Flea Flicker

by David Chill

  After our order was filled, we went over to a picnic table with our tacos and Cokes. At the table to our left were four teenagers tossing chips at each other. At the table to our right was a homeless person who was asleep on the bench. I watched Briggs pick up a taco, chomp it down in three bites, and then pick up another. I took one bite of mine and then put it down, the taste reminding me of a difficult childhood that did not improve upon reflection. Tito’s was a jarring reminder of growing up, a sign that certain things deserved to be kept shrouded in the past. The food had not changed over the last three decades, but I certainly had. Tito’s was old-school, and plenty of people still liked it, but for me it was nostalgia, and in this case, nostalgia was overrated.

  “What are your plans for next season?” I asked. “You trying to get back into coaching?”

  Briggs chewed his second taco quicker and swallowed. “I don’t know. Coaching is a rough business, I’ve been fired twice in two years. Tough to come back from that. I don’t want to step down and coach college. Or be an assistant, watching someone else lead my life. Like I said, I’m a salesman. And I’ve still got a pile of money from coaching. Maybe I’ll try the business world. I’m thinking of investing in commercial real estate. Means getting involved in politics. Donating to politicians. Or even becoming one myself. ”

  I took a sip of Coke and let both the bubbly soda and that bubbly comment sink in. My limited experience with politicians included an involvement in a gubernatorial campaign a few years ago, between Former Governor Rex Palmer and the current one, Governor Justin Woo. Running for political office was not unlike running for class president in middle school. The most popular kid often wins, regardless of whether he or she is up to the job. I looked over at Tyler Briggs. At some point he was probably attractive and presentable. He might again be in the future. But today he was little more than a down-on-his-luck schlub, tossing down cheap tacos and beer before noon, and working through an enormous hangover after being unfaithful to his beautiful wife. Not the kind of stuff toward which an electorate gravitates.

  “Tell me something. How did you come up with the idea of moving into politics?” I asked.

  He looked down into his taco. “It’s something I’ve kicked around over the years. Politicians are always looking for photo opps with coaches, I dealt with that when I was with the New York Jets. A little bit here in L.A. when I first started. Mayor Gonsalves was practically my best friend when the Chargers first arrived. Some of the city councilmen and county supervisors, too. Didn’t seem like they were all that knowledgeable about public policy. It struck me their staff did most of the work, and they took in the big salaries and got all the fame. And whatever other goodies got dangled in front of them. Looked like they got a lot of perks. And it also looked like an easy job to me.”

  I watched him carefully as he dug into another taco. “By perks and goodies, do you mean bribes?”

  “I wouldn’t quite put it that way. But these guys live large. Lot of free meals, lot of boondoggles, private jets. Investment opportunities just for directing resources toward a big donor. Lots of ways to do well without having to take an envelope stuffed with cash. That’s passé.”

  “You’ve done some thinking on this,” I commented.

  “Haven’t had much else to do this year. And look, it’s not like I can go get a day job working for Google. You know, I tried to get something with a TV network, doing color commentary on NFL games, but no one would touch me. I feel like I’ve been blackballed. That means I’ve got to think out of the box. The more I talk to people about commercial real estate, the more they talk to me about needing to know how to grease the wheels of government. Meeting some of the people Hannah works with got me thinking more about it.”

  I picked up my taco and took another bite. The spicy beef and cheese seemed easier to swallow then Tyler Briggs’s new career path, and it still didn’t taste that great. I didn’t know enough about politics to sense whether he would be any good at it, but lots of people have gotten elected with far fewer qualifications. I thought about Gail and her comments about maybe entering the political arena one day. She’d be good at it, I admitted, and I knew her well enough to know that she’d go into it for the right reasons. I looked at Tyler Briggs and did not get the same good feeling.

  Briggs finished his last taco, crumpled his wrappers into a ball, and tossed them toward a garbage can. It missed by about six inches and landed on the ground. He looked over at me. “Ready to roll?”

  I took a final sip of Coke and carried my trash to the can, where I slammed dunked it in. I didn’t bother to bend down and pick up Briggs’s missed shot, and neither did he.

  We cruised down Washington Boulevard, neither of us speaking. The rain had stopped, but the dark clouds still looked ominous. I turned left on Via Dolce and drove slowly for a few blocks into the Silver Strand. Off in the distance, I saw three black and white LAPD patrol cars parked in front of one of the lovely homes. The closer we got, the more I realized they were sitting in front of the Briggs’s residence.

  “That’s your place, right?” I said.

  Briggs, suddenly far more sober and alert than he had been over the past hour, stared intently at the scene. A couple of uniforms leaned against their cruisers talking amiably. That stopped when they saw our light blue Mercedes pull to a stop across the street. We got out and walked over to them. They met us halfway, and we stood in the street looking at each other.

  “What’s happened?” Briggs exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Take it easy, pal,” one of them said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who owns this house!” he said, practically shouting. “Is everything okay with my family?”

