by David Chill
He nodded warily, the recognition beginning to sink in. “I remember now. You the tough guy.”
I smiled. “Sometimes.”
“Daddy, you remember Burnside. He’s the one who introduced me to Rex. In a roundabout sort of way. He was also friends with Wayne, years ago. And now his wife is going into politics. She’s a lovely woman. And she’s running for City Attorney.”
His eyes narrowed. “Politics is dirty business. Not good for nice girl.”
I looked at him and nodded. He seemed to have the wisdom that came with age, and perhaps from having come here from another country and another culture. I sensed he was quite correct. And I wondered just how prescient that comment would be for us.
*
After leaving Crystal and her father, I texted Gail and told her I would have a nice surprise for her when she got home. She texted back and reminded me about her fundraising gala tonight at the Beverly Wilshire, and that she was making arrangements with the Parkers to watch Marcus. I had forgotten all about it.
I drove east on San Vicente, cutting through the heart of Brentwood, and headed toward my office. My thoughts ping-ponged from the impending election back to the situation surrounding Brady Starr. My sixth sense told me there was a hidden story lurking beneath the surface about Brady and his family, burrowed away in a place that would be difficult to reach. Understanding family history might be the only way to unpack what happened along Pacific Coast Highway late last night. I wasn’t being paid to find that out, but Cliff Roper and Harold Stevens had hired me to both help keep Brady’s draft position high and his father’s longevity intact. It was plainly obvious that everything was stitched together in some odd way. There was another story there, I could sense it, I could feel it, but I couldn’t quite see it.
I put in a call to Johnny Cleary in Chicago, but only got his voicemail. With the NFL draft approaching next week, my guess was that Johnny was swamped and would not get back to me right away. I pondered who else in the football world might know something about Brady, especially someone who would actually share a few tidbits. I thought of my old friend Virgil Hairston at the L.A. Times, but Virgil’s focus was politics. I made a mental note to follow up with him anyway, and with Adam Lazar. But for now, another name popped into my head. This person might be happy to speak with me.
Derek Altman was a student manager for the USC football team when I coached there. He kept stats, fixed equipment, and helped break down game film. He had an interest in data analytics and possessed the type of mind that lent itself to a keen understanding of the strategy of football. Unfortunately, Derek stood 5’9” and weighed about 130 pounds, and the last time he played tackle football was in Pop Warner. But bright people like Derek could have successful careers in football, albeit working in an athletic department at a university, or in the front office for an NFL team. Derek did both, hooking on with the L.A. Chargers when they moved north from San Diego, just after he graduated from SC. The Chargers would soon move into a gorgeous new practice facility, but for now they were stuck in a converted middle school in El Segundo. But at age 25, Derek didn’t seem to mind. He was thrilled to be where he was, and was forever grateful we gave him his start at SC. When he saw me, he welcomed me with a big hug.
“Coach B! Always good to see you!” he gushed.
“Same here, Derek,” I said, as he led me toward a small, nondescript office that had no windows and was in dire need of a paint job. “When do you move into your new digs?”
“Looking like this summer. New facility is awesome. But hey, for me, I start each day at 6:00 am and finish at 7:00 pm. Sometimes I manage to catch a glimpse of a sunrise or a sunset. Most of my life is in here.”
“Pretty busy with the draft?”
“Yeah, it’s hectic. We’ve got the 5th overall pick, and there’s two teams ahead of us that need quarterbacks. No one’s tipping their hand yet as to who they’re picking. A week away and we’re not sure who’ll be left on the board.”
“Funny thing, that’s part of why I wanted to talk with you.”
Derek laughed. He had a face full of freckles and could still pass for a college student. There is no substitute for unabashed, youthful enthusiasm, and if there was one thing I missed from my days of coaching, it was that. College football is one of the most interesting sports, in part because the players are close to being at their peak physically, but had not acquired that hardened edge that pro football demands. The same was true for the staff. The NFL is a business any way you view it, and I was sure Derek would develop that tough exterior in time. But for now, it was nice to see him still have some of that wide-eyed look of wonder.
“You thinking of getting back into the game, Coach?” he asked, still smiling.
“Nah, I prefer sleuthing. The hours are better.”
The smile started to slip from Derek’s face. “Yeah, that’s one thing I wasn’t prepared for. This is intense. It’s fun, but it requires a huge time commitment.”
“I can imagine. At least you’re not in coaching. Some guys put a cot in their offices and work around the clock.”
“I know. I’ve heard the stories.”
“Tell me about Brady Starr,” I said, suspecting I knew what the answer was. “Is he going first?”
Derek shook his head. “Not if we had the first overall pick. Too many red flags. After the head coach, the quarterback is usually the public face of the franchise. He has to be able to step up and fill that role. With Brady, there’s some leadership issues, some maturity issues. Some other issues.”
