by Chill, David
My heart sank. Was all this effort for nothing? I looked into those amber eyes and searched for some knowledge that could help.
"He wasn’t pushed?" I asked cautiously.
"No," she said, taking a pregnant pause. She looked down at her roommate again before returning my gaze. "He was thrown."
Chapter 8
My body didn't want to go to sleep that night. Two brawls in one day were more than anyone should have to endure. When I was on the force I never mixed it up more than a couple of times a year, much less one day. I assuaged my bruises with a steaming bath followed by a lavish application of Icy Hot. My nerves were soothed by two bottles of Sierra Nevada pale ale.
I finally fell asleep at two-thirty and after waking up to the sound of Ms. Linzmeier cranking up the pipes at five o'clock, I dozed off again for a few more hours. I began stirring at a little past seven, my body soaked with perspiration. The side of my head ached, my ribs hurt and there was a yellowish-purple bruise developing on the inside of my left thigh. Better there than four inches higher.
A cool shower and a glass of iced espresso started my morning. It was forecast to be hotter than yesterday but the weathermen were optimistic that cooling trends were on the horizon. Ever the positive thinkers.
I lounged about my living room, thinking about which move to make next. If Tiffany was telling the truth, my hunch was verified but it still left me with the timeless issue of whodunit. Tiffany swore up and down she never actually saw who threw Robbie off the balcony, but she was just as adamant that it was no accident. She also swore that if I went to the police she would deny everything. Two steps forward, one step back.
According to Tiffany, her manager had nothing to do with Robbie's killing. Curt seemed a likely suspect but he had an alibi. And it was also a strong possibility Curt had nothing at all to do with the murder, that he simply wanted his girls to be quiet so they could resume their sultry careers without interruption. With the exception of a sore body, I was right back at square one. I decided however, that I wasn't up for another physical confrontation today so I ruled out going back to the strip joint. I had another path to explore and besides, the scenery on campus was just as pretty.
I arrived at LAU just after one, and parked in front of Graddis Hall which housed the University's athletic department. I walked up a flight of stairs to the administrative offices and was surprised that the only decorations were a few posters. At USC, a walk through Heritage Hall meant passing trophies, photos of national championship teams and more memorabilia than one thought could exist.
I reached Coach McCallum's suite of offices and walked inside, noticing a pair of secretaries busy at work. One of them in particular caught my eye, a seductive blonde wearing tight short-shorts and a light blue halter top. Our eyes met and recognition immediately sunk in.
"Hello Ashley. Is the coach in?"
"This is a surprise," Ashley Stark said, her green eyes filled with confusion. "I hope you're not here about Robbie."
"Actually I am. I've got a new client. Believe it or not, this one pays better than Norman."
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"The winning numbers for tonight's lotto would be nice. Failing that I'll settle for a few minutes with the coach," I said, and opened McCallum's door.
"Hey, you're not supposed to go in there," she protested.
The craggy face of Lew McCallum turned towards us. By now he was in his sixties, yet McCallum had the tough, edgy look of a lion that hadn't eaten for days. Solidly built, without even the hint of any fat on him, the legendary coach still looked like he could knock down the bulkiest lineman on his team. He was probably in better shape as most men half his age.
"It's all right, Ashley," McCallum said in a charbroiled voice that had an Oklahoma drawl. "I'll talk to this here young man."
Ashley nodded and exited the office, closing the door softly.
"Hi, coach. Thanks for seeing me. The name's Burnside. I'm a private investigator." I handed him one of my business cards. McCallum looked down at the card and up at me again. A dim recognition crossed his face.
"You a football player?"
"At one time, yes," I said, a measure of pride in my voice.
"You were part of Martin's crew at SC weren't you?" he asked, peering at me as if I were a used car he was about to kick the tires on.
"A long time ago, coach. Eighteen years ago to be exact."
