by J J Miller
Chip Bowman’s drop-in meant I was running ninety minutes late. Before Bowman left, I told him to think about a safe house for his family. He said he’d already made plans along those lines. He had a sister in Napa Valley that Carrie and the girls could stay with, if things got dicey. I told him to get a burner phone and use it to contact me. The last thing I said was that he had to stay put. If he relocated, it would be suspicious. If the bikers wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already. That they hadn’t paid him a visit like they’d done to me was curious. Maybe they simply wanted to ensure Bowman had nothing better than a stock public defender representing him.
On the way to Nina Lindstrom’s house, I called my investigator Jack Briggs. He and his wife Chanel had just welcomed a baby boy into the world. When I say just, I mean three months ago, but Jack’s commitment to being a hands-on dad meant he’d made himself unavailable for work. Noah was their second child, so this was the second sabbatical Jack had taken. And while I understood and applauded his decision, it meant I’d had to make do without the brilliant investigator who’d helped me no end to win cases and build my name and business. Over the years, we’d built a great friendship, strong enough for him to ask me to be godfather to both his children.
“About time you called,” Jack answered. “When are you going to come visit your godson?”
I hadn’t seen Noah since the christening. “Some of us have work to do.”
“Whoa. Check your lazy patriarchy at the door, buddy. What I’m doing is more valuable than any job I’ve been paid for.”
“I never said it wasn’t. But working’s always been kind of optional for you, hasn’t it?” Jack was a man of many talents, one of which was being astute enough to invest in certain tech stocks that proceeded to go through the roof. Before that he was a promising quarterback. I’d heard it said many times, and not just from him, that if he hadn’t busted his throwing arm in college, he’d have rivalled Tom Brady in ability, not just looks. But Jack kept a constant sunny demeanor about him, which was to some extent a shield against a family tragedy. His elder sister Nora went missing in Australia years ago. Then it was discovered she’d been murdered, and the killer refused to reveal where her body was, a secret he took the grave. The pain of that experience, for Jack himself and his parents, forged in him a desire to aid the cause of justice. He was broad-minded enough to understand that justice wasn’t all about putting bad guys behind bars. At some point, he came to see deep value in saving someone who was innocent from the hell of a wrongful conviction. One day many years ago, after he’d read a story about one of my cases, he knocked on my door to offer his services as a private investigator. Every success I’ve ever since has been due in no small part to Jack’s input.
“Is there some point to this call? I’m about to give Noah a bath.”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I wanted to see if you could pull your head out of baby-bliss-land and do some work for me. You won’t even have to leave the house or wear a shirt that doesn’t have baby puke on it. I just need you to do some good online research.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Check your inbox. I’ve sent some info about a new case. Guy called Chip Bowman. He was injured in a fatal robbery and the cops might be shaping to pin it on him.”
As I talked, I could hear Jack was walking. I heard him enter his home office and close the door. I waited while he tapped away at his laptop
“Okay. HardShell Security, huh?”
“Yeah. You’ve got the names of the victims, and the founder Quinn Rollins. Most of these guys are vets who went on to work for private security companies. I want you dig around and see what you can find. You able to do that?”
“For sure. How deep you want me to go?”
“Just see what you can get over the next two days and let me know, would you?”
“No worries.”
“Great.”
I pulled into the Lindstrom driveway, and by the time I reached the front steps, Nina was standing at the door waiting for me. In her early forties, she was a vivacious brunette who carried herself with a dignity weighed with lament. She was saddened and somewhat ashamed that her marriage had failed, even though it was not her who steered it onto the rocks. She didn’t enjoy the thought of being a divorcee.
In the meetings I’d had with Nina Lindstrom to date, I’d admired the way she managed to keep her enmity in check. In a way, she felt sorry for her husband, who, although I hadn’t met him, appeared by way of anecdote to be a conceited fool. The luxury car business he had built from scratch afforded him the mansion, a Downtown apartment and a villa in Los Cabos, to name a few of his prized possessions. Now he was in danger of losing a big chunk of them, if Mrs. Lindstrom and I had anything to do with it. I’d already sensed via his lawyers that Mr. Lindstrom was intent on hanging onto everything as aggressively as he could.
“Hello, Nina. I’m so sorry I had to push our meeting back. Thanks for being so accommodating.”
“That’s okay, Brad. Please come in.”
She led me through a luxurious sitting room where we sat opposite each other on broad floral sofas.
“This won’t take long, Nina. Just a few things for you to read over and I’ll need your autograph where the yellow tabs are.”
I set the documents out on the table between us. She took them up to read. “I take it you got my check?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you. It was hand-delivered to me last Friday by your driver. What’s his name? Xavier, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, we’re off to a good start. But you said you had something to show me.”
“Yes,” said Nina, picking up a file and handing it to me.
“What’s this?” I said as I took it.
“It’s from Eric. He’s filed a counterclaim.”
“On what grounds?”
“That I cheated on him first, and that he was the one who initiated the divorce.”
“It really doesn’t matter who initiated the divorce.”
“Well, he claims he can prove I cheated on him.”
“Did you?”
“No. He’s being ridiculous.”
