Nickel Package

by David Chill

  "All of what?" I asked.

  Jay finished the rest of his burger and signaled for another Diet Coke. "Ah, it's nothing," he said and tried to give me a wink. It was half-hearted, an attempt to try and reassure me that everything was under control.

  "Anything Nick's involved in?"

  Jay palmed the icy Diet Coke can carefully before cracking it open. "From what I understand, Nick's involved in a lot of things over there," he finally said.

  A seat opened up and a young man in his early 20s sat down next to Jay and brushed against him slightly. Jay turned around and told him to watch what he was doing. The young man gave him a dirty look, and I thought he might make a smart crack. Then he took a good look at Jay's bulk, and perhaps more importantly, the hostility flaring from Jay's eyes, and thought better of it. He muttered an apology and picked up a menu. Jay turned back to me, but the remnants of that short, rancorous encounter remained on his face. I glanced up at the waiter and quickly made a can-we-get-the-check scribbling motion with my hand. A good way to end an awkward situation is to simply move away from it.

  *

  The LAPD's Purdue Division was located next to a courthouse, below Santa Monica Boulevard, and just a few blocks west of the San Diego Freeway. When I worked there, I used to frequent a coffee shop down the street that had terrific cinnamon rolls. That place, like too many others, was now just a fuzzy memory.

  The surrounding area featured a series of nondescript three-story stucco apartment buildings, along with some modest single-family homes. That was before the real estate frenzy that began in the late 1990s. While affordable at one time, these houses now fetched close to a million dollars. Some people in L.A. were getting very rich, while others were tumbling through the cracks.

  Captain Juan Saavedra was out in the field when I arrived, and his assistant didn't know when he'd be back. Always best to call first, she advised. I wandered around the station house for a few minutes, hoping to see a familiar face. Many years had passed since I had worn the badge, and those familiar faces were mostly gone. But I did see one, and when our eyes met, he waved me into his office. I also noticed the additional stripe he had attained.

  "Sergeant De Santos," I grinned. "Congratulations on getting a bump up."

  "Thanks," he said and motioned me to sit in a gray metal seat facing his desk. "Long time coming."

  "If I recall correctly, you were thinking of moving on from the department. You were hearing the siren call of becoming a P.I."

  "Things change," he shrugged. "You know how it goes. Juan transferred back to Purdue last year, brought me over. Whenever I move with him, I get a promotion."

  "Nice. Sounds like they don't want to you to leave. Not exactly a king's ransom, but a sergeant's pay isn't bad."

  "Said the man who walked away from the golden goose."

  "You heard."

  "Yeah. I think you're nuts. Walking away from a lot of coin."

  "You can't live your life just chasing money," I told him.

  "When you got an ex-wife and child support? Oh, yes you can."

  "I feel your pain."

  "Probably not."

  And I probably didn't. It is far easier to express sympathy for someone than to actually experience it in a prescient and meaningful way. I had met Roberto a few years ago when he was still down at the Broadway Division. Roberto was a second-generation Filipino immigrant, the type of officer the department had been seeking out for many years.

  When I first joined the department, the LAPD was majority white. Today, the police demographics more closely reflect the diverse population of the city. The change was a part of the LAPD's attempt at community policing, the idea that greater sensitivity might be shown towards minorities if more people of color were on the job. In the end, I'm not sure how well this really worked. When a person puts on the badge and gun, their color transforms to the blue on their uniform. As a former chief of police liked to say, the LAPD was the toughest gang in town.

  "So what brings you around these parts?" he asked.

  "I have a new client. Just some background work. Figured I'd check with the guys who know the most."

  "Who's your client?"

  "BMB. Ring a bell?"

  De Santos snorted. "Oh, yeah. Brings back a memory of my first week on the job. I was on traffic detail. Rookie work, you know. Back when George Bush was in office, he was out here for a fundraiser. Politicians treat L.A. like it's one giant ATM. So we block off all the streets along Overland to let the motorcade through. Only thing was, this one joker sneaked in, and he's cruising along in his red Ferrari behind all these black SUVs like he's some kind of crowned royalty. I pull him over and ticket him and he gets indignant. Informs me he's President of something or other at BMB. That he's late for a meeting. I tell this idiot it's the President of the United States, and you know what he says? He tells me so what. Says he's been President longer than Bush. Can you believe that crap?"

