by Chill, David
Sara looked down at the gutter and said nothing.
"Amy was abandoned by Wayne when her affair with him was brought to Crystal's attention. But she loved him and if anything, was still holding a candle for him. Alexa loved him too, but seemed more inclined to get on with her life. And Nina was just beginning a new tryst and had yet to be dumped. Her boyfriend Mel Fenster was a possibility, but he was accounted for when the shooting occurred. Most everybody who was at Second Chance that night was accounted for, except for Nina and Raff. Proving you killed Raff will be a bit harder."
"Proving I was even there will be a chore," she said slowly.
"I doubt that. You see, your plan of misdirecting the investigation by placing Nina Lovejoy's business card on Wayne's lap had one major drawback. By doing so, you got your fingerprints on the card, thus establishing your being at the scene of the crime. I imagine you obtained the card from Nina because you did some freelance writing for her magazine. Women's issues. Dropping it in his lap was a nice touch, but it was also your downfall."
Her shoulders slumped, and a downtrodden look became set in her eyes. I was on a roll so I kept going.
"The only person who could have witnessed the shooting was Raff. You didn't know that at the time, but you found out from Crystal that Raff had taken Wayne's pen stand, the one you left for him. That was the reason you were even at Second Chance that night. To leave him a present. When Wayne and Nina went upstairs, you saw the two of them engage in some passion and discovered your brother-in-law was still playing around, albeit not with you.
"Wayne carried a .32 caliber pistol and I gather he was letting Nina fondle it. When they heard a noise, Nina put the gun down and left through the alley. And thinking there was nobody else there, you walked in and did the job on Wayne. With his own gun.
"When the police questioned and then released you, I guess you figured you were home free. Learning about Raff's involvement scared you enough to do the job on him, lest he say what he might or might not have overheard. You had Raff's keys so you could plant the .32 in Jerry Winkler's desk. But Raff had been scared the police might finger him so he returned the pen stand to Wayne's office. What he didn't return however, was the birthday card with the acknowledgement of your affair with Wayne. All I can imagine is he forgot about it. Then again, nobody knew he had it in the first place. I stumbled upon the card almost by accident, but that's how progress comes about sometimes. If Newton hadn't been sleeping under that apple tree, somebody else might have discovered the Law of Gravity."
Sara nodded. "It's a nice story," she said, her voice showing surprising resilience. "You pieced everything together well. Nicely done. But you still won't be able to tie it to me. All your evidence requires assumptions."
"Except for what I just learned from your husband. Blood stains on your blouse. Forensics can determine whose blood type it is, and wouldn't it be a remarkable coincidence if it was the same as Wayne's?"
At that moment, a grey sedan pulled up, and a looming figure pulled himself from the driver's seat. I stood up and felt for my .38 special, as Serge Markovich approached us.
"Daddy!" Sara squealed. "He knows what happened!"
Markovich's eyes grew dark and he took a step towards me. I went for my pistol and drew it from the holster. Holding it with both hands, I took three paces backwards and directed him to stay where he was. I felt for the trigger with my index finger. Fortunately, Markovich kept his distance.
"You knew about this all along, didn't you?" I queried.
He nodded. "I knew. Whole thing."
"And your way of helping her was to impede the investigation. Or to come up with a viable suspect to point the finger at. That was why you worked over Peter Fairborn and why you were going through his desk. Hoping you could find the slightest trace of evidence to deflect attention from Sara."
"She my daughter. I try to help her."
I shook my head. "Hell of a family, I'd say."
At that point, a pair of Torrance police cars drove up and one of the officers bounced out and ordered me to drop my weapon. Not wanting Markovich to get any brave ideas, I tossed it as close to the cop as possible. It landed a few feet away and clattered towards him.
"It's okay," I called to him, raising my arms. "I'm a private investigator and I'm licensed to carry that."
The cop picked up my piece and walked over to examine my license. "Aw shit. Another damned P.I." he said.
It didn't take long for the police to invoke the warrant and take Sara Haas into custody. After cuffing her hands behind her back, Sara's Miranda rights were read to her and she was taken off in one of the unmarked sedans. Markovich sat down on the curb where Sara and I had been, and sadly watched his oldest daughter being driven off to jail. He looked like a man who was as confused as he was pained. I didn't say anything more to him when I left. He had enough problems.
The last traces of a blood red sunset lingered along the coast as I drove back up to Bay City. A full moon had risen in the eastern sky, but it was only a matter of hours before it would slowly begin to wane again. As I walked upstairs to my apartment, I noticed my door ajar. The Torrance police had returned my .38 and I lifted it out of its holster for the second time in less than three hours. Again clutching it with both hands, I leaned up against the wall and kicked the door open. Wheeling around, I pointed the gun inside. A lone figure stood near the window.
"Hands where I can see them," I yelled.
