I started by calling LAPD’s Hollywood division. I had a few more questions for Detective Riley and wanted to see what I could get from him about his relationship with Chase.
The desk sergeant answered, and before I could finish asking for him, Sergeant Browne explained Riley was off at his retirement party.
“Big deal, twenty-five years today. Nobody here’s gonna blame him for leaving early. Can I help you, ma’am?”
I paused while I processed the idea of Riley’s retirement, wondering if it might all be related to Bruno’s death. “Actually, that’s why I was calling. My name’s Carol Childs, I’m a reporter. We’ve worked together on a couple of cases. He’s been a big help to me, and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten where the party was.” I wasn’t one-hundred percent honest. I hadn’t met Riley before the day of Bruno’s murder, but if I said anything else, it would be at least until tomorrow before anyone called me back, if at all. And I wasn’t feeling particularly patient. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me? I promised I’d stop by.”
“I’m surprised you don’t remember. It’s his favorite.”
“Ha! Detective Riley has more than one, sergeant, believe me, I know. We’ve eaten at several.”
I heard a muffled laugh. “Yeah, the man does like to eat.”
“So, Chinese or Italian?” It wasn’t much of a guess. All reporters knew where cops went to eat. The restaurants they chose were usually good, inexpensive, and easy to spot with their unmarked squad cars parked up and down the street. “There’s the Chinese in the valley, Mr. Chow’s, I think, or the Italian place, maybe in Hollywood?”
“Chinese,” he said.
“Mr. Chow’s then.”
“You got it. Seven p.m.”
I was familiar with the restaurant. Sheri and I had dined there numerous times with the boys. The food was good and the price even better. I remember a large banquet room in the back. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen a group of cops dining there.
I entered Riley’s retirement dinner on my calendar and checked my assignment sheet. It was a slow news day, and even with my daily activities plus updates for the top of the hour news reports and rewrites from the wire, I could easily squeeze in a background check on Chase without anyone noticing.
The more I thought about Chase, the more curious I became. Who was this PI who knew where I lived and had managed to get through to my boss in such a way that Tyler was now entertaining his ideas for my show?
My online search revealed the typical biographical information. Gerhardt Chasen, a.k.a. Chase, was thirty-six years old, couple years younger than me, and born in LA. He had attended South Pasadena High, graduated in the top ten percent of his class and played football. And from the stories I found online, he was pretty good. He’d made all-state and was awarded a football scholarship to UCLA. Then 9-11 happened, and he bailed. Left school, joined the Army, and became a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment, assigned to Afghanistan. That’s when things took an unfortunate twist. Sergeant Chasen had been injured in a roadside bombing and was shipped home, the recipient of a Purple Heart. Further research showed after being medically discharged from the service, he returned to LA, married briefly, divorced six months later, then returned to the university only to drop out mid-semester. The record showed he was arrested for drunk driving and assaulting an officer. But for reasons not listed in the court docs, the charge of assaulting an officer was dropped and the drunk driving charge reduced to a lesser misdemeanor of wet and reckless. Shortly after that, Chase got his PI license and hung out his shingle.
It was almost eight p.m. when I arrived at the restaurant where Riley and his cronies were hosting his retirement party. The restaurant was crowded with diners, but even above the normal din of families and friends sitting together, I could make out the sounds of their boisterous voices coming from the banquet room in the back of the restaurant. Next to the party room was a small empty booth. It was obvious the waitress had chosen not to seat anyone there due to the noise. But, as far as I was concerned, it was the perfect place for me to sit and accidently-on-purpose run into Riley without appearing too obvious. He would have to file right past me on his way out. I told the waitress I’d take the table and asked for a pot of tea.
When the party ended, a parade of plainclothes LAPD detectives and off-duty officers walked past me down a long narrow hallway to the back exit. I’d never seen so many heavily armed people in one group. When Riley approached, I stood up.
“Detective Riley?” I extended my hand in a friendly gesture. “Carol Childs.”
He stopped. I could see his mind working behind his eyes, trying to place me, then he took my hand, and said, “The reporter…from the radio station. Right?”
“Yes, I was hoping I might get a few words with you.”
He glanced at the table where I’d been sitting. “You alone?”
“I am.”
“Buy me a drink, little lady, and I’m yours for the evening.” Riley looked back over his shoulder to a couple of plainclothes detectives who appeared to be waiting. He nodded for them to go on ahead. I caught one wink as they waved goodbye. “Got nowhere to go and no one waiting for me at home. Unless you plan on invitin’ me back to your place?”
“I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”
Riley was drunk, not falling-down drunk, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue. He put his hands like giant paws on the table while he adjusted his heavy frame onto the chair. “Well, you never know. I sit and hang with you for a bit, you just might change your mind.” Riley signaled the waiter to bring him a scotch on the rocks, then asked if I wanted anything.
“No, thanks, I’m not drinking. But this is on me.” I put my credit card on the table and told the waiter to start a tab.
“What’s on your mind?”
“The suicide last Friday morning.”
Riley shifted his big bulky frame uncomfortably in the chair before answering.
