by David Chill
NICKEL PACKAGE
by David Chill
© 2015 by David Chill
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or deceased, is purely coincidental. The author assumes no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.
Cover art photography provided by Matthew Chill
For Greg Martin
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Post Pattern Preview
Chapter 1
It was supposed to have been a routine background investigation. Just gather some information on a high-profile job candidate. No one was supposed to die.
"We're looking for a new CEO," declared the wily executive. "Chief Executive Officer."
"Too bad for me," I said with a wink. "I just signed a 12-month lease for office space."
The wily executive smiled patiently, but it was not a genuine smile. He wore a white shirt and a green tie, and I was certain that both were very expensive. His name was Nick Roche, and his handsome office provided a view that reached the glistening Pacific. It had rained over the weekend, our first storm in over a month, and the air was now sun-washed and pristine. From my seat on his soft leather couch, I could almost see Catalina Island.
"Jay told me you had a wise-guy streak in you," he said.
"Glad you've been put on notice. You know, they used to refer to CEOs as Presidents. I gather that's passé now."
"Very much so. Especially here at BMB. We have a lot of Presidents. I'm President of Operations."
I tried to look impressed. Big egos need reinforcement, especially in this town. There is a highly visceral need to show off, whether it's in or out of the office. In the boardroom or on the streets. It's not unusual to be driving along in L.A. and be surrounded on all sides by Porsches and Mercedes. Or by the occasional Rolls-Royce.
"Mr. Burnside," he continued, "my brother-in-law also told me you're very astute."
"As is Jay," I smiled. Anyone who calls me astute deserves to be repaid in kind.
Roche shrugged. "He makes decent money, anyhow."
I continued to smile, although the last comment gave me pause. For the past three years, I had taken a career detour, a move that had earned me a boatload of money. Gobs of money. More money than a P.I. like me could ever make, and ridiculously more than the salary I once earned as an LAPD officer. But what Jay and I had earned was likely a pittance when compared with Nick Roche's income.
"Money isn't everything," I said, hoping he wouldn't counter by telling me that, no, in fact, money was the only thing. Thankfully, he did not.
The past few years had been lucrative for me, but the process had taken its toll. The hundred-hour work weeks were the proof. And even if USC's new head coach had asked me to stay on as a well-heeled assistant, I wouldn't have done so. I had even rejected the opportunity to join my old friend Johnny Cleary in the NFL. My son was now three years old, and I had missed so much. I didn't hear him say his first words, and I didn't see him take his first steps. There were some things money could not buy, and some jobs that were not worth the personal price. I needed to make a course correction.
"Look," Roche said, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "We need help here from someone who's smart. And discreet. And thorough."
"All right. So tell me. Just who are these CEO candidates?"
Roche pulled a pack of cigarettes from his drawer, slid one out and lit it. I thought of reminding him that smoking, even inside private office buildings, was illegal in California. I also thought of my fee going up in smoke, and decided to be really astute and exercise some restraint.
"We have a number of people," he said, blowing a plume of smoke up at the ceiling. "But there's one in particular who excites the board. His name is Eric Starr. You might have heard the name."
I shook my head. "Sorry. Unless he's good at covering wide receivers, I probably wouldn't have paid much attention. At least not for the past three years."
"I understand," he said. "Jay's told me the hours you guys put in. I guess coaching is a full-time job and then some. He also filled me in on your background. Quite a career you've had. College football star, LAPD officer, private detective, coaching football at USC. You've certainly had a marvelous life."
"It's far from over," I pointed out. "I'm just shifting gears."
"Sorry," he said. "No offense intended."
"None taken. So tell me about this Eric Starr," I said.
"I'll give you the topline," Roche said. "Grew up in Orange County, father's a high level executive with a tech firm. Eric spent a couple of years working there, then he and a colleague got this idea for a startup. The two of them went out on their own, they began the Laputa Company. You've heard of that, haven't you?"
"Sure. Everyone has."
"Right. A few years later, Laputa's grown into this big Internet giant. It's got everything. It's a media outlet that provides news and content. It's a search engine, an ISP, a social media site and an online retailer. Eric didn't create the technology, but he grabbed the reins and made it a success. He's more of a marketing guy."
"And he's willing to give up his baby to come work for BMB?"
"It's complicated. We're in discussions. BMB's 20 times bigger than Laputa, and he'd oversee a movie studio, TV networks, theme parks and video games. We're a huge business. This could be a good next step for him."
"So he'd be your boss."
"I've got a contract. I'm not concerned about my future."
"Okay. And you think Eric's the guy to run BMB."
Roche shrugged and held up his palms. "Some people on the board think so. He's got a track record of success. And he can bring fresh thinking to a 75 year-old company."
"But there are concerns about Eric," I remarked.
"There are."
"Tell me about them."
