by Chill, David
Fade Route
A novel by
David Chill
© 1991-2013 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.
For Matthew
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Post Pattern Preview
Chapter 1
The last time I saw Wayne Fairborn alive he was with a sultry blonde in a tight orange miniskirt. Her name was Nina Lovejoy and she was young and vivacious. She was also the last person Wayne should have accompanied. Nina slipped an arm playfully inside the crook of his and they strolled upstairs towards his office. Even if Wayne had been a freewheeling bachelor, the spectacle would have raised eyebrows. In fact, he was both a married man and an aspiring political candidate and he should have had the good sense to be discreet.
Wayne and I had been sitting together in the workshop room of Second Chance. The room was sparsely decorated, appropriate for a setting designed to assist those down on their luck. I glanced out the window and saw the last golden traces of the sunset. It was disappearing into the Pacific, about to be replaced by the gloom of a moonless black night. It was almost seven o'clock and the only thing in Southern California that let you know summer was ending were the shorter days. The temperature was an awful seasonal gauge. The autumn winds which blew sporadically through the region were generally hot and dry.
Wayne took a sip from a bottle of soda and leaned towards me. "I may need to use your services, Burnside," he said.
I nodded. "Someone trying to assassinate you already?"
He pondered that question a bit too long for my taste. "Not exactly."
I turned and looked closely at his face. The handsome features revealed no turbulence within. If he were not a politician, he'd probably excel as a professional poker player. He was tall and fit and his square jaw exuded confidence. His blue eyes were as light and clear as an August sky.
"Can you expand on that?" I asked.
Wayne looked off in the distance. "Burnside," he began, "sometimes I wish I had a job like yours."
I looked at him incredulously and sighed. Everyone had such a colored view of the vaunted life of the private eye. A life of action, danger, and excitement, punctuated by hot blondes and dead bodies. Immortalized by Humphrey Bogart and Jack Nicholson. I tried to tell people if real life were like the movies, I'd have been killed a dozen times over by now.
"Here's an idea," I suggested. "I'll swap lives with you. I could handle falling asleep to the sound of the waves crashing on the sand. And hobnobbing with people who want to donate money to me in exchange for a favor to be named later. If you want to throw Crystal into the package as well, I wouldn't turn my nose up."
"I might easily make the same offer for Gail," he said, referring to my girlfriend of the past year. I winced as I thought of her.
"You'll have a long commute," I said. "She's up in Berkeley. Getting an advanced degree on how to become a professional thug."
"I thought she was in law school."
"She is."
Wayne laughed a little wistfully and peeled some of the label from his bottle. "I imagine the grass is always greener."
"It shouldn't be for you," I countered.
Indeed not. Wayne Fairborn was a man who was independently wealthy. He was the grandson of a real estate investor who developed a large parcel of land in the suburbs of Los Angeles. A century ago this was considered to be rural countryside; today the area is known as the San Fernando Valley. After his father died a few years ago, Wayne closed down the development office, sold off most of the remaining properties and opened Second Chance in Bay City. He was the embodiment of the good Samaritan who wanted to help people to help themselves.
"To put things in proper perspective," I said, "let me tell you what I did today. My client is a fifty-five year old dermatologist who's convinced that Violet, his twenty-five year old wife, is playing around."
"Is she?"
"Not that I've learned. My morning was spent following this young thing around Malibu, watching her shop for linen and get her nails done. In the afternoon she worked out with a private trainer and then went off to the beach."
He looked at me sadly. "You're ruining my image of you."
I leaned back in my chair. I had met Wayne when I volunteered at Second Chance last year. He impressed me with his dedication and commitment, and with the fact that he had jettisoned a cushy lifestyle to try and make a difference in the world. I had felt a little uneasy with him at first, until it dawned on me that his generosity was sincere. He didn't seem like the type of guy I would pal around with, but then again I don't pal around with many people. Wayne, like me, was something of an enigma. Neither of us fit a mold.
As it turned out though, Wayne had also graduated from USC and remembered me from my days on the gridiron as a safety for the Trojans. Even though it's been almost twenty years, I still get recognized now and then. When Wayne and I first met, we talked about our favorite games, and the ice began to melt away. His brother-in-law, Rusty Haas, who was giving the final speech tonight at the Second Chance orientation, had played for Notre Dame, a team which my crew had beaten in a down-to-the-wire nail biter. The USC-Notre Dame series was considered the greatest cross-sectional rivalry in college football. As such, Rusty's school was hardly one of my favorites, nor was it Wayne's. The two of us began discovering some common ground.
Rusty finished his presentation and everyone was invited to stay for sandwiches and coffee. Metal chairs scraped the cement floor and people began shuffling around. I looked at Wayne and suggested that we adjourn to the hallway to discuss his situation further. He nodded and followed me. I asked him what was really bothering him.