"I remember," he said. "I surely do. That secondary you were in was really something. You and Cleary and what were those other kids... Mott and that guy Kolamalu, yeah, right. You little SOBs gave me a few headaches, I'll tell ya. That was back in the day when the Bulldog kept beating us each year."
I nodded, albeit warily. I wasn't sure if he was complimenting me or getting ready to throw a punch. McCallum wasn't that far removed from the Woody Hayes school of personal diplomacy. He pawed my card for another minute before a wry smile emerged. I suppose he just liked to toy with people.
"Well now sir. Just what do I owe the pleasure of your calling?"
"I've been hired by the family to look into the death of Robbie Freeman," I said. McCallum's smile disappeared.
"Well now. I don't know how I can help you."
"Coach, you knew Robbie for years. Tell me what you thought of him. Had he changed much? Who was he hanging around with? Anything I can go on."
"Robbie," he mused, looking off into the distance. "Robbie was the player who could have but didn't."
I cupped my ear. "Please?"
McCallum took his time answering. He sipped on some coffee and a melancholy look surfaced. "He had all the tools," the coach said finally. "He was fast, he was tough, he had the stickiest hands you ever saw. I once saw him snare a pass while he was lying on his back. Just stuck a hand out and grabbed it. Damn, that kid was a receiver, let me tell you."
I said nothing. McCallum seemed to be building a head of steam.
"He made all-Conference his junior year and if he could have kept his nose clean last year he would've been an all-American. That catch he made against SC his junior year was a thing of beauty. You see it?"
I shook my head no.
"Two seconds to go, we're down by five and Norman lofts the ball into the end zone. Robbie makes this incredible circus catch and then bounces into the goal post head first. Knocked him clear out cold, but he held onto the ball. Won the game for us. We practically had to carry him into the locker room.
"But something happened after that. I dunno if it was the conk on the head or what. Part of it was losing Norman to graduation, I suppose. Terry Kuhl doesn’t have Norman’s arm. But part of it was something else and I had trouble getting a handle on it. Our talent wasn't as good as the year before, but that's when the real men rise to the occasion and take charge. Robbie just started goofing off. Skippin' classes. Beggin' off practice. We couldn't count on him, so we slowly phased him out of the offense."
"So he changed," I said. "Was he hanging around with a different crowd, into different things...?"
McCallum wiped his face with a big hand and looked down into the palm. "Robbie was into himself. Drugs, new friends, what have you, it don't matter. Robbie cared more about having a good time. He had his brother's talent but not his desire. Desire comes out under adversity." A look of distaste had formed on his lips. "Robbie folded like a piece of wet paper."
The big question. "Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?"
The big man gave a sad chuckle. "There were plenty a times I'd have liked to killed the little bastard."
"Seriously."
McCallum gave me a look. "He was a talented kid with some problems. He bullied people when he couldn't get his way. Maybe one of that crowd he hung around with. Wurman, Caputo, that bunch are no good."
I thought of something just then. "Coach, one last question. What did you think of Norman?"
"Norman? Great natural athlete. Fine competitor. Wished he'd have used his head more. He has a dense side to him. Sometimes
that kid could look at a blue piece of paper and swear it was yellow. Robbie was the one with the street smarts. Probably too much for his own good."
I wasn't entirely sure of what to make of that but the coach had stood up, indicating our time together was running out. I rose and thanked him for talking to me.
"S'all right," he said, walking me to his door. "Our secondary's gonna be the death of me this year. I just wish I could get a few more boys that can hit like you used to."
I peered at him through slit eyes. "What do you mean used to?"
McCallum let out a roar and slapped me on the back. "Atta boy. Take care now, son."
*
I walked out of McCallum's office and started out into the hall. I heard my name called and turned around. Ashley Stark looked troubled and wanted a word with me. We adjourned to an empty office.
"I need to ask you something," she said in a concerned voice, arms folded against the light blue halter. "Do you honestly think there's something more to Robbie's death?"
"There's a possibility," I said.
"What have you found out so far?"
"Not much, just an indication that he had some help falling off of that balcony."
