Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  "Whaaaa..? What's going on?" he stuttered.

  This was going to be fun. "Do you live here, son?" I asked.

  "Nnnn-no, no I don't," he said as he fished through his pockets for his wallet. I raised my eyebrows noticeably and he quickly continued. "I'm supposed to be here. My brother just bought this place."

  "I can verify that, you know."

  "Uh-huh," he said, finally digging a crumpled driver's license out and handing it over to me. The name on it read "Alan Ulrich". He was twenty-two years old.

  "What happened to the Haas family?" I asked in my most suspicious voice.

  "They moved."

  "Know where?"

  He frowned and walked off into the kitchen. After a few minutes I wondered if he had gone back to sleep. Miraculously he did come back to the door, a slip of paper in his hand.

  "They just moved this weekend," he said. "Are they in some kind of trouble?"

  "We don't know yet," I said in a heavy handed voice and then peered at him. "If I need to speak to your brother, where can I find him?"

  "He'll be back tonight. He's on the road all day. Salesman, you know."

  "Yeah, I know," I said, handing him back his driver's license, I thanked him curtly for the address and quickly walked off. One thing was certain. Alan Ulrich was wide awake by now.

  I headed east along Torrance Boulevard through a neighborhood of simple, stucco houses, with an occasional fast food joint on a corner. The Haas address was along a stretch known as the City Strip. It was a narrow, ten mile sliver of land that extended the city of Los Angeles' confines southward from Watts towards San Pedro. By maintaining an unbroken boundary through the South Bay, the city was able to have a direct path to the lucrative harbor. Some of the residents of the City Strip were not even aware they lived in Los Angeles. Many thought they were in a part of Torrance or Gardena. They often found out the hard way, usually when they needed police assistance and the nearest LAPD patrol car was miles away. And not anxious to fight traffic to get to them.

  I parked near a sodden apartment building featuring pale green paint that was chipping, and numbers on the front that were badly faded. A few children played in the front courtyard and their mothers jabbered away nearby. I climbed a flight of stairs and walked across the outdoor passageway to apartment "J". I pushed the doorbell and heard no buzzer go off. No one responded. In this building, knocking proved far more effective.

  The door opened and Rusty Haas stood there giving me a surprised look. Rusty was a beefy six-two and probably weighed two-fifty. He was wearing a t-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers with small cleats on them. Rusty had a shaved head that masked his male pattern baldness, and he sported a ginger colored goatee. Some people may have thought that to be trendy, but on Rusty it just made him look like he had a dirty face. Well worn jeans and a slightly tattered golf shirt hung from his body.

  "Burnside?" he said in a quizzical manner. "What brings you down here?"

  "Can I come in?" I asked.

  Rusty hesitated for a second and then stepped back from the door. "It's a little messy," he said. "We're just getting settled."

  "Not for very long," came a female voice from the next room. Sara Haas walked out in similar attire as her husband. "This is just a way station for us."

  I looked around the living room at some very elegant furniture surrounded by boxes full of books and clothes and kitchenware. Framed photos of family members, distant beaches, and Rusty in his Notre Dame uniform were scattered along the floor. Some tennis rackets, fishing rods, and a pair of red Sports World gym bags were piled in a corner.

  "It's a far cry from the beach house you moved from," I commented wryly.

  "I know," she said, "but with Rusty getting laid off, it was too hard to make the mortgage payments on one income. We needed a place and this was the first thing we found. We won't be here long. Just until we get back on our feet."

  "What do you do for a living?" I asked Sara.

  "I used to be a teacher, that's how Rusty and I met. Now I'm a writer."

  "What do you write about?"

  She shrugged. "Oh, anything and everything. Social issues. Balancing career and relationships. When to marry, who to marry. Navigating through a changing world. Modern life, you might say."

