Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1)

by Chill, David

  "You lookin' to die, bud," he said softly, in as ominous a manner as I had heard in a while.

  I reached inside his pants pocket and yanked out his pistol. "The Indians say this is as good a day as any."

  He gave me a blank look and shook his head.

  "It's from Billy Jack," I said. "Don't you ever watch old movies?"

  His eyes never wavered. "You dumb piece of shit," he said.

  "Let's not get nasty Curt," I said. "I'm the one holding the guns."

  "Fuck you and fuck your guns."

  “Nice mouth.”

  I reared back and kicked him square in the groin. He grunted and clutched himself, falling to his knees in the process. With head bowed and mouth twisted hideously, he grimaced so hard I almost sympathized with him. Almost.

  Taking a careful look around the alley, I saw that we were alone. I reached into his pocket again and removed his wallet and keys. If only my Scoutmaster could see me now. I noticed a large wad of greenbacks but that was hardly my interest. After a minute of searching I found a car registration. Curt Salvo was his name and a Marina del Rey address was listed. He drove a one year old BMW. I put it back in the billfold and threw it at him.

  "Get up," I said, and slapped him across the top of his head to emphasize the request. Putting both guns in my pocket, I kept my right hand inside, finger squarely on the trigger. Curt staggered to his feet and I pushed him out of the alley.

  "I’m gonna get you for this," he managed. How many times had I heard that? It was as old as "you better be out of town by sundown".

  I directed him to go in the same direction as he had been walking in, and half a block later we came across his maroon BMW. Opening the door, I scanned the interior carefully, finding only empty coffee cups, a dog-eared Thomas Brothers guide and a couple of porno magazines. One can never do enough research, I suppose.

  Moving around the side of the car I noticed Curt was still slumped over, his hands placed precariously on his family jewels. I unlocked the trunk and saw something that didn't belong. The carpet in the trunk was grey, but a couple of large reddish-brown spots were smeared in the corner. A few dark red drops were evident on the metal frame near the latch. Blood stains.

  I was torn between self-congratulation for my ingenuity and loathing for lazy police investigations when I heard a noise behind me. I wheeled around just in time to see a big hairy fist coming straight at me. Before I could react, it caught me flush on the jaw and my face felt as if it had been plugged into a 220-watt outlet.

  I slumped over dizzily, seeing a barrage of colors swirl past my eyes. As soon as things became partially clear I got whapped again and felt myself hitting the pavement. I rolled over and struggled to clear my head quickly. I sensed someone going through my pockets and I lashed out with my foot, striking pay dirt as someone grunted loudly. As I got to my knees I heard a car door slam shut, an ignition turn over, and felt a wall of hot exhaust fumes shoot into my face. I coughed and spit, and by the time my vision cleared, the BMW was gone. I reached into my pocket and found my wallet and keys, but neither my gun nor Curt's was there. Damn.

  Chapter 11

  The Purdue police station is much like any other suburban precinct. Unaffected by much of the urban crime besetting blighted inner city areas, it could almost pass for an insurance office. That is, if the insurance agents carried pistols, wore blue uniforms and presented macho personas.

  I found Juan Saavedra's office and he was in his usual repose, feet up on the desk reading a report.

  "You ever think of going to work for a corporation?" I asked. "You've got the perfect posture for it."

  Saavedra looked up and did a double take. He was wearing his standard grey suit, conservative tie and size thirteen shoes. A solid man with close cropped silver hair and a rugged face, he looked every inch the experienced police officer, so his casual, often breezy personality was deceptive to those who didn't know him.

  Juan Saavedra had been a plain clothes officer for so long I couldn't picture him doing anything else. He had already put in his twenty years which meant he could retire whenever he wanted and collect a full pension. He enjoyed having a place to go each day though, a place where his colleagues respected his knowledge of how to work within the bureaucratic system, and more importantly, ways in which it can be manipulated. No one was pressuring him to hang up his badge and gun yet. He knew where the bodies were buried.

