Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  "I'm doing well," I said. "Very well."

  "And Gail?"

  "Even better. You know, we're expecting."

  "Oh my! How marvelous. Congratulations. Please give her my love. She's such a wonderful person. I'll bet you're both thrilled."

  "We are. I admit this was not a planned pregnancy, but I'm all in. Can't wait."

  "That's so nice to hear. That just makes my day. You're going to be a great father."

  "I hope so. I can't say as I've had much of a role model. Some stuff I'm going to have to make up as I go."

  "You'll do fine," she said. "But I have a funny feeling you didn't just call to tell me that."

  "Uh, no," I said. "Actually, Crystal, I need a favor. And if it's an imposition, please tell me. No worries if you're not up for this."

  "All right," she said a little tepidly. "But it sounds a little intriguing. Everything you do seems to have a lot of excitement to it. And my life could use some right now."

  "This will be exciting," I promised as I began to share the details. "I can assure you of that."

  *

  At one time, Crystal Fairborn lived right on the beach, in a house along Pacific Coast Highway. But it came as no surprise she now had a new address. I doubted she could go on living in the home she and Wayne had shared. Too many painful memories. She had since moved into a Craftsman home on Adelaide Drive in Santa Monica, across the street from the bluffs that overlooked the blue Pacific.

  The homes on Adelaide Drive are a throwback to another era. Many were built before World War II, but subsequently remodeled and expanded. They were set back from the street and had large front lawns. They faced northwest, so they were treated to both a spectacular ocean view and a glorious look at the Santa Monica mountains. Years ago, I used to exercise on the 4th Street Stairs down the block from her. This involved running up and down a few hundred wooden steps that led into and out of Santa Monica Canyon. Back then, this was a hidden gem, tucked away on what was once a quiet street. Over the years however, the stairs became a workout hot spot, with dozens of people often lined up to partake. And it was not unusual to see a few celebrities mixed in with the crowd.

  Crystal's home was actually a bit modest for the neighborhood, meaning it was less than 5,000 square feet and did not have a swimming pool in the backyard. While Adelaide only stretched a few blocks from Ocean Avenue to 7th street, it was among the most expensive streets to live on.

  We entered the property through a wrought iron gate, and walked up a winding pathway to the front door. I was about to ring the bell, but the door opened before I could push the button. Crystal had been expecting us and as we were quickly whisked inside. She glanced out front to see if there was anyone lurking. No one was. I had checked, too.

  "It's been a while since we've seen each other," I said, giving Crystal a kiss on the cheek.

  "Too long," she said, and then turned to my companion. "And you must be Molly."

  Molly concurred with a cautious nod of the head. We moved across shiny hardwood floors and into a tastefully decorated living room, sitting down on one of two taupe couches that faced each other. A number of David Hockney paintings lined the walls, giving the room a bright splash of color.

  "So tell me what the plan is," Crystal asked.

  "Elementary, my dear. We keep Molly with you until the publicity starts to cool off and we can sort out what's best here. I'll need to tell her parents she's safe, but I won't tell them where she is. Molly knows she can't leave the premises on her own, which I hope won't pose a problem."

  "I'm not going to run off again," Molly protested.

  "I believe you. But I'm still keeping your iPhone."

  Molly rolled her eyes. "That's my whole life in there."

  "This will be a great experience for you. See what the world was like a few years ago. I don't pretend to know much about teenagers, but I do know they give in to temptation. That's why I'm keeping your phone."

  "This poses an issue," Crystal said. "I can't spend every minute at home. And I don't want Molly to feel as if she's in prison. I'm not guarding her."

  "I don't expect you to. And it's okay for you to go out with her, just be discreet. I'll be around a lot. But it's true, you might need someone else here. Someone who's, um, capable. Just in case."

  "Oh. And you were thinking of ...?"

  "Well," I said slowly. "I don't think we parted on such wonderful terms last time. But I do recall your father is quite an imposing man."

  She gave a small laugh. "Yes and yes. And I'm sure he'd help. I just don't think I'll bring up your name right away."