  I laughed. "Sounds about right. Anything else spring to mind?"

  "You mean real police work? Nah. We pull an employee over for a DUI now and then, but nothing out of the ordinary. Who are you working with over there?"

  "I was hired by one of the suits. But you might know the Security Director there. Ex-LAPD. Hector Ferris."

  A small scowl crossed Roberto's face. "Ferris," he said with a measure of distaste. "Sure. Worked for him for years, Broadway Division, down in the hood. Grade-A prick. He never had any of our backs. Made his mark by ratting out a few guys to Internal Affairs. The brass finally forced him into early retirement a couple of years ago. I guess he landed on his feet. Like always."

  "You ever have any beef with him?"

  "Me? Nah. Go along to get along. But let's just say no one threw him a party when he left."

  "Interesting."

  Roberto looked over at me. "So who do they have you checking out? Some exec over there?"

  "Not exactly. It's someone who works for Laputa. Runs the place actually. Name's Eric Starr. Anything you can tell me about him? Something in your files, perhaps?"

  "Oh, Burnside," he chuckled and glanced at his computer. "A celebrity? That may cost you something."

  "Geez, Roberto. I feel like I'm talking to Captain Saavedra. Do I have to promise you tickets to a Trojan football game next season? Or maybe a college basketball game? March Madness starts this week."

  De Santos smiled slyly. When I first met Roberto, he used to frown at Juan Saavedra's minor indiscretions at accepting tit-for-tat seats at a ballgame or a nice steak dinner. I suppose he finally accepted the old mantra, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." At least he knew I was usually on the right side of the law. Or my heart was, anyway. And in this case, he knew I had a client who paid top dollar.

  "I would never ask you for that," he said, offering an indignant look as phony as a three dollar bill. He smiled slightly. "I'm more of a baseball guy. The Dodgers look like they're going to have a good season. Wouldn't mind a pair of box seats for opening day."

  "Done," I said.

  "Okay," he said, eyeing his monitor. "Says here there was an assault charge against Starr a few years ago. Woman named Darcy Beale. Happened on site at Laputa. Security intervened, paramedics were called. Her husband had been Starr's partner, guy named Jack Beale. Report said the woman set up a meeting, wanted to talk some business. Then she said she was attacked by Mr. Starr for no apparent reason."

  "Oh, right," I said. "No apparent reason. We know that happens all the time."

  "Yeah, and the charges were later dropped. There was also a restraining order issued afterward. Hmmm. Apparently this was issued against Ms. Beale. By Eric Starr."

  I shrugged. This sort of thing happened occasionally. Any number of things could have transpired, including the victim coming back and seeking revenge. Or Starr could have gotten a restraining order first, to try and make a statement that he was really the aggrieved party.

  "And no one talked about why this happened."

  "Happened behind
closed doors. Only two people knew for sure. For everyone else it was hearsay."

  "Anything about this Jack Beale? Died in a boating accident a few years ago."

  "That one sounds familiar," he remarked, as he typed a few things into a keyboard. "Yeah, there it is. I remember now. I was still at Broadway Division. Rich guy has a few drinks, stumbles off his yacht. No one's sober enough to notice. Or maybe care. No body recovered, so no proof of any foul play. They swept the boat, but it was clean. Like I say, nothing out of the ordinary, all they found were the usual empty liquor bottles and some tiny traces of blow. More of a National Enquirer story than a real police investigation. Someone in the Marina worked that case. Juan might know more."

  "That's it?"

  "Yeah, afraid so. Sorry to lift those Dodger tickets off you so easily. My guess is you'll be back for a few more favors. Hope you don't punch anyone out this time."

  "I see my reputation precedes me."

  "Sure, whatever that means."

  I grinned. "You know what I have to do sometimes. Part of the P.I. routine. One day maybe you'll move to the other side of the desk. At least you'll understand the drill."