Roche leaned back in his sleek black leather chair and stopped the dialogue. He appeared as if he were deep in thought, reviewing what he knew, and maybe pondering what nuggets should be revealed to me. He reached down and fingered the end of his green tie. Then, taking a long drag on his cigarette, he let the smoke slowly waft out through his nostrils.
"Eric has a history," he began, an air of drama filling the room along with the smoke. "He makes quick decisions. He's often right, mind you, but he flies by the seat of his pants. In the tech world, you can get away with that, everything moves so quickly, you can recover from your mistakes. Over here, a decision to greenlight a movie or build a new theme park means investing hundreds of millions of dollars. Being wrong can have severe consequences."
"Sounds like you've studied Laputa."
"A bit. A couple of our former execs moved over there. They talk."
"Okay, fine," I said. "But I know as much about corporate life as you do about football schemes. Just what are you really after?"
Roche took a glance out the window, his deep pondering starting to morph into a look of annoyance. My comments frequently had that effect on people. But it also spurred them to talk, often more so than they intended. Occasionally, a gem of information would materialize.
"Eric's personal life is an issue as w
ell. Big partier, bad behavior with women, not using good judgment. You name it."
I raised my eyebrows. "Well, that never happens in show biz, does it?"
"You have to understand," he said, his voice now displaying his impatience, "we've gone through three CEOs in the past four years. We're a publicly traded company. Fortune 500. This isn't just about hiring another yahoo in to run a movie studio. We need a visionary. Someone who can lead us into the future."
"Okay. I can dig into his background. But let me ask you something. Three CEOs in four years? This job sounds like a revolving door. Why is that?"
"A few reasons," he said. "Mostly, they didn't deliver results. Some bad decisions. These days, a CEO is judged every quarter on financial results. A few bad quarters and they're out. It can be as simple as a number of flops at the box office. Our most recent CEO, Malcolm Taylor, he was only here for a year before he resigned. There were some personal issues. But he wasn't cutting it either."
"Sounds like it's easy to fail here."
"It's easy to fail everywhere, Mr. Burnside. And all of the past CEOs came up through the ranks at BMB. Our core business is the movie studio and that's where these guys made their bones. Production execs. Entertainment types. But it hasn't worked out, so the board's looking for something different. Can't keep doing the same thing and expect different results. You know. Sisyphus rolling the rock uphill and all that."
"Why don't they bump up someone like you?"
He smiled again. "Our company's roots are still in show biz. I have an MBA. From Harvard. But people look at me as a suit. The board doesn't think suits have the creative vision. I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm paid extremely well for what I do. But moving up isn't going to be an option for someone like me."
"All right. You mentioned a few internal candidates. You want me to look into them, too?"
"No. I think we have enough on our internal people. But it's unusual that outsiders are even considered. This is new terrain for us. So we want you to look into Eric's background, garner any insights you can."
"What about my talking to Eric himself?" I asked.
"No," he shook his head definitively. "The board doesn't want any footprints."
"That's going to be difficult," I pointed out. "When you start talking with friends and colleagues, word spreads. It can't help but get back to that person."
"Jay said you were good. You'll figure it out."
I paused for a moment and considered this. Then I tried to think about something else. I looked around his office. The walls held real artwork, cheerful splotches of color that probably meant something to the artist. The splotches meant little to me, other than they were pretty to look at and most likely cost the buyer a ton of money.
"So tell me more about this board you've been referring to," I said.
"Board of directors. It's made up of CEOs from other companies, a few politicians, dignitaries, couple of academics. They provide oversight here. There's even a USC professor on our board, Dr. Lucas Kanter, maybe you recall him. He teaches at the film school there. Cinematic arts."
"Don't know the man, I didn't mingle much with professors. But I'm surprised you didn't pick someone from the Marshall School. USC's business program is one of the best in the country."
"The board is largely selected by the CEOs," he shrugged. "They bring in people they know and trust. Occasionally they appoint their friends. Some CEO from Disney once added the principal from his son's grade school to his board. Then he added an actor."
"And they both got approved?"
"CEOs are given a lot of leeway on things. They have enormous power. That's why we're being especially careful. Our stock has been getting hammered. Shareholders want to see results. And fast. As I said, we can't afford any more mistakes."
I thought about something. "Do you have a Security Director here?"
"Of course."
"What's his involvement been?"
"Well, Ferris looked into Eric initially. But we need an outsider now. That's where you come in."
"Ferris. Is that Hector Ferris?"
"Yes, he reports up to me. You know him?"
"Worked briefly with him at the Broadway Division of LAPD. Long time ago. Hector made Lieutenant, if I recall."
"That's right. He joined us a couple of years back. Right after he retired from the police department. Thorough guy."
I agreed. Hector Ferris was certainly thorough, maybe too much so. I didn't tell Roche that Ferris's retirement was orchestrated by the chief, who got tired of him poking his self-righteous nose into every nook and cranny. The chief of police is like any other executive. Appreciative of hard work, but more than willing to cut the cord on anyone who gets under their skin.