  The two of them stood side by side. They were a couple of years younger than I was, but I thought they looked a good bit older. Sara's light brown hair fell down past her shoulders and was beginning to have strands of grey. Unlike her younger sister Crystal, she had lost that sensuousness of youth, even though she was just as slender. Rusty and Sara looked decidedly middle aged, Rusty having added about thirty pounds since his days as a fullback with Notre Dame. His main job back then had been to block for the tailbacks, but when he got an opportunity to carry the ball he was a load to bring down. I was two years ahead of Rusty but only played against him once, on a cloudy October day in South Bend. USC came away the victor, and it was a game both of us would remember for the rest of our lives.

  "Have you heard about what happened to Wayne last night?"

  Rusty sighed and nodded. "The cops called us last night. We have to go in and speak with them this morning."

  "How's Crystal taking it?"

  Sara spoke. "Not well. The police were over at my sister's house last night. Poor thing. Crystal's had to deal with a lot. This was just a tremendous shock. I heard about it on the radio last night, driving home. I nearly crashed the Mustang. I didn't get any sleep at all last night."

  I waited and said nothing. An awkward silence ensued.

  Rusty sighed. "It's funny how someone is alive one minute and gone the next."

  "It usually works that way," I muttered dryly, and turned to Sara. "Did you visit Crystal last night?"

  "No," she said. "Dad went up to be with her. And he was very angry with the way the police were investigating."

  "Did Crystal ever mention anyone with whom she and Wayne might have had problems?" I asked perfunctorily.

  "What do you mean she and Wayne?" Sara asked. "Crystal didn't have an enemy in the world. She's the warmest person you could ever find!"

  "Warm or not, somebody tried to run her off the road the other night. Wayne told me about it. He didn't think it was an accident."

  They looked at each other blankly and shrugged.

  Sara spoke. "If you're looking for a motive, you probably don't have to go beyond his family. Peter's resented Wayne for years."

  "Peter?" I asked.

  "Wayne's brother," she said, with a slight amount of distaste. "Our brother-in-law. We don't talk about him much. He's a bum and a low life. He lives over in Hermosa Beach, spends his days playing volleyball and his nights drinking beer in some hole-in-the-wall pub."

  "Doesn't sound like the type of guy who'd want to commit murder, does it?" I asked, playing devil's advocate.

  "It does when he's cut out of daddy's will," Rusty said. "When the estate is worth over a hundred million dollars. That could send someone off the deep end in a big way."

  "Could be," I said, and took down Peter's address. I decided to pursue another tact. "Rusty, did you see anything unusual at the Center last night. Something that caught your eye as different?"

  Rusty frowned and looked up at the ceiling. "Last night," he managed. "I think I noticed one of the janitors going upstairs. When I took the podium I had a partial view of the stairwell and saw one of them leave the room. I thought it was odd, too. Most of their work up there was finished for the night."

  "Anything else?"

  Rusty shook his head slowly. "Nothing. Like I said, I left right after the orientation was done."

  I nodded. "How did you and Wayne get along?"

  "Wait a minute," Sara broke in, pointing a finger at me as her face reddened. "Are you making an accusation here?"

  "It sounded more like a question, wouldn't you say?"

  "I'd say you're not a police officer," she said defiantly. "And I personally resent this interrogation."

 
"It's not an interrogation. And he's going to get questioned eventually by the police," I said. "This way he can get his story straight."

  Rusty's face turned into a snarl and he grabbed my collar and yanked hard. He asked who the hell I thought I was, and before I could answer he shoved me up against a wall. We strained against each other for a minute until I felt pressure on my windpipe. Breathing became difficult. I tried to slam my forearm into his to break the grip, but his arm barely moved. Needle-like pains shot up my wrist and stung mercilessly.

  With desperation rising, I grabbed his thumb with my right hand and bent it backwards. As his grip loosened, I ducked under his arm, twisting it behind his back in one motion, and jerking it upward in a hammer lock. I jerked it again, harder this time. He grunted at the pain and started hollering for me to let go. I felt the air move haltingly in and out of my throat.

  "Don't mess with me," I whispered hoarsely. "You're an out of shape ex-jock. I work out five times a week and I'm better at defense than you are at offense. That's something you should have learned twenty years ago."

