by David Chill
“And I’m to blame how?” I sighed.
“TMZ picked up on the Times article. Hey look, if you learn something, I’m your first call. Me. Not a Times reporter. I’m the one paying you. It’s professional. It’s the decent thing.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, thinking there was very little decent about Cliff Roper. By rights, the LAPD should be my first call, but after hearing Knapp’s snarky comment about my involvement in this case, I was not altogether sure that still applied. I also wasn’t entirely sure just who to call if I did learn anything more. I was running out of people to trust.
I looked at Roper, and he looked back at me. Neither of us said anything for a long minute, and when you’re sitting with a chatty sports agent, that kind of silence becomes uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“What? A favor?” I frowned.
“Call it what you want.”
I wiggled my fingers to coax out whatever scheme Cliff Roper had dreamed up for me today. Realistically, aside from gift wrapping the birthday present Marcus would be taking to the Chuck E. Cheese party tomorrow, I didn’t have a lot else to do, and this case had me stymied.
“Go on,” I said.
He licked his lips. “I need someone to watch over Curtis Starr.”
“Watch over.”
“Yeah.”
“As in, be his bodyguard?” I asked, eyes widening.
“As in, make sure nothing happens to him. At least not until the draft. Make sure no one shoots him in the next week or so. After the draft, I don’t care. Hell, I may shoot him myself then.”
“What’s he done?” I peered at Roper.
“What hasn’t he done?” he responded, throwing up his hands. “He’s messing up his kid’s future. He can’t keep his thing in his pants. He gets into fights with his neighbors. Now that skank of his goes and gets herself shot. The cops are starting to finger him for the murder. And you already know the worst part.”
“The worst part? Letting the media get ahold of it?”
“Hey, bingo, there you go. You really are a detective!” Roper crowed sarcastically. “You finally get it. The image is the reality. So here’s what we have to do. Brady has to keep his profile clean. That simple. His dad’s not helping. In fact, he couldn’t do much worse if he tried.”
“And all this comes down to getting Brady drafted as high as possible. Do I have that right?”
Roper sat back for a long minute and looked at me. “Yeah. That’s right. And there’s a lot of money riding on this. Think of the kid’s future. This is generational wealth. I need someone to keep Curtis from getting in his own way. And in our way. You know the case. You’re the right guy.”
“No,” I said.
“No?! You don’t say no to me. I’ll pay you two thousand a day. That’s the best daily rate you’ve ever made in your life. Guaranteed for a week.”
“Then definitely no.”
“For crissakes!” Roper said, glaring at me. “Why does everything have to be difficult for you? Most guys I know in your line of work would crawl through glass for two large a day.”
“I’m not most guys,” I said. There were some jobs I was uneasy about taking, and being a bodyguard was one of them. Putting your life on the line to save a stranger, all for a few bucks, was not a great career move. To do so for a guy like Curtis Starr, who had already been shot at, and whose girlfriend was just murdered while sitting in his car, made it all the more precarious. No amount of money was worth that risk. I didn’t know who was after Curtis, but I did know that risking becoming collateral damage in whatever scenario was playing out here was not worth any amount of money.
“You certainly aren’t most guys,” Roper said dryly. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Let me ask you something. What does Curtis think of all this? Has he asked you for a bodyguard?”
“Curtis?” he snorted. “You know a lot of football players with gun collections that want someone to babysit them and hold their hand? Of course not.”
“And you expect a bodyguard to not only guard Curtis, but to do so without his approval. Tell me how that works.”
“Hey, you’re the gumshoe. You can figure that out.”
“I can figure out this is something I want no part of,” I countered, and then stopped. I felt a light bulb illuminating over my head. “But you’ve got me interested in something.”
“What’s that?”
“Just what is going on with Curtis Starr? Look, I was hired by Harold to find out why someone might want to shoot him. Now you’re trying to hire me to physically protect him from being shot. Just out of curiosity, of which I have a lot of, I’d like to find some things out firsthand.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’d like you to set up a meeting. Me and him. I’m not going to bodyguard him, but I’ve got some questions. Maybe he can answer them. This might benefit you, too. My brief interchange with him yesterday morning on PCH was … how should I put it … insufficient.”
Cliff Roper gave me an odd look. I could practically see the wheels inside his head turning, reviewing what I’d just said. He reached into his pocket for his phone, tapped it a few times and spoke.
“Hey, it’s Cliff. You got a few minutes to meet with me and a friend? … Uh-huh … Where are you? … Okay. See you soon.”
Cliff Roper stood up and waited a beat. “Well, come on. You said you wanted to talk to him. Let’s go.”
*
The inside of a new Mercedes-Benz has a luxurious feel to it that is noticeably dissimilar to the feel of my three year old Pathfinder. The air is laced with the scent of fresh leather, the seats are plush, and the ride is smooth and unruffled. As we coasted through the McClure tunnel and onto PCH, we floated along on a billowy cloud, where traffic was light, and the shimmering blue Pacific beckoned. It was hard to imagine this to be anything but the most marvelous way to move around Los Angeles, although the nonstop banter coming out of Cliff Roper was a counterweight to the otherwise idyllic experience.
