Bubble Screen (Burnside Series Book 3)

by David Chill

  BUBBLE SCREEN

  A Novel by

  David Chill

  © 2014 by David Chill

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or deceased, is purely coincidental. We assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.

  For Andrea

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Safety Valve Preview

  Chapter 1

  The first time I met Miles Larson, he looked like he wanted to kill someone.

  Even though he was clearly over 70 years old and no taller than 5' 8", Miles had the pugnacity of an angry dog whose territory was about to be violated. His wife Clara stood at his side and maintained a similar repose. On the field, the Trojan Marching Band had begun a stirring rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner." The band was spread out sideline-to-sideline on the grassy floor of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, and their formation spelled out the school nickname, T-R-O-J-A-N-S.

  "Hey you two!" Miles shouted at a couple in the next row. He then repeated himself until he got their attention. "Take your hats off!"

  The young couple were both wearing dark blue baseball caps with italicized lettering that said "Golden Bears." They looked at Miles as if he were from another planet and shook their heads in disgust. Miles' face became contorted with rage at this disregard for what he obviously considered a simple request.

  Storming abruptly over to the couple, Miles verbalized his demand once more, this time with his right hand balled up into a fist. While he wasn't a big man, Miles was solidly built and looked like he had some scar tissue on the back of both hands. As the younger man began to ask who he thought he was, Miles shoved a finger two inches from his nose.

  "Show some respect for the flag," he yelled.

  At that point I sidled over and tried to get in between them. Usually I'm the one to instigate fights rather than prevent them, but Miles was a potential client and keeping him out of trouble suddenly became my first priority.

  "I don't think you all want to get thrown out of here," I pointed out to the couple.

  "What is this?" the woman protested. "We didn't do anything,"

  "Maybe not," I said, wiggling in between Miles and his new friends. "But all of you will get a security escort out of here and you'll miss the game. It's much easier to just take your caps off for 60 seconds."

  "It's a free country," the man responded.

  "Shut up!" Miles barked. "Now take those damn things off. This is the national anthem!"

  I extended my arm to prevent Miles from getting any closer and then turned back to the couple. "You really want to lose these 50-yard line seats? Really? Over this?"

  The couple looked at each other in exasperation and then sheepishly removed their headgear. I sensed Miles was about to blurt out a final quip, so before he could make matters worse I grabbed him by the arm and led him back to our seats.

  "Damn Cal people," he grumbled. "I'll tell you something, Burnside. I was ready to clock both of them. The girl, too."

  "I had a funny feeling about that."

  We returned to our seats to enjoy what was left of the national anthem before sitting down. It was a beautiful November afternoon in Los Angeles. Deep blue sky, a few windswept clouds, and a mild 65-degree temperature. A great day to watch a college football game. Not the type of day one wants to ruin by having an altercation over something silly. That is, unless one has an unyielding view of right and wrong.

  Miles and Clara Larson were important people at USC. They were important because they had lots of money and gave lavishly to the university. Owners of a successful business for many decades, they were the epitome of the big donors, and were very loyal to the school. They were treated regally, but as Provost Marshall Hunt had warned me earlier in the week, they were loose cannons in many ways.

  "There is no filter between their brains and their mouths," he had said. "Especially Miles. He says what's on his mind and thinks anyone who doesn't like it can go take a long walk off a short pier."

  "Thanks for making them my problem," I rejoined dryly.

  The Provost had laughed heartily. "Oh you'll do well by them, sir. They'll be great clients for you. They believe someone at their company is stealing from them. And when it comes to taking their money, well, that is the ultimate sin. They view things in very stark, black-and-white terms. The company is called Malco. I made the assumption that with your stellar SC credentials, they'd be eager for your help."

  "I appreciate the referral. But if someone's stealing from them, why don't they just go to the police?"

  "Oh my, no. They despise anything to do with the government. And they believe the police are tools of the government. They'd rather hire a private investigator. And who better to help them than a former Trojan football star? It didn't hurt that you and Johnny Cleary played together."

  It had been over 20 years since I had put on the cardinal and gold uniform, but for some people, my image remained frozen in time. And now that Johnny Cleary had been elevated to head coach of the football team, my status in the Trojan community had only grown. USC had a close knit relationship with its alumni, and maintaining its heritage was very important to the school.

