Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  Arthur Woo walked in and sat down. I didn't invite him to sit down, but he didn't seem to care. He was wearing a dark blue suit and tie, and also wore a relaxed face that bespoke a man who was enjoying life very much these days. Not a surprise, of course. In a matter of 10 days, his brother had a very real chance to be elected governor of California.

  "Well, Arthur, I understand your brother has taken a small lead in the polls. I'm sure you're thrilled."

  "I am indeed, Mr. Burnside."

  "So what brings you here?"

  "A proposition, actually. I've been thinking about you."

  "How flattering."

  Arthur Woo smiled slightly. Very slightly. "I understand," he said. "You've been busy trying to find the governor's daughter."

  I bowed my head slightly in acknowledgment. "You've obviously read the Times article."

  "Oh, that just confirmed it. But after we met at the debate, I was curious and did a little research. I learned you are a private investigator. Why would a private investigator be at a political debate? And in the first row, no less. You weren't part of Justin's campaign, and you weren't part of the media, so you had to be working for Palmer. I had initially assumed you were digging up dirt on us, but yes, the Times article pointed to a very different assignment."

  "All right. You get an 'A' for being assiduous. But how can I help you? Especially given the fact that I do work for your brother's opponent."

  "You know, the campaign will end in 10 days. And then my brother will quite possibly be the governor-elect. I'm in charge of the transition team, vetting people who can serve in the administration."

  "Ah," I said. "But it sounds like you've shown up at the wrong office. My wife might be a better fit for a political appointment than I would."

  "Your wife has a very good resume," he observed. "I looked into her, too. The city attorney's office is a good starting place. But for the time being, we're actually looking at you."

  "Me?" I asked, eyes wide. "I'm not sure what role I could play in anyone's administration. I do have a knack for ticking people off, but aside from that, I don't think I'm cut out for politics."

  Arthur Woo smiled as paternally as anyone under age 30 could hope to smile. "We know that. We're more interested in having you lead our security force. Be in charge of Justin's detail. Keep him safe. We know you spent quite a few years with the LAPD. And you have a reputation for getting things done."

  I sat back for a moment and pondered this. The Woos wanted me to be the new Bill Thorn, the guy who protects the governor and potentially puts his life on the line for him. That wasn't quite how I saw my future. But I also knew the future wasn't always going to unfold the way you envisioned it.

  "That type of job takes a lot of patriotism, Arthur," I said slowly. "Yes, I was on the police force and there were times I needed to put my life on the line to protect others. But I'm not so sure I could jump in the path of a speeding bullet to protect a political leader."

  "It's not the Secret Service, Mr. Burnside. We don't expect you to die for your governor."

  "But these things can happen."

  "Very unusual. And unlikely. We are planning to make Justin's administration a very popular one. We have lots of plans for how to improve the state. In fact, by the time he's done, I'd be surprised if there isn't talk of a national candidacy."

  Now it was my turn to smile paternally. "I may be a little rusty in my political science, but if I recall, you have to born in the United States to be elected president. Justin was born in Seoul. There's a little thing called the Constitution."

  "I am quite aware, Mr. Burnside. I learned that in Middle School. But there's also the ability to amend the Constitution. You see, our Founding Fathers were incredibly smart. They knew the world would change and America would need to change along with it. After Justin proves himself in this job, we can advance a constitutional amendment which would allow a naturalized citizen to run for higher office, regardless of where they were born. So a presidency is not out of the question."

  I let out a low whistle. "You've really thought this through. You haven't even won the election yet and you're thinking 10 years down the road. Impressive."

  "I'm a planner, Mr. Burnside."

  "Apparently. I understand your brother went to Harvard. How about you?"

  "No, I was a rebel," he said, without smiling. "I went to Columbia."

  "Ah."

  "I like to think of myself as a visionary," he continued. "And I like to believe I see greatness in people. I see greatness in Justin. And I think I see some greatness in you, too."

