by David Chill
The Starrs’ backyard was mostly a pool area, surrounded by a large deck. The pool itself was a shimmering light blue, and there were tan-and-black chaise lounge chairs placed here and there. Off in the far corner was a Jacuzzi, one where you had to climb four steps up to a small platform to enter. The water in both the pool and the Jacuzzi was still. I imagined pointing a gun at someone soaking in the Jacuzzi. It would have been an easy shot.
I looked around for a good ten minutes, found nothing that was interesting, and finally climbed off the crate. But as I was stepping down, my foot slipped in some soft dirt, and I went down on one knee. My first thought was these pants would need to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow. But then I noticed something colorful on the ground, a light blue sparkle. I reached over and picked up a ring, what could have been a class ring, and could have belonged to a man or a woman. It looked old and filthy, and some of the dirt had wedged into whatever engraving was on the exterior of the ring. The light blue stone was unusual, and I reminded myself that UCLA had colors that were blue and gold, although they had gone to a darker shade of blue decades ago. I shrugged, slipped the ring into my pocket and walked back out to my Pathfinder. A few workers noticed me and looked, but again, no one bothered to say a word.
*
I arrived at the Target store in Westwood and parked in the underground lot. After a brief exchange, a helpful store clerk steered me to what turned out to be the Pokemon aisle, and she suggested a Pokemon plush that looked like it might please a 5-year-old, although I had no idea what Jake Perlow would like. I bought it, along with a deck of Pokemon playing cards, and a Pokemon birthday card. Feeling the sudden need for comfort food, I stopped off for a bear claw at Stan’s Donuts, and picked up a rainbow sprinkle one for Marcus. I thought of buying something for Gail, but I knew I would end up eating it. I headed back to my office and started a pot of Peet’s Italian roast coffee. Taking the class ring out of my pocket, I began cleaning the dirt out of the crevices with a pencil. I had been seated for no more than one minute when my first visitor of the day arrived, carrying a folded newspaper under one arm and a nasty scowl on his face.
“Mr. Burnside,” he said, tossing the newspaper on my desk, narrowly missing my bear claw. I wondered if I needed to put up a sign telling guests it was rude to throw things. But the type of guests I often had didn’t pay attention to signs.
“Detective Knapp,” I said. “Thanks for the morning paper. But I read mine online these days.”
“You got some set of stones on you.”
“I know. I’ll tell my wife you admire them, too.”
“Wise guy,” he said, sitting down. “Turn to page eight.”
I turned to page eight. My eyes were drawn to an ad for a lingerie sale at Macy’s, and an ad for tomorrow’s Laker game. At the top of the page was an article by Adam Lazar, titled, “Unidentified Woman Found Murdered.” I scanned the article which said police had initially indicated there had been a robbery near the upscale neighborhood of Pacific Palisades, but the dead woman was not the owner of the vehicle, nor related to the owner. There was no mention of Curtis Starr nor Lauren Starr, but there was a mention of a private investigator who had uncovered evidence that called the police department’s initial theory into question. The article went on to mention that the victim had not been identified yet, and the car, a green BMW, may have been stolen. The police had taken a suspect in for questioning. I tossed the paper back onto my desk, far away from the bear claw.
“Thanks. I’ve been trying to come up with an anniversary present for my wife. Lingerie sounds like a winner. Although I may appreciate it more than her.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You want to tell me how this nugget got into the paper?”
I rose and walked over to the Mr. Coffee machine and poured a cup. “You want one?”
“No. What I want are some answers.”
I sat back down and took a sip. It was hot and it tasted good. Not as good as French roast, but good. I took another sip. I picked up the bear claw and took a bite. It had a nice sugary crust and was still warm. It wasn’t exactly a doughnut, but it fell within the doughnut family. And even though I’m not a doughnut aficionado, this tasted special, a treat from childhood. I smiled as I chewed, but saw Knapp was starting to glare. I wondered if he was annoyed because I was enjoying it too much. My one encounter with Knapp taught me he normally wore a blank expression, which meant something was obviously bothering him. I briefly thought of offering him a bite, but it was too good, and I decided against it. I took another sip of coffee before speaking.