  "Corporate life's a little too dangerous," he observed. "I prefer the easier life of making our streets safe for the decent people of River City."

  "And how's that coming along?"

  "It appears, senor" he said, removing his feet from the top of the grey metal desk, "that the scumbags are winning."

  "You have a true way with words. And it appears you may be correct. For now, anyway."

  Saavedra' face turned serious. "Who sapped you?"

  "A gentleman named Curt Salvo, or possibly one of his cronies. I didn't get a good look. Curt runs a charming establishment in Venice called Neary's."

  "Right, Neary's. Is that the same place where those strippers at the Freeman party work out of?"

  "Yeah. I had a hunch your boss Lafferty might be too eager to wrap up the Danielle Crowley murder. So I conducted a little private look-see of my own. There's blood stains in his car trunk. Maroon BMW."

  Saavedra shook his head. "Illegal search, my friend. You need a warrant. Or probable cause."

  "Correction my man in blue. It's you who need probable cause and a warrant. I'm not limited by the same rules you are."

  Saavedra sighed. "Burnside," he muttered. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be the most straight laced cop on the force. Never cut a corner. You lived and died by the book. You were the type of cop the Department dreams of. Has being out on your own done this to you?"

  "Nope. Working on the force did."

  Saavedra shook his head. "I'll talk to Lafferty about checking out this Salvo guy closer. I dunno if we can impound the car just to check out the trunk though."

  "Be creative, Juan. You can swing something."

  "I suppose we can always say his trunk was weighted down or his tail lights weren't functioning," Saavedra mused.

  A voice came from the doorway. "That is if we can find him. Now that he knows we may have something he might just head for the hills. You may have scared him off Burnside, you dumb asshole."

  I turned and there was Mickey Batson leaning against the door, a sneer pasted on his face. Just when you thought a guy couldn't appear any more repulsive.

  "If it isn't the winner of the Mister Ed look-alike contest," I said.

  "Hey, smart ass, I still owe you one. I haven't forgotten."

  "The only thing you guys have forgotten, Batson, is how to do good detective work. If you had bothered to wonder about how the body might have gotten into my office, you might have checked a few cars, too. Did you think maybe they killed her and then took the bus over to my office? If it wasn't for my, quote, faux pas today, you'd be ready to close this one as fast as the Robbie Freeman case."

  Batson took a step towards me and I was on my feet in an instant. Saavedra moved quickly between us and positioned his bulky frame in such a way that a brawl would be unlikely.

  "None of that stuff in my office. Batson, why don't you take it somewhere else," he said, and then looked to me. "And you. Do you have to crack wise about everything? You can really get on a guy's nerves."

  I smiled. "You're not the first to point that out."

  Batson wheeled around and walked out, stopping at the door to point a finger at me and inform me that we weren't finished yet. Big surprise.

  Saavedra reached over and handed me a DVD. "Here's what you came for. I want it back tomorrow," he said and paused for a moment. "You know, Batson has a point. Salvo probably jumped ship once he knew what you found. We'll send someone around for him, but we may not be able to find the guy now. And you keep away from him, hear me?"

  "Sure. Just try looking at the
glass as half full, not half empty."

  Juan Saavedra nodded slowly as if he had never heard the expression before.

  "Yeah," he remarked. "That reminds me."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Where the hell are my Dodger tickets?"

  *

  I went back home to clean up and get my other gun. Unarmed I felt naked and vulnerable. Placing the new .38 into my ankle holster boosted my spirits and strengthened my outlook.

  Checking my voice mail at the office, I listened to two messages. My contact from Differential Insurance wanted an update on the Cindy Wachs investigation. After a beep I heard the voice of Harrison Freeman wanting to know what I had been doing the last few days, and if I had found the killer. I decided to put off returning the calls. There was nothing encouraging I could report to either.