This was a truism about football, and it didn’t matter if it was high school, college or pro. What made football special was that it was a team game, and the quarterback was the unquestioned leader on the field. He had to be. But unlike many other sports, one player could not fully control a football game. In baseball, a dominant pitcher could throw a shutout. In basketball, a phenomenal player could take over a game through sheer will. In hockey, a great goalie could hold the other team scoreless. But in football, one player can’t beat eleven opposing players on the other team, he has to have help from his teammates. And the best way to do that is by having a quarterback who is a real leader, one who can inspire a team to move down the field in the waning seconds of a close game. Some have that gift come naturally to them, others develop it. And then there were players like Brady who exhibit little to no interest.
“Sounds familiar,” I said. “We had doubts about him coming out of high school. He’s put up some impressive numbers in D1. Anything about him change, other than lesser competition he’s going up against?”
Derek looked at me. “Why the interest? Is he in trouble?”
“I don’t think so. Honestly, the reason I’m asking is because of an investigation I’m doing. It’s not about him, per se, but I’m just checking things out.”
“Okay. Well, look, you know there is no such thing as a perfect quarterback. I mean there is on paper, but once you dig a little you see the blemishes. Right now we have Patrick O’Malley going first off the board. But the Browns have that number one pick, and who knows who Cleveland will take. They’re not known for making good decisions.”
I smiled. “You have any say in putting Patrick first on your list? Another SC guy?”
“Nah. He’s just the best in the class. He’s got a few issues, too, but pretty much everyone does.”
I nodded. I knew Patrick from my own days at SC, and most recently from a case that involved some players at a house they were living in. A burglar had broken in, and had got himself caught by a group of very large, very angry football players. They took matters into their own hands. Patrick, as it turned out, was not one of the guys meting out a personal brand of justice, but he had a few red flags nevertheless, including the odd tidbit that his interest in football was not quite as strong as his interest in snowboarding. To his credit, Patrick eventually recognized he would make a lot more money in football than by competing in the Halfpipe.
“Anyone else strike you as going
ahead of Brady in the draft?” I asked, unable to stem my curiosity about football, even if it was getting in the way of my investigation into Curtis Starr.
Derek shrugged. “Maybe that kid from North Dakota State. But he’s got a drawback similar to Brady’s. Played against mediocre competition. It’s not always that easy to gauge how a guy will do at the next level if they didn’t play for a Power 5 school. We just have to take a chance. I’ll tell you though, if Noah Greenland at UCLA was coming out this year, he’d be everyone’s number one pick.”
I sighed. Another kid with issues, possibly more severe than most. I knew him from his high school days in Pasadena. “UCLA isn’t doing well right now.”
“Nope. But he’s smart. Really smart. We think he had the misfortune of some poor coaching on the way up. We can fix some of his bad habits, Noah checks almost every other box.”
“You’re saying college coaches aren’t as good as what the NFL has?” I said with a bit of mock indignity.
“Yes.”
I gave a laugh. “I appreciate your honesty.”
Derek shrugged. “Sorry, Coach B. That’s just how it is. But you know, we might even pass on a QB this year if Patrick is taken before we get to pick. It’s possible we may just pick a lineman in the first round.”
I nodded. “Okay. But getting back to Brady. That’s why I’m here.”
“Again. Is he in some kind of trouble?” Derek asked.
“I don’t think so,” I repeated, sensing Derek’s curiosity. “But I’m trying to figure some things out. Anything you can tell me helps. Anything at all.”
“Okay. Look, you know a small school like San Diego State doesn’t play a tough schedule and he hasn’t competed against elite athletes. Brady has the arm and he has the athleticism. And the attitude. But it’s attitude, it’s not leadership. Subtle difference, but important. With Brady, you can tell he’s winging it. He doesn’t have real confidence, and in this league that’s a problem. It’ll come out in the locker room, off the field is where players really bond. The team can sniff out someone who’s fake in an instant. The NFL is loaded with guys who may not have book smarts, but they are street smart beyond anything I could have ever imagined.”
“True,” I said. “They have a BS meter that’s always set on high.”
“Yeah. And it’s funny, one of the things Brady does well is deception. He can fake out a defense as well as anyone. I once saw him pull off a hard count on another team three times in one drive. Drew them offside each time.”
I nodded. A hard count was when a quarterback would line his team up, usually when it was fourth down, with just a yard or so to go to make a first down. The QB would make it look like they were going to run a play, and that the ball would be snapped to him imminently. The defense would get antsy, trying to anticipate the start of the play, and they would sometimes jump offside for a 5-yard penalty, thus giving the offense an automatic first down, and keep their drive going.
“You can only get by with deception for so long, though,” I observed.
“Yup. And Brady had a very different upbringing. Lot of privilege and entitlement. It shows.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that the Chargers had uncovered the same issues we had a few years earlier, and that Brady had not changed. “But you talked about some red flags earlier. Doesn’t sound like any of what you just said translates to big problems. Just a few things related to maturity and leadership. But some people really can change. Kids grow up. Maybe he came out of a privileged background but so did Peyton Manning, so did John Elway, and they became great QBs.”
Derek looked down at the floor and licked his lips. It seemed like he might be about to say something, but he either couldn’t find the words or was deciding if he should utter them. In matters like this, I’ve typically found that saying nothing is the best way to get a person to say what’s on their mind.
“It’s his family,” he finally said. “Strange situation, my GM, Horace Bogner, said he never really came across something like this before.”
