Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2)

by Chill, David

  "Big fat guy?" he asked.

  "Yes." I concurred.

  "Spent time in the can?"

  "Right."

  "Thinks he's a food expert?"

  "Sounds like you know him."

  "Yeah, sure. He hangs around the Promenade a lot. Says he gets a kick out of sitting next to those she-she restaurants and smelling what they're cooking. Cripes, but you meet all kinds around this place. Me, I'd rather eat the stuff, you know?"

  "Sure."

  "Anyways, you can usually find him around the Promenade. Just look for a fat guy with his nose in the air."

  "Got it," I said, and then tried a long shot. "Did you know a fellow named Raff?"

  The would-be executive cackled. "His first name Riff?"

  The world has no shortage of comedians. Thanking the man for his time, I handed him two dollars. Wayne wouldn't have approved, but everyone has their own value systems. I looked at it as paying for information. Besides, I'd tipped far more in restaurants for service one could barely call acceptable.

  I was about to leave when I noticed one of the workers on the soup line being replaced with a familiar face. I walked over to her and said hello.

  "Oh, not you," Mariah muttered. "Haven't you gotten me into enough trouble?"

  "Trouble?" I asked.

  Mariah said nothing and spooned a ladle of stew into a bowl, tossing a piece of bread on top. She repeated this for a few minutes without saying a word and I repeated my question.

  "Look, I don't know who you are," she said in a low voice so no one else could hear, "but I don't think I can help you. In fact, I think I have enough problems as it is. Thanks in part to you."

  "You said that before," I mentioned. "Maybe I can help you."

  "I doubt it. Unless you can help me get another job."

  "You're not on the campaign anymore?"

  She nodded and kept ladling. "I've been reassigned. To some low level admin post that I had five years ago. And all because Kent Fisher overheard our conversation and thinks I have a negative attitude. You didn't exactly help me out the other night. That comment you made to Fisher sent him into a tailspin."

  I shrugged. "Sorry. If you're interested in a little revenge, I might be able to provide you with that."

  "What are you, a paid hit man?" she scoffed.

  I opened my jacket slightly to reveal the hardware under my armpit. "Only if the price is right."

  She gaped at me. I suggested we go somewhere private and she called over one of her associates, a thin young man wearing black sweater to replace her on the lunch line. We walked down the street together, moving slowly, as we had no particular destination.

  "Tell me you're a cop."

  "Private investigator."

  She took a deep breath. "You weren't really volunteering the other night to help Callison."

  "No. I'm actually investigating the murder of Wayne Fairborn."

  Mariah gave a low moan and looked skyward. "I should have known. You didn't strike me as the typical volunteer we get here."

  "Really?" I asked, feigning hurt at my inability to be perceived as a bleeding heart liberal.

  "No way. Most of the volunteers here are into counter-culture things, go to poetry readings, art galleries. You look like you'd be more comfortable at a football game with a beer in your hand."

  "Close," I said.

  "Uh-huh," she said. "So you were spying for the other side."

  I shook my head. "There is no other side. My candidate's dead."

  "There's Lee Finley." she pointed out.

  "Who cares."

  Mariah gave a nervous laugh that was louder than it might otherwise have deserved. She looked over at me. "I've been doing this crap for nearly half my life," she said. "I was the Deputy Manager until a few days ago. Kent is scared somebody's going to get too close to the Mayor and threaten his position. He doesn't want anyone else whispering in the Mayor's ear."

  "And he pushed you aside," I said.

  "With some help," she reminded me, pointing her finger in my direction and then waving a hand. "What the hell. I'm ready for something different anyway. All politicians are the same."

  I nodded. "What can you tell me about Mayor Callison that I don't know?"

  "You mean why he would like Fairborn dead?"

  "That's quick," I said and added, half joking, "you ought to consider police work for your next career."

  "I'm not into working for Nazis. Although from what I've seen, working for Callison isn't so great anymore either."

  "How's that?"