  "That's very flattering," I said. "Really, it is. You've done more than your share of homework on me. But it doesn't alter a basic tenet here. I'm still working for Governor Palmer."

  "I know. But things change very quickly once an election is over. Your enemies become your friends. It's the way of the world."

  "You're aware I've never done this type of work before."

  "Of course I am. But that doesn't mean you wouldn't be good at it."

  "Why not Bill Thorn? He might be looking for a new job after next week. And he certainly has relevant experience in this area."

  "We're quite aware of Mr. Thorn. And to be completely transparent with you, Mr. Thorn has already contacted us about a job after the election."

  Hmmm. Now that was very interesting indeed. "Who is Justin's detail man now?" I asked.

  "Ken Sang. A friend of a friend. But we're looking for someone better. And we'd like to expand to include, um, those with more diversity."

  I didn't exactly see myself as a model for racial equality, but politics does make for some strange doings. "You know, of course, I don't speak Korean."

  "Of course, Mr. Burnside," he smiled, this time a little more broadly. "That is, in fact, rather an asset, not a liability."

  I nodded and began wondering what conversations might happen right in front of me, ones I would be completely unable to understand.

  I told Arthur I would think carefully about his offer. As he rose to leave, he made a final pitch about public service and the need to give back. It was not a speech I needed to hear. After 13 years with the LAPD, I knew all about public service. I also knew how brutal it could get when things went south. But his offer was flattering, albeit a great surprise. I hadn't considered anything like this before, so I didn't have a ready answer for him. There's an old axiom that says you should never turn down an opportunity right away, that sleeping on it might yield some added insight.

  Arthur Woo departed, and I looked out the window a little more, sipping on what was now lukewarm coffee. Yesterday, Johnny Cleary was musing about bringing me on as an assistant coach of the SC football team. Today, I was being considered for a high profile job working directly for the governor of the largest state in the country. Maybe tomorrow I'd be offered a job as an executive with the Walt Disney Studios. I didn't want to think too much about the future, the present was still providing me with ample complexities. And as I started to ponder what the rest of my day would look like, this vision was quickly altered.

  The person who quietly entered my office was wearing a black hoodie. It was pulled tightly over their head. They moved slowly but purposefully. They were wearing sunglasses. Their hands were tucked snugly inside their sweatshirt pockets, holding something lumpy. They turned toward me and I quickly opened the top drawer of my desk and grabbed my .38.

  "It's not what you think," the person said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, and stopped moving.

  "Then what is it?" I countered, aiming the gun at their abdomen.

  "Would you mind pointing that thing somewhere else?"

  "Would you mind taking your hands out of your pockets?" I directed. "Real slow like."

  They went to great effort to present a pair of open palms. Pulling the hood down revealed long piles of curly blonde tresses. The sunglasses came off, and I saw a pair of pale blue eyes.

  "Oh, don't tell me," I said, putting the gun down, and leaning
back to take in the wonder of it all.

  "Yeah," she responded glumly. "I'm Molly."

  Chapter 11

  I put the gun down and motioned for her to take a seat. She was tall and slim, just like her father. She had her mother's face and eyes, which is to say she was somewhat pretty. Basically, she didn't look all that different from many other teenagers.

  "I'll assume that's not a pistol in your pocket," I started.

  "Nope. It's a bagel. Okay if I have breakfast?"

  "Sure," I said. "Sorry I can't offer you some cream cheese too."

  She didn't respond as she took a folded brown paper bag out of her sweatshirt pocket, and removed a plain bagel. Pulling off small pieces, she ate quietly and stared at the floor, chewing carefully. When she finished, she tried to hand me the paper bag. I made a gesture toward the wastebasket across the room.

  "So you're probably wondering what I'm doing here," she said, as she sat back down.

  "No, I was just thinking about who to vote for in the election."

  She tried to smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. "Good luck with that."