  Crystal's father was named Serge Markovich, a barrel-chested brawler, who laid tile for a living. He was about as quick to get into a fight as I was. He was not someone I wanted to tangle with. He was not someone anybody wanted to tangle with. Which, even at the age of 60, made him well qualified for this assignment.

  "All right then," I said. "We have a plan?"

  "I'll call my father. There's plenty of room here." Crystal turned to Molly. "Did you bring any clothes, honey?"

  Molly shook her head no. "I've been a bit of a nomad this week."

  "We'll change that. Gives us an excuse to go to Nordstrom's."

  "I'm more of an Old Navy type girl."

  We both stared at her. Molly got a little hesitant. "But I'll go wherever you want," she said, looking around. "You seem to have nice taste."

  I turned back to Crystal. "Thank you for this. I didn't know who else to turn to."

  "You mean you don't have a database full of wealthy women with large homes and time on their hands?" she smiled.

  "No," I said. "Maybe I should put that on my to-do list."

  I left Molly in the calm hands of Crystal Fairborn, promised to come back later in the day, and drove off. As I cruised down 7th Street, I called Bill Thorn. I thought of driving downtown, but I sensed this would be a short conversation.

  "Hey, it's Burnside."

  "Yeah?"

  "I found that package your boss was looking for."

  "Huh?"

  I sighed. Maybe this conversation was going to take longer than I thought.

  "I found Molly."

  "Oh, really?" he said, the rising cadence in his voice indicating a newfound interest. "Where is she?"

  "I can confirm she was at her Grandfather's home. Until this morning."

  "Cripes, tell me something I don't know. Half the LA media is parked outside of Buster Palmer's house. Where is she now?"

  "Sorry. I can't pass that along yet."

  "What?! The hell you can't, you dumbass gumshoe! I want to know where she is now!"

  I smiled into the phone. "I want a lot of things."

  "Are you kidding me? You're messing with the governor's daughter? Your hiding her? Do you know what kind of hell you're asking for?!"

  "Tell me. Please."

  "You don't get to hide Rex Palmer's kid!"

  "I'm not hiding her. Molly's 18 and she's not a kid. She's doing this of her own volition. Well, sort of. Her grandfather wanted her out of public view. At least until the election is over. But I can assure you she is safe and being looked after."

  A long pause permeated the call. Finally he spoke. "We're not done with this."

  "No, we're not. There are some pieces to this puzzle still missing. I'll give you an update when I know more."

  Another long pause and then a disconnect. Thorn was not pleased and I was sure the governor would not be pleased. I wasn't totally pleased myself, because there was something going on with Molly and with her parents and nobody would talk about it. I drove over to Nicole Palmer's house in Holmby Hills, but no one seemed to be home. I went through my numerous voice mails, but none needed immediate attention. I drove back to Santa Monica and had a godmother sandwich at Bay Cities Deli. I headed to my office to stare out the window. Nothing caught my attention and nothing spurred my thinking. I debated the benefits of taking a nap. And then, just as I was starting to drift off, my phone rang.<
br />
  "Mr. Burnside? It's Kristy. From Robinson Gardens? On Ellendale?"

  "Ah, yes," I said, scrambling to think back to what was only yesterday. It seemed like much longer. "How's your screenplay coming?"

  "Oh, fine. But I wanted to tell you something. Desiree is home right now. I heard her moving around in her apartment. This might be a good opportunity to catch her. If you have time."

  Right now I had nothing but time. I told her I'd be right over. I went to the men's room, slapped a handful of cold water on my face, and headed downstairs to my Pathfinder. It was early afternoon and traffic on the 10 Freeway was light. I made it in 17 minutes. Not a record, but close.

  I buzzed Kristy's number and she let me into the building. Walking up the two flights of stairs, everything seemed very quiet, as most students were in class. I walked by Kristy's apartment, which was open a crack. She peered out. I motioned for her to close the door. No sense letting Desiree know who was keeping tabs on her.