“Reporters don’t usually follow up on suicides. Not unless it’s some superstar, and Bruno Sims certainly wasn’t that. He was a nobody. What’s the deal?”
I waited for the waiter to return with his drink.
“Mr. Sims’ family hired a PI to investigate the case.”
“It happens.” Riley took a swig of his drink.
“They’re disputing the LAPD’s findings. They think he was murdered.”
Riley downed the last of his scotch and waved to the waiter for another. “Sometimes families have trouble accepting the truth. Waste of money. The man killed himself. You should move on.”
“It’s just…there was no suicide note.”
“Doesn’t mean the family won’t find one. Had a case once where this guy attached a suicide note to a homing pigeon. Wife didn’t find the note for nearly a week. Not until a friend called and said the bird arrived with a message attached to it. Fact is, a lot of suicides never leave a note. People don’t always come right out and tell ya what they’re gonna do. They just do it. Trust me, my job’s not to explain why. I just call ’em as I see ’em. And this, Ms. Childs, was a suicide. I’ve seen enough to know.”
“But this PI, he’s pretty convinced someone else, maybe even a group of people, was there with him. That he wasn’t alone.”
Riley swirled the scotch in his glass, his eyes heavy.
“And then I’ve got this woman named Mustang Sally who called my show the other night and confessed to the murder.”
“Really?” Riley guffawed. He sat back in his seat and gripped his drink with both hands. His fat fingers, like sausages, turned white with the pressure. Clearly, the man wasn’t well. “You look like a smart woman, Ms. Childs. I really hate to see you wastin’ your time on some crackpot caller named Sally Mustang—”
“Mustang Sally.”
“—confessing on the air of all places. If I were you, I’d
be more concerned about getting a reputation for entertaining conspiracy theories. You don’t want to end up like Geraldo Rivera.”
“I’m just checking things out.”
“With the wrong people, obviously. Who is this hawkshaw you been talkin’ to?”
“His name’s Gerhardt—”
“Gerhardt Chasen.” Riley slammed his drink down on the table, spilling some, and glared at me, his eyes red and puffy. “Goes by Chase? Big guy? Built like a former football player?”
I nodded. “You know him?”
“He’s a drunk, Ms. Childs. Nothing but trouble. The man bends the truth like a pretzel. If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from him.”
The waiter arrived with another drink. Riley stood up, swigged it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Unless you have anything else for me, I think we’re done here. I know I am. Twenty-five years worth of done and sick and tired. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my car.”
The man was drunk. I had just watched him down three scotches, and I had no idea how much he had before. He started to stumble down the hallway, one hand on the wall to steady himself, towards the rear exit of the restaurant. No way he belonged behind the wheel.
“Detective. You’re not planning on driving, are you?”
“I’m a cop, Carol.” He leaned back against the wall, took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re drunk.” I put my hand on his chest and pushed back against the wall. “And maybe I should call you a cab.”
“You going to try and stop me?” He shoved my hand away, pushing me back against the wall, and started again towards the exit.
I followed.
Outside Riley grabbed a set of keys off the valet’s keyboard and tossed the man a couple bucks. Told him not to worry about bringing his car around. He could get it. I was no match for Riley. The man easily had better than a hundred pounds on me and trying to restrain him was hopeless. I watched as he got into a vintage gray Porsche convertible, cherry as the day it had come off the showroom floor. The match was totally inappropriate. His beefy body sandwiched with his big belly pinned against the wheel.
“Nice car,” I hollered at him as he backed out of the small parking area and pulled up to a stop in front of me. “Really, why don’t you let me call you a cab.”
“You worry too much, Ms. Childs. You really should leave things that don’t concern you alone. ’Sides, this here’s my baby. Tuned her up and took her off the blocks for just this occasion.” He gunned the engine, and like a caged lion, the car roared. “Sure you don’t wanna come home with me now?”
“Riley, please, don’t.” I gripped my hands to the passenger door. Dammit, where was the valet? His chair was empty, and the alley deserted. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things. But you…you should stay clear of Chase, you understand? He’s trouble. Just leave this whole thing with Chase and that body on the Hollywood Sign alone.” He ran his pudgy hand across the driver’s wheel like he was caressing a woman’s backside and smiled. “Trust me, Ms. Childs, you don’t want to know what I know.”
Revving the engine one more time, Riley swept my hands from the door and took his foot off the brake, then slammed the accelerator to the floor. I fell back as the car broke like a filly on the track. The sudden explosion of speed and the rear wheel steering sending a cloud of smoke up behind it.
“Stop! Riley, no!”
Directly ahead of him, about one hundred feet down the alley was a large concrete pylon, used to keep traffic from using the alleyway as a thoroughfare. He was aiming for it. I watched, helpless as he plowed directly into it. Head on into a concrete wall.
Within seconds the valet came running from within the restaurant, followed by patrons who had heard the crash.
“Call 911!”
I ran toward the wreck. But I knew before I got there it was useless. The Porsche’s body had crumpled like a tin can with Riley’s body pinned behind the wheel. His head hung limply off to the left side of his shoulder, his mouth and eyes open. Blood began a slow trickle from the corner of his mouth. I turned away.