  "So you know I've been looking for you."

  "Everyone in LA seems to be looking for me."

  "But you chose to seek me out," I said.

  "Not exactly," she shrugged. "My grandfather told me to come here. Said you'd keep me safe for a little while until this all blows over."

  "Oh, he did, did he?" I said, my eyebrows starting to involuntarily arch.

  "Yes. That article in the paper this morning started it. Then, word got out that I was at Grandpa's. I guess someone at school posted it on the Internet. There were camera crews and paparazzi all over the street. It was crazy. Grandpa said I couldn't stay. Too risky. He got one of his neighbors to help me climb over their back fence and drive me here."

  I wondered just what the risk was in having an 18-year-old girl tucked away inside of a secluded house in the hills above Brentwood. I suppose Buster figured she'd have to come out at some point. Getting her out of the public limelight seemed a pre-eminent concern.

  "Why is it risky?" I started.

  "Grandpa's afraid I might say the wrong thing to the media."

  "Uh-huh. Look, I need more information here. Maybe we can start at the beginning," I suggested. "The part about where you've been the past week. And why."

  "I was at my grandfather's," she said, looking down at the linoleum.

  "No, you weren't. Not the whole time. Tell me about Diego."

  Molly Palmer clasped her hands on top of her head and continued to look at the floor. She didn't cry, but it seemed like she wanted to. She sat this way for a couple of minutes, then she spoke.

  "My home life isn't so good."

  I shook my head. I thought of my own home life at age 18 and tried to imagine how hers could be worse. Or even as bad. But everyone's pain is different.

  "I imagine you feel it is. But let's stick with Diego for a minute. What do you think happened?"

  "I don't know," she said. "I really don't. I wasn't there."

  "Any guesses?"

  She shook her head no.

  "But you were there last weekend. And someone said they'd kill you if you didn't leave."

  She looked up sharply. "How do you know about that?"

  "It's what I do. I find out things. Sometimes small things that need to be woven together to see the bigger picture. Tell me about it."

  Molly let out a big sigh. "Diego's ex didn't want me around. She threatened me. She threatened Diego. I didn't want to go, but Diego insisted. Said I'd be safer somewhere else for a while."

  "So you left. Who came and got you?"

  "I drove."

  "Stop lying," I said, this time a little more sharply. "You went to the Coliseum on Saturday with your friends. Afterward, you left with Diego. You don't drive. You had no car there."

  "Yeah," she said, her mind seemingly racing. "I took one of those ride shares. Uber, Lyft. The one with the pink mustache on the front."

  I shook my head. When a person wants to avoid speaking the truth, they'll often conjure up a semi-plausible explanation. When a sheltered teenager wants to avoid speaking the truth, the explanation can range from the doubtful to the ridiculous. But trying to get the whole truth out of Molly wasn't working right now. Time to move the conversation along.

  "Okay. How about I take you back home to your mother now?" I suggested.

  "Grandpa said no. And I don't want to be there, either."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know," she shrugged.

  "You've got to do better than that, or back home is where you're going," I told her in a more authoritative tone.

  She looked at me, a bit crestfallen. "No. Oh no. Whenever my dad is home, my parents fight. A lot. And when it's just me and my mom, it's crazy weird. I'm tired of it. I want out."

  "What do your parents fight about?"

  "Mostly what a bad marriage they have. It's the same stuff over and over. They just replay it. One of them thinks the other is cheating. They just take turns making accusations."

  "Are they true? Is one of them cheating?"

  Molly shrugged and said nothing.

  "Are both of them cheating?" I pushed.

  She stared down at the ground again. "Like I said, it's complicated."

  I sighed. Such is life, but I acknowledged her life had special complications. I thought of telling her that her father cared enough to hire me to find her, and whatever issues she had with her mother might eventually blow over. The problem was I didn't know if any of that was true. But the concerns that seem huge at 18 frequently have a way of dissipating. Bad things often pass, or at least become manageable. Somehow, I didn't think this approach was going to work with her. Not right now. She had effectively left from home and didn't want to go back. And she didn't have to go back. At 18, she was technically an adult.