  With that I released the pressure and he stared at me angrily, rubbing his wrist. I found myself doing the same thing.

  "You've got a lot of nerve coming here, Burnside," he said glaring harshly at me. "Why don't you take your stupid ideas somewhere else. And I haven't forgotten what you did a long time ago."

  *

  Peter Fairborn wasn't at his beach apartment so I drove back to Bay City. I had put my cell phone on vibrate, so I noticed I had had two calls, one from Virgil Hairston of the Tribune and one from my only paying client, the dermatologist with the supposedly wayward wife. Both callers were unavailable when I phoned them back.

  Having finally developed an appetite, I went over to a vegan restaurant on San Vicente that a healthy looking client had once raved about. I wolfed down a burrito stuffed with tofu, black beans, quinoa and grilled vegetables, and decided the concept was more satisfying than the execution. My client might have had enhanced levels of pulchritude, but decidedly under-developed taste buds.

  I climbed back into my black Pathfinder and drove over to Second Chance. The Center was headquartered along Pico Boulevard in a seedier part of Bay City, and it was distinguished by being the only building on the street to have a fresh coat of paint. A massage parlor was located across the street, along with a couple of sleazy bars, a laundromat and a rundown liquor store. Wayne could have afforded nicer digs but in this arena you set up shop where the market is.

  There were a number of raggedy looking people milling about the entrance, and I gave the palms up sign when one of them asked if I had any spare change. In addition to going against the spirit of Second Chance, I was in no position to hand money away. Advice and encouragement were the best I could offer these days.

  Inside, the office was hectic to say the least. A long strip of bright yellow police tape blocked off the entrance to Wayne's office and various chalk lines and powders draped the interior. For a moment I thought I saw a vision of Wayne sitting amidst the bedlam, looking around in confusion. I closed my eyes. Wayne was dead and it would take some time to get used to it.

  Jerry Winkler was finishing up a phone conversation as I darkened his desk. He concluded by telling the other party to hang in there and not get depressed. Words to live by.

  "I see that life goes on."

  Jerry nodded definitively. "We're still open for business. Crystal indicated she wanted to keep it going. In memory of Wayne and all. You'll notice the homeless problem is still with us."

  "First hand. Have you spoken with the police?"

  "The police, the media, the volunteers, you name it. The cops said they'd be back later on to finish up. Whatever that means. Don't touch anything, I suppose. All I know is this place is a holy mess."

  "Say Jerry, could you get a couple of addresses for me? I need to get in touch with the guys you hired in as janitors. Also, that fellow Nina hangs around with, Mel something-or-other?"

  Jerry sighed and pulled open a rolodex. "I should be getting used to this. The police have practically made me the center post of their operation. Addresses, phone numbers, who's friends with who. I never realized what a veritable gold mine of information the director of this Center is."

  Patting him on the shoulder, I left and drove over to Wayfarer Hotel in Venice. This was the flop house where Eddy and Raff both lived, but neither were in their rooms. My inquiry as to when they might return was met with a blank look by the front desk girl; her only task seemed to be chewing her gum methodically. I pulled out my phone and called Virgil Hairston again. This time I was more successful.

  "Burnside," he shouted at me, "I've been trying to catch you all day. I want to get your opinion on what's happened."

  "I'm a slippery devil. What's up?"

  "You don't know?"

  "Trust me. I'm as in the dark as one can be right now."

  "The police now have a suspect in custody. Nice looking, if my sources are accurate."

  I took a deep breath. Hopefully Nina Lovejoy heeded my advice and called the attorney.

  "When did they pick her up?"

  "This morning. In an hour or so you can read all about it."

  "You guys don't miss a beat," I said.

  "Hey, it's big news when a political candidate is shot. It's even bigger news when it's the guy's wife that's the suspect. Isn't that an interesting turn of events?"

  My mouth was agape. Interesting indeed.