Cliff Roper didn’t inform me where we were going, and I didn’t ask. I would know when we got there, wherever there happened to be. We turned off of PCH at Sunset, the very intersection where Anna Shevshenko’s murder occurred, although to see it now was to see a perfectly ordinary looking service station, no yellow crime scene tape, no police cars, and no one from the coroner’s office. It looked pristine, as if nothing had happened, and business had returned to normal. It most likely had.
As the Mercedes snaked through the woodsy contours of Pacific Palisades, I managed to ignore Cliff long enough to think back to a few days ago, when I first took this case following my breakfast with Harold Stevens. We were on the same Sunset Boulevard that cut through large swaths of downtown L.A. and across East Hollywood, where the scenery was urban and blighted. It was the same Sunset Boulevard that eased through the serenely wealthy enclaves of Beverly Hills and Brentwood. Sunset was a passageway that showcased L.A. in all of its glory, but also showed off its many warts. The good and the bad, the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly. Interestingly, it did not strike me there was a whole lot in between.
After turning onto Capri Drive, we pulled into the entranceway of the Riviera Country Club. I had been here once before, a wealthy supporter of USC’s football team had invited me to his daughter’s wedding a few years ago. The club was built a long time ago, back when the Palisades were a distant outpost from the rest of Los Angeles, secluded and shrouded in the recesses of Santa Monica Canyon. The clubhouse was a huge, Spanish-style building with a red tile roof, and high arched windows. A dozen adobe archways created shade, and led into the building’s entrance.
We stopped in the circular driveway, replete with a grassy knoll in the center and an American flag, high up on a silver pole, fluttering softly above a small, bubbling fountain. It was the type of place that screamed money and wealth and privilege, and it was not hard for me to recognize I would not
fit in here. But it also occurred to me that this was exactly the type of place I’d soon be visiting more frequently, should my lovely wife win election to public office. The type of people Gail would be rubbing elbows with were the moneyed elite in L.A., and this was one of their playgrounds. As a USC football coach, places like this didn’t bother me, because I knew precisely what my role was, a welcomed guest, but a guest nevertheless. As a political spouse, I wouldn’t know my role. The thought of our impending new life made me uneasy, and I did not like being uneasy.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” a valet called, as he opened the car door for me. He raced around to the other side of the Mercedes to open the driver’s door, while Cliff sat there impatiently tapping his fingers. We strolled into the building, through the lobby, and down a wood-paneled hallway. Cliff Roper bellowed a friendly greeting to everyone we passed. Most acknowledged him, albeit without much sense of recognition. We moved into a large dining room, lined on one side with glass doors, which, along with the high beamed pine ceilings, gave the room an expansive feel.
A curved bar was in the far corner, a bar which looked long, but only came with 15 stools. The stools themselves were white and plush. At the end of the bar sat Curtis Starr, looking deep in thought, but it was more likely he was inebriated. He had an old-fashioned tumbler sitting in front of him. The glass was half-filled with an amber liquid, a wedge of orange and a maraschino cherry. Curtis wore a blue and white sports shirt, open at the collar, his very large frame making for an imposing figure. He had the appearance of someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the deep frown on his big face being the surest sign he was bearing a burden.
“There he is,” Roper declared, “the man of the hour.”
Curtis Starr lifted his head and nodded at us, giving an approving nod to Roper, and then stopping when his eyes settled on me.
“Why’d you bring him in here for?” he asked, jerking an index finger at me. As I already didn’t feel comfortable at Riviera, this just added more fuel to the fire.
Roper slipped into the seat next to Curtis and ordered a sparkling water with a twist of lemon. I remained standing. Next to Curtis Starr, Roper looked very small, but it didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. People like Cliff Roper had mastered the art of acting big, the size of their ego being more apparent than anything else, to the point where it was difficult to tell if his bravura really was an act.
“You don’t look good, Curtis,” Roper said, ignoring the question. “I’m concerned.”
“You and me both, brother,” he answered, the Southern twang becoming noticeable again.
“What’s on your mind?”
“What isn’t on my mind?”
Roper nodded to me. “I brought Burnside along. He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“And you let him?” Starr asked, turning toward me.
“Did everything in my power to stop him, Curtis. But he’s relentless. You’d like him if you got to know him. Well, maybe not. But I think he can help you.”
“How’s he going to help me?”
I sat down quietly and gave him a long stare. “Look,” I finally said. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, maybe I can help you prove it,” I said. “If you have, you’re on your own.”
‘”Hey, hey, hey,” Roper cut in, giving me a glare. “Burnside didn’t mean that. Whatever the issue is, we’ll fix it, Curtis. Nothing’s beyond repair. Trust me on that. I know that for a fact.”