While I waited for the ambulance, I walked back to the restaurant’s exit and surveyed the scene. There were no skid marks. Riley had never applied the brakes. He hadn’t tried to steer clear of the pylon. It was his target. Riley wasn’t just drunk, he was suicidal.
It wasn’t until I went back inside to pay the bill and get my bag that it hit me. Suicides don’t all leave notes. It was exactly like Riley had said. Sometimes they just do it.
CHAPTER 12
I called Tyler from my car as I headed home from the scene of the accident. Not to report Riley’s suicide for the news, but because I needed to hear another human voice. Something to help settle my shaking hands and drown out the vision of him trapped behind the wheel of the car. I kept replaying bits and pieces of our conversation and wondering if there was something I could have done.
But, if it was support I wanted, Tyler was the wrong person to ask.
“Sorry, Carol, but you can’t be too surprised about this kind of thing. Cops are high risk when it comes to suicide. More likely to die by their own hand than in the line of duty. And if what you’re telling me about Riley’s true, twenty-five years on the force, single, and in poor health, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been planning the whole thing. Not your problem.”
Right. Not my problem. Why didn’t I think before I picked up the phone? I could have predicted Tyler’s unemotional response. It wasn’t within his nature to nurture. As a result, I didn’t share with Tyler what Riley had told me about Chase. Instead, I hung up the phone and, eyes burning, holding back the tears, I drove home in silence. I couldn’t even listen to the radio. It just felt wrong.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time I got home. I had stopped to pick up groceries, Charlie was in bed and hopefully asleep. Misty, however, was sitting on the front porch. As I approached, I could see she wasn’t alone. Sitting with her in the dark, illuminated by a thin trail of smoke, was Chase.
“Smoking?” I stood with a bag of groceries balanced on my hip. “I thought you quit.” I hadn’t expected to see Chase on my porch, and I wasn’t about to greet him with any civility. I wasn’t in the mood. Not after what I had witnessed at the restaurant.
Chase stood up. An attempt to block my passing. “This isn’t a cigarette, Carol, it’s—”
“I know what it is.” I reeled out of his way, using the groceries as a shield between us. “I could smell it coming up the steps. And Misty, you can’t bring that stuff into my house. Not around Charlie. I won’t have it.”
I was to about leave them both on the patio and lock the door behind me. If smoking weed was something Misty planned to do, she could leave right now. Misty knew how I felt about drugs. Nothing in the house. And absolutely nothing around my son. I was very firm about that.
Misty grabbed my hand as I passed. “It’s not recreational, Carol. It’s—”
“Medical,” Chase said. “I have a prescription. But if it bothers you, I can stop. Right now, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“A prescription, huh?” I shook Misty’s hand from my own and looked at Chase skeptically. If the story about his injuries in Afghanistan were correct, he might be telling the truth. But after talking to Riley, I didn’t know what to believe, and I really didn’t want to stand there and listen.
Chase snuffed out the joint and put the butt in a pocket of his jacket.
“I came by to talk to you. You haven’t returned any of my calls. Misty suggested I wait outside.”
“This isn’t a good time, Chase.” I put my hand on the handle to the front door but paused before opening it. I wanted to see what Chase’s reaction would be if I told him where I’d been. “I went to see Detective Riley tonight aft
er work, and you know what he told me? He told me you were a drunk and that I shouldn’t trust you. That you were nothing but trouble. And then you know what he did? He killed himself. Right in front of me. Drove his car head-on into a concrete pylon. Crushed himself behind the wheel. Do you have any idea what that was like?” I shook my head and gave the door a shove. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m not in the mood to sit out on the patio and listen to any more of your theories.”
Chase stood up. “Did he tell you he was the officer who arrested me for drunk driving? And that he was the same cop I was accused of assaulting and went to jail for?”
I stopped in the doorway. Misty was on her feet, standing directly behind Chase, the moonlight on her face, begging me to stay.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Carol. And I do know what that looks like. I spent a year in Afghanistan. Saw lots of things I’d like to un-see. But the truth is, Riley wasn’t the most stable of detectives. And I don’t have a lot of good things to say about him. He should never have done that in front of you.”
Misty walked out from behind Chase and took the groceries from my arms. “Why don’t you sit down and listen to what Chase has to say? You know you won’t sleep until you do, and I can put these groceries away. I’ve got an early morning. I want to get started on that garden in the back, and you two don’t need me.”
I waited for Misty to close the door, then crossed my arms and stared at Chase. “What’s so important you had to drive all the way over here to talk to me in person, tonight of all nights?”
“Couldn’t it just be I missed seeing your pretty face?”
“Flattery’s not going to work, Chase. Not tonight.”
“I didn’t think so. And to be honest, much as I might like it to be, that’s not why I’m here.” Chase nodded to the table. “Please, there’s some things you need to know. And if after I’ve told you, you don’t like what you hear, I’ll leave you alone. But I’m hoping you’ll at least hear me out.”
Room for Doubt Page 6