  The two uniforms turned to look at each other. “I’ll get Brown,” one of them said, and walked into the house. Less than five seconds later, a burly, African-American man in his forties hustled outside. He was wearing a brown suit and he had a gold shield pinned to his belt. The big man looked familiar, and I was sure we had worked in the same division at one time, maybe Broadway, down by 77th Street. He approached us.

  “One of you fellows Tyler Briggs?” he asked officiously.

  “I am,” Briggs said, starting to sound indignant. “Please tell me what’s happened to my family.”

  “Your family’s fine,” he said evenly. “I wish I could the say the same for you.”

  “Huh?” he said.

  “I’m Orlando Brown and I’m a detective for the City of Los Angeles. Turn around and put your hands on top of your head,” he ordered.

  “What the hell for?” Briggs said, his voice rising, his face wearing a picture of shock.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Colin Glasscock,” he declared. “Now put those hands on top of your damn head. And don’t say another word until I read you your rights.”

  Chapter 5

  Hannah Briggs watched in stunned silence at the front door of her lovely home, as the police jammed her husband into a patrol car and drove off. The cruisers departed and I walked across the street to speak to her, although I didn’t have any magic words to say, the verbal elixirs that might make her feel any better. There may have been worse things in life, but I could not imagine there would be many. Just like on Saturday, she still looked achingly pretty, an image that not even the searing edge of watching her husband be arrested and carted off to jail could remove. She didn’t invite me inside, and I didn’t bother to ask. I did, however, need to speak with her.

  “I’m sorry,” I began.

  She blinked a few times. I thought she might tear up, but she didn’t. “I can’t even begin to comprehend any of this,” she said.

  I didn’t bother to disagree. “You’re not working this morning,” I said, stating the obvious.

  She shook her head, and the platinum blonde hair shook with it. “I just couldn’t go in to work today. I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus.”

  “What did Detective Brown say to you inside?”

&nb
sp; “Detective Brown?”

  “The African-American man. Big guy, wore a gold shield on his belt?”

  “Oh. Yes. Just that he wanted to question Tyler about some things. The detective was vague. I told him I was with the City Attorney’s office and I wanted to know what was going on. That didn’t seem to faze him, I don’t even know if he heard me. He was getting irritated that I didn’t know where Ty was.”

  “Did you ever file a formal missing person’s report?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I waited until Sunday morning, hoping beyond hope that Tyler would just stumble in. The police took the report, but it looks like you do your job better than they do theirs.”

  “Some of that involves being agile,” I told her. “Plus, I can devote more time to cases.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  I took a breath. “He was at the Alibi Room. On Washington,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

  “I know the place,” she responded. “One of Tyler’s haunts. Some name. Did Tyler say where he had been for three nights?”

  “He wasn’t in good shape,” I said, soldiering through, as I told her some things but not others. Sometimes it helps if events unfold slowly in front of people, that way they can digest them easier. The shock of seeing her husband handcuffed and led away in a squad car was enough of a traumatic ordeal for now.

  “He didn’t look good,” she agreed.

  “You know, I’m not sure he even remembered everything. He had been drinking heavily, but it felt like there was something else involved. Is Tyler into anything stronger? Drugs?”

  She shook her head. “No. Booze has always been his drug of choice, and it’s mostly beer. He didn’t tell you anything about what happened to him? I nearly fell over when that detective arrested him for murder. I’ve prosecuted a few homicides, but those were some really bad people. Hardened criminals. Nothing like Tyler. I’m just flabbergasted.”

  I considered this. When someone you love is accused of a heinous crime, the world changes, and it is a seismic shift. Things are no longer the way they were, and it was quite possible they might never be again. The reactions I saw were not unlike the stages of grief. Shock was the first thing that set in, followed by disbelief. Anger would come next. The question was who would Hannah Briggs be angry with. The LAPD made its share of mistakes, but initiating a homicide arrest was not something they took lightly. The cops arrested Tyler Briggs for a reason.

  “Did the detective give you any idea of what evidence they had found?” I asked.

  “No, but I’m going into the office this afternoon to try and find out.”

  “They won’t let you near the case,” I warned her. “You’re the spouse. I can assure you, they’ll be keeping you as far away from this as possible.”

  “I have to know,” she said. “Look, I need you. You’re good. You have to stay on this. I need to know what Tyler’s involvement was in this. It’s critical. I can’t count on the police; they’ve already taken sides.”

  It was obvious they had, and it was obvious Hannah Briggs needed outside help. The LAPD had landed on the decision Tyler had killed Colin Glasscock, the reasons for which had yet to be unveiled. The police had moved quickly, almost too quickly; it was inordinately likely they had uncovered highly incriminating evidence. They may have also felt Tyler Briggs was a flight risk.

  “I can stay on this case,” I said. “And I can probably find out some of what happened. Just to warn you, you may not be happy to learn more about it. That’s just how these things go. But you’re an attorney, so you obviously know you’ll need counsel. Quickly. I’m sure you’re aware the police are going to start grilling him the moment they get back to the station. They try to get an admission of guilt, and close the case fast. Raise their clearance rate and move on to something else. But you know that. You have to hire a good criminal lawyer and fast.”