  "Uh-huh. So you're back working on the Westside again."

  "I am. My new office is a few blocks away. Santa Monica and Sepulveda."

  "Guess I'll be seeing you at a few lunch spots nearby. Hope you like sushi and ramen. It's mostly an Asian neighborhood these days."

  "I don't mind. But there are still some old haunts left. I was just at the Apple Pan. Had lunch with an old coaching buddy from SC. He just moved over to UCLA."

  "Oh, yeah?" Roberto asked. "Might that be Jay Strong?"

  This time it was my turn to give a wide-eyed look. "That's right. How'd you know? You said you're not a football guy."

  "I'm not. We keep getting called to Jay's place over in Brentwood. Happened a bunch of times in the past year. Domestic disturbance, usually the neighbors calling. One time his wife had to go to the ER."

  "Charges dropped there, too?" I asked.

  "Never filed. Wife refused. Said she fell down. How about that? Oldest story in the book."

  Chapter 3

  I stopped by my office, quickly handled some paperwork, and made certain I was out the door before 3:30 p.m. Rush-hour traffic on the Westside had mushroomed to the point where an ordinary 10-minute drive home to Mar Vista, could easily take more than half an hour. For a brief, unthinking moment I had considered setting up an office at home. Then I remembered the reasons clients hired private investigators, and the unsavory characters who often came to visit. The idea that one of them might have contact with my three year-old son was not pleasant.

  "Daddy's home!" yelled Marcus as he ran over to hug my knees. I scooped him up and raised him almost to the ceiling.

  "You still like these sky hugs?"

  "Yay! Again!" he demanded. I laughed and brought him down onto my shoulder for a hug before lifting him skyward a few more times. The joy radiated from his face, and from mine as well. Gail and I settled on the name Marcus as a compromise. I had wanted to name him after Bulldog Martin, my head coach at USC, who was a father figure to me at a time I desperately needed one. Gail, a budding prosecutor at the City Attorney's office, had always admired Atticus Finch, the brilliant lawyer from To Kill A Mockingbird. His moral fiber and unwavering sense of decency, fictional though it may have been, was a prime reason she entered the field of law. So Marcus was a name that reminded us of how we got to this special place in our lives.

  "Where's Mommy?" I asked.

  "At work."

  "And where's Carla?"

  "I dunno."

  I put Marcus down, walked straight into the bedroom, and stowed my pistol in the safe. First things first. In the kitchen, Marcus's nanny, Carla, was busy fixing him a snack of sliced green apples. One of Gail's directives was that Marcus should eat healthy. Minimal candy, no soda, healthy treats. I worked hard to not give in to my baser instinct to sneak him sips of a Pepsi or bites of cheeseburger. The grandparents were another matter. Despite Gail's pleas, when her parents came over to babysit, house rules went completely out the window.

  "Hola señor!" Carla exclaimed when she saw me.

  "Buenos tardes," I said, depleting a good bit of my Spanish vocabulary.

  "Señora Gail just called. She said she'd be home early for your meeting."

  I frowned and checked my calendar. Nothing. Then I remembered yesterday morning. Gail had wanted a visit with a consultant, something about applications to preschool. I hadn't bothered to probe her at the time, it was one of those comments that went in one ear and out the other. Such is my new life, married with a child.

  Over the past three years, my bloated paycheck had streamed enough money into our bank account as to allow me to spoil my wife and child. Growing up with a single mom, I didn't have a lot but it didn't matter much at the time. Everyone in my neighborhood was like us, scraping by. My friends and I played sports and board games, watched TV, hung around. We knew we weren't rich, but we didn't quite know what that meant.

  Having been a high-profile coach at an expensive private university, I now knew full well the advantages that came with being a privileged kid. Summer trips to Europe, ski weekends to Aspen, private jets, gated communities. That wasn't the life of the student-athletes I coached, but it did describe the reality for some of the student body at USC. And when I finally had a sizable amount of money flowing in, I wanted my family to have the type of creature comforts that were now attainable. Maybe not exclusive homes or luxury vacations, but some good things nevertheless.