"Can I speak with Hector?"
Roche hesitated. "I suppose," he said, thinking about it for a minute. "Sure. I'll take you down to his office."
"So then I'll start today," I said.
"Good."
"You're aware of what my rate is," I said, a bit apprehensively. Normally it was a thousand dollars a day, although that was three years ago. And BMB was my first paying client since hanging out my shingle again. Given the plush corporate surroundings though, as well as my newfound high-income expectations, I needed to brand myself as a top-notch investigator. Charging a high fee was an effective way to create the impression you were good. So my special rate for BMB would be fifteen hundred a day. Plus expenses.
"I am indeed aware," Roche agreed, getting to his feet. "And Jay tells me you have a son who's preschool age. This should help cover part of the cost."
"I guess Jay's been pretty chatty. I'll have to chide him about using some discretion. In fact, I'm having lunch with him later."
Roche smiled. "Southern barbecue is Jay's favorite. Comfort food for him."
"I'm expanding his horizons. We're going old-school L.A. He'll like it. But tell me. How urgent is this background check?"
"It's for the board, so everything is urgent. Corporate life, you know. I'll assume this should only take a few days. This is Monday. I'd like something by the end of the week."
"Fine," I said. "I normally get an upfront fee. Couple of days to cover expenses."
Roche gave me a condescending look. "This is a multinational corporation. I don't keep a petty cash drawer," he said. "Send me an invoice."
*
The office Hector Ferris occupied was nowhere near as plush as Nick Roche's, nor did it have much of a view. There was a window, but it faced a parking lot. There were pictures hanging on the walls, but these were prints of classic movie posters, not original artwork. Hector sat in a black leather chair, but it was not as showy and there was no couch nearby. The two seats facing the desk were standard-issue gray cloth, and were utilitarian to boot. In one, however, sat an attractive woman.
"Hector," Roche announced, bouncing inside and motioning me to follow. "This is the fellow I was telling you about. Mr. Burnside has heard of you."
"And I've heard of him, too," he said, rising and shaking my hand lightly. "Mister Private Eye."
"Lieutenant."
"It's no longer Lieutenant," he said. "You can call me Mr. Ferris."
"Sure, Hector. Whatever you say."
Ferris paused. "I remember you now from Broadway Division. You were a good cop. Then you turned into a smartass."
"I always was. I just hid it well."
The attractive woman stood up and extended her hand. She had tawny eyes and a wide-cut mouth, pretty, but in an L.A. sort of way. Slender, mildly buxom, and her face reflected a well-honed use of cosmetics. She looked good while appearing not to try. She had well-behaved, straight auburn hair that stopped right at her shoulders. From her ears dangled a pair of small, sparkling diamonds.
"Patty Muckenthaler," she announced. "President of Production."
I shook her hand. "You have a firm grip," I said, not telling her that it was stronger and less moist than Hector's.
"Why, thank you. I'm flattered," she said, overtly
batting her eyelashes a few times.
"Patty," Roche nodded at her, "I hope everything's all right. Didn't think I'd see you in the Security Director's office today. Someone hitting on you again?"
"Nothing Hector and I can't handle," she smiled confidently. "Don't worry, Nick. It won't cost you any money. I know how you worry about the bottom line."
"Someone around here has to," Roche commented.
"Well, my business here is finished for now," she said and casually handed me her card. "Private eye, huh? I'll bet you have a lot of good stories."
"More than I can tell."
Patty Muckenthaler gave me a final smile and a wink as she walked out. "If you'd ever like to share, I just might want to hear about a few."
Roche looked back at Ferris as the pretty woman walked out into the hallway. "I'll leave you two to talk shop," he said and hurried out the door to catch up with Patty.
Ferris pointed to a chair as he moved behind his desk, easing himself gingerly down into his seat. He was a portly man with a wide girth and black, curly hair. He wore a navy jacket over a cheap yellow shirt with a clip-on tie, and looked every bit like the classic ex-cop with an office job. Ferris maintained a placid expression, but there were lines of age cutting across his forehead, and jowls were forming under his wide jaw. The only thing that struck me as out of place was the lump under his left armpit. That meant he was prepared for adverse situations. As was I.
"Burnside," he studied me. "Didn't know you very well when you were on the job."
"I knew you, though."
Ferris made a small choking sound and said nothing.
"Sounds like you heard some stories about me," I said.
"Sure. Who didn't? Officer Burnside. You were famous. And not in a good way. How did you wind up here on the BMB lot?"
"Friends in high places," I smiled.
"And you're investigating our future CEO."
"That's my assignment. Anything you want to tell me?"
Ferris gave me a long stare. I looked him in the eye for a few moments, got bored, and turned toward his window. Not much was happening in the parking lot, either.
