Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  Johnny Cleary looked up from a diagram. "Two broken legs'll do the trick."

  "You always were up on the latest techniques, John. It must be from that wealth of playing experience at cornerback."

  "In college I had to be creative. My free safety had an attitude problem."

  "That's unfair," I protested with a smile. "I just took a keen interest in observing a master at work. After all, I had the best seat in the house."

  Johnny Cleary emitted a droll smile as well. It was the best I could ever manage from him, for Johnny's ferocious intensity overwhelmed most of his other emotions. He would never be the life of the party but he was a guy you could count on when the going got tough. His hair had thinned noticeably but the lean, taut, disciplined body was still intact.

  "Damn, Burnside, it's been a while," he said, as we shook hands. "You were still on the force last time I saw you. How ya doing?"

  "Fair to midland. I see you're still an early riser."

  "Old habits never die."

  "That was the Bulldog's line," I said.

  "Smart old guy that Bulldog. They don't make head coaches like him anymore. He and McCallum over at LAU, they were the last of a breed. Hard talking, hard drinking." Johnny pointed to his desk. "Half of what we do now comes from a computer."

  "McCallum's still around. Can't imagine him doing anything except by instinct."

  "He's a relic," Johnny agreed. "Bulldog would still be around too if he could've given up drinking bonded bourbon and smoking those Havanas."

  I nodded. Bulldog Martin had been head coach at USC for the better part of twenty years, and Johnny and I were fortunate enough to play for him in his heyday. We were part of a secondary he dubbed the "Snake Pit" because of our ability to strike an opponent quickly and decisively. Any receiver that wandered into our lair paid no small price.

  USC finished second in the nation during our senior year, a loss at Oregon State being the lone blemish on our final season. We had played poorly on that rainy day in Corvallis, and the Bulldog's post-game speech consisted of, "those of you who need showers please take them." Johnny was the true talent on our defense, and after a ten year NFL career, he returned to USC to coach the defensive backfield. Five years later he became defensive coordinator. From the hours he kept, it was likely the head coaching torch would be passed on to him in a few years.

  "So what brings you back to old SC?"

  "Business."

  "Don't tell me you're looking for a real job?"

  "Not even close," I said. "I had one for far too long. It was almost the death of me."

  "I know. I read the articles in The Times. That girl you tried to help didn't exactly do you any favors."

  "Yeah," I said, thankful I still had friends who would give me the benefit of the doubt. I thought of young Judy, but wanted to stay with the matter at hand. The less I thought of Judy Atkin the better. "What do you know about Robbie Freeman over at LAU?"

  Johnny gave a rueful laugh. "More than I care to. The guy gave us nightmares for a couple of years."

  "Heckuva receiver."

  "The best," Johnny concurred. "We started off double teaming him. Then triple teaming him. And he still found a way to catch the ball. Then we got lucky."

  "How's that?"

  "His older brother graduated. We weren't sure if Robbie was that good a wideout, or his brother Norman was that good at getting the ball to him. Didn't matter much. When they were on the field together they could practically read each other’s minds."

  "Play catch with someone for your whole life and you get to know them pretty well."

  "Uh-huh. But when Norman left, Robbie stopped being a factor. Oh, he'd still get open sometimes, but their new quarterback couldn't deliver the ball like Norman could. Besides, Terry Kuhl was more of a running quarterback, he used the Read Option a lot. By the end of last season, Robbie was practically phased out of their offense. Made my job easier, I'll tell you that."

  "So it was Norman that was the player."

  "Yeah, but don't get me wrong. Robbie was a good receiver. Real good. He just needed someone on the other end. A better passer than Terry and who knows what could have happened."

  I concurred. Who knows. Life was full of intangibles and unanswered questions and forked roads. It's always intriguing to imagine the possibilities if everything lined up right, but for a lot of people that never seemed to happen. Life often became a series of missed opportunities. Or risks taken rather than seeking a more conventional path. I sighed. More than ten years on the LAPD had shown me plenty of life's underbelly. During the last two years I had been out on my own and the view was not any rosier.