Gail Pepper turned and raised her arms overheard. She wore a gold sweater that clung to her as if it were form fitted. That and her glistening smile were enough to disarm me.
"I guess you forgot I still have a key," she said.
I lowered my gun and shivered. After all I'd been through, I came dangerously close to shooting the person I loved most in the world. The irony could have been humorous. Instead I felt like collapsing.
"What are you doing here," I managed.
"My classes were canceled tomorrow, and you sounded so low I decided to come down and cheer you up. Surprise, surprise."
"More like shock, shock."
Gail looked me over and then started to laugh. She walked over and kissed me hard on the lips. She then took a step back.
"Is that a pistol in your hand, amigo?" she said, her eyes shining. "Funny, I thought you'd be glad to see me."
The End
Thank you for investing the most valuable commodity you have -- your time -- in reading my novel. I appreciate it very much and really hope you enjoyed it!
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My first Burnside novel, Post Pattern, is available on Amazon.com. If you'd like to read an excerpt, I've attached Chapter One here. Read on!
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David
Post Pattern Preview
Chapter One
The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.
"They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."
"Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.
"I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitt
ing next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.
"You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."
Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."
Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.
I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."
"Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."
Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"
Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."
I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.
Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.
"So what are you doing now?" I inquired.
Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."
"Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.
But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slightly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.
Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of makeup including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.
"Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.
"The thought crossed my mind."
"As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."
"So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."
"Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."
I nodded. "All-Conference if I recall."
"Yes."
"You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.
He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."
"Then you graduated."
"I was a year older."
"Of course," I said.
"They changed around the offense after I left. Started using the Read Option. That was probably why Robbie didn't have a great senior year."
"So I gathered. I still follow the game."
"Sure," he commented. "I remember watching you when I was a little kid, Mr. Burnside. You played safety at USC, didn’t you?"
"You've got a good memory. But why don't we get back to why you're here."
"Oh yeah," he paused. "Well it was like this. I was driving Robbie's car last night. You see, our parents had an affair up at the house. I needed to leave early and Robbie's Honda was blocking my car in the driveway. So I just borrowed his."
"Sure. I do the same thing when someone double parks in front of me."
Norman gave me a confused look but continued on. "Anyway, I'm driving on the freeway when all of a sudden someone pulls alongside and fires a gun at me. Shot the side window clean out. I was really lucky they missed, the bullet got lodged in the head rest."
"And you think they were after your brother."
"Who would want to kill me?"
I decided to answer a question with a question. "Who would want to kill Robbie?"
He thought for a moment. "I don't know."
"Did you get the plate number?"
"No," he said sadly. "I was too startled. I can't even describe the car to you."
I asked if he had gone to the police, and both Norman and Ashley responded with concurrent nods. Norman had the perplexed look of a football player facing a Cover 2 defense for the first time. Ashley responded.
"The police took a report,” she said, “but they told us that without a license plate number there wasn't much they could do. They also seemed very busy."
"Business must be booming," I mused.
"Excuse me?"
I held up my hand. "Never mind,” I said, and turned back to Norman. “Before I start sticking my nose into your brother's business, have you talked to him about this?"
He nodded yes. "Robbie... Robbie told me not to worry about things. Not to get involved. He'd be very angry if he found out what I'm doing here. But I'm his brother. I care about him. And I'm worried for him."
I watched Norman's face to see if it would reveal anything more than golden boy looks. He spent most of his time talking with his gaze aimed at the floor. That might have meant either he couldn't look me in the eye or that my linoleum was developing serious wax build-up. Trial judges often instruct their juries to consider a witness's body movements during testimony, but I've concluded that theory doesn’t always work well in practice. People can tell the god's honest truth with a drooped head and slumped shoulders, while others are able to commit blatant perjury while looking someone dead in the eye.
"I understand."
He continued to fidget. "So will you help me?" he finally asked.
"I doubt I'll be able to find the guy who took a shot at you last night."
A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at least find out why?"
I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”
Norman nodded. “Okay.”
"Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"
"Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it."
Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."
/>
Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.
"Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."
In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.
*
Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.
So now I had two paying clients: Norman Freeman and the Differential Mutual Insurance Company. The Differential, as they were so fond of referring to themselves, had hired me to investigate one of their claimants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy Wachs. She lived in Carson, a smoggy, blue collar suburb about twenty-five freeway minutes from my office on Olympic Boulevard in West Los Angeles.
It was a warm day in the Southland with the mercury rising to the mid-seventies. This summer was very typical so far in the basin: warm days followed by cool evenings. As was my custom in the summer, I spurned the button-down look and wore a red knit shirt with a little tiger crouched over the heart, dark slacks and black sneakers. My hair was short and black, and parted on the right side. While I’d never be in football condition again, I still was lean and strong. I left the windows open as I navigated the San Diego freeway, the warm winds lapping at me as I drove.
