by Chill, David
"Robbie was a crazy kid," Norman said. "I tried to help him but he didn't want my help. And at this point, Robbie is gone and there's nothing more we can do to help him."
"Except bring a possible killer to justice."
"Mr. Burnside," Ashley broke in, "we just want to get on with our lives and put this behind us. This was a terrible thing to have happen, but it's over. And the police have made their decision. They're not investigating any longer. They think it's an accident."
I drew in a breath and my mind conjured up an image from about two years ago. It was the image of a seasoned officer with thirteen years on the beat, all of them performed to the best of his abilities. He always went by the book and was a staunch defender of the system, not to mention the status quo. And when they asked for his gun and his badge for a crime he didn't commit and couldn't acquit himself of, everything he had once held dear began to crumble. Even when they returned it to him, his attitude was forever altered. He re-built his life to be sure, but he was no longer the staunch defender. He was a changed man. The memory of it stung and caused me to wince.
"Does everyone in your family believe Robbie's death was an accident?" I asked softly.
Norman and Ashley glanced hesitantly at one another. "My father still thinks there was foul play," he said.
"Why?"
"Mr. Freeman sometimes has trouble accepting life's ... inevitability," Ashley said.
"Dad is stubborn. He can't just deal with it. He needs someone to blame. He's not the kind of guy who can let go."
I rubbed my eyes. "I understand what you two are saying. I think you're wrong. I think there's some things unexplained. But if you want to discharge me, that's your business."
"We appreciate it," Norman said, and the two of them rose and left my office quietly.
I lifted my feet onto the credenza behind my desk, and looked out onto the street. Robbie Freeman's brother had hired me to look into some trouble he thought Robbie was in. I learned Robbie had experimented with some drugs, and he associated with a few unsavory types which his older brother might not approve. Nothing dangerous or life threatening in that, certainly. But I had only started to scratch the surface of the kid’s involvement. There was something else lurking beneath the surface, a dynamic I could only sense intuitively at this point.
My thoughts drifted back to the party. If Robbie was able to pick Lenny up and help drag him into another room, how could he have been so unstable as to stumble over a balcony railing? He wasn't depressed and on that night he seemed in fine form. He joked, he laughed, and more importantly he was making sure everyone else was having a good time. Suicide could easily be ruled out. But somehow, someone had provided Robbie with help in reaching the edge of that balcony. Yet everyone at the party had been accounted for.
On the street below, Norman Freeman opened the passenger door of a silver Acura ZDX that glowed in the sunlight. His fiancée sat down in a prissy manner and he closed the door carefully. Skipping around the perimeter of the car, he hurriedly climbed inside as if she might disappear if he dawdled too long. The car pulled out onto Olympic Boulevard and glided away.
The space they vacated stayed open for all of thirty seconds. A Ford pickup truck with a weather beaten paint job pulled in, and two Latino day laborers got out and walked down the street towards Holly's Liquor and Junk Food Emporium. I felt like joining them.
Instead, I thought and pondered, coming up with so little it was hardly worth the effort. There were at least two people at the party who saw Robbie as he entered his bedroom, Lenny Caputo and Curt the bouncer. Lenny wasn't much help and I suspected Curt wouldn't be either. Besides, a motive needed to be established first and that would take some digging if I chose to keep myself involved. Maybe I should listen to Norman and back off. He was moving on with his life and the police were moving on as well. It certainly made sense that I should too.
As I speculated, I kept returning back to one salient point. Norman had hired me to find out something, and I hadn't come through for him. I had taken a week's retainer and put in a day and a half's worth of effort. As corny as it sounded, I owed him something more, whether he wanted to accept it or not. I owed Robbie something too, and I figured that he certainly would have wanted the truth to come out. Mostly though, there was something gnawing at me, something from my past that this case had dredged up. I never liked loose ends, puzzles where the pieces didn’t quite fit together cleanly. Satisfying resolutions don’t always happen in this business. There were instances when it made sense to leave things be, but others where you just feel you have to keep poking the stick until something emerges. This case felt like the latter.