  "Do you have any footage of the two of them in action?" I asked.

  Johnny rummaged through a file behind his desk and handed me a DVD. "This was Norman's last game against us two years ago. What's the interest?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Just curious."

  Johnny plucked a football off his desk and flung it at me. Instinctively, I jerked a hand up and swatted it aside. It tumbled harmlessly to the soft carpeted floor.

  "Good reaction time. I think my secondary could learn a few things from you. Anytime you want a new career, lemme know."

  I smiled and moved to leave. "I'll give it some thought."

  "Hey," Johnny said. "What's the interest in the Freemans?"

  "Can't say."

  "You came down here at this hour just to talk football?"

  I turned and gave him what was probably a sad look.

  "Yeah," I answered softly. "Actually I did."

  *

  The westbound freeway had clogged up by the time I merged onto it, and it took me nearly an hour to get to my next destination. An old Buick had broken down and everyone slowed to gawk and perhaps silently curse the driver for taking an extra half hour out of their day.

  In contrast to the seamy emptiness of downtown, the LAU campus was nestled in a series of lovely rolling hills near the blue Pacific. Instead of poor people struggling to get through each day, there were dilettantes struggling to achieve the perfect tan. The students at the two schools were not all that different, but the surroundings could not have been more disparate.

  When I was in high school, both USC and LAU recruited me heavily. I chose USC not so much for the football program or even the academics, but for the tradition and camaraderie that existed there. The LAU students were very nouveau riche and appeared arrogant with little reason to be. Whether it was the ravaged neighborhood of a downtown slum, the storied history of the University, or the understanding that wealth in and of itself did not buy happiness, the USC campus seemed a more down to earth and well adjusted milieu. Across town it struck me that part of the LAU student body attended football games mostly for the social scene.

  I found parking about a mile away from the campus and hiked up a sandy trail shaded by enormous palm trees. A cool breeze whistled through the hillside and as I reached the top of the path I looked down upon the rippling blue ocean. Two buildings down stood Baron Hall and it was easy to figure out what lingered inside. Four bright blue patrol cars were parked near the entrance.

  As I walked in, a pretty girl with smooth brown hair tied back into a ponytail perked her head up from behind the desk. She wore the standard khaki officer's uniform, but it fit in a snug way that left no doubt as to where the curves formed. Her lips were full, in a pouty sort of way, and the cheeks seemed actually rosy. She asked how she could help me.

  "I'm here to see Dick Bridges," I said politely.

  "All right," she said. "Let me ping him. What is your name?"

  "Peyton Manning."

  "One moment Mr. Manning."

  It actually took about five minutes before she ushered me into an oak paneled office with the nameplate "Director of Security" boldly emblazoned on the door in gold lettering. The girl smiled and bounced happily out of the office.

  "Is that one a part of your rough and tumble security force?" I asked.

  Dick Bridges cho
ked back a grin. "She can take you apart any day of the week."

  "I'd be happy to give her the opportunity. Do I get to be handcuffed as well?"

  "We go to any lengths for a man with your celebrity status, Mr. Manning. I must say, you certainly have changed over the years. Most noticeably you've lost a few inches and gotten considerably uglier."

  "You haven't exactly been sipping from the fountain of youth," I responded. "I can see you still have a problem with your refrigerator door."

  Dick smacked his belly a couple of times and rubbed it in a circular motion. He had never been slender and since our chance meeting eighteen years ago, he had probably gained another thirty pounds. On some people two hundred and forty pounds looks obese, but on Dick Bridges it just seemed like beefy muscle.

  Many years ago, Dick had been a patrol officer in USC's campus security force. After one month on the job, he noticed a hoodlum prying a stereo from a new Firebird in the parking lot. Being young and naive he yelled at the intruder to freeze, but the local product began sprinting for the Jefferson Avenue exit. While Dick could hold his own in any match that included sparring or wrestling, he was badly outclassed when it came to outrunning a perpetrator. A football player who excelled in this endeavor just happened to be strolling back from class at that precise moment, and sprang quickly into action. It took me less than thirty seconds to catch up with the lad, but when I grabbed him and jerked him down, I unfortunately lost my balance and his body landed awkwardly on top of me. Dick came puffing along a minute later to officially make the collar.