  "We're a pretty liberal community here in Bay City. We allow free lunches to be given away on city property, we don't prosecute the homeless for vagrancy like they do in some communities. We have a progressive way of governing. But I've noticed a change on the part of the Mayor in the last couple of years."

  "Meaning?"

  "He's allowed a number of major commercial development projects to go through without more than token resistance. Projects that will build the tax base and add money to the city coffers, but it will also change our lifestyle. There's going to be more congestion, more traffic. More people to put it simply, and we're not going to have the resources to adequately serve them. It's a nice community now, but I get the feeling it'll start to look more like New York City in twenty years."

  "Why has Callison allowed it?"

  "Good question," she said. "He used to be the model liberal. That's why I came to work for him here. I assumed with his reputation, he'd be running for Congress soon, maybe even try for a Senate seat or the State House one day."

  "So you wanted to be with him early in his career. Get in on the ground floor."

  "Exactly. But from what I can gather, he has no ambition for that."

  "Unusual in a politician."

  "Isn't it though?" she said. "He seems perfectly content to remain a big fish in a small pond."

  I paused for a moment and then cast out the big one. "Do you think he had Wayne Fairborn killed?"

  She looked up at me with a frown on her face. "Ordinarily I would say no. I mean, no matter how nasty a campaign can get, killing someone? Unlikely. Especially in a small city like this."

  "Unless they have something really big to lose."

  "True," she pondered. "Fairborn claimed the Mayor was being backed by real estate interests. Ones that want to tear down the Bay City Airport and put up a business park. And keep building until this place looks like midtown Manhattan."

  "How close was Mayor Callison to these developers?" I asked.

  Mariah said nothing for a long minute, obviously torn between keeping a confidence and getting even with those who let her down. I always felt revenge was a more compelling emotion than loyalty. Not always more noble, but generally more gratifying.

  "Callison received some pretty large campaign contributions from T & R. That's Taylor and Rubin, they're a large commercial development company on the Westside. They're the ones behind Silicon Beach. I heard they're also pushing to develop the area near Bay City College."

  "Is Callison on the take?" I asked.

  "Not so anyone can really prove," she sighed. "He's accepted some large donations, but it's all on the up and up. Callison's too slick to take envelopes full of cash. Rumor was though, that the other side had something tangible on him. That was a few weeks ago, though. Since Fairborn's death, nothing else came out. Maybe it died with Fairborn."

  "So what's next for you?" I asked.

  Mariah shrugged. "I don't know. The whole thing is a mess. If I knew Callison would do an about face like this, I never would have come to work here. The only reason I stayed on for this election was to get some experience managing a campaign. Now even that's over. And I'm getting tired of politicians. Callison, Fairborn, they're all the same. Your friend Fairborn wouldn't have been any big change. Just another flavor of sleaze."

  "How do you mean?" I frowned.

  "He liked to present a goody two shoes image, but I know he slept around."


  "No," I said, feigning shock.

  "Oh yes," she nodded vigorously. "In fact, he had a thing going on with one of the secretaries at T & R."

  I stopped feigning shock. "Does this secretary have a name?"

  "Alexa Polo," she said. "I'm surprised you haven't found out. What kind of an investigator are you?"

  I winced a little. The kind that would prefer not to squint through peep holes.

  *

  I went back to Second Chance, waiting a few minutes for Jerry Winkler to finish talking with a disheveled young man about the importance of proper grooming before an interview. The man argued that it wasn't critical how he looked when pushing a broom. Jerry acknowledged that, but told him he'd never get the opportunity unless he showed the employer he believed in cleanliness on a personal level. The young man finally succumbed, and agreed to shave and put on the clean clothes which the Center offered to provide. As the man walked past me, so did the pungent aroma of mildew.

  "Hi there," Jerry said. "How goes the master sleuth?"

  "I've had better weeks. I sometimes yearn for something simple like an old fashioned missing persons case."