  Chapter 4

  The Tribune building was located along a stretch of Colorado Avenue that was equal parts industrial, commercial, and residential. Back in the days when zoning was merely a gleam in someone's eye, erecting an office building or a factory next to a row of houses was an occasional if not common practice. Tough luck for the homeowner.

  The paper's offices were minimalist to say the least. Muted orange carpeting, cut into eighteen-inch squares, were stitched together along the floor and the desks held some of the cheapest looking metal accessories this side of an army base. Only a municipal agency's digs could rival this. I found Virgil Hairston's cubicle easily enough, as a sportswriter told me to follow the pungent aroma. Sure enough, sitting behind a box of take out fried chicken was the crime reporter himself.

  "Early dinner?"

  "This is just a snack," he said, tearing into a crusty drumstick. He pushed the box towards me. "Have some."

  I was indeed a little hungry but my discerning palate was not about to cave. Ben & Jerry's ice cream was worth veering off of an otherwise healthy diet. So was a pastrami sandwich from Langer's. But certain limits needed to be drawn. I'd settle for a rumbling stomach.

  "So the police have cracked the case," I remarked.

  "You sound as if you have some doubts," he answered as he gnawed away at the drumstick.

  "I doubt everything," I said. "Give me an update."

  "The police found a witness."

  "Who?"

  "Some girl named Amy Flanders, a volunteer at the Center. She says Fairborn's wife walked out the back door of the building. Saw a few other people leave through that way also, but she claims the wife was there."

  "Crystal denying it?"

  "Implicitly. Her alibi was that she was home alone the whole evening, so obviously there were no witnesses. Also, the police checked out her car. Dried blood stains all over her steering wheel, the seat, you name it. They also found out Wayne owned a .32 pistol, same caliber as the murder weapon. Not surprisingly, that's gone."

  I frowned. "That doesn't sound like enough to press charges."

  "Maybe not," he said. "But her old man got out of line and the cops tossed them both in the tank. Seems he became a bit indignant when they implied she might have some reason to kill her husband. Took a swing at one of the uniforms."

  I looked across Hairston's desk and noticed the splash page of the paper's website on his computer. The headline blared, "Wife Held in Fairborn Murder!" I shook my head and turned back to watch the big man finish
the last of his snack.

  "The police do jump to conclusions," I said, my bitterness perhaps showing more than I had intended.

  "Oh?" he chuckled in a reporter's cynical way. "You don't doubt our men in blue, do you?"

  "I've known too many of them. Some are good, some are not. But I've known Crystal for a while. It would take a lot for her to shoot anybody, much less her husband. It's not implausible, but something doesn't smell right."

  "You must have been a good cop once."

  "A lifetime ago."

  Hairston wiped his hands carefully with a paper napkin and turned back to business. "Okay Burnside. Let's say it wasn't the wife. Who could it have been?"

  "The question of the day," I said. "A criminal attorney might disagree with this, but from my point of view there are two basic types of murders. Those committed in the heat of the moment and those that are premeditated. Most are the former, but from a premeditated standpoint a political assassination can't be ruled out. On that score, Wayne was involved in a tight campaign with Callison. The Mayor had a lot to lose. So did his big supporters."

  "Real estate interests, I presume."

  "Maybe," I said. "Probably. Finding out who his big donors are is a first step."

  "I can help with that," Hairston said, jotting a note down a pad of yellow legal paper. "Also, if someone had a personal vendetta against Fairborn, that would be a possibility."

  "Sure," I agreed. "But this wasn't a guy many people disliked. Politicians get ahead by ingratiating themselves to everybody. Making too many enemies can shorten a career."

  "So that brings us to crimes committed in the heat of the moment."

  "Right. If we explore that path, someone saw Wayne committing an act that maybe offended or horrified them enough to make him pay the ultimate price."

  "Okay," Hairston pondered. "We know he went upstairs with this hot blonde. That could have sent his wife off the deep end."

  "If she was there."

  "Or someone that respected Wayne and maybe had that respect, trust, whatever, betrayed."