“I’m always here to help.”
Knapp rolled his eyes. “Tell me how you came upon this idea that the BMW was stolen.”
“I didn’t. That must have been the reporter. Probably wanted to hype the story. The media. You know.”
“Yeah. I know. Keep talking.”
“What I came upon was the fact that Lauren Starr is not dead. She’s very much alive. Well, maybe not very much. She looked like she had a whale of a hangover.”
“I got your voicemail,” he said. “You saw her?”
“With me own two eyes.”
“Where?” he demanded.
“At her sister’s apartment in Van Nuys.”
“I’ll need an address,” he said.
I looked it up on my phone and wrote it down on a piece of scratch paper. Handing it to him, Knapp looked at it briefly and then crumpled it in his pocket.
“What led you there?”
“Good detective work,” I said, slowing down the interrogation. Knapp looked at me for a good five seconds before pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. Finally he looked up.
“I got a ton of cases on my desk that I need to clear,” he said, with a tinge of weariness.
I looked at him and said nothing. I thought of tossing out a “boo hoo,” but there was something in the timbre of his voice that had stopped being hostile. For a fleeting moment, I began to have some sympathy for him.
“I’m sure you’re swamped,” I said.
“Yeah. Look, you were at the scene,” he said. “Young woman, dead, no ID, driving a pricey car. Blonde, just like Starr’s wife. You tell me. What else are we to think?”
I nodded. There were times to be a smartass and this wasn’t one of them. “Yeah,” I finally responded. “I get it.”
“Then if it’s not the wife, then who was it?” he asked. “The message you left. You said something about an employee of Starr?”
“The woman’s name is Anna Shevshenko, she’s a waitress at the Smokey Mountain Grill in Northridge. Can’t be certain that was her in the car, other than she’s been having an affair with the boss. She’s blonde, she’s involved with him. She didn’t show up to work yesterday, and she didn’t call in. Do the math.”
“That’s a stretch then, isn’t it? If you didn’t show up to work, would anyone think you were dead?”
“Anna was seen in the company of Curtis Starr one night last week,” I continued. “At his house. Both of them were drunk, and they were pawing each other. She’s been described as looking remarkably similar to Starr’s wife, Lauren. And she’s now missing. I don’t think it’s a stretch to think this could very well be her.”
Knapp looked out my window. “The car wasn’t stolen.”
“Okay,” I said, figuring I’d let Knapp share information bit by bit. Trying to get a cop to talk was a fruitless exercise. They talked when they felt like it.
“You think Starr killed this Anna?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was hired to look into why someone might want to shoot Starr. Trying to unravel that incident in the Jacuzzi the other night.”
“You’re still playing detective.”
“I was hired to do a job. I’m doing it.”
“Okay, Rockford. Who you think did that shooting in the Jacuzzi?” he asked.
“Possibly his neighbor, Gavin Yunis. Maybe another neighbor, Tammy Perino. His wife, his son. Now maybe it could
have even been this Anna. The Jacuzzi shooting happened last weekend, she was still around. I don’t know. Curtis runs a restaurant chain, and not a very good one. Maybe a business acquaintance. I haven’t even gotten around to looking into that yet.”
“Who hired you?”
I paused for a moment before deciding I didn’t have a reason to shield my friendly insurance investigator. It would come out eventually, anyway. “Harold Stevens. He’s an investigator with Differential Insurance.”
“He hired you because of the Jacuzzi shooting the other night.”
“Yeah. And I’m obviously not getting too far on that one. But the two incidents are almost assuredly related. If we figure out one, the other should fall into place.”
“That would be nice and tidy.”
I looked at him, not liking the fact that he was asking all the questions and not providing anything in return. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “How did Curtis Starr react when you showed him the body? In that green BMW.”