And one thing I did have right now was an abundance of time. With the exception of following Mrs. Wachs around, I didn't have a whole lot else to do. Idle hands being the devil's workshop, I decided to take a ride over to the ocean, but frolicking in the sparkling surf was the last thing on my mind.
Chapter 6
The beach at Venice was normally crowded only during the weekends, but the searing heat which scorched the basin had seemingly propelled one-half of L.A. to the cool Pacific waters. After spending twenty minutes of futility looking for a parking space, I succumbed to the inevitable and paid ten dollars to park in a lot.
Venice was developed by Abbot Kinney in the early years of the 20th century, a testament to that lovely city in Northern Italy. There were similar canals flowing into one another and homes built right on the edge of the waterways. The ocean was nearby and it was an eclectic, yet lovely place to live. Many years ago I had a girlfriend that lived there and it was a soothing feeling to awaken to the sound of water lapping near the window. Times change however, and so had Venice, California. The Venice of today still had some trendy parts to it but it also was home to a steamy pit of cheap bars and sodden people. Parts of Venice had been regentrified, but its charm would undoubtedly take a longer time to return.
Neary's Bar was located a couple of blocks from the beach on a sun drenched street that featured an adult bookstore, a bikini shop, and a little restaurant called the No Name Cafe. A pair of tacky paintings of naked women highlighted the stucco exterior of Neary's. As I walked through the old western style swinging saloon doors the smell of stale beer and sawdust wafted into my nostrils.
"Ten bucks admission," said a fat laden man with a pencil thin moustache. He had on a cheap white shirt open to the navel, and cheap black pants held up by a pair of cheap suspenders. Behind him, the interior of the bar was dark and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. A young, well proportioned girl wearing a black negligee danced across a long, narrow stage that looked like a miniature airport runway. A small railing surrounded the stage and a few dollar bills draped the top of it. The thundering beat of a pop song pulsated through the room.
"Does that ten bucks include anything else?"
"This ain't no massage parlor, Jack," he snarled. "Pay up or screw." He emphasized the last word by jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
I handed him a ten and he thanked me by looking away as I walked past him. I assumed it was up to me to seat myself. About fifteen seconds later, a waitress in her thirties with barely more clothes on than the dancer approached to take my order.
"Bottle of beer," I said, knowing that a place like this would be unlikely to stock Sierra Nevada.
She returned five minutes later with a clear bottle of Miller and a glass that was wet if not clean. I told her the bottle would be sufficient. No sense testing the dishwashing skills of the help behind the bar.
"Got a minute?" I asked, tossing a ten on her tray.
She smiled. "All the time you want to pay for."
The woman had short blonde hair that fell cutely into bangs, a face that might once have been pretty, and a figure that still was. Her body clung to a low cut red miniskirt, and what wasn't visible to the naked eye was easily imaginable. Behind her, the dancer had squirmed her way down to a black bra and pair of rainbow panties.
"I'm lookin
g for a fellow named Curt. Big guy, dark complexion, moustache. Ring a bell?"
"He's around somewhere."
"Is there a Danielle or a Tiffany working here?"
"Yeah," she said, shaking her head enthusiastically. "Danielle's here. She's on break. Stick around."
I put another five on her tray. "Appreciate it."
She disappeared and I turned my attention to the dancer. She couldn't have been more than eighteen. Her body swayed and grinded to the beat of the music. Smiling and sashaying along the runway, she moved deftly towards a thin middle aged man with reddish hair, black framed engineer's glasses and a pocket protector. He looked at her blankly, in the same manner in which he might have scanned the menu at Denny’s. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, tossing it casually to the floor as she shook her large breasts to the rhythm of the music. The man responded by draping a dollar indifferently across the rail.