  I pressed an ice pack to my jaw, although my hands eventually gave in to the temptation to let the bag roam all over my face. It was a wondrously lavish feeling, however it did not serve to lower the swelling much on my face. I looked into the mirror and decided the reflection didn't look all that bad.

  After downing a few glasses of ice water, my attention turned to the party DVD. Slapping the disc into my computer, I hit the play button and sat back to watch the frolicking for a second time. After a few minutes of seeing Danielle and Tiffany prance around, I felt an unusually strong urge to hit the fast forward button. Having watched Danielle be carted off to the coroner's office like a butchered animal, seeing her on the DVD was enough to turn my stomach. I concentrated instead on the activity in the background and what the guests were doing, which mostly consisted of post-adolescent jocks acting crude and embracing the typical behavior found at bachelor parties.

  All of the suspects were captured on the footage. Some were in the thick of things, others like me hovered around the perimeter. The camcorder did a good job of following the ladies' slinky movements although sporadic jostling distorted the picture on a few occasions. In a number of instances, the lens was aimed at the front door and I could vaguely see a few young men entering the apartment. One in particular caught my eye because in addition to wearing a jacket with the collar turned up, it seemed as if he were walking towards the bedroom and not into the party. But since the charter of the cameraman was to capture the performances of the nubile strippers, the camcorder mostly followed Danielle and Tiffany. They did a copious job of dancing about the room and there was ample opportunity to observe everyone. I also saw the clock Saavedra had referred to, and it seemed accurate.

  The only point where the camcorder took its eye away from the women was when Lenny stumbled drunkenly and fell on his face. I chuckled once more when Robbie counted him out to the utter delight of the crowd. Robbie and Curt carried him off and it took Curt a full two minutes to return to the party. Robbie never did. I replayed that two minute scene over and over but the only unusual point springing forth was that Curt came back into the room without the gun poking out of his holster. The clock on the wall read eleven o'clock, just as I had remembered. The camcorder never lies.

  The girls began to play the dildo game with Danielle strapping an enormous green dildo around her pelvis and climbing into Tiffany's waiting arms. Danielle was a bit hesitant at first, but Tiffany whispered in her ear and stroked her hair, and the two of them began to go at it. In the background, the revelers began to clap. The girls cavorted for a minute or two and then stopped abruptly, the two talking quietly with each other until Curt Salvo's husky voice told them to knock off the chatter. At that point they invited some of the gentlemen to join them. The line forms to the left, fellas.

  The lens focused on the guys queued up for their turn. Only Evan, Paul, Curt and one or two others remained on the sidelines. In the background I noticed a figure slip quickly through the foyer and out the door. It happened so fast and was in such a small part of the frame I barely noticed. For a moment I thought it might have been me leaving, but I had departed just before the girls began to frolic together. I replayed the scene, froze the frame, ran it in slow motion, ran it in reverse slow motion, even put my magnifying glass to the screen. Sherlock Holmes would have been proud, but it was all for naught. The only thing I could see was a black arm opening and closing the door. It wasn't much to go on. Hell, it wasn't anything to go on.

  *

  It was almost eight o'clock by the time I set out for Evan Wurman's apartment in Westwood, which meant it would be growing dark in a little while. Traffic was heavy, as everyone seemingly wanted to venture out and play in the warm evening. Like all else in Los Angeles, lingering on the freeway is the price of admission. The normal ten minute journey wound up taking twice as long, as I battled through the gridlock. I just hoped he was home.

  Westwood village is a pleasant, upscale community just west of Beverly Hills. There were numerous movie theaters, bistros and trendy shops in the village, and the surrounding community was among the more prestigious addresses in the southland. It was close to LAU and close to the beach.

  I parked on a side street that warned of towing if you were not wealthy enough to actually reside in the neighborhood, and could display a special sticker on your car. At one time there was a horrendous parking problem for local residents as the Westwood theatergoers snagged most of the street parking. Now the problem had shifted to the visitors. The merchants weren't too happy as business began to trail off soon after the law was changed, but my guess was the law would not revert back. The residents were among the most elite professionals in the city and had significant clout. In most places that's the name of the game.

