wants to talk to Molly now."

  "Where do you think she is?"

  "Gee, Detective, let me see. Hmmm. Does I don't know work for you?"

  "You're doing a real bang-up job here, Burnside. I'll bet the governor gives you a bonus soon for all your great work."

  "If he's still governor, that is."

/>   "Oh, now you're a political guru, huh? You just have so much to offer. Why don't you take off and go do whatever it is you do. Leave the police work to the pros."

  "Sure, you're a pro all right. How much have you accomplished? You eat sandwiches with the best of them."

  We stared hard at each other for a long minute before Lally turned and walked away. My connection with Juan Saavedra probably saved me from a physical altercation or being cuffed and driven over to lock-up. As I walked away, though, I heard my name being called out. I turned and saw Adam Lazar approaching.

  "Hey, you learn anything here?" he asked.

  "Just that the cops know as much as we do," I said. "Maybe less."

  "Yeah, those guys keep things too close to the vest. Where you headed?"

  "Haven't decided. You?"

  "Stone Canyon," Lazar declared. "Time to turn that place upside down."

  "With that attitude, I'm sure you'll be entering from the back way again. Your dry cleaner will become rich getting those grass stains off your pants."

  "Uh, yeah. I thought maybe I could ride in with you. I think I burned my bridges with that security guard."

  I looked at Lazar and sighed. He was a handful of trouble, but I wasn't making much progress on my own.

  "Why not," I said. "Park your car off of Beverly Glen, south of Sunset. There's a small street called Bainbridge Avenue. I'll pick you up over there."

  The rain had stopped, but traffic was heavy as I made my way slowly out of downtown. While rush hour had yet to start, two cars got into a bad accident and everyone had to slow down to view the gruesome scene. One vehicle had overturned, and the other looked smashed beyond repair. It took 45 minutes, but I finally picked up Lazar, who had parked in front of a palatial estate. He was leaning on the fender of a rusty 20-year-old Toyota Tercel, looking down at his phone. The Tercel certainly didn't fit in with the BMWs and Mercedes parked nearby. Maybe the neighbors would figure it was owned by someone's housekeeper.