  I tapped lightly on the door and a very pretty young African-American woman answered. She was shapely and looked every bit like she could be the hot girlfriend of a soon-to-be millionaire.

  "Desiree. Hi. My name's Burnside. Can we talk for a minute?"

  She frowned. "About what?"

  "About Xavier. I was hired by the university," I said, handing her my card and knowing I was stretching the truth a little. Jeremy Hoffman wasn't exactly representing the university and I wasn't exactly hired by him.

  "Oh," she said, hesitating.

  "Can I come inside? This isn't something you'll want everyone to hear," I said, knowing at least one neighbor would take steps to hear everything.

  "All right," she said and led me into her apartment. The living room was furnished with a blue couch, matching love seat, and a pecan and glass coffee table. Certainly nicer than the furniture I had as a student. I sat down on the soft couch and sunk a few inches. Hopefully I wouldn't need to jump up at a moment's notice.

  "So you've filed charges against Xavier," I said. "For assault."

  She pointed to her jaw which still had a few dark marks on it. "Hit me right there."

  "Why did he hit you?"

  She stared at me. "Xavier's a violent man who plays a violent sport. He has trouble controlling himself."

  That much was probably true. I knew from experience, football players were a different breed. They were quick to flame and many had anger issues. If not for football, some of them would be in regular trouble with the law. Some still were, but football gave them a socially acceptable outlet for their rage. The brutal actions a player took on the gridiron could earn them praise and plaudits. If they did the same thing on the streets they would surely wind up in jail.

  "I had a friend in high school," I said, "who was a really good athlete. Ran track. But he said the worst week of his life was the one week he spent trying out for the football team."

  "It's not for everyone," she agreed, definitively. "Thank goodness for that."

  "There are players who have trouble separating their emotions when they're off the field. When things get tough for them on a personal level, they sometimes revert to warrior mode. It's what they know."

  "That's Xavier. No control over himself."

  "How long have you gone out with him?" I asked.

  "Two years. We met during freshman orientation."

  "He ever hit you before?"

  She looked at me a little funny. "Um, no."

  "So what was different about this time?"

  Her mouth opened slightly. "I don't know. Maybe something else was bothering him and he took it out on me. But he can't do that. It's just wrong to hit a woman."

  "I agree," I said, and then tossed out a zinger to see where it landed. "But Xavier wasn't the one who gave you that swollen jaw, was he?"

  "Whaaaa ..." she exclaimed, mouth open. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean someone else hit you," I said, watching her carefully.

  "No, no, it wasn't like that ... I mean, how would you know? You weren't here."

  "I know you and Xavier started arguing right when he came in the door. Wouldn't that be unusual if Xavier were having some other problem?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. Are you saying you don't believe me?"

  "Look, I do know Xavier threw a punch or two."

  "He sure did," she said, nodding her head vociferously.

  "And Xavier left after he threw those punches," I said.

  Desiree Brown stared at me. Her eyes grew wide, and I sensed there were tears forming. Getting caught in a lie is tough, and the more I saw, the more I was convinced she was not telling the truth. I had a vague idea what the truth might be, but I could only present a scenario and see how she reacted to it.

  "Someone else was in the apartment with you," I continued.

  "How do you know this?" she asked in a bit of a whiny voice, some of her defiance faltering, as a tear slid down her cheek.

  "I just know," I lied, feeling the bravado start to turn into confidence. "You were hit all right. But someone else hit you. It wasn't Xavier."

  Desiree lowered her head and walked away. Going into the kitchen for a moment, she returned with a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Her mouth was twisted into a weird angle as she tried to choke back more tears.

  "What really happened?" I pushed.

  "I ... I told you."

  "No, you didn't. What really happened?"

  "He ... Oh ... Xavier walked in on us. It was ... it was nothing, really. Just a guy who lived upstairs. His name's DeMarcus. But Xavier saw him and started making accusations. The guy stood up to Xavier. I knew that was a mistake. Xavier hit him. Knocked him down with one punch. DeMarcus got up and Xavier knocked him down again. Then Xavier turned to me and said we're done. And he walked out."

