Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  As I walked around the vehicle, I saw something else. Something I did not expect to find. I wasn't sure what to make of it at first. Parked next to the Escalade was a silver Toyota Prius. Nothing unusual about that, there had to have been six or seven in this parking lot alone. But this Prius had something a little different. A smashed tail light. And while that alone didn't make it special, there was more. Just underneath the tail light, and not easily seen unless you were looking, were three bullet holes.

  I pulled out my phone and quickly found Dennis Lally's number. Fortunately, he picked up.

  "Lally."

  "Good morning, detective. This is Burnside. Remember me?"

  "Oh, of course. I always remember P.I.'s that ask lots of questions and don't provide any answers. I'm sure you're probably looking for more favors, right? Best to call Juan for that. I'm fresh out."

  "Nope. I'm actually calling to help you. I'm pretty sure I can lead you to who killed Diego Garcia. And probably Sofia too. Interested?"

  "Keep talking."

  "I'm here at the Stone Canyon School. In the parking lot. The shooter's car is sitting here. A Toyota Prius, silver, license plate 6XYY661. That's six, x-ray, young, young, six, six, one. Has a smashed right tail light and at least three bullet holes underneath it."

  "Let me run the plates and I'll come down. I guess you really were on the job. You know the lingo."

  I laughed. "Just don't take a Code Seven on me right now."

  "Geez. Always with the smart remarks. You sit tight over there."

  The parking lot was next to an area with a few trees and benches. I sat down and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, while keeping an eagle eye on the area. A few more vehicles pulled in. But after 15 minutes, a tall, lanky student approached the Prius and unlocked it. Trotting over quickly, I yelled out his name. Connor Pierce turned to face me.

  "Classes over for the day?" I asked.

  He looked at me quizzically. "You're that private detective guy."

  "Good memory. Where you going?"

  Connor shrugged. "Getting a caffeine buzz over at Starbucks. Want anything?"

  "Nice of you to offer," I said, drawing my weapon and pointing it at him. "But you can't leave the campus."

  He stared at me. "You're pulling a gun on me again? What is this?"

  "I think you know. Those bullet holes in the back of your car. The smashed tail light. You were the one who killed Diego Garcia. And my guess is Sofia, too. The only unanswered question is why."

  "I ... I didn't do anything," he managed.

  "That line doesn't work, kid. We have evidence."

  "It ... it was Alex. I was just the driver. He pulled the trigger."

  "Nope. Nice try. I give you credit for creativity, even if it means throwing your friend under the bus. But the eyewitnesses were very consistent on something. Only one person was in the car. And the driver was the one who did the shooting."

  "This ... this is crazy," he choked.

  "It sure is, kid. But why did you do it? I'm not the police," I said, wondering what he'd do with the next line. "You can tell me."

  Connor Pierce leaned against his car and stared off into the distance.

  "Was it about Molly?" I asked.

  He nodded yes, his mouth drawn very tight.

  "Diego was seeing her," I continued.

  Another affirmative nod.

  "And you didn't like it."

  Conner Pierce's breathing grew deeper and more uneven. His chest heaved.

  "Why did you do it, Conner?"

  A few more deep breaths. Finally he started to speak. "That little prick. He didn't belong here."

  "At this school?"

  "This school, this city, this country. None of them do. Why don't they just go back to where they fucking came from? This is our country. They're taking spots in our schools, taking jobs. Now they want to take our girls, too? Fuck him. Fuck all of them."

  I took this in. "And Sofia? Diego's old girlfriend? Why'd you have to shoot her, too?"

  More deep breathing. Connor's chest was beginning to heave. I wasn't sure if he was going to cry or maybe run. I stepped back in case he decided to bull rush me. Even with a gun in their face, I've seen desperate people do desperate things. I hoped I wouldn't need to fire my weapon. But I also needed some answers.

  "Do you really have so much hate in you? So much that you would shoot an unarmed girl? And it wasn't like you pulled the trigger just once. Sofia was shot multiple times. She was shot out of anger."

