Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  The next day I puttered around my apartment, thinking of things I needed to do but not really wanting to do them. An announcement came on the early news, which for L.A. began at four o'clock, that said Lee Finley had been chosen to replace Wayne Fairborn as the Republican candidate for Bay City Mayor. Life goes on, whether we want it to or not.

  It had begun to grow dark outside, and I pulled myself from my malaise and drove over to Second Chance. Mourning was a very natural, necessary act, but I doubted the pain and anger inside of me would be fully released until Wayne's killer was apprehended. And the key to Wayne's murder seemed inexorably linked to Raff's. There weren't very many people who knew Raff, but I had to start somewhere.

  I parked my Pathfinder at a parking meter along Pico Boulevard. Slipping my credit card into the meter, I cursed the idiot who decided that extra revenue could be garnered by extending meter hours until midnight. I learned of the new law the hard way when a ticket found its way to my windshield one evening. Fortunately, I was on a well paying case then. The only currency I was getting paid in these days were bumps and bruises.

  Eddy Steele was busy emptying out garbage pails on the second floor of the Center. He hummed a tune as he worked, a man seemingly at peace with himself and the world.

  "Eddy," I called. "How are you?"

  Placing the pail he was emptying on the ground, Eddy wiped his hand off and reached out to shake mine. "I'm good, doing good," he said.

  Eddy Steele had been a clerk with the Post Office for about fifteen years, and had managed to support his affinity for both straight bourbon and betting on the horses. His deft ability at juggling addictions came tumbling down when he added crystal meth to the equation. His money disappeared quickly and he soon wound up in debt. His work, which had been spotty at best, became non-existent when he'd disappear for days at a time. He was evicted from his apartment two months ago and wound up at Second Chance shortly thereafter. We helped him get a room and a part-time job. The rest was up to him.

  "Got a minute?" I asked.

  "All the time in the world, my man. This what I call a light day's work. Seem like no one here today."

  "Probably no one was. How's the job market?"

  "It's tight, man. But I'm doing what you told me to. I'm going through the job openings every day. Got an interview set up for Monday with that company over near the L.A. airport. What's their name again, Direct Something I think."

  "That's good, Eddy. Dress as nicely as you can. Smile a lot and be very agreeable. Give them a reason to hire you."

  Eddy nodded. "Good ideas. They must have worked for you once."

  "Once," I said, thinking nothing lasts forever. "You heard about Raff?"

  "I heard. I hear everything that goes on. Too bad. Raff a weird little guy, but nobody should have to go like that. Real shame."

  "I know. Eddy, what can you tell me about Raff? Anything at all would be helpful."

  "You looking into Raff? Ain't that the cops' job?"

  "It's not a high priority with them," I said.

  Eddy emptied another wastebasket into the dumpster. "I know about that. Cops don't have much time for people like us. We just something they wish would go away."

  I knew the feeling. "Had you met Raff before Second Chance?"

  "Oh yeah. I seen him around the park. And over near City Hall now and again. They have that free lunch thing. Every day we can go and get sandwiches, a hot meal, things like that. Raff be there all the time. Me, I only go when I'm flat out busted. I still got some pride."

  His face bore the lines of age and wear, but there was an expression in his eyes that said he wanted more from life. Maybe that desire led him down a treacherous path once, but I felt that spirit would eventually take him back. Dignity is a commodity that illuminates the trail.

  "I know you do, Eddy. Tell me something. Who would know about Raff? Did he have any friends, anyone he was close to?"

  "Well, like I told you before, Raff, he's secretive. Kind of a lone wolf. There was one guy I knew of though. Fellow go by the name of Mustard. Raff and he got along 'cause Mustard was in the joint once. He called Mustard a political prisoner or some shit like that. Raff, he liked that. In fact, it was Raff that told Mustard about this Center here."

  "Anyone else?"

  "That about it," he said, shaking his head. "Nice funeral yesterday?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Nice isn't a good adjective to describe burying somebody."

  "I tell you one thing," Eddy said, as he continued working. "It better than being cremated by the City and having your ashes tossed out with the trash. Just ask Raff."

