by David Chill
Marcus asked for pancakes for breakfast, and I asked Gail if she’d mind if I drove down to El Segundo to have a few words with a certain L.A. Times reporter. She thought that was a good idea. There was a surprising amount of traffic on the 405 for a Sunday morning, but everything was at least moving. I pulled into the parking lot behind the Times’ new headquarters on Imperial Highway; the gate was open, and no attendant was nearby. The building was a white seven-story structure that had been home to a defense contractor, then a satellite TV company, and then someone else before the Times moved in. The windows were tinted a charcoal gray, and sealed, possibly to keep people from jumping out of them. I signed in with building security and took the elevator up to the 5th floor. There wasn’t a lot of noise on the floor, but there were a few people working, a copy machine hummed, and the click-click-click of a few keyboards indicated there were reporters at work. I found Adam Lazar in a cubicle, his feet up on the desk, his laptop actually in his lap, his fingers tapping away.
“This is how intrepid reporters spend their Sundays,” I said, sitting down on a plain black chair with a hard plastic bottom. It didn’t feel good, but I didn’t plan on spending that much time here.
“This is how I spend some of my days,” he commented, looking up. “There’s lot of bad guys to expose in this world. Especially in this city.”
“Glad I’m not one of them.”
“Funny. I’m actually trying to find out if that’s true.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.
“Need to do more research,” he said, placing the laptop back onto his desk.
I stood up and looked around the quiet floor. It was a large open-office space, and this being a clear day, if I glanced to my right I could see Palos Verdes, and if I glanced to my left, I could see the Santa Monica Mountains. A few cars streamed by on the Century Freeway below us.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to be a little quicker,” I said. “The TV news trucks already swung by our house. Both Gail and I gave our statements to the court of public opinion.”
Lazar looked at me. “Well, what happened? It’s not every day you hear about someone getting into a wild free-for-all at that temple of wholesomeness we call Chuck E. Cheese.”
“Some kid tried to trip my kid. My kid shoved his kid. That kid’s dad stepped in, and then I stepped in a little further. A few more dads jumped in, I’m not sure if they were trying to break it up or join in, but they picked the wrong guy at the wrong time.”
“Never mess with papa bear when the cub is involved,” he observed wryly.
“Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” I said, “but others have since pointed out there were other, more conciliatory approaches I could have taken.”
Lazar chuckled. “People like you make my job easier. You fill up a slow news day.”
“Glad to be of service. How are you going to spin this story?”
Adam Lazar thought about this. When I met him, he was a short, chunky guy with an olive complexion. It seemed he had gotten even chunkier in the five years since I had last seen him.
“Your wife is the story, bud, hate to tell you that. Six months ago, it would have been you in the headline. Former USC coach in wild melee, something like that. But today, you’re part of the supporting cast. How all this impacts your wife’s campaign. That’s the real story here.”
“What kind of an impact do you think it will have?” I asked.
“Can’t say as it’s positive news. Protecting your child is good. Engaging in a physical altercation is bad.”
“The race is tightening.”
“I’d say. Bleeker’s caught up. At this point it’s a tossup. Not sure it wouldn’t have ended up that way, anyhow. Bleeker’s been closing the gap for weeks.”
“You reporters stay on top of polling for City Attorney?” I asked.
“In this case, yeah. Or at least since this morning.”
“Any questions I can answer for you?”
“Tell me what happened. Whole story.”
I retold the tale of my recent fisticuffs, putting a clear spin on being a protective dad. I told him I spoke with the police, and they chose not to haul me in, conveniently leaving out the part about cops doing favors for other cops, as well as the possibility of a civil suit down the road. For now, my goal was to try and minimize any damage to Gail’s campaign, if that was possible.
“Okay,” he said, writing a couple of notes down. “But this is back-page stuff. Tell me what’s going on with Curtis Starr. The police book him yet?”
“Not as far as I know. But they’re looking at him as a person of interest,” I said, leaving out the part about the police looking at me as a person of interest. In my mind, neither made a lot of sense.
“What do you think?” Lazar asked.
“I think they’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“What’s the right tree?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. This case is confounding. Nothing makes sense.”
Lazar clasped his hands together and thought. I looked at his hands. On his right ring finger was a school ring with a medium blue stone.
“That your class ring?” I asked, pointing to his hand.
He unclasped his hands and looked at it. “Yup. My UCLA class ring. I’m a proud Bruin. I love that school.”
“What color would you call that stone?” I asked.
“I can’t remember,” he said, and started looking it up online. “I guess they call it sapphire but it’s not really that dark.”
“Didn’t UCLA change its color years ago? To a different shade of blue?” I asked.
“They did. Used to be a powder blue, a very light color. Some people loved it, some thought it made them look weak. So they made it more of a medium blue. I don’t know about the rings, though. I’ve never seen a light blue ring for UCLA. I had one from high school, but I don’t wear it any more. Not since I graduated college.”
I peered at him. “Where’d you go to high school?”