  "So how is it I can help you?"

  "Like I said. Grandpa thought you could find a place for me to stay for a week or so. Maybe a hotel or something. Until the election's over anyway. Then he said we can sort this out in private. He said he can't take care of this because he's a public figure and everyone knows him. Plus he's over 80. He shouldn't have to."

  I took a deep breath. This was a high profile case, and this was a girl who needed help. Help that went beyond just having a place to stay for a while. And then I thought back to a case from more than five years ago, a case which ultimately cost me my LAPD badge. It was another young woman who needed help, a girl actually, a 17 year-old teenager. Her name was Judy Atkin and she was deeply lost, deeply troubled, and desperate in more ways than anyone should ever have to be.

  Judy had been an orphan, had run away from an abusive relative, and was arrested on prostitution charges. I did what no cop should ever do. I took her in with me, provided her a place to live and tried to give her a second chance. It didn't work. Judy went back to turning tricks, and when she was arrested again, she panicked. She lied and said she was working for me. The only reason I got out from under that nightmare was because she skipped town and never testified. But things couldn't go back to normal. My life and my career were forever altered.

  I looked across my desk at Molly Palmer. She was the scion of a powerful political family, and had a secret she wasn't ready to share. The family wanted to use me, and I wasn't so comfortable with that. There were things I didn't know, and I didn't like not knowing things. Especially when I was being asked to hide the daughter of a sitting governor, who may or may not have played a role in two murders. I would need to inform Lally about her whereabouts. It was just a question of when.

  "So your Grandfather thought I'd just take you in," I mused.

  "Yeah," she shrugged.

  I thought about options. I could put her up in a hotel, but that was a public venue and some enterprising employee would surely notify the media in exchange for a few dollars and a few seconds of face time on TV. I thought for a brief moment of bringing her home to our
apartment in Santa Monica and quickly dismissed that idea. As kindhearted as my wife was, she was also an attorney, very smart, and able to smell an ethical problem a mile away. On top of that, Gail was pregnant, we were buying a house, and she had a lot on her plate. I certainly wasn't going to add another significant burden.

  "Grandpa told me to give you this." Molly said, interrupting my thoughts as she reached into her pocket and handed me an envelope. Inside was a check made out to me for $10,000, signed by Buster Palmer. I reviewed it carefully. Everything seemed like it was on the level, and yet I knew there were big pieces of this story that were missing. I also knew it was just a matter of time before a few hard-nosed journalists started sniffing around my office.

  And then I thought of someone. Someone I had known for years, a person who might be well suited to look out for the daughter of a politician. I hadn't talked with her in some time, but I had a feeling she might welcome the challenge. She had a lot of free time, and she knew something about politics and public personas. And while there weren't many people who could match the financial wherewithal of a Buster Palmer, I thought it was quite possible Crystal Fairborn could come close. Before entering politics, Crystal's husband had inherited a massive real estate empire. I picked up my phone and walked into the hallway to make the call. I was pleased to find her phone number was still stored in my contact list. I was even more pleased when she answered on the first ring.

  "Crystal, good morning," I mustered in my most pleasant voice. "This is a voice from the past."

  "How mysterious. Go on."

  "It's Burnside. Detective extraordinaire. I hope you remember me."

  "Remember you? I don't think I'll ever forget you. And that's a compliment. Sincerely it is. How are you?"

  I had come to know Crystal a few years ago, when my friend Wayne Fairborn, her husband, was running for mayor in our small coastal city. In the heat of that election, Wayne was murdered in his office. That crime proved to be one of the most traumatic and difficult cases I've ever investigated. The more I uncovered, the less I seemed to have known about the real Wayne. And the outcome was as unsettling as the case itself.