  "So then you started arguing with DeMarcus about something."

  "He said he was going to get Xavier. I didn't know what he meant. But when a guy gets punched in front of a woman, it's humiliating. I was afraid he would go after Xavier with a gun or something."

  "Do you know whether DeMarcus owns a gun?" I asked.

  "No, but look they're not hard to get. Least not in this neighborhood."

  "Okay. Then what?"

  "I said I was afraid he was going to get himself killed. Xavier has friends. Some really bad people. Anything happens to Xavier, they would take care of DeMarcus. That's how it works."

  "So you tried to stop DeMarcus. And then he hit you."

  Desiree looked down at the ground and the tears started to flow more freely. "I'm really ashamed," she sobbed in a halting voice. "I just didn't know what else to do."

  "But why sign a complaint against Xavier? Why not tell the truth about DeMarcus? In addition to breaking the law by filing a false police report, you could ruin Xavier's life. These are very damaging charges."

  She took a few breaths. "I thought Xavier was gone for good," she managed, her voice quivering intermittently. "After this, I didn't think he'd want anything to do with me. I thought this was my one shot at getting him back in my life. I knew I could always drop the charges against Xavier."

  This time it was my turn to take a few breaths. Xavier could go to jail, his career plans could go up in smoke, and all because his girlfriend didn't want him to leave her. Even if Desiree dropped the charges, anything besides a full and candid mea culpa would keep a stigma around Xavier forever, and could still jeopardize his pro football career. The NFL had different views on different infractions, not all of them fair. If a football player gets into a fight with another man, the actions are more lenient than if he punches a woman.

  "You need to tell the truth," I told her. "There are serious consequences if you don't."

  "I'd have to tell the police I lied to them," she whimpered.

  "At this point, it's not about what you did. It's about what you do next."

  "Do I have to press charges against DeMarcus?"

  I considered this. "Not necessarily," I pondered. "He hit
you, but there's no law that says you have to file charges. It's your choice. You have to decide if you want to pursue that."

  "What if DeMarcus wants to go after Xavier?"

  "I don't know. It's been more than a week without an incident, so that's a good thing. Nothing's happened to Xavier yet, but there's still some risk. And I have an idea about how we can keep a lid on this. But you have to promise to tell the police the truth about you and Xavier."

  Desiree sat down. She had stopped crying and started thinking. A long minute passed. "If I do this, it probably means Xavier and I are over."

  "Maybe so," I agreed, rising to my feet. "But you two could have been over anyway."

  "I just don't understand all this," she shook her head. "How did you know?"

  I shrugged. "I can sense when things don't seem to fit right. And I also had a little help here."

  "I guess my life isn't going to turn out the way I had planned," she finally said.

  "No one's life does," I said, suddenly remembering something Ms. Linzmeier's preacher had said the other morning. "You want to make God laugh? Just tell him your plans."

  She gave a small chuckle, but it was attached to a painful wince. "I guess," she murmured.

  "But you know, I can guarantee you something, and I promise you it's true. Coming clean is the best path to go down. Living a lie will eat you up inside."

  I walked out of her apartment and the cool air hit me right away. I felt strangely sad at the turn of events. I wanted to dislike Desiree for what she did, but all I could do was feel sorry for her. She was young and naive and didn't know that every action could cause a reaction. Newton's laws went way beyond physics. I turned and headed down the hallway when a door opened and I saw another unhappy face. Kristy looked disappointed.

  "I take it you heard everything," I said.

  "Yes," she said, glumly. "I was hoping my movie would have more of a slam-bang ending."

  I shrugged. That's show biz. Every day another heartbreak.

  Chapter 12

  The drive up to Hollywood took about 40 minutes in stop-and-go traffic. I arrived at Cliff Roper's office and allowed his cupcake receptionist to escort me into her boss's office. As usual he was on the phone. What was unusual was that he seemed glad to see me.