“Roche High. Catholic school near downtown. Go Cubs. Why do you ask?”
Chapter 12
The class ring was sitting perfectly still on my desk, just where I had left it when Detective Knapp had walked into my office. It was almost as dirty as it had been when I found it on Gavin Yunis’s property. I picked up a pencil again, and slipped a blank sheet of paper under the ring to prevent excess dirt from sprinkling onto my desk. I cleaned out as much caked mud as I could, eventually untwisting a paper clip and using it to further delve into the deep crevices. That worked a little better, and it was just enough to reveal the emblazoned gold text that spelled out the name, Roche High School.
This being a Sunday, it was unlikely Detective Marc Knapp would be on duty, and while normally I had no qualms about approaching a potential murder suspect on my own, my suddenly high-profile status made me queasy about moving forward alone. I picked up my phone and called Knapp. He answered on the third ring.
“This better be good, Burnside,” he said, the sound of a large crowd noisily chirping in the background.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Dodger Stadium. Bottom of the second inning.”
“How are your seats?”
“Down the left-field line. I came close to catching a foul ball a few minutes ago. You call to see how I’m doing. How nice of you.”
“Actually I called to tell you I’ve made progress on that double murder. Or at least one of those murders. How soon can you get here?”
There was a long silence until I heard the crack of a bat, some cheers, followed by the groan of the crowd. Knapp’s voice came back on the line. “Even if I wanted to leave, which I don’t, I got my ten-year-old with me. It’s my weekend with him. Can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. If you want to risk letting a murderer possibly skip out, sure.”
I heard Knapp exhale. “Okay. Game ends around four. After I bring my kid back to his mom, I’ll come by. Where
am I supposed to find this big suspect.”
“Up in Mandeville. Banyan Drive. You got the Starr address?”
“Yeah. I’ll meet you outside the house at six. Don’t do anything until I get there,” he told me, and the line went dead.
My call with Marc Knapp reminded me of a favor I owed Roberto DeSanto. I went onto StubHub and found four box seats to a Dodger-Angel game next month. I never liked inter-league play very much, the old-school purist in me resisting change, but I recognized change was going forward regardless of whether or not I liked it. I also didn’t like the cost of the tickets, which for box seats along the first base line were being listed at $250 each. I felt a little melancholy as I thought of the cost of going to Dodger games when I was a kid, which was a small fraction of what it is today. Consoling myself with the plan of billing the cost back to the Differential Insurance Company, I made the purchase, paid the outrageous service fee, and abandoned any gracious idea of buying a pair of tickets for Marc Knapp. At these prices, he could stay in left field.
I called Gail, met her and Marcus at Mar Vista Park, where we followed Marcus around on the slide, jungle gym and pushed him on the swing. It was a warm, sunny day, there were a few Jacaranda trees nearby starting to sprout lavender blossoms, and the world seemed in perfect order. Children squealed happily on the grass, parents chatted pleasantly, and everyone behaved in a genteel way. Gail looked happy and calm, Marcus was thrilled to be with both of us for a change. At five-thirty, I excused myself, to go see about arresting someone for murder.
The shadows were spreading across Banyan Drive as I pulled up, a few minutes before six. The street was quiet, the construction area was now marked off by yellow crime scene tape. My guess was the half-finished house would likely stay that way for quite a while, at least until Gavin Yunis’s estate got settled. Eventually, the new owner would decide how to go forward with more construction, or whether to simply tear it down and start over. I thought of Tammy Perino, who would not have to suffer through the unyielding construction noise for a while, but would instead, have to look out onto the eyesore that was a shuttered construction site. Like a lot of quirky things in life, one problem gets solved, but another pops up to take its place.
Detective Knapp arrived at six-thirty, and didn’t bother to apologize for his tardiness. His face was sunburned from being outdoors all day, and I wish I could say that added some texture to his appearance. It did not, nor did it add to his charm.
“This better be good,” he growled. “It’s a Sunday night.”
“It should be good. We’ll see. Maybe there’s a promotion in it for you.”
“Funny. What’d you get?”
I showed him the ring. “Found this the other day on Yunis’s property. Easy to miss.”
“What is it?”
“High school ring for Roche High. Brady Starr went there. Doesn’t mean it’s his, but since he lives next door, that makes it interesting, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I’d say. Let’s go.”
We walked up to the front door and Knapp knocked hard. About ten seconds later, Curtis Starr opened it up and gave us a look of annoyance.
“You guys again? How many times do I have to answer your questions?”
Knapp sneered. “As many times as we ask you. Let us in.”
Starr curled his lower lip, but opened the door and we entered the foyer. To the left was a large dining room and open kitchen area. To the right was a living room with cathedral ceilings. Straight ahead were stairs that led to a downstairs den area that had a pool table in the middle, and we heard the clacking sound of balls smacking each other. Curtis Starr led us into the living room, which had a series of paintings of Starr during his football days, as well as a few trophies here and there. I did not see any images of Brady. We sat down on a soft brown couch. Starr sat in a rocking chair across from us.