Knapp pondered this for a moment. “With disgust. Horror, I guess. Could have been acting, but nothing really struck me as unusual. Why? You think he was hiding something?”
“I don’t know. I’m just tossing out ideas. Someone shot at Curtis and Lauren when they were in their Jacuzzi. Were they really gunning for Curtis? Maybe they were after Lauren. Maybe they thought it was Lauren in the BMW.”
“Be pretty stupid to shoot someone in the face and not know it was them.”
“You would think,” I said. “The article said you had a suspect in custody. Anyone I know?”
Knapp licked his lips. “The suspect’s been kicked.”
“Why?”
“Partly that article,” he said, pointing disgustedly. “Plus, the lieutenant said we didn’t have enough to book them. I think your pal DeSanto has been getting pressure from above.”
I considered that. When the police don’t book a suspect, it doesn’t mean they cease to be a person of interest, it just means there isn’t enough evidence. Hence, they are released, the detectives need to gather more information, and that explained why Knapp came to my office in person, rather than summon me. That, or maybe he wanted to get out of the police station for a little while.
“Are you going to make me guess?” I said.
Knapp looked down. “We’d been holding Curtis Starr. I liked him, he fit the profile. The partner’s always the first one we suspect, and Starr had no decent alibi. Marital problems, age difference, throw a lot of money into the mix, and people get funny ideas about making their spouse go away.”
“And then the spouse comes back to life,” I said.
“Yeah. Messes up the motive. Maybe this really was a random shooting. Robbery gone bad. But that still leaves us without a suspect on a case that’s now becoming higher profile. Thanks a bunch. You really had to talk to that reporter before you talked to me?”
I shrugged, and didn’t bother to point out Knapp hadn’t called me back. I doubt he liked to have his omissions served up to him, so I didn’t bother. “You had the wrong victim. I just saved you some time of going through the dental records.”
“Okay, smart guy. One more time. Assume this wasn’t a robbery or a random shooting. If you were a betting man, who would you bet shot this girl?”
I gave him the palms up sign. “Someone who wanted this girl out of the way?”
“Like maybe his wife?”
“Maybe so. Maybe this Anna’s boyfriend was the jealous type. I heard Anna broke up with him recently, and she moved out of their apartment. Just got her own place.”
Knapp stood up. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t leave town.”
I stared at him. “Be a little tough to do with a wife running for public office, a 5 year-old son and a mortgage. But yeah. I’ll stick around for a bit. Why? You think I did it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re as likely as anyone else right now.”
I took another sip of coffee. Whatever sympathy Detective Knapp had managed to elicit in me had effectively disappeared. Knapp got up and walked out. Neither of us bothered to say goodbye.
Chapter 9
I spent the next couple of hours working, which is to say I spent part of the time daydreaming and the rest of the time surfing the internet to look at the various mock drafts that always pop up before the real NFL draft, which was this week. The mock drafts are invariably someone’s flight of fancy, not always tethered to reality, and they’re often put together by people who are blessed with too much time on their hands. I didn’t learn very much, and maybe that was the point. My mind needed a diversion, a respite, a brief vacation from this case. At about one-thirty I decided whatever little I had accomplished called for some sustenance to keep going.
The local gourmet taco truck had been parked outside of my building for two hours, and by now the lines had shortened. I ordered two carnitas tacos and two calimari tacos, and a can of Coke. For an extra fifty cents, they added avocado slices to all the tacos, which made me feel like I was at least attempting to eat healthy. I was tired of eating at my desk, and since our building management did not bother to install picnic tables nearby, I sat down on the curb and had my version of lunch al fresco. The tacos were good, not great, but they hit the spot. I was taking a final swig of the Coke when a familiar voice crowed behind me.
“Would you look at this? Guy’s wife is going to be a powerful public figure soon, and he can’t even afford to eat at a sit-down restaurant.”