  "I wish I could," I said. There were quite a few things I would have liked to ask him. Walking into Wayne's office, I thumbed through the rolodex file and found the address of Lenny Mast. I pulled a silver pen from the pen stand and stopped in my tracks. There was something engraved in the base of the stand. Three initials. WJF.

  *

  Mustard's room was dark when I stopped by. Nearly everyone else I wanted to talk to had been at Wayne's funeral yesterday and I chose to give them a short break. After something this traumatic, people needed a little time to reflect on things before plunging back into their everyday lives. There was one group however, that was not likely to be mourning Wayne Fairborn's demise and I felt it was time to pay them a visit. I doubted they would cooperate if they knew who I was, so I decided to go undercover.

  Their offices were located along Main Street in the Ocean Park section of Bay City. A few decades ago, this street was lined mostly with laundromats, pool halls, and seedy bars, but a regentrification effort on the part of the new Mayor helped alter the landscape. Trendy eateries, art galleries and fashionable boutiques had smoothed over the rough edges of the neighborhood, all but erasing its sleazy past. But like the indestructible cockroach, the sleaze simply moved elsewhere.

  I walked into a stylish three story glass and steel building marked by a stunning atrium with a number of trees growing inside of it. There was a skylight on the ceiling that allowed some moonlight to shine on the circular marble stairway that led up to the second level. There was only a half moon out, so not that much light poured in. An insignia, T & R, was chiseled into the floor at the base of the stairwell.

  The Callison campaign office was humming along briskly and there appeared to be a bevy of activity. A bank of telephones was partially filled and everyone seated there was engaged in spirited conversation.

  "May I help you?" asked a slender girl wearing a green shirt and jeans.

  "I'm looking to do some volunteer work on the campaign," I said. "Do you need any help?"

  "Oh, sure," she said in a somewhat bored voice, and motioned me to follow her. She led me into a little office and had me fill out a card with my name, address, phone number, and special skills I could offer the campaign. I chose to keep the parts about being an outstanding pugilist and marksman to myself.

  "Can you help out tonight on the phones?" the woman, whose name was Mariah, asked. "We're a bit shorthanded."

  I agreed amiably and she led me over to an open phone and handed me a stack of questionnaires and a list of eligible voters in Bay City. They were taking a poll this evening.

  "Just follow the instructions on the questionnaire exactly," she said.

  For the next hour, I pried various pieces of information from people that went well beyond who they were going to vote for. Age, income, marital status, and education levels were freely given away by most who participated, although this was less than one-quarter of those I could even get to answer their phone. The other three-quarters respectfully declined, with the exception of one man who said he would notify the police if I bothered him again. I wondered what he thought they would do about it.

  It was approaching nine o'clock and Mariah came by to let the interviewers know we were through for the evening. There was a little celebration going on down the hall and everyone was invited. About twenty people were sitting around a very plush conference room li
ned with soft leather chairs, the kind you can sink into and take a snooze. Eight bottles of white wine were open, and a large platter of cheese cubes and cut up vegetables were being attacked vociferously.

  "What's the occasion?" I asked Mariah.

  "We're way out in front. The Mayor has a twenty point lead in the poll you people just conducted."

  "It's not hard to run against a dead man," I pointed out.

  Mariah shrugged. "Lee Finley announced his candidacy yesterday and no one knows him. Been on the City Council for ages and he's got no name I.D."

  "So you figure it's all sewn up."

  "Well..." she started.

  A tall grey haired man stepped into the conversation. "Nothing's sewn up if we quit campaigning," he said, a trace of annoyance in his voice. "Mariah, what's going on here?"

  "Mariah says we've got the election in the bag," I offered innocently.

  The man shook his head. "The hell we have," he said. "We're still up against some negatives, Mariah. I'm surprised at you. Fairborn's gone, but that doesn't mean our problems are gone with him."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  The man peered at me. "Who are you?"

  "Burnside," I said, reaching out gregariously to shake his hand. "I've just started volunteering with the campaign. But from what I gather, the election is all over but the shouting."