I didn’t say anything as I read through the claims made in the file. It went into some detail, alleging multiple indiscretions by Nina. Among them was a claim that he had caught her in bed with Xavier.
“Nina, is there any substance to these allegations?”
She scoffed. “Of course, not. Like I said, the man is desperate and ridiculous. Look at the settlement he wants.”
That’s exactly what I was looking at. In his proposed terms of settlement, Eric Lindstrom wanted the mansion and the villa, leaving the condo to his wife.
“He wants you out of here,” I said.
“Over my dead body,” she said.
“It’s not going to come to that, Nina. Unless he has actual evidence that you were having an affair, he can’t prove anything. It changes nothing. We’ll just stick to your original settlement terms: this house plus half his business and personal assets.”
“Good.”
“I’m sure that will enable you to get on with your life.”
“In the manner to which I’ve become accustomed,” she added with a sad weight that such a spent cliché could so profoundly apply to her.
“In the manner to which you deserve,” I said with a smile.
We proceeded to run through the status of the case and I explained to her what our next move would be.
“I don’t want you to worry about this, Nina. This is just the standard kind of brinkmanship you get in divorce cases. Next, we’ll be hearing how poor your soon-to-be ex-husband is, and that his wealth is all on paper. But we know otherwise, don’t we?”
“Thank you, Brad. I feel much better about things. I just want it to be over.”
“I know but I’m afraid this is only early days. And I expect it will get much uglier before we’re done.”
The sadness in Nina’s eyes ret
urned. She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll just have to endure, won’t I?”
“Indeed. Now, I need to get back to the office.”
Nina saw me to the door. As I walked to my car, I noticed a red Lexus parked fifty yards down the street. It was in a line of cars but it caught my eye because I detected movement inside. The incident with the bikers had put me on edge, a feeling compounded by the fact that I’d done expressly what they’d told me not to do. Small wonder I was a little twitchy about being followed.
I watched the car for a moment. The man behind the wheel of the Lexus was checking his phone. He had short hair and looked like he was wearing a suit. He certainly didn’t look like a biker, and I figured it would be a cold day in hell before an Iron Raider would allow themselves to be seen in a red Lexus.
On Santa Monica Boulevard heading west, the Lexus kept at least three cars behind me but changed lanes swiftly whenever I did. At one stage, I got a clearer look in my rearview mirror. The driver had company. Another guy in a suit.
If it wasn’t the bikers, who was it? Had Quinn Rollins assigned a couple of staff members to keep an eye on me?
The identity of my pursuers wasn’t the issue. I felt threatened again, and it warmed my blood to a simmering rage.
I was not going to lead them back to my office. And I wasn’t going to initiate a high-speed chase, as much as I would have loved to pit my Mustang against that Lexus. I had to get to a place where I could get the upper hand.
I cruised for a few miles before pulling into Roxbury Drive. Just before I reached Wiltshire, I swung into a multilevel parking garage. In my peripheral vision, I saw the Lexus entering the street. I climbed up the ramps fast, my tires squealing all the way. I pulled into a space and jumped out of my car. I could hear the Lexus screeching a couple of levels down. Pressing the lock button, I ran for the stairwell door.
Once inside, I turned and put my weight into the self-closing door to hurry it up. The moment it clicked shut the squeal of the Lexus’ tires were right outside. As I leapt up the stairs, I heard two doors shut and footsteps approach the door. I had no way of knowing if these guys were armed. But my plan was not to make myself a sitting duck in a dingy car park stairwell.
I saw the handle turn, then the door was shoved open hard. One of the men entered and I could see he wasn’t armed. I turned and ran upstairs. They heard me and resumed the chase.
Two floors up, I opened the door to the garage, and ducked behind a van. The stairwell door had not yet closed before the first man appeared again. He made the mistake of coming out too far and I swung around and delivered a kick just above his right knee. The loud crack told me I had found my mark—either his knee was broken or ligaments snapped. He screamed and collapsed to the ground.
The next guy burst through the door and for a second I thought he was going to draw a weapon. I rushed him and tackled him high, slamming my shoulder into his chest. He was smaller than me and I quickly knew I could overpower him. I got my hands behind his neck and laced my fingers as I wrenched his head down and delivered my right knee hard into his face. I repeated the dose twice more and felt his body go limp. He fell to the ground.
I bent down and grabbed the first guy by the collar.
“Easy, man! Take it easy!” he said, holding up his hands.
“Who the fuck are you? Why are you following me?”
“We’re PIs.”
“PIs. Bullshit. Who are you working for?”
“Eric Lindstrom. We’re tailing anyone who has contact with his wife.”
“You’re looking for dirt?”
He nodded, gritting his teeth at the pain in his knee.
“You’re trying to make out I’m having an affair with Nina Lindstrom? Is that it?”
He nodded. “Doesn’t have to be you. It could be anybody.”
In one way I was relieved. These guys had nothing to do with Chip Bowman. In another way I was pissed. I knelt down beside him.
“Now, you listen to me. I’ve got a message for Mr. Lindstrom. You tell him he’s going to agree to giving his wife the house and seventy percent of the rest of his assets. Got it?”