She looked incredulous. "That's so horrible to even think about. Who do you think did it? "
"Honey, if I knew that I would be at the police station swearing out a warrant. Why the sudden interest?"
Her face tightened. "Norman and I are setting up a new date for our wedding. Next month. I want to put this problem behind us. We're anxious to move on with our lives."
The only thing I felt moving on was a rising level of anger. "Yes, you told me that. You want to move on. Put it in the past, maybe forget it ever happened.”
“We asked you to stop your investigation. Why can’t you just listen to us?”
“I have other priorities. And if I come up with Robbie's killer then I guess that just delays your nuptials even more. Maybe even gives Norman a chance to get cold feet about marrying you. You might have to return all those nifty wedding shower presents and miss out on seeing Kauai with all the other lucky couples."
Her body tightened. "That's not true at all. You make it sound like I'm marrying Norman for his money."
"Of course not. The kid's father's worth more than most people can count to, but that thought never crossed your mind."
"You’ve got a lot of nerve," she said hotly. "Oh, I don't even know why I'm discussing this with you. I don't have to explain myself."
"Of course not. And money isn't an issue at all. I'm sure you'd be chomping at the bit to marry Norman even if his father pumped gas or hauled garbage."
"You don't know that," she said, her face getting flushed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know all I care to. Your fiancée’s brother takes a swan dive off a twenty story building and your biggest concern is whether you can reschedule your wedding quickly."
"We can't bring him back," she said, her breathing getting heavy. "What else can we do but move on?!"
"You can show some respect for the dead by not trying to cast their memory away as quickly as you can. You can stop trying to manipulate your boyfriend by having him call off an investigation before it's barely underway. You're what? Twenty-two? You've got your whole life in front of you. What are your plans after the wedding? To spend your time getting your nails done and doing lunch with Buffy and the girls?"
"How dare you talk to me like that!"
"I talk any way I want to," I said, and walked out of the office. The Burnside of a few years ago would have treated her with kid gloves. She was just young and had a narrow focus. But I was trying to piece together a puzzle, getting punched and kicked along the way, and didn't appreciate the malice I was being awarded for my efforts. The Burnside of today pulls few punches.
*
My next stop was back at Campus Security. In contrast to the malevolent reception I received from Ashley Stark, the officer with the pouty lips and pretty brown hair was all smiles when I walked in.
"Mr. Manning, what a pleasant surprise," she said, getting up from her chair. "I'll bet you're here to see Dick Bridges again, aren't you?"
I gulped. She was being a little too sweet. "I take it you figured out who Peyton Manning is."
She moved her lithe body close to mine, the wide smile ever present on her lips. "I'm not much of a football fan," she admitted. "I prefer sports I can participate in myself. Football obviously isn't one of them."
"Perhaps you can tell me about them sometime," I managed.
"Now Peyton, how do I know who you really are?" she asked very playfully.
I smiled and bowed my head. "I stand humbled," I said. "I promise to be more respectful."
"That's better." She wrote a phone number down on a piece of paper, and under it she included the name Gail Pepper. I put it in my pocket, feeling my pulse beginning to jump.
"Call me," she said. "I may not be able to throw passes like Peyton Manning, but I’ve been on the receiving end of a few."
"I'll bet."
"Oh," she said with a mischievous grin. "By the way, you can go right into Mr. Bridges’ office."
I returned the smile and walked off. Women. Just when you're ready to swear off of them, one comes along and puts a bounce in your step.
Dick Bridges was typing something into a keyboard and motioned me inside. I sat down gingerly and that was only partially due to my bruises. Gail certainly had her effect.
"Burnside, how ya doing?"
"Oh, running in circles, hootin’ and hollerin’."
"And you do it with so much style," he said. "I take it this call has to do with the Freeman case."
"You’d make a good detective."
"Oh yeah. As well as anyone, which is probably to say not really. What do you make of things?"
"I don't know whom yet, but I have reason to believe Robbie Freeman was murdered. The accident scenario is unlikely."