"It's rather difficult to put into words," he said.
"Getting pushed around by the local bully, are you?"
He smiled weakly, and ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair. "In a way, perhaps. You probably haven't had to deal with bullies in your life, Burnside. A tough guy like you."
"I wasn't always this tough," I said, thinking back to the time when an older kid, Otis Miller, did indeed push me around the junior high playground. By the time I was in high school, I was lifting weights and had made the football team. I decided it was time to make up for past slights. I knocked on Otis' door but all I found was his kid brother who told me Otis had been shipped off to military school. I briefly considered thrashing the younger Miller just for the record, but quickly decided the act wouldn't be very gallant.
"Is it related to the campaign?" I asked.
Wayne shrugged. "Maybe."
"You know, people typically hire me because of problems with their marriage, their business or their vices."
"Maybe in this case it's all three," he said, his eyes looking down at the floor.
We sat in silence for a fe
w minutes. A few volunteers walked by and said good night. There were about five of us old-timers at the orientation and we were there to prep the twenty or so newcomers on how to assist the homeless in the Second Chance way. They were all dressed professionally and in good spirits, their eagerness brimming. In addition, Eddy and Raff were there as well. The two of them were Second Chance clients who had attended a resume workshop a few weeks earlier and had secured temporary janitorial jobs at the Center. I made a mental note to ask how their job search was going.
"If you want my help," I said, turning back to Wayne, "you've got to talk to me. And trust me."
Wayne took a deep breath like a man who was about to dive underwater for a prolonged period. "The campaign is fine. We fielded a survey the other day and the race is still a dead heat. We think Mayor Callison's running scared."
"He's been in office a long time. That's quite a testimony to your efforts."
"Callison has a lot of negatives he's working against. Plus, I'm a new face. Outsider and all that."
"That's L.A. for you, and especially Bay City. We love things that are new. We also get bored easily, so don't plan on being loved forever. It's fleeting as hell."
Wayne smiled. "You know, Burnside, you don't bullshit around. Most of the people I know couldn't be candid if their lives depended upon it. You speak your mind. I liked that about you from the start."
"You're in the minority. Most people think my comments grate on them too much."
"For me, it's refreshing. That's why I appreciate your company. See what I mean? Your job is to be envied. I'd love to be able to just say whatever I feel without any compunction."
"Point made," I said and shifted my back against a wall. The silence was making Wayne squirm. He took another deep breath and let it out in a loud whoosh.
"I guess I'll have to trust you," he finally managed. "But this can't go anywhere else."
"Trustworthiness. It's one of my nobler qualities."
He nodded. "The problem," he said with a sigh, "is related to Crystal."
I frowned. "Go on."
"Somebody tried to run her off the road the other night."
The frown turned into a gape. Crystal was a sweet person and not the type who was likely to incur anyone's wrath.
"She was on her way home from a fundraiser," Wayne said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "and somebody must have followed her down through Coldwater Canyon. It happened when she was driving along a narrow stretch of Sunset. It was late, and some SUV pulled alongside and tried to run her off the road. Scared the hell out of her."
It was now my turn to take a deep breath. Someone had tried to do the same thing to me last year and it was attempted murder. I was lucky to get out of it alive. But I had been investigating a serious case and was being targeted. Crystal's situation might have been very different, so I tried to ease Wayne's mind.
"Maybe it was just road rage."
Wayne shook his head. "I don't know. The guy was tailgating her for miles and he could have passed her any number of times. I'll tell you, she was pretty hysterical. I almost called the doctor to get something to calm her down."
"Any thoughts as to who might have been involved?"
Wayne shook his head again. "I don't know. It might have been Callison's people but there's really no hard evidence. And with the election a month away, I don't want this to get out."
"You're afraid the press might question why someone was after the candidate's wife?"
"That. Or did the wife simply have a few drinks, crash her car and make up the whole story to cover herself? True or not, the incident could be a huge problem if it became public."
Wayne paused as a few people walked past us towards the exit. The crowd was beginning to thin and somebody called out Wayne's name. It was in a voice as sugary and tantalizing as the package it came in. We turned as a vision of loveliness approached wearing an orange dress with a white linen blazer. The bottom of her jacket was about two inches above the hemline of her dress.
"You're looking well today, Nina," Wayne remarked slowly, scanning her body like it was a vintage Corvette.
Nina offered up a pixie smile. "I always try to look my best," she said in a delightful voice.
"You know, we're only supposed to motivate these people to get off the streets."
"Let me tell you what I think," she giggled.
"This I have to hear."