  As it turned out, the suspect had not only spent three of his twenty-six years behind bars for various flavors of robbery, but was supposed to have been on a work furlough a few blocks from campus. The college newspaper made a big deal out of it, and Dick moved quickly on to bigger and better things. As for me, I was awarded a torn ACL for my efforts and whatever chance I had at a pro football career just fizzled away at that point. No matter. The exuberance I felt from capturing someone not clad in shoulder pads and a helmet eventually launched me into a new career.

  "I assumed you'd be by here today. Coffee?"

  I nodded cautiously. "What roast?"

  Dick snorted as he poured some black fluid into two mugs. "A tantalizing combination of sludge and fertilizer. It's what we call the house blend."

  I reached for the mug and smelled the aroma before my first sip. He had not been too far wrong.

  "I'd like to thank you for directing a source of income my way," I said.

  "Pleasure's all mine, buddy. I figured you'd like this assignment. Finding the one car in Los Angeles that fired a shot on the freeway."

  "On top of not getting the license plate, Norman didn't even remember the color of the car."

  "But you're a super sleuth," Dick laughed. "No challenge too great. And in this case, no paycheck too easy to cash. The kid's loaded."

  "I kinda figured that out. If he normally walks around with a few grand on him, he'd be better served hiring me as his bodyguard."

  "Ah, to Norman it's all monopoly money. It comes out of a faucet in a never-ending stream. He's harmless though. He'll take over his Daddy's business, marry his little sweetheart and settle down into a nice upper class life of royalty."

  "He tells me he's getting married soon."

  "Yeah. Girl's a real looker too. Name's Ashley Stark. Works for McCallum over at Graddis Hall. That's how Norman met her."

  "To the quarterback go the spoils," I said. "What about his brother?"

  "Robbie?" Dick shrugged. "Just another jock. Didn't follow in his brother's footsteps, but I hear tell he didn't think too much of Norman's milk and cookies lifestyle. Drinks a few beers with the boys. Gets into a fight once in a while. If his name wasn't Freeman it wouldn't raise any eyebrows."

  I tasted some more coffee and winced. "What about their parents?"

  "Father's a self-made man. Started out selling cars, did well enough to buy an equity position in a dealership. After a while he began to buy a few lots on his own."

  "And the little woman?"

  "I think he dumped his starter wife after he made his ninth or tenth million. Man in that income bracket can afford snazzier models."

  "That's a highly sexist remark for a man in your position to make. Especially in this day and age."

  "Ah, it's okay," he said. "The door's closed."

  Dick sat back and chuckled at his own sense of humor. If nothing else, Dick Bridges was a wealth of information about what went on in his domain.

  "It's easy," he said with a wave of the hand. "You go to a few meetings, a few cocktail parties, football games. There's always stray scuttlebutt floating around that someone is just so eager to tell you about. And I file it away for the right occasion."

  "Any other gems you care to part with?"

  He looked me in the eye. "Yeah," he said, with a smile. "That little beauty who brought you in here?"

  I nodded.

  "She really can take you apart."

  *

  After fending off repeated attempts to pawn more LAU coffee on me, I left Dick's office knowing a little bit more about my client. I also had the names of a few players who were staying on campus this summer. Most had already left their dorm rooms by the time I knocked on their doors, but I did manage to find Terry Kuhl in. The bleary eyed expression on his face told me I had woken him up.

  "Terry Kuhl?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  I sighed. The morning had been so pleasant thus far. "The name's Burnside. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

  The sleepy eyes began to focus. Terry Kuhl was a slim black kid, about twenty years old. He wore a burgundy silk robe and he looked like he hadn't shaved in three days. In a couple of years he'd probably sign a multi-million dollar contract and could afford to buy a razor. My own pro football career never got off the ground, and I probably still had a little resentment at my bad luck.