“Is Brady here?” I asked.
“You need him for this?” Starr asked.
“Yes.”
Curtis Starr got up, walked to the living room entrance, and yelled for his son. Brady came in a minute later, followed by Lauren Starr. They all sat.
“Okay,” said Curtis Starr. “What now?”
I looked at Brady. “Tell me the last time you were on Gavin Yunis’s property.”
He gave me a funny look. “I haven’t. Never.”
I pulled the ring out of my pocket, got up and walked over to him. “I came across this on the Yunis property. Right near where Gavin Yunis’s body was found.”
Brady picked the ring up and examined it. He did so, less with investigating what this was, but why it was in the sullied and still-dirt-caked condition. He rubbed the light blue stone a few times, seemingly to give it a little polish. He struck me as more curious than upset, a reaction that was surprising. He handed it back to me and stood up.
“Wait here,” he said, and turned to walk out of the room.
“Follow him,” Knapp directed, and I rose and walked out of the room, about four paces behind Brady. We walked down a hallway and then up a flight of stairs. He turned into one of the bedrooms. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, although crawling out of a second story window and making a run for it could be ruled out. His bedroom looked like any well-off teenager’s room, with a computer on the desk, a small-flat screen TV mounted on one wall, and posters of everyone from Brett Favre to LeBron James taped on another wall. He opened the second drawer of a teak dresser and rummaged through it. I put my hand on my hip and felt for my .357. I watched Brady carefully. What he pulled out was not a weapon, but something far smaller.
“This,” he said, handing me a class ring with a light blue stone, “is mine.”
I examined the ring and it indeed had Roche High School engraved into it, the stone was a sparkling light blue that had no dirt whatsoever on it. The ring literally gleamed. It looked, in fact, as if it had never been worn. I glanced up at Brady.
“Anyone else in this neighborhood go to Roche?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” he said. “And the couple that owned that property next door, the ones who sold it to Yunis didn’t have any kids. And I don’t imagine a day laborer on a construction site would have been the one to lose it. Roche is a private school. It’s not cheap to go there.”
I gave this some thought and something suddenly clicked. I told Brady to follow me downstairs with the ring. I had him repeat to Knapp what he had just told me. Then I asked Knapp to walk outside with me for a minute. I went over to my Pathfinder and took out my iPad. I went onto the website for Cliff Roper’s sports agency and began combing through the section labeled “About Us.” I hoped I’d come across a particular photo. It took some searching, but I finally did. I showed it to Knapp.
“You told me you came up here the night after the shooting to question people.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Do you recognize this guy?”
Knapp gave the image a quick glance. “Yeah, that’s the guy I spoke with. That’s Gavin Yunis.”
“No, it’s not,” I told him. “You spoke to someone else.”
“That’s not Yunis?” he repeated.
“No.”
Knapp stared at me. “So, if that’s not Yunis, who the hell is it then?”
*
Detective Knapp appeared in court first thing the next morning to swear out a search warrant. My experience was that search warrants can take as long as a day to issue, or as fast as ten minutes, depending on the mood of the presiding judge. This one was quick. When Knapp obtained the warrant, he gave me a call, which is to say he gave me a directive.
“Meet me at that sports agency on Sunset. You know this guy. I want you there. See you at eleven. Don’t be late.”
Traffic going into Hollywood in mid-morning was light, and I arrived fifteen minutes early. It was another nice day, the sky blue, the air warm. Our annual May Gray period of prolonged dreary, overcast skies had yet to kick in. I found metered parking across the st
reet and after inserting two hours’ worth of coins into the meter, I sipped a cup of Starbucks until I saw Knapp’s government-issued vehicle arrive. He parked in a red zone. I got out and walked toward him.
“Nice morning,” I said.
“Hadn’t noticed,” he responded. We entered the building and took the elevator to the 25th floor. There was the same pretty receptionist with the fake British accent sitting there. She smiled at us. Knapp flashed his gold shield, and her smile went away.
“Take me to see Sylvester Means,” he ordered. “Don’t pick up the phone and don’t say a word.”
She looked incredulously at Knapp and then looked at me. I shrugged. “You should just do what he says,” I told her, vaguely wondering why I was here.
The young woman rose silently and led us down a hallway. She pointed to a small interior office with no windows. We walked in. Sylvester Means was sitting there with his feet up, talking casually on the phone. He saw us and put his feet back on the ground. He told the person on the other end of the line that he’d call them back.
“Hello, Gavin,” Knapp said, displaying his gold shield once again. “Or is it Sylvester? You don’t seem to know who you are.”
“Hey, man, I didn’t do anything!” he yelled.
Knapp and I both laughed in unison. A good way to ascertain if someone is guilty is to watch for their immediate, strongly voiced denial of having actually done something – before they’ve even been accused. Without knowing the exact reason Knapp and I appeared in his doorway, he leaped into a defensive posture, like an animal who felt trapped. An innocent person might simply ask what we wanted.