“He’s probably right,” I said, thinking of how Roper had dodged being convicted of multiple homicides many years ago. “Can you explain something for me?”
“What’s that?” Curtis asked, picking up his glass and taking a swig.
“I told you the other morning that I was brought in by Harold Stevens. You were obviously distracted, so you might not remember. Harold said someone had been shooting at you. We haven’t found out who, and we haven’t found out why. You probably know more about this than anyone. If you want my help in getting out of this okay, you’ve got to come clean. What’s really going on?”
Curtis Starr stared at me. “Yeah, like I’m going to open up to a complete stranger.”
“You talked to me the other morning. When I was with that Times reporter. And now I’m here with Cliff. I’m less of a stranger today.”
“The other morning I was in a state of shock,” he said, staring into his drink.
“Why were you in a state of shock?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“Why … what? Are you kidding me? Because someone I care about had just been shot to death!”
“And it turned out to be your girlfriend.”
Starr slammed his drink on the bar. “Who the hell is this guy, Cliff?!”
“Like I said,” Roper responded, giving me a harder glare. “This is the guy that can help you. Let him.”
“And I can only help you,” I added, “if you tell me the truth.”
Curtis Starr stared into his drink. “It’s complicated.”
“Maybe we can uncomplicate it. Why did the police hold you for questioning?”
Starr hesitated, and then let out a breath. “Because I was there when it happened.”
“Go on,” I said softly.
“Anna wanted some cigarettes. I drove her to that convenience store by the gas station at Sunset and PCH. She went inside and got them. When she got back into the car, I leaned forward to turn off the radio. The windows were open. Next thing I know there were these bangs, and Anna is shot in the face. I didn’t know what was happening, but this car next to us, a white car, takes off fast. Tires squeal and everything. I see the car stop for a moment when it reached the street, so I got out and ran toward it. I thought maybe I could get a license plate number or something. I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“Did I what?”
“Get the license plate.”
“No. It tore out of there too quick.”
“What happened next?”
Curtis picked up his drink and drained it. He put the glass down and let out a long breath. “What happened was, well, I panicked.”
“How come?”
“Everything hit me at once. The police would be on the scene. The media. I’d have to explain why I was there at 2:00 am with a woman who wasn’t my wife. I’m a public figure, and my restaurants are already in trouble. Brady’s draft is next week. There’s millions on the table. I felt like everything was coming at me too quick. So I took off. Ran up Sunset for a few blocks, then headed up into one of the canyons. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Yes,” I agreed, trying to process all of this. “What did you tell the police?”
“They called me on my cell a few hours later. Said my car had been at the scene of a fatal shooting. Told me to come down there right away. I waited a few minutes, and then walked back over.”
“And acted surprised at what they showed you.”
Starr nodded. “Yeah. I was in too deep. I couldn’t tell them I ran away. I had to keep up the ruse. Told them I was home asleep.”
“Did they have you identify the body?” I asked.
“They tried to. They asked if it was my wife, and I just went along with it and said yeah, it looked like her. There was a lot of blood. It was horrible. Again, I figured they’d learn it was Anna soon enough, but like I said, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
I nodded. It didn’t seem like Curtis Starr was thinking any more clearly right now.
“So you let the cops think that it was Lauren in the car. You knew where Lauren really was?”
Starr shook his head. “Not at the time. Lauren called me later on that day, told me she’d be staying at her sister’s place. She’s supposed to come back tonight. We have to talk.”
“Sure.”
Starr suddenly looked up at me. “Say, you must have been that detective fella that went up to Jacquie’s place and talked to her, right?”
“Yeah, I’m that detective fella
. Tell me what’s going on. Why do you think someone would be trying to kill you?”
Starr shrugged. “How do you know it was me they were after?”
“How do we know it wasn’t you?” I responded, curtly.
The big man looked down at his drink again and gave an extended sigh. His bluster seemed to be dissipating “I’ve got a few problems. I guess if you didn’t know that before, you know it now.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to guess which of Curtis Starr’s myriad of troubles were spiking. For most people, their biggest worries affected them when either their finances or love lives went bad. Maybe a business deal went south. Or a long friendship ended because of a misunderstanding. Or home life became disrupted in some way, like when a family member’s personal problems spilled over. Or when there’s a disagreement over politics. Or an illness. Or when someone close to them passed away. The more I thought about this, the more I realized the root of someone’s problems could lie practically anywhere. Everyone was dealing with something. Which brought me back to square one.
“Let’s start with your family. Everything okay with Brady?” I asked, noticing Roper’s eyes lit up at the sound of his client’s name.
“Brady’s fine,” Starr said. “He’s the one thing in my life that’s going well. I need to protect him.”
“What about your business? The restaurants.”
Starr shrugged. “Not real fine. I’m going to have to close a few. The money’s not in it. Not anymore.”
I didn’t bother to disagree. “You in debt?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have a balloon payment coming due soon. The business has been losing money for a couple of years. I’ve taken out some loans. But that just extended the problem, didn’t solve it.”