I turned and saw a disapproving Cliff Roper walking toward me, shaking his head in mock disgust. I crumpled the empty can, got up, and tossed the remnants of lunch into a nearby trash bin. Surprisingly, there was no recycle bin within view. With Cliff Roper eyeballing me, I didn’t feel much like looking around for one.
“Just in the neighborhood?” I asked.
“I had some business over in Westwood. One of those UCLA guys. Your enemy.”
“It’s called a rivalry,” I pointed out, leading him into the building and elevator. “They’re our opponent, not our enemy.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I signed this Bruin kid as a client, name’s Roy Harris. I did it as a favor for one of his coaches. Turns out this kid’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m trying to set up a call with the Falcons, he’s a linebacker, they’re looking at him as a late round pick, maybe in the 7th round,” Roper said. “But he has some crazy idea that it’s better to go undrafted. Be a free agent. That way he thinks he’s in charge. That he can now pick any team he wants. That he’s the one who gets to choose. Unreal. Can you believe that?”
I nodded. What he said made sense. There was a misconception that free agents coming out of college football had greater latitude than players who got drafted in the final round. But undrafted free agents could only screen out those teams they didn’t want to play for. It didn’t mean they’d get to pick and choose where they’d end up, because their favorite team might, in fact, not even want them. Or even if their team did sign that player, the kid might not get much of a chance to play. In a lot of instances, free agents were signed merely to give established players a fresh body to hit in summer training camps. Barring an injury, or an unusual happenstance, the free agents normally got waived before the regular season began. Some of these kids did catch on with teams, but they invariably got less money than they would have, had they been drafted.
“So you went over to have a talk with this Roy.”
“I went over to read him the riot act,” Roper sneered. “He wants to stay in L.A. but the problem is both the Rams and the Chargers are already stacked at his position. I made a few calls, but neither team has any desire for yet another middle linebacker, especially one that needs to gain twenty pounds and add speed at the same time. The Falcons are looking at him. If he’s lucky, he’ll end up as a special teams player or at least on the practice squad. If he’s lucky, that is.”
<
br /> “Did you get through to him?” I asked, more to make conversation than out of a true sense of caring, as the elevator doors opened and we walked to my office.
“Of course I got through to him. That’s why I’m making money, and why I’m eating at Morton’s, and why you’re eating in the gutter. The kid just needed a reality check.”
“Uh-huh. Thanks for sharing. But you didn’t come by to tell me about your problems.”
“No, I came by to see why you aren’t solving the problems I’m paying you to solve. Seems to me like you’re just making them worse.”
I rolled my eyes. The tacos did not feel like they were settling in so well in my stomach. “Go on.”
Roper sat down and looked around my office, and his expression held no shortage of disdain. “Every time I come here, I get a bad feeling. Like I’m slumming.”
“I get a bad feeling every time you come here, too.”
“Hey, hey, hey. No need to get nasty. I’m the one who’s paying for this dump, remember.”
“All I remember is doing a few jobs for you here and there. They’re not such pleasant memories, either.”
“That’s why they call it work,” Roper snapped, glancing down at my desk and pointing at the newspaper. “That article. You really had to speak to that reporter? You’re really messing me up. I distinctly recall telling you I didn’t want the media picking up anything negative on Brady.”
“There’s nothing in that article about Brady,” I pointed out.
“No, but you obviously don’t follow TMZ. They’re all over this. Talk about investigative chops. I should have hired them. They’re the real detectives.”
I sighed and pulled out my iPad to do a quick search. There was indeed a video up, with a headline screaming “FORMER FOOTBALL STAR QUESTIONED BY POLICE!” I tapped the screen, and it brought up a video of a curvy female reporter standing on a corner of Sunset and PCH. There were no police cars around. She reported that the LAPD was holding Curtis Starr for questioning, following a shooting near the beach. The victim was found dead in Starr’s green BMW. She then mentioned this happened with the NFL draft approaching next week, where Curtis Starr’s son was slated to be a top pick. I turned the iPad over, and placed it back down on my desk.