  "You don't look so great," he pointed out. "Maybe I should just think of you when my job starts getting me down."

  "You try and help people improve their lives. That gets you down?"

  Jerry threw up his hands. "This sometimes feels like a never-ending problem. We have thousands of homeless and the trend is increasing. Plus, half the people that apply to Second Chance are just not salvageable. They're psychotic, unstable, and they belong in an institution. Some are alcoholics, some are drug addicts. We're simply not trained to help them."

  "Wayne said the problem was more of an economic one. There's always going to be people we can't help."

  "Sure," Jerry sighed. "But back when a lot of hospitals lost their federal funding, our society had a choice. We as a community could foot the bill and care for these patients on a local level, or else let them rot in the street. Guess which path we chose?"

  I nodded solemnly. "Keeps the tax bills low."

  "Most people liked that part a lot. They don't always get the connection between low taxes and things like fewer services. So crime rates go up and taking a stroll in the park becomes a life threatening activity."

  "Every action has a reaction," I said, pointing out a basic law of both physics and human nature. "But this is old news."

  "Yeah," he said sheepishly. "This whole thing is really perplexing."

  "I know. Somebody made a poor attempt to frame you for two murders. That'd mess up anyone's day."

  Jerry fingered his wispy blond moustache nervously. "I'm just glad I didn't touch that damn gun. You know, I've put my heart and soul into this job and then some clown goes and tries to ruin my life. I'm wondering why I should come back here tomorrow."

  "Because you care," I reminded him. "You're trying to make a difference in the world. And you're doing it."

  "So was Wayne. But maybe it cost him his life."

  Jerry's argument was valid to a point. If Wayne stayed on as a developer and private citizen, he might well be alive today. He might be happy and he might be perfectly content living a comfortable, materialistic existence. But I felt a part of him would surely be longing for more, a reason to get up in the morning that went beyond seeing how much money he could pile up. Wayne might not have been able to change the world, but he was at least making the effort. Until somebody robbed him of his chance.

  "Any idea of who might have slipped the pistol in your desk?"

  "None. For all I know it's been there for the past couple of days. I don't even remember going into that drawer. And since the night Wayne was shot, we've been very careful. Nobody gets back here unaccompanied. Rear door stays locked."

  "Either it's an inside job," I said, "or there are ghosts at work."

  "I may put my money on the ghosts. Only the office staff have keys and I trust them. We don't even allow Eddy up here unaccompanied."

  "Whoever planted it there had access. Maybe one of the volunteers."

  Jerry shuddered slightly. "I don't even like to consider that possibility. I mean, what's next? Metal detectors at the entrance? We're here to help people and we can't give off the idea we distrust them from the start. These folks are already suffering from serious cases of low self-esteem. I don't think they deserve to be dumped on for the actions of one loon."

  "You're right," I said. Jerry needed to provide an aura of trust. But somebody had violated that trust and tried to hang him with it. They were familiar enough to be allowed inside without raising suspicion. Or else had somehow gotten a hold of a key. I wondered why they had targeted Jerry, but why anyone else for that matter? The killer was trying to throw the investigators off the scent and it may not have mattered who they selected as the sacrificial lamb.

  As I got up to leave, Jerry reminded me of the next workshop in two days. I tried to beg off citing a busy schedule, but he reminded me how badly I was needed. Hit me where it hurt.

  "With all the publicity lately, it's getting pretty hard to attract volunteers."

  It didn't take much arm twisting for me to acquiesce. And I also thought the workshop might attract Mustard, or somebody who knew about him. Besides, the last two events at Second Chance turned up dead bodies and I wanted to be nearby if any more happened to materialize.

  I said good-bye to Jerry and went downstairs, no closer to solving this case than I had been yesterday. Or the day before for that. I continued my brooding as I walked to my Pathfinder, when all of a sudden a far more critical concern sprang up.