  We started with new cars. I surprised Gail one day with a new Audi, and got a big thrill just seeing the shocked look on her face. I treated myself to a new black Pathfinder. My 10 year-old model was showing signs of wear, and, at 140,000 miles, it was going into the shop frequently. I splurged and let a cagey salesman talk me into getting leather seats. And a moon roof. And while I rarely opened the moon roof, I just liked having it, using the accessory as something akin to a skylight.

  I did need to be careful with Marcus. He had plenty of toys, but not every toy he wanted. Kids whose parents gave in to every request were kids who grew up expecting life would provide them with everything they wanted. The reality is, you just don't get to have it all, life sometimes tells you no. And our saying no to Marcus was a part of being a parent. But it was hard. The ability to say yes and see the bright, sunny glow on his face often made my day.

  The clicking sound of a key turning in the lock told us Gail was home. As usual, Marcus's reaction time was better than mine. Or at least more demonstrative.

  "Mommy!" Marcus ran over and got the same warm greeting from Gail that he got from me, minus the sky hug.

  "Hi there," she beamed, holding Marcus in one arm, her beautiful face and luminous smile never failing to strike a chord within me. "I'm glad you remembered to come home early."

  "Sure," I said. No sense correcting her. "But just what is a preschool consultant?"

  "Education counselor," Gail said. "My boss, Steve, raves about her. It's really just to understand about the schools in the area. Neither of us know much about it, so I figured it can't hurt to get some guidance."

  "I used to work in education," I protested, the half-smile unable to stay off of my face.

  "Oh, yes. I do remember. You were part of the USC faculty. But sweetie, I don't think your expertise extends to three year-olds."

  "Is this necessary?" I asked.

  "I don't know, to be quite honest. But Steve Reinhart said Anna Faust was the best. He told me she knows all about schools on the Westside. And when the City Attorney calls someone the best, you assume he knows what he's talking about. I thought we'd set up a meeting with her and see."

  "Can't hurt to meet," I said, knowing that "the best" often carried with it an astronomic pay rate. "Lucky thing I signed a new client today. BMB. They want me to do a background check on Eric Starr, the CEO of Laputa."

  Gail smiled her elec
tric smile. "Well, I'm glad you're starting to get back into the swing of things. And this sounds like an easy assignment."

  "No danger at all," I joked, suddenly wondering if I had jinxed myself. Some people believe that the best way to put things in motion is to verbalize just how unlikely they would be to happen.

  "There might be some things about that guy Starr in our files," Gail said. "As long as it's not an ongoing investigation, I'll see what I can learn."

  "Nothing like having a mole in the City Attorney's office."

  "Spouses get special treatment," she said and planted a kiss on my cheek. I had known Gail for years, but I swear I still blush when she turns her affection my way. It's a phenomena that happens when you've waited a very long time for the girl of your dreams to appear.

  We cleaned up some of the toys Marcus had spread out along the living room floor. I had bought him a bag of a hundred polished rocks, and he had chosen to lay them out in order, ranked by his favorite colors. When Marcus objected vehemently to my messing up his work, I pulled out my iPhone and took a photo of it, telling him he would now have a record of this ranking forever. That managed to appease him, and he went off to play with something else. Our black cocker spaniel, Chewy, wandered in with her tail wagging as she offered a great big yawn. Having been happily napping in the other room, she was curious enough to come see what the fuss was all about. She sniffed around, didn't sense any food nearby, so she went off into a corner and curled up to groom herself. We were the happy suburban family.

  The doorbell rang, and Gail let Anna Faust in. She looked a little younger than me, despite having gray hair that flowed down past her shoulders. She wore an olive green sweater with a yellow scarf that came down across the front of her torso. She was attractive and bubbly and gave off a professional demeanor.

  "What a lovely home!" she declared in what might have been a finishing-school accent. "My husband and I, our first home was in Mar Vista, not far from here."

  "Where do you live now?" I asked.

  "Hey, that's nosy," Gail poked at me. "You're off duty."