  “I do know. And in a bizarre way, I’m fortunate. I’ve gotten to see quite a few criminal defense attorneys in court. Some are good, some aren’t.”

  “Just like in any other profession,” I pointed out. “And I’m sure Gail can provide a few more names if you need them.”

  She took a deep breath. “You know, when I saw Tyler’s car and you two climbing out, my heart soared. I had been preparing for the worst. Then just seconds later, well, you know, everything fell apart. Everything changed in a heartbeat.”

  “It all came crashing down,” I acknowledged. “Look, I have a few ideas of where I can begin investigating on my end. I won’t get into details because they may or may not pan out. But I’ll let you know how I’m progressing.”

  Hannah Briggs reached out and grabbed my arm, giving it a squeeze. I guess it was her way of expressing gratitude without saying anything, and it was possible she was not capable of saying anything more at the moment. I said goodbye and turned to walk back into the street when I realized I didn’t have a car to take me anywhere, nor should I have been keeping Tyler’s car keys. I did an about-face and sheepishly handed the Mercedes keys to Hannah, deciding it would be mildly inappropriate to ask to borrow their car, especially with no good way to bring it back.

  After she closed the door, I pulled out my phone and tapped the Uber app. Shortly thereafter, a dark blue Acura pulled up. I climbed into the back seat. The driver, a young middle-Eastern man, well-dressed and smiling, greeted me with a big hello in a thick accent, and then reached over and turned the volume up on the stereo. It was fortunately a short ride back to my Pathfinder.

  There was little to be gained by going back to the Alibi Room, but I went in nevertheless. I thanked Gene for calling me and passed him a fifty-dollar bill. He slipped it into his pocket and smiled. I asked him a few questions about Tyler Briggs, about the girl he picked up on Friday night, about whether the tacos on their bar menu were better than Tito’s. But in the end, I didn’t learn anything worth knowing. It was time to move on.

  The Snuggle Inn was an oddly situated motel near the corner of Lincoln and Washington, two of the busiest thoroughfares on the Westside. There was a Costco across the street, along with a Starbucks and an In-N-Out Burger. There was a strip mall on the corner that had a check-cashing service, a nail salon, a 7-Eleven, and a bakery promoting Cronuts, an odd concoction that married the flakiness of a croissant with the sugary coating of a donut. It was the type of neighborhood that catered to locals. It was not where you’d expect a motel to be. But here it was.

  I walked into the office and a thick-necked man in his late fifties looked up at me. He had medium-brown skin, an unshaven face, a crew cut, and thick forearms coming out of his short-sleeve shirt. He even looked a little sweaty, although that might well have been the raindrops that were still sprinkling intermittently outside.

  “Hi there,” I said.

  “Can I help?” he asked, in an accent that made him sound as if he had arrived recently from India. “Do you have reservation?”

  “Nope, not looking for a room.”

  “Oh? What can I do for you then?”

  I flashed my fake badge rather than hand him my business card. The LAPD might be here shortly, and I didn’t think it would be wise to leave a trail of breadcrumbs implicating me in any way.

  “I’m doing an investigation,” I said and pulled out the photo of Tyler Briggs. “This guy look familiar?”

  He gave a guffaw. “Oh, yes. Him I know. Checks in Friday for one night, no reservation, stays all weekend, and then just leaves this morning. I’ve got credit card, so we’ll bill him for weekend. But it would have been kind if he had returned his room key. It is just common courtesy.”

  “Who did he check in with?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Some woman.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Blonde hair. Would not have guessed it to be wife. He was wearing wedding ring, not her. She seemed, how you say, uneasy? Maybe some couple that worked together, went for drink, decided to do more.”

  “You ever see the woman befor
e last Friday?”

  “Maybe yes. But you see, this is L.A. Lots of pretty blondes. You know.”

  “You rent rooms by the hour?” I asked.

  He gave me a perturbed look, as if I had just insulted his sister. “We are not that kind of place. This isn’t a … how you say, no-tell motel. If you weren’t police, I’d make you leave for that remark.”

  “Lucky me,” I said, restraining myself from suggesting he go ahead and try to make me do anything.

  “We run classy outfit here,” he protested. “Get a lot of out-of-town guests.”

  “And some locals.”

  “Sure. Look, like I say, this is L.A. This a part of what we do. We don’t judge our guests,” he sniffed, and then announced with a small measure of pride, “we even get some celebrities in here.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised. The motel was next to Marina del Rey, and just down the road from Santa Monica. If a celebrity wanted an unlikely spot to go have a fling, this was it. No paparazzi, no security to speak of. Just a room and a bed, an ice machine down the hall, and a 24-hour convenience store around the corner. One that sold liquor.

  “Any celebrities I might know?” I asked.

  “Sure. But I no say. I respect guests’ privacy.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “What else can you tell me about this couple that checked in on Friday? This is a criminal investigation and there’s going to be more detectives coming by here, so maybe you should tell me what you know now.”

  The big man looked hard at me. “There’s one thing that was funny,” he said.