  As I crossed a small side street along Pico, an engine roared simultaneous with the squealing of tires. I stopped in my tracks, which was the worst possible thing to do, but reflex reactions can be arduous to break. A dark colored sports car did a mild fish tail when the engine was gunned, as the weight of the car was unable to sustain the power of the motor. The driver regained control of the vehicle and drove it directly at me. Paralysis gripped me for a split second.

  The car was wide and built low to the ground. For a brief instant I thought I could leap high enough so the vehicle would roar under me. Common sense took a stronger hold however, and I bent my knees and tilted my weight onto the balls of my feet. I hesitated for a split second, but upon sensing the driver was not about to stop or swerve, I took a short, quick breath and threw my body towards the sidewalk, away from the oncoming vehicle.

  During my years playing safety for USC, the football coaches had us go through a special drill in practice. We would shuffle our feet quickly before diving to the ground and then leaping back to our feet. The idea was to promote quick reflexes and agile, responsive bodies. The drill was physically grueling, but in pads and a helmet I was at least spared from anything but the freak chance of an injury. The fact that we were practicing on a grass field made it safer as well. I thought of this for some reason as my body tore into the asphalt and tumbled into an unyielding curb. The deafening roar of the vehicle closed in and I could literally feel a hot, searing wind glide past. The hideous, noxious fumes poured over me like a thick canopy, as the car narrowly missed its target.

  I rolled over onto the sidewalk and scrambled to my feet as rapidly as my body and mind would permit. I needed a couple of seconds to focus and by the time I did, the car, which looked like it might have been a Pontiac Firebird, had sped halfway down the block. The only thing about the driver that was visible was the back of their head. Catching a license plate was out of the question. It took a second for my brain to acknowledge the stinging pain in my arm, as the scraped skin and bruised bones grew agonizing. As I stood there clutching my left arm and regaining my equilibrium, the sound of another set of tires screeched.

  A dark grey sedan parked across the street on Pico pulled a U-turn in the middle of traffic, cutting off a number of oncoming cars. The sedan went by me in a flash as they began to tail the Firebird. I only caught a glimpse of the face, but I recognized the strong featu
res and the bulky physique immediately. The intense expression was highly focused. Crystal's father, Serge Markovich, did not look happy.

  Chapter 12

  I took my second shower of the day, and afterwards put some topical medication on a nasty scrape above my left elbow. When it dried, I applied a gauze bandage and made a muscle to ensure it adhered. This also served to provide a slight cushion against further irritation, but the stinging was going to persist for a while. I shook my sore wrist a few times. Sprawling to the pavement hadn't done my wrist any good either.

  I checked messages and learned Virgil Hairston had called, asking if he could talk to me this afternoon. He was away when I returned the call and I made a mental note to stop by later. After taking a brief respite I trudged out to my Pathfinder. Making a concerted effort to look both ways before crossing the street, I climbed into my SUV and headed back into the late afternoon.

  The Bay City freeway turns into Pacific Coast Highway at the McClure tunnel, a narrow, curved, dimly lit structure that makes it tedious to drive any vehicle over forty miles an hour. Once out of the tunnel there are a few dozen beachfront homes that occupy the final boundary of Bay City. Enormous structures, they have housed tycoons and movie stars and even William Randolph Hearst made one of them his West Coast home many years ago. During the Second World War, many of these homes were sold off for a song by terrified owners who thought the Japanese were eyeing the Bay City beach as a landing base for their California invasion. Those who picked up these properties made a lot of money. The only Japanese invasion to actually hit the shore came decades later in the form of raw fish and well made cars.

  The Fairborn estate was one of the more august homes, accentuated by a Tudor style design that was as grandiose as it was out of place. The structure was two stories and though the entrance was right on the highway, the home went back at least fifty yards. In the center sat a pool, painted dark blue and shaped like a clam shell. At one of their parties over the summer, I remembered drifting asleep on a chaise lounge chair and the next thing I knew I was being tossed into the pool at Wayne's direction. When I surfaced, he had a mischievous grin on his face.