"Tsch, tsch. So you disagree with the police findings. Gee, I find that hard to fathom. Do you have a witness?"
"Uh-huh. Probably won't testify, but she's managed to convince me, anyway. It also fits better than the accident scenario. What I'm trying to dig up is first why and then who. Any ideas would be more than welcomed at this point."
"Robbie, Robbie," he mused. "I've been poking around with that myself actually. What I've picked up is that he was in a bit of trouble. Seems he had been on the outs with his old man. Dad knew about Robbie's coke habit and kept threatening to shut off the flow of funds. He didn't shut it off entirely but let's just say it slowed to a trickle. The boy ingeniously figured out that if you want some money to buy drugs, the best course of action is to start selling them. Apparently he had a fairly lucrative business going on. This was after the season ended, mind you. I couldn't see McCallum sitting still for a dealer on his squad."
"If he was aware," I pointed out.
"True."
"Any idea who his supplier was?"
"He has a buddy named Evan Wurman. Best I can tell, it’s Evan who was bringing it in."
"I've heard the name," I said. "Tell me about him."
"Grew up with the Freeman kids, played wide receiver for McCallum his freshman year, but he wasn't very good. Got kicked off the team and he dropped out of school a year later. Parents were killed in a car crash and he got the whole inheritance. I'm not sure how much, but I do know the family had a ritzy estate in Brentwood. I figure he landed on a few mill. Apparently he decided to put it to work on the street."
"How about some of the other players. Like maybe Lenny Caputo, Max Brewer, or Terry Kuhl?"
Dick shook his head. "Don't know. Terry Kuhl always struck me as just a wise guy. Caputo was a hanger on. And Brewer? Seemed okay to me. I dunno, Burnsy. You're gonna have to keep digging. There's more to this mess. We’re not seeing it all yet"
I nodded grimly. "Everyone's a suspect."
Bridges sucked in his cheeks and squinted at the ceiling. "Just about. You ca
n probably remove the Freeman family from the list. If they wanted to kill him, they'd have just kept feeding him drugs."
"Probably. But I've learned not to whittle the list down too quickly. You never can tell."
"You mean Norman?"
I shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Brother against brother? Sounds too biblical for my heathen mind to comprehend." Dick paused for a moment. "Of course a week ago our biggest problem was how to stay cool in this heat."
"Quite true, my friend. You know what?"
"What?"
I ran a hand across my brow. "We haven't figured out how to take care of that either."
*
I drove off of the LAU campus and the farther east I went, the higher the temperature climbed. The downtown high today was a blistering 105 and the forecast was for continued heat and more hot winds. The Santa Anas were still whipping the trees mercilessly, and from the inside of my air conditioned Pathfinder the winds resembled an arctic storm in the dead of winter. Shangri-la had its moments.
I reached my office, climbed upstairs and halted immediately when I approached the entrance. A crack of light shined in the slit near the floor. The door’s lock had been jimmied which probably didn't take much effort. I had a deadbolt but hardly used it, simply because I rarely had anything valuable enough to protect. Someone had been there however, and it was possible they were still lurking. I drew my gun out and slowly pushed open the door. It creaked eerily.
Someone was there all right, sprawled out in my chair, her face a bloody mess. It took a moment before I could determine who it was and it turned my stomach when her identity became apparent. It took a moment because there wasn't much left of her face, but I recognized the undershirt and I recognized the cleavage. Danielle would be going back to Montana after all.
In a box.
Chapter 9
The police detained me for the rest of the day, firing questions, taking fingerprints, and examining Danielle. I shamed them into at least throwing a sheet over her. They seemed to be unmoved by the gory spectacle, as I would have been had I not known her. Every glance at her lifeless body sickened me and was a painful reminder I was partially responsible. If I had ceased my poking around, Danielle might still be alive. She could have found a way out of Neary's, and a way out of that life. Instead, her ravaged body was left waiting for me, a barbaric gift with a clear message. Back off.