Across the room, a door opened and Danielle walked through it, wearing an identical miniskirt, only hers was blue. Her thick brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, and in the darkened bar she appeared slightly older than I had remembered. Maybe nineteen instead of sixteen.
She approached me with an unenthusiastic "hi" and asked if I was looking for her.
"Do you remember me?" I asked.
She shook her head no. "Sorry. Lots of guys come in here."
I got straight to the point. "I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into the death of Robbie Freeman. You know, last week at the bachelor party?"
She looked around the room. "I don't want to get into any trouble."
"You won't."
"What's in it for me?"
I looked at her and wondered how someone so young could have become so hardened. A short stint at this dump might have been sufficient. "I used to be with the LAPD. I have a lot of contacts. I can help you if you need it." Then I thought of Judy and wondered if I had lost my mind.
Her eyes darted across the room nervously. "This isn't the place to talk."
"When do you get off work?"
"Six o'clock."
"Where do you live?"
She looked at me and hesitated. I handed her my business card. “”I’m just looking for information on the case. No reason to worry.”
“I don’t know about this.”
“Look I can find you through the police database. This way is just easier. I promise it’ll be all right.”
She sighed. "Okay. You kind of look like a cop. I’m in Mar Vista. One-two-oh-oh-six Washington. Apartment J."
"Got it," I said, jotting it down on a cocktail napkin.
Danielle looked across the room again. "Dammit," she whined. My eyes followed hers. Approaching us were two men: Curt, wearing a dark blue long sleeved dress shirt, and the engaging maitre d’ I encountered when I first arrived. Neither looked especially happy.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing," Curt asked of neither of us in particular.
"It's common courtesy to address people by mister or sir if you're unfamiliar with them," I pointed out.
"Go stick your head up your ass," he suggested, and then pointed a finger at Danielle. "I warned you about tricking in here. Take it someplace else or you'll be out on your butt."
Danielle's lower lip began to quiver. She bowed her head like a dog who expected to get swatted with a newspaper. My protective instincts started to surface, the same ones that got me into a uniform, and ultimately got me out of one.
"Why's that, Curt?" I asked. "Got something to hide?"
He turned and sneered. "Who is this clown? Look I don't know you, but unless you want to spit some teeth, go take a walk."
"Actually it's too hot to exercise. I just came in here to see if anyone would like to join Amway. Their soap products are environmentally safe and good for your clothes, too. Did you know that Tide cleans by burning?"
Curt gave me an incredulous look. "Whitey, take care of this asshole," he snapped.
"Gladly," Whitey said, his belly jiggling underneath those cheap suspenders.
He grabbed my elbow to lift me up, but I was already rising and I planted my left foot firmly on the ground. In the same motion I brought up my right fist in a swift uppercut motion and slugged him right under the chin. His head shot back as he groaned and staggered into the next table.
I turned to Curt, and by now he had his mitts up, ready to take charge of the situation himself. Never delegate unless you can live with the results. He moved towards me, not like a boxer but like a street smart brawler who knew that fights were won by he who was left standing. I blocked his first punch with my left forearm but his second got through and caught me on the side of the temple. It stung a bit and I knew there would be a bruise growing there soon. I countered with a left jab that hit him under his right eye, and then feigned another left and threw a hard right that landed flush on his mouth. It was the type of punch that should have sent him reeling to the floor to chew on some sawdust. Instead, he merely spit away a trickle of blood and raised his fists again.
By this time, Whitey had recovered enough to move closer and I noticed another goon approaching as well. The three surrounded me and I decided it was time for the great equalizer. I moved backwards and reached quickly down to my ankle. I brought out a .38 and waved it as menacingly as I could. They froze in their tracks.
"Just what the hell is this?" Curt said.
"I don't happen to have two other gorillas handy to match up with you," I pointed out as I eased sideways towards the front door. "This will have to do."