  "Kent Fisher," he said, pausing to size me up. "I'm Mayor Callison's campaign manager. I don't mean to be negative, and certainly we appreciate and need your help. I just want to make sure we don't get overconfident here and assume we've got it in the bag."

  "Like Dewey in '48," I offered.

  "Who?"

  I smiled. Not everyone had my appreciation for trivia. "Tom Dewey. The papers thought he beat Truman and ran with the headline that he won the Presidency. It was a little embarrassing."

  "Sure," he smiled blankly, and shook my hand again. "Nice meeting you."

  He walked away and Mariah's eyes shot daggers into me. "Thanks a bunch, whoever you are," she said sourly, and took a gulp of Chardonnay.

  "I didn't mean to get you into any trouble," I lied. "But what did he mean by the negatives may not be gone?"

  "Oh," she said, "it's nothing."

  "From the timbre of his voice, it sure sounded like something."

  "Just politics as usual. I've been on the Mayor's staff for six years, and around politicians for ten more. They're all a little corrupt if you ask me. Sorry if I burst your bubble."

  I took it in stride. "I've survived worse."

  Chapter 9

  If you had to pick a town that best depicts the image of the laid back Southern California lifestyle, it could easily be Hermosa Beach. Lazy and sun drenched, it had enough surfers to bolster a casual atmosphere, but was far from the urban grit found in parts of Venice and Bay City. As I veered off Pacific Coast Highway and onto Twenty-First street, I did notice a couple of street people sorting through a garbage bin, looking for anything of value before the trash trucks came by later that morning. It seemed like the homeless were everywhere. The Great Recession sure hit a lot of people.

  Peter Fairborn lived in a small bungalow about three blocks from the beach. The cottage had screens on all the windows and the exterior facade was painted a soft shade of pink. Some of the grey shingles on the roof were coming apart, exposing the tar paper underneath. In the driveway sat an old brown MG Midget convertible that had seen better days. As I walked up to the front door I kicked a deflated volleyball out of my way. It bounced once and fell to a dead stop.

  The door opened about sixty seconds after my knock, and a good looking man in his late twenties opened the door. He had what appeared to be a one week beard growth, although some guys managed to maintain that disheveled look indefinitely. He wore a pair of baggy, swim trunks that came down to his knees and had a myriad of colors splattered across them. A black tank top advertising a burger joint in Maui adorned his upper torso.

  "Hey, dude. Glad you could make it."

  "Hi Peter." I said, glancing at my watch which read seven-thirty. "Hope this isn't too early for you. I'm a morning person."

  "No way," he said, inviting me into a living room one could barely describe as modest. "I'm up at the crack of light. Some righteous waves are coming in then, and I just roll out of bed and hit the surf. Breakfast comes later."

  If Peter Fairborn was like some surfers I knew, breakfast consisted of Frosted Flakes eaten straight from the box. Or glazed doughnuts washed down with an Orange Crush. In the background I heard the low rumble of a Mister Coffee machine in action. At least he had some semblance of normalcy.

  "Enjoy surfing?" I asked.

  "It's my life, dude. It's what I love. Why not go for it?"

  "If you can support yourself, why not indeed," I answered, sitting down in a musty old easy chair and making the mistake of trying to steady myself with my left hand. The wrist screamed out in pain. I winced and grabbed it.

  "Arthritis?" he asked, more or less seriously.

  "I'm not that old, son." If he made another crack like that I might put my one good hand to work.

  "Just messing with you. So you and Wayne were buds. He always did like to pal around with a weird bunch. Writers, homeless, detectives. You name it."

  I balled my right hand into a fist, then relaxed it. I tried to keep my temper at bay by breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. "It's called judging people for who they are kid. Not by what possessions they own."

  "Yeah, well, with the money Dad left him, you'd have thought he'd be hanging around with a bunch of lawyers and investment bankers."

  "He did some of that, too," I said. "Since you brought the subject up, is there any truth to what I've heard about you being cut out of your father's will?"

  "Uh-huh. Dad wrote me out of it. Set up a little trust fund so I wouldn't starve, but basically he left nearly all of Grandpa's dough to Wayne."

  "You must have been really ticked, huh?" I asked.