  His eyes looked a little wild as he gave me a piercing glare. "Diego was asking for it. And that girl? She actually said she'd kill Molly. I wasn't going to let that twat get away with threatening her. Not here, not now. Not ever. This is still America."

  I didn't say anything more. Nothing more was needed. I ordered him to get down on his knees and clasp his hands behind his neck. I continued to point my gun at him, and said I really would shoot him if he tried anything. About five more minutes went by before a dark sedan pulled up, followed by four LAPD patrol cars. Detective Lally popped out of the sedan and I quickly holstered my weapon. I approached and spoke with him briefly, before leading him to the silver Prius. He directed a pair of uniforms to take hold of Connor Pierce.

  "This is it," I said and pointed to the rear of the vehicle. He stooped over and examined it for a moment, rose back up, and motioned to the uniforms. They put the handcuffs on Connor and led him to the back of one of the cruisers. The other officers got out of their cars and milled about. Lally put gloves on and went through the Prius. A few minutes later, he emerged with a 9mm handgun.

  "Looks like we got something here," he crowed. "The two victims were shot by a nine. We'll run this through ballistics but I think we found us a murder weapon."

  "There's something else I uncovered here, detective," I said.

  "What? More crimes being solved by the local private police force?"

  "Uh, well, yeah. There was a hit-and-run in Echo Park on Saturday morning. A Times reporter was targeted. Adam Lazar. He's stable now, but the vehicle plowed right into him."

  "Didn't look like the Prius had any front-end damage."

  "No," I said, gesturing to the black Escalade. I showed him the grill and pointed to the denim I had found on the underside of the car. Lally crawled under and looked for himself.

  "Something's there all right," he said, slapping his hands together as he got up. "I'll run the plates and get some tow trucks up here."

  "This one belongs to a friend of Pierce. Big guy named Alex Gateley."

  "Okay," he said, and then barked instructions to the uniforms, who went off in search of the school's administrative offices. He turned back to me. "So how did you know about the Prius?"

  "I actually came up looking for a black SUV. I knew Gateley drove an Escalade. The Prius? I stumbled on it. But you know, sometimes the things you're looking for are hiding in plain sight."

  "In other words, you got lucky," he said.

  "Luck is where preparation meets opportunity," I pointed out.

  Lally shook his head. "Some great philosopher say that?"

  "I don't know. I think I got it from a fortune cookie. I'm just glad this case is done with."

  "Yeah, me too," he said. "I'll be back in a little while. Need to drop off a package."

  Lally climbed back into his sedan and for the first time I noticed a figure in the back seat. He wore a uniform but it wasn't an LAPD blue. It was dark green and the man wearing it didn't look happy. His hands looked like they had been cuffed behind his back.

  "Hey, Dennis," I called out.

  "Yeah?" he asked, rolling down the window.

  "What'd that security guard do?"

  Lally shook his head. "The dope tried to prevent me from entering the grounds. Said it was private property. Like this is some foreign country that law enforcement can't enter. Some assholes think they can do whatever they want. If they've got enough clout, maybe they can. This one doesn't. We'll see if a f
ew days in the can doesn't change his attitude."

  I gave a quick wave to Lally and smiled at the security guard. He didn't smile back.

  Chapter 15

  I spent most of the day at Stone Canyon, talking to the police, and perhaps as importantly, not talking with any students or school administrators. Loretta Moss tried to implore the investigators to hurry things along, but she was strongly admonished to be quiet, stay out of the way, and speak when she was spoken to. Riley Joyner made a wry comment, referring to me as "Dad," and sending a number of dirty looks my way. I shrugged them off. One day I'd be the parent of a teenager. Hopefully one who wouldn't feel so entitled.

  The sun had just set as I drove onto Adelaide Drive to check on Crystal and Molly. When I told them about Connor's role in the murders of Diego and Sofia, Molly nodded her head in acknowledgement, albeit without a look of surprise. Despite Buster Palmer's assurances of keeping the police at bay for a while, I told Molly they would be here soon to question her. Tears streamed down her face, although I wasn't entirely sure who she was crying for.