The music stopped abruptly and the stripper, who had just removed her panties, grabbed her garments and scattered off the stage. The patrons with some sense had already ducked under tables, while the others sat and gawked with their mouths agape. At the first opportunity, Danielle and the other waitress made a beeline for the dressing room.
I backed out of the swinging doors, my gun still pointing at the puzzled troika. My grip on the gun was tight and it startled me for a moment when I saw blood oozing out of my right hand. As I moved outside I relaxed my grip and let the doors swing shut like they did in the old west, haphazardly and one at a time. The three continued to watch me and made no motion to follow.
Walking briskly back to my truck, I imagined the group was wondering just who that masked man really was.
*
I arrived back at my apartment covered with sweat, only part of which I'm sure was resulting from the oppressive heat. I sat down in my recliner and gave serious merit to dropping the case. The police had closed it, Norman Freeman had stopped bankrolling it, and all I had to show for my efforts was a lump on the side of my head and a bandaged right hand. At times like these however, a mystical sign sometimes materializes. In this case it came in the form of a voice mail. The message was from Harrison Freeman. He wanted to see me. Now.
While my initial desire was to take a soothing shower and a long swig from a bottle of Canadian whiskey, I settled for the shower. Exuding liquor on the breath was unlikely to enhance a reputation. After a brief respite to collect myself, I dressed and drove over to the Freeman estate in Brentwood.
To say the Freemans lived luxuriously was to say that the sky is blue. The front lawn was so lush and well manicured it might have passed for emerald carpeting. A half dozen bushes, carefully sculpted to appear wind swept, stood majestically in the front yard. Lavender blossoms from nearby Jacaranda trees were sprinkled daintily along the grass. The house itself was a tall, stately McMansion, painted white, with a red, Spanish tile roof and ivy climbing up to the second story. California eclectic.
I drove my Pathfinder across the glazed, brick driveway and parked behind a gold Mercedes sedan, a silver Volvo station wagon, and a green Hummer. The Freemans owned Honda and Acura dealerships but none were in evidence. As I exited my truck I made sure I had the keys with me. If anyone's car was blocked, they would simply have to wait.
Walking up a red clay path, I reached the front door and rapped twice with t
he polished brass knocker. Approximately thirty seconds went by before an overweight maid wearing a flowered apron opened the door.
"Yes?" she asked shyly.
"The name is Burnside," I said, handing her a card. "Mr. Freeman asked to see me."
"Un momento," she said and closed the door. Two minutes went by slowly before she reappeared and directed me to follow her.
The interior of the Freeman homestead was as impressive as the outside. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung down from an ornate ceiling as we walked through the foyer and into what some might call the family room. A pair of long, identical black leather sofas faced each other, perpendicular to a wood burning fireplace with a stack of split logs bundled alongside it. We walked down a long hallway of cherry wood floors and into a stately office complete with skylight, picture window and a number of impressionist paintings hanging on the wall. A large, powerfully built man in his late fifties sat working at a huge maple desk that was strewn with papers. His hair was as golden blond as Norman's, indicating either expert coloring or a hair weave. At this level, a weave was a good presumption. I watched him work for a minute and then cleared my throat.
"Yes, yes, I know you're there," he said without looking up. "Give me a minute."
He gave himself about three, by which time he had finished whatever urgent business needed to be transacted at that exact second. He put his pen diligently back into an elaborate silver holder that was mounted on a square green onyx base. Looking at me for the first time, he rose, offered a confident expression, and extended a hand.
"I'm Harrison Freeman," he declared, in a manner no doubt designed to impress whomever he was addressing. Less than a week ago that name meant nothing to me. Right now it didn't mean much more and I put off genuflecting.
"Burnside's the name," I responded, and shook a large, strong hand.
Freeman suggested I sit down in one of the chairs opposite his desk. It was hard and uncomfortable, and I got the feeling this tactic encouraged visitors to get straight to the point. I needed no further inducement.