  The intercom was answered by a male voice that managed to sound obnoxious by uttering a simple "who is it?" in a whiny, impatient tone. I shouted the words "UPS" into the intercom and he buzzed me up without a word.

  I reached the fourteenth floor and rang the bell to apartment 14G. A slender, almost effeminate looking kid in his early twenties opened the door. He had blond hair slicked back with an overload of mousse and a silver stud in his left ear. He wore a pair of dark blue Speedos and nothing more. His chest had no hair to speak of and I would have sworn he shaved his legs.

  "Evan Wurman?" I asked.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he asked pleasantly.

  I decided to try politeness for a change. "I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

  "Where's my UPS package?" he demanded.

  "Kid, there is no package. It was a ruse."

  "A what?"

  Just then one of his neighbors walked out into the hall. "Can I come in?" I asked. "This is pretty personal stuff."

  Evan looked around for a moment and said no. Behind him was an enormous living room featuring a long orange couch and a huge flat screen TV. From what I could see, there were no pictures on the wall, nor any window coverings. In the corner, a screen door led into a wrap-around balcony.

  "Whaddya want?" he asked bluntly.

  "I want to talk with you about the murder of Robbie Freeman," I said, loud enough for his neighbor to hear without trying. I thought that might have convinced him to take the conversation inside. Fat chance.

  "I don't know anything," he sneered. "Fuck off."

  So much for politeness. "Are you normally this debonair?" I inquired. "Or has the weather fried your disposition?"

  He glared at me and swiveled his head around to look back into the living room. "Pa-aul!" he called, almost singing the words. "I got some trouble here!"

  Some rustling could be heard in the background and a guy about Evan’s age walked up to the door. He had straight black hair parted on the side and sported a wispy moustache that barely made its way past his upper lip. This one carried an extra adornment in the form of a large pistol in his right hand. It was aimed at my belly button. Both myself and Evan looked down at it. Being a smart ass could indeed reveal some things.

  "What's the deal here?" Paul barked.

  I looked at him and shook my head. From his appearance, it would have been more appropriate
for him to come to the door holding a strawberry marguerita.

  "Did you remember to fill that up with water?" I asked.

  Paul's lower lip curled in anger and he jerked the gun up and pointed it in my face. "Don't screw with me, man! You don't know who you're messing with!"

  "Paul!" Evan hissed. "Keep it cool. Remember?"

  I lifted my hands in a peaceful gesture. "No harm intended, fellas. I just have a few questions about the bachelor party last week."

  "We don't want to answer any of your questions, Jack," Paul said, his hand shaking slightly from the weight of the gun. "We want you to get lost."

  "Okay," I said. From the way Paul was holding the gun I might have been able to smack it out of his hand if I reached out. But that was the problem. He was too far away and I'd have had to lunge for it and at that point I'd lose the advantage of a surprise attack. He might have enough time to step back or pull his hand away or even squeeze the trigger. It was still aimed at my tummy.

  "It was a pleasure and a privilege to meet both of you," I said, taking a step back.

  "Just get the fuck out of here," Evan snarled.

  "I may be back," I said, paraphrasing a line from The Terminator.

  "You do and you'll get a visit from my friend here," Paul shouted, waving the gun as if I didn't know what he was talking about.

  "It's okay," I said, continuing to back up. "I've got a few friends of my own."

  The door slammed and I went downstairs and sat in my Pathfinder for a while to cool off. I watched the sunset reflect off the smoky glass windows of a Westwood office tower. Down the street, a grey haired old man in a baby blue Cadillac turned the wrong way into the exit lane of a garage and stopped short with a squeal of tires. After taking a full minute to figure out what was happening, he shifted into reverse, backed out, and shot up into the entranceway.