  In an unexpected move, Rex Palmer had taken time out of his campaign schedule that morning to visit Molly again, and to apologize for his behavior. He told her he wanted to make things up to her, to try and make things right, knowing he might be a little late. He said that regardless of the outcome of the election, he would be making more time for her in his life. Rex also told her he planned to file for a divorce from Nicole. Once the election was over, of course.

  The next morning I waited until the rush-hour traffic had eased and then drove downtown. I pulled into the subterranean parking lot at One Wilshire and handed my keys to a valet. I assumed Jeremy Hoffman would validate.

  "Good morning," I said, as Jeremy's assistant led me into his plush office. The view from the 22nd floor was clear today, and I could see all the way to the ocean. I could even see Catalina Island, jutting out ever so slightly on the distant horizon.

  "Oh, if it isn't the super sleuth," he said, rising and shaking my hand. "I've had quite an interesting time reading the newspapers this morning. Although your name was conspicuously missing, I have a feeling you were actively involved in the investigation."

  I rubbed my abdomen, which was still sore from where Bill Thorn had slugged me. "Very active. But I'm happy to have my name kept out of it. Clients tend to shy away from publicity-seeking P.I.s."

  "Yes. And I do need to apologize to you. I wasn't aware Molly really hadn't gone missing. I told Rex I didn't appreciate him using me here. And I certainly didn't like the way a supposed missing girl wound up getting embroiled in a double murder."

  "I doubt the governor had that one planned. Hard to believe, but he may actually have been out of the loop. His father is another story."

  "Ah yes, Buster. The man behind the man. It would have been nice if the two of them were on the same page. But Rex doesn't share Buster's right-wing views. And he has good reason, California's not going to elect a conservative Republican again for a long time, if ever. The state's changed. The demographics are different. Rex can't navigate those waters. And the people he chose to run his campaign, they were just a bunch of old college cronies who didn't know what they were doing. His joke about Justin Woo's accent came from his campaign advisors. Bush League stuff. I know Rex is still within a few points of Woo, but winning this election now won't be easy."

  "Could it be that's what Buster really wanted?" I asked.

  Jeremy thought about this for a moment. "I don't know. I'm sure Buster has his own agenda. It's hard to imagine he'd want his own son to lose. But stranger things have happened."

  "You know anything about Connor Pierce?"

  "Sure. The family is old money. I'm certain the parents are devastated. I didn't think Connor would ever go and shoot anyone. Especially not over a girl. And I was especially surprised to hear about the racism. He never struck me as a bad egg. But people will always surprise you."

  "What do you think he's looking at?"

  "If he were a typical defendant, maybe 25-to-life. But he's not typical. Look for a plea bargain down the road. He might do 10 years. Maybe. And depending upon who's governor, there may even be a pardon one day. I've seen people walk on crimes even more egregious than this one."

  "Not exactly fair, is it," I remarked. "And I'm sure the victims' parents wouldn't be happy with that."

  "Absolutely not," Jeremy agreed. "But crimes of passion elicit sympathy among judges and jurors alike. There's different rules for different people. And like it or not, it's the world in which we live."

  "The senseless of all this still bothers me. The racism, the hate."

  "You can travel to the four corners of the world," Jeremy sighed. "And still not escape any of that."

  "I suppose."

  "You just do the best you can do. That's all there is. But I have something positive to share."

  "Oh? what's that" I asked.

  "You heard about Xavier Bishop?"

  "No. What happened?"

  "Some very good news," he said, his face brightening."Xavier called me last night. Desiree recanted. Said she was too consumed with emotion and couldn't get her story straight. I assume you played a role in that."

  I smiled, shrugged and said nothing.

  "All right, well, however it got done. Johnny's going to make an announcement reinstating Xavier to the team. He'll be playing on Saturday against Stanford. And boy, do we need him."

  "Sure do. And I imagine a Mr. Cliff Roper may have had a hand in getting everyone to play nicely. I believe you're acquainted with this gentleman."