  "Well yeah. I mean, of course. No one likes losing out on that kind of change. But what really got me is Dad said he'd reinstate me if I straightened myself out. He did it to motivate me. He sent me the copy of the will to show me he was serious. I got the message. Started working down at Dad's office and everything. Then Dad up and had a stroke six weeks later. He never got around to changing the will."

  "Timing is everything," I sighed. "When did your father pass on?"

  "Two years ago. I mean, Wayne was always his favorite 'cause he went into the business full tilt and all. I didn't begrudge him his share, I just wanted my piece of the pie."

  "Did you ever tell Wayne this?"

  "We didn't talk a lot, but yeah, he knew how I felt. I spoke with him a while back and he said he'd set me up with a surfboard shop. Just wait till I get this Homeless Center started, just wait until the election's over. Don't worry, I'll help you, but I'm too busy now," Peter said, his face becoming distracted. "I don't think Crystal wanted him to have anything to do with me. She's a real bitch."

  I made a mental note and moved on. "Any animosity between the two of you? You and Wayne I mean?" I asked.

  "Hey, no way dude," he said, defensively. "Don't even think about that angle. I didn't kill my own brother. That's crazy."

  "Any idea who might have?"

  Peter wrinkled his brow and concentrated. The feverish intensity of his thought process made me wonder if he'd hurt himself.

  "I dunno. I thought the police were on the right trail when they picked up Crystal. I never trusted her. She was mad at Wayne for not helping out her sister Sara and that pig of a husband of hers, Rusty. Rusty the whale. You see him the other day at the funeral? The guy could barely fit into his suit! Man, what a lard ass!"

  "How'd Wayne and Rusty get on?"

  "Okay for a while. Wayne helped him and Sara buy that house in Redondo. Gave them the down payment. The blockheads screwed that up when Rusty got canned from his teaching job. Couldn't make the payments and Wayne wouldn't
bail them out. Pissed Crystal off something fierce, Sara being her sister and all, but I don't blame Wayne for standing his ground. It's like Dad used to tell us. You want something, you got to earn it."

  "But your father inherited his fortune, didn't he?"

  "Sure, Grandpa bought the land, but Dad was the one who developed a lot of the property. Grandpa gave him a good start, but Dad made the most of it. Like I was going to. If only I didn't get a couple of bad breaks."

  I felt a pang of sympathy, small, but it was still there. I tried to ignore it. "I have to admire you, Peter. You don't seem to have much bitterness in you towards your brother or your father. Losing out on a fortune would make most people pretty steamed."

  "You can't look backwards," he said. "There's too much in life to be enjoyed. I surf every day, play volleyball on the sand, got a couple a steady babes that come by. I bartend a little for some coin 'cause the trust fund money only cashes out once a year. Got a lotta buddies. This is what it's all about. I wouldn't trade my life for Wayne's. We were just cut out for different things."

  "That's a healthy attitude," I managed.

  "Yeah," he said. "But, I was talking to Dad's attorney, you know, at the funeral. He said that Wayne had set up a will and named me in it. Most goes to Crystal, but I'll get a chunk. A cool five million bucks."

  "And that suits you fine," I said, feeling my nose wrinkle at the thought of it.

  "You got it, dude," he said, with a smile.

  "What are you planning to put the money towards," I asked. "Franchise a bunch of surfboard shops?"

  "Nah," he said, sitting back and cracking a broad smile, "That was more the family's idea for me. What's that old line? I think I'll spend oh, about ninety-five percent of it on wine, women and song. The rest of it I'll just blow."

  I thought about the dwindling numbers in my own checkbook and sensed my pulse beginning to race. The deep breathing exercise didn't work so well the second time around, so I decided I'd better move on before Peter said anything else. If my wrist was feeling better I might have backhanded him. Walking out, I noticed the deflated volleyball was now back in my path on the sidewalk. I measured my steps and kicked the soft rubber thing as hard as I could and watched it fly a good fifty feet before bouncing twice and stopping in the gutter. I hoped the ball was Peter's. Whatever pangs of sympathy I felt for him had disappeared into the cool coastal air.