The guy nodded. “The house and seventy per cent.”
“And he’s got to agree to it today. I want confirmation this afternoon. If he refuses then tell him that, so help me God, I’m going to do to him in court what I did to you two clowns. I don’t tolerate this kind of shit. You understand me?”
Both of them nodded.
“Good. Now, if I don’t hear from his lawyers with anything other than a total agreement before five o’clock today, that’s it. I’ll assume the answer is no and I’ll come at him with every detail of every indiscretion that prick ever made. And I bet he’s got plenty. Tell me you understand what I’m telling you.”
“I understand.”
“You want me to put it down on voicemail for that dipshit boss of yours?”
“No. We’re clear.”
“Good.”
I stepped over them and went back down the stairs and got into my car.
“Family law,” I said to myself. “It’s the fucking pits.”
Chapter 10
Detective Ed Frierson’s desk was located in the corner of an LAPD cube farm, his section marked by a “Homicide” sign hanging beneath off-white ceiling squares and fluorescent panels. I figured the open plan would suit Ed Frierson. From what I knew, he wasn’t inclined to hide his feelings or thoughts from anyone—defense lawyers, especially. I’d crossed paths with Frierson a few times over the course of ten years, after he’d moved out of Vice. His attitude toward me had mellowed since our first meeting, but only slightly.
I first met Frierson through a client of mine who’d been charged with murder, Charles Elliott Davis. This was not the noblest of cases, mainly because Foreman was a vile beast of a man, a lowlife pimp who’d cut one of his hookers to pieces. It was a judge-appointed case, and I just had to steer this animal through the channels so he got what he deserved but without prejudice. And that’s where Frierson took exception to my role in the legal system. He had no question about Foreman’s right to a defense. What he did have a problem with was the kind of man who took up such a job.
Sitting in on the interrogation of Davis, I interjected. This prompted Frierson to ask me to step outside. He just wanted me to know that by offering even the slightest impediment between Davis and death row, I was no better than a hooker-slashing pimp myself. I thanked him for his insight, spared him a lecture on where a proper defense sits in the scheme of the justice system, and suggested we go back in and complete the interview. He seemed all the better for getting his opinion of me out in the open.
That was water under the bridge now. I wouldn’t say Frierson and I had become friends, but we had developed a working relationship. I’d earned enough begrudging respect for him to address me by name—as opposed to “guys like you” or “you fucking lawyers”—and take my calls.
Frierson was actually on a call when I arrived. As he saw me approach, the look on his face told me I was just one more addition to his day’s tedium. He got to his feet, held a palm up, and then turned his back on me. Frierson was a large, roundish man in his mid-fifties who wore braces, a crew cut, and a big Seiko dive watch on his left wrist.
"Are you done?” he said loudly into the mouthpiece, throwing his fleshy paw out at the glass window. “Are you done? Because all I’m hearing is the same bullshit you’ve given me before, Macdonald…
“Now shut up and listen…
“No. Next time I catch you taking a shortcut on crime-scene procedure I’ll have your fucking badge…
“No…
“No… It’s not…
“You’re a lazy piece of shit, Macdonald. You know what? Fuck next time. This is going to be the last time you compromise one of my investigations. I’m done with warnings…
“No, I’m writing you up. Internal affairs can deal with your incompetence. Okay? …
“Bye now, asshole…<
br />
“Bye bye.”
The last two words were delivered in a light “ta-ta” manner but he slammed the phone into its cradle like it was Macdonald’s face.
Frierson kept his head bowed as he sucked in a few deep breaths to collect himself. After a few moments, having succeeded in switching his mind into the here and now, he turned to face me.
I smiled. “Glad to know it’s not just lawyers who fail to meet your professional standards, Ed.”
Frierson’s body relaxed as the tension was released. “Madison, you have no idea. Seriously, I don’t need lawyers to undermine all my good work. Sometimes I get that kind of help in-house. What you after? Let me guess. The double homicide.”
“That’s right, Ed. Is Chad Bowman a suspect?”
The big detective breathed in and out swiftly and loudly. He grabbed a chair from the next cubicle and rolled it toward me.
“Take a seat.”
I did as he asked. “Ed, I don’t know exactly where you’re at with the investigation but I wanted to get your take on it, if that’s okay. I want to get a sense of what to be ready for.”
“Well, that’s easy. Get ready to defend Chip Bowman on a multitude of charges, including robbery and two first-degree homicides.”
“How? He was a victim. Just like the other two.”
“But unlike the other two, he survived.”
“He was shot, Ed. And he was lucky to survive. Are you saying you’ve got evidence he killed his colleagues?”
“I’m not going to brief you on everything we have in terms of evidence. As far as I’m concerned, you will get that after we’ve filed with the DA. And I’m happy to leave that up to him as to how much he shares with you and when.”
“No worries, Ed. But consider what would happen if Chip Bowman decides to run. That would make a fugitive case out of it, at which point the feds could say, ‘Thank you, very much, Detective Frierson, we’ll take it from here.’ And consider that if my client—or would-be client—got some sound advice from his smart lawyer not to succumb to the temptation to flee then, you know, you and I could go about our work from both sides of the fence.”