  "Um, yes," Jeremy coughed. "You know, we don't always get to choose our allies. And as unsavory as Cliff might be at times, this is a scenario that's tailor made for his, um, skills. It's not perfect, it's not neat. And I imagine it cost Cliff some money to keep that other kid from pressing charges against Xavier. But I think the outcome was the best we could hope for."

  "So everything worked out. Sort of."

  "We live in an imperfect world."

  "Say, Jeremy. Speaking of the Stanford game on Saturday."

  "Yes?" he said, a slight smile crossing his face as if he knew what was coming.

  "Would it be an imposition to get me four tickets to the game? I have a friend who's a big fan. And he also provided some help on this case."

  Jeremy made a note on a piece of paper. "I'm sure I can arrange something. And it's not an imposition to do this for you. Trust me, people who I barely know think nothing of asking for 50 yard-line seats."

  "Nervy."

  "Perhaps," he said. "But I can assure you many people want things from me. And they come from all walks of life. Sometimes they come out of the woodwork. Let me take care of this. I'll have something delivered to you later in the week. I think you'll be pleased with the seats. And I may arrange for some added company for you at the game."

  "Oh? A new client wouldn't be bad. My schedule has opened up now."

  Jeremy smiled more broadly, and didn't say anything more.

  *

  The rest of the week went by quietly, although not uneventfully. The mortgage people finished gathering documents, and Gail and I closed escrow on our new home in Mar Vista. We started the arduous process of packing, or I should say Gail directed and I followed her instructions.

  On Saturday, I told Gail I was going to invoke my day of rest. I half-heartedly offered her a ticket to accompany me to the USC-Stanford game, knowing what her response would be.

  "If I have trouble moving in and out of a restaurant, the last place I'm going is the Coliseum. And as you know, football was never one of my passions. Go. Enjoy it with Juan and his kids."

  I called Juan and told him if he and his sons could make the drive up from Mission Viejo today, I'd have a nice surprise. Provided he wasn't working, of course. Juan laughed into the phone. "I'm a captain, remember? I control my schedule now."

  We met early, outside of the Coliseum, in front of the headless statues that were unveiled ri
ght before the '84 Olympic Games. Juan's sons were 13 and 16 and looked just like him, save for the silver hair and pot belly. I was pleased to see that Juan's kids seemed genuinely thrilled to be at the game. It was reassuring to see teenagers who were appreciative of getting something nice. Jeremy Hoffman came through with great seats on the 40 yard-line, about 30 rows up from the field. These were seats that typically were only available to big donors or people willing to spend a lot of money with a scalper. And as we settled in to enjoy the pre-game festivities, another group moved into the row in front of us. One of them looked quite familiar. And I shouldn't have been surprised.

  "Now just what are you doing in seats like this?" exclaimed Cliff Roper. "Pretty far above your pay grade, I'd say. I just can't imagine where you got them from!"

  "Yes," I said, "same place you got yours, I suspect. Our friend on the 22nd floor is quite generous. If not very discerning."

  "Hey, hey, hey. Remember what I told you about trying to be a nicer guy?"

  "Coming from you, I considered the source."

  "You need to turn off that acid wit," Roper said and pointed to his two companions, a pair of very lean, muscular young men, both of whom appeared to be extremely fit. "Especially if you'll be coaching these fellas next year."

  Juan gave me a look. "You're doing what?"

  "Nothing's been decided," I said and turned back to Roper. "How do you know anything about this?"

  "I know about a lot of things," Roper said. "I heard you might be picking up the whistle. With a kid on the way and your wife stuck on a government salary, you need to earn a grown man's living. Coaching's a gold mine these days."

  "You're getting ahead of yourself," I said. "And aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

  Roper put his hands up. "These young men? Just met 'em. They had seats up in the nosebleed section, probably where you usually sit. So I invited them down here with me. I had a few extra tickets. Turns out they're defensive backs. Seniors in high school. Martin Domfort, Jordan Solomon, meet Burnside. Good guy to have around if you need to rough someone up."