Nina tossed her long blonde hair back, the golden strands shimmering in the bright hall lighting. "If I look really hot," she said, "the men and women who come through here will try that much more to help themselves. I mean, I won't go out with any of these guys but at least it'll get them thinking. If they get a job and make some money, then they can get a girl of their very own. And the women can be inspired by me as well. Good plan?"
"Intriguing psychological premise," he mused.
"Wayne, there's something else I wanted to speak with you about," she said, and then looked at me. "Burnside, do you mind?"
I showed her a pair of open palms. "Be my guest."
"Why don't we go up to my office," he suggested and turned to me. "Say pal, would you mind waiting a few minutes? You and I should finish our conversation."
"No problem," I said. Time was a commodity I had a lot of these days. As they walked up the stairs, I noticed a bulge around Wayne's ankle and what looked like a holster. Having spent thirteen years with the LAPD, the sight wasn't startling. On Wayne Fairborn however, a gun was definitely out of place.
I went over and helped myself to a sandwich and a cup of coffee. This was my first solid food since breakfast, my case having kept me busy for most of the day. The dermatologist's wife didn't bother to stop for lunch today so neither did I. The sandwich was wolfed down in about three bites and I decided to take another.
"Now there's a man with an appetite," boomed a voice from behind. I turned and saw Eddy Steele strolling towards me. Eddy was an imposing two hundred plus pounds with a dark complexion and mischievous brown eyes.
"Well looky here," I said, shaking his outstretched hand. "How are you?"
"Never better. On the top of my game." He smiled a rich, toothy smile. "Been clean for four weeks now. I'm there, baby, I'm there!"
"Great, Eddy. How's the job hunt coming?"
"Good, real good. I got a couple of definite possibilities," he said, licking his lips. "You helped me a lot."
"Pick up some tips on resume building?"
"I learned me two things at this place," he declared. "I learned what a resume is, and I learned..." He moved closer and lowered his voice. "I learned you have some hot babes walking around here. Mmm-mmm."
I chuckled a little. "Any one in particular catch your eye?"
"That blonde in the orange miniskirt looked mighty good, " he said, his eyes sparkling. "I'd do her any time."
"I'm sure she'd be pleased to know that."
"But I think Raff got his eye on her."
My eyebrows shot up. Raff wasn't exactly a carefree playboy. "Where is old Raff? I saw him in here earlier tonight."
Eddy shrugged. "He might still be upstairs finishing up. But he said he had to leave early. I learn not to ask too many questions. Raff kind of a secretive guy."
"You know anything about him?"
Eddy shrugged. "I think Raff let on he was a student last year. Lost his funding or something like that, and had some problems paying rent. He a bright guy when he gets going. He speak real intelligent-like. Know what I mean?"
"Sure, Eddy. When you stop and think about it, nobody's that far from the streets." I gulped and thought about my own dwindling savings account. "It doesn't matter how smart you are or how many degrees you've got. Most people don't have enough savings to last them forever. Once the money runs out, you hit up family, friends, whatever."
"Whatever is right," he agreed. "And when that whatever runs out, you hit the streets."
With that, Eddy stuffed a couple of sandwiches into his jacket pocket and said he'd see me later. E
ddy had his share of problems and I wondered if he'd make it. Pulling things together was mostly up to the individual. The ones who controlled their vices seemed better able to escape the streets. The ones who couldn't usually had their fate sealed.
I finished the rest of my sandwich and wandered around the room. Half of the attendees had already left, and it appeared the evening was winding down. In a few seconds I would discover just how wrong that observation would be.
It came without warning as these things are prone to do. There were no shouts, no screams, no tables overturned. Instead there was just a short pop, not unlike a truck backfiring. The noise was muffled by the sound of plates and glasses clinking and I tried to focus my hearing. A few seconds later I heard another pop, clearer and more distinct. Some people around the room looked up, but most went on eating and talking. I was out the door in an instant however, and raced up the steps. Based on my conversation a few minutes earlier, I had a sick feeling about what I was going to find.
I ran up to the second floor of the building and looked around wildly. To the left of the stairwell was a door that was slightly ajar. To the right were half a dozen cubicles separated by partitions, and an open door which led into a back stairwell facing an alley. I pulled my .38 from its holster and walked carefully along the perimeter of the room.
As I reached the corner office, the smell of cordite wafted into my nostrils. I peeked inside and saw a figure sitting behind a desk. Wheeling around, I leaped into a crouched position and pointed my weapon at them, my left hand steadying the hand with the gun. There was no need; the solitary figure was unable to see me.
In the chair was Wayne Fairborn. His shirt pocket oozed with blood and in his lap sat a business card featuring the logo of a magazine called "Tomorrow's Woman." The title on it read "Assistant Editor." The name on it read "Nina Lovejoy."
Chapter 2