  "What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

  "Can I come in?"

  "No," he said with an annoyed expression.

  "Actually," I remarked, "you're supposed to say something clever like the place is such a mess and it's the maid's day off. They should have taught you that in charm school."

  "Whaaa...?" he managed.

  "I want to talk to you about Norman Freeman."

  "Oh. Yeah. Norman. What about him?"

  "You were his backup quarterback in your freshman year. Were you guys friendly?"

  "Friendly?"

  This wasn't going to be easy. "Did you hang around with Norman at all?" I asked. The eyes blinked. Signs of life.

  "With that big chump? Uh-uh. He had his friends, I had mine. The only time we saw each other was at practice and at the games."

  "How about his brother Robbie?"

  Terry nodded and you could practically see the wheels inside his head begin to turn, albeit in a rusty and uneven manner. "Robbie, yeah. I hung with Robbie now and again. He was cool."

  I tried to wake him up. "Know why anyone would want to kill either of them?"

  The young man pondered this with more thought than anyone should ever have to. A full minute went by. "Nah," he finally said.

  Within the room a soft female voice called out his name. He turned around and told her to shut up. "You done?" he asked. "I got me some other business here."

  I told him that would be it and he closed the door without bothering to say good-bye. Or what a pleasure it had been to meet me. Or how I should call on him again. I think his charm school teacher would have been very disappointed.

  Chapter 3

  I spent the rest of the day driving around the city, attempting to speak with various friends and teammates of Robbie Freeman. Most weren't home and the two that were did not want to talk. I returned to my apartment at seven, in time to shower and put together a couple of roast beef sandwiches. Normally I prefer to prepare something a little more intricate but when time is limited, so is the cuisine. Cho
mping away, I thought back to what football players' parties were like. Liquid refreshments were imbibed, often heavily. Any food beyond pretzels and potato chips was rarely given much consideration.

  Norman's bachelor party was held in his brother's swank apartment along the Wilshire corridor just adjacent to Beverly Hills. It was after nine o'clock by the time I pulled up, and the faint traces of a smoky orange sunset were fading from the western sky. Night was descending and it was only now starting to cool off. I strapped on my .38 special snub nose revolver which was snuggled inside a ballistic nylon shoulder holster, and I tossed a jacket on over that. I had another gun wrapped against my ankle. Going anywhere unarmed makes me feel a tad naked.

  Robbie's apartment building rose twenty-two stories and came complete with a doorman, a security guard, and a small gourmet shop for those last minute items which the maid might forget to pick up. There was a doorman on duty dressed in full costume with a grey coat and matching grey cap, gold shoulder tassels, and white gloves. He barked a crisp "good evening" as he swung the glass door open for me and I offered a crisp "thank you" instead, which seemingly fell on deaf ears.

  The security guard was a quiet, balding man who looked as if he were more interested in reading the L.A. Times than in keeping the building secure from unsavory characters. He had on a dark blue uniform with a shoulder patch that advertised his firm, Watchdog Security Systems. The picture of a snarling German Shepherd sat beneath the logo. He inquired whom I wished to see and directed me to sign the guest book. There were about a dozen names before me, most planning to visit apartment 2201.

  I rode swiftly up a very quiet chrome elevator. When I reached the top floor, the pounding bass from a powerful set of speakers could be heard through the walls. I practically felt the booming in my gut. Approaching the apartment, I rang the bell but it took an eternity for someone to answer. I tried the doorknob but it was firmly locked. Finally, a husky reveler in a black shirt and jeans opened the door and invited me in without bothering to ask who I was.

  The noise expanded as I walked into a spacious apartment with thick white carpeting. An entertainment center with a profundity of glass encased stereo and video equipment took up part of an entire wall. A myriad of glowing dials and switches flashed in tempo with the beat of the music. A painting of a car balancing delicately on the edge of a cliff was on the wall above a black leather couch. To the right of the painting was one of those clocks they sell in Las Vegas where the dice served as the numbers. On the face was the name "Mirage," printed in small italic letters.