I frowned. “His dad is a former NFL player. That usually translates to a good thing. Young players know what they’re getting into with pro football.”
“I know. It’s why taking a Peyton Manning over a Ryan Leaf was a no-brainer a few decades ago. Classic case, my GM likes to talk about it, maybe because the Chargers got burned on that before. Manning’s father was one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet. Brought his kids up to be respectful. Peyton didn’t have the arm or the athleticism that Ryan Leaf had, but he was really smart, he studied the game, and knew how to get along with everyone.”
“True,” I said, thinking about Brady Starr.
“Yeah, and Leaf was a kind of boorish, selfish guy, not many people had nice things to say about him. Sometimes felt as if he was disliked by the whole state of Montana, where he’s from. In the end, Peyton turned out to be a Hall of Famer, Leaf washed out by his third year. Leaf had some other problems too, for sure, but he didn’t master the mental aspects of the game, or the leadership skills you need. He just didn’t know how to handle himself. You’d think someone with the Chargers would have noticed, but maybe they were just too in awe of his football skills. You never know how things will turn out, but there are usually signs. They matter.”
“How does an NFL team decide when it matters?”
Derek shrugged. “Our GM, Horace, says it’s part intuition, part looking at the indicators and adding them up. There’s no science to it. It’s just instinct as to who really wants to make it in the league. Figuring out who truly understands the sacrifices and the public scrutiny that come along with getting lots of money and lots of fame.”
“So how is Brady’s family relevant here?” I asked, wondering if Derek had heard about what happened on PCH last night. If a celebrity is involved in any tragedy, the word gets out very fast. Celebrities are always news, especially in L.A.
Derek looked back down at the floor again. I waited. Finally he looked up and gazed into my eyes. “How important is this to you?”
“Very important.”
“The problem is his stepmom.”
I frowned harder. This wasn’t what you normally heard from an NFL front-office staffer.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean the rumors were about him and his stepmom.”
“Rumors?” I asked, eyes widening.
“It’s not like we can confirm this sort of thing. And I’d appreciate your not spreading this around too wide. I’m telling this to you because I owe you. But our sources are pretty good. And if a team is going to invest tens of millions of dollars in a player, they want to know everything about him. And I mean everything.”
I nodded. “You hired a private investigator.”
Derek nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t throw you the business. The decision on who to use came from up high.”
“No worries,” I said. “I don’t take Peeping Tom cases.”
“Understood. But a twenty-one year old guy banging his stepmom? It’s bizarre. Even if a guy wasn’t going to be the public face of an NFL franchise. Makes me sick to even think about it.”
Chapter 6
On the drive back from El Segundo, I tried to put Brady Starr’s sordid private life out of my mind for a few minutes. I called Jake Perlow’s mother and inquired about Saturday’s birthday party. I mentioned Marcus and Jake having a small tiff over a toy, and she said she would work with Jake on getting him past all that. I also asked the compulsory question surrounding presents, to bring or not to bring. She laughed and told me they had a no-present policy, but added Jake had a thing about Pokemon. I laughed and made a mental note to buy something this week. We both laughed at having to spend a couple of hours at Chuck E. Cheese and the other inordinate sacrifices we make as parents, and she reminded me about the one saving grace of Chuck E. Cheese was that they served alcohol. We laughed one more time, and then said goodbye.
I arrived at the West L.A. Division at half past n
oon, which turned out to be an ideal time to find Detective Knapp. While a lot of people use lunchtime as an excuse to get out of the office, detectives often come back in to take care of paperwork, eating lunch at their desk. Marc Knapp was no exception. A short, squat man in his mid-forties, he sported a crew cut and maintained a blank expression on his face. He was reading through a report, his left hand clutching the sheets of paper, his right holding an all-too-obvious homemade turkey sandwich on white bread. It had a few gobs of red ketchup seeping out of it. There was an uneven square of plastic wrap underneath which caught some of the errant strands of turkey that didn’t make it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and methodically, and he didn’t bother to look up when I threw a shadow over his desk.
“Yeah?” he said, uninterested.
“Detective Knapp, I presume.”
“You presume correctly. Who are you?”
“My name is Burnside. I’m a friend of Lieutenant DeSanto.”
Knapp took a large bite out of his sandwich, and a bit of ketchup ended up on the corner of his mouth. He solved that problem by raising the sandwich back up to his mouth, and used it to wipe up the excess condiment, employing a corner of the crust as an impromptu napkin. He looked at the ketchup-laden crust and continued chewing as he read the report. I waited a long beat before speaking.
“Can I take a moment of your time?” I asked.
“You already have.”
“Maybe I can take a few more.”
He swallowed and looked up at me. He took another bite and used the remainder of the sandwich to point toward a chair next to his desk. I sat and waited for him to finish eating. It took about 45 seconds.
“I’m working on a case related to Curtis Starr,” I began. “Roberto told me you were the detective assigned to this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I take it you heard about the shooting on PCH this morning.”
“Uh-huh.”
I looked at him. “Are you always this chatty? Or do I just bring out the best in you?”