  As the band left the field and made way for the teams to line up for the opening kickoff, I turned to Clara. "Does he always get this way?" I asked.

  Clara threw her head back and cackled. "Oh sure. He's been tossed out of here a number of times. But he always gets back in once security recognizes who he is."

  Having lots of money can help open doors, including the gates at an athletic event. In Los Angeles there were many tiers of wealth, and the Larsons appeared to be somewhere near the upper level. But wealth could be an illusion. The Larsons were not what you would call aristocratic. People who rose to that station in life often employed others to take care of their problems. The Larsons, on the other hand, seemed to delight in a good, old-fashioned confrontation. And Miles had a cantankerous sensibility that was oddly appealing at first, but I imagined it was one that could easily grow stale.

  "So Miles," I began. "I understand you have a problem you'd like me to look into."

  "I need a snoop," he declared.

  "I prefer the term Private Investigator."

  "Eh. Call yourself whatever you want, Burnside. I just need someone to go undercover in my warehouse. I'm losing thousands of dollars in product every week."

  "I thought you just installed Cable TV systems."

  "We do. We're what's called a home service provider. We hook customers up, install the set-top boxes in the homes. But the boxes are starting to disappear like crazy. I know who's doing it, I just can't prove it."

  "Have you set up security cameras?"

  Miles gave me an incredulous look. "Do I strike you as an idiot? Of course I did. The thieves wore masks and spray-painted the camera lens. I know who it is. I'm having Union problems and the shop steward has been a constant thorn in my side during bargaining talks. I'm sure he's behind it somehow."

  I sat back for a minute and took all of this in. "You can put in a second set of surveillance
cameras. Make them covert. They get activated when the first ones are tampered with. Mount them high up."

  Miles thought about this. "That's an idea," he said.

  "I understand this is a family business."

  "Oh yeah," he nodded. "Peter and Isabelle run the day-to-day. But I'm still the one in charge."

  "Your kids work in the business?"

  "Yup. Well, two of them, anyway. Got a third kid, the youngest, he decided to move to New York. Works as a consultant on Wall Street. Didn't want to work for his old man, he wouldn't even go to SC. Eddie was always the kid who did things differently."

  "Was that disappointing?"

  "Eh, it was a long time ago. But in some ways I respect Eddie the most."

  "Because he made it on his own."

  "Yup. Just like me. Nobody handed me nothing. In fact my old man kicked me out of the house when I was 18. Forced me to be an adult. I wanted to do that favor for each of my kids. Sink or swim. But Clara stopped me."

  Clara laughed. "I'm all for being self-sufficient. But you need to help your children get a decent start in life. And sink or swim isn't the best method for everyone. It can lead to a lot of problems down the road."

  "Oh heck, Clara, I just wanted to teach them the value of a dollar. My old man used to have me mow his lawn. Paid me 5 cents for a couple hours' work."

  "Not a great wage," I said. "No matter what era you grew up in."

  "Nope. But I used that nickel each week to buy me a chocolate bar. And it always turned out to be a damn good chocolate bar as a result."

  "I didn't think that was the parenting model I wanted to follow," said Clara. "But a child should understand the importance of money, and you do have to earn it."

  "So all your kids have successful business careers?" I asked.

  "Yeah. They do okay," Miles said. "Maybe not as good as me. But I'm a tough act to follow."

  Clara put a hand on my shoulder. "Do you have a family, Burnside?"

  I shook my head. "Haven't found the time yet."

  She nodded slowly, her helmet of white hair bobbing up and down. While there was a ruddy toughness to her demeanor, she maintained the last traces of what was once a beautiful face. "Found the time for a girlfriend?"

  I smiled. "Yes. Gail. In fact she's flying back down here later today. Been interviewing for a job and visiting friends. She just finished law school recently. Up north."

  "I'll bet it's tough to have a long distance relationship," Clara said.

  "We're used to it," I sighed. "She's been at Berkeley for the last three years."

  Miles turned to me with a pained look. "She's been going to school with them socialists?"

  I shrugged and didn't respond. Since Miles didn't take kindly to my having a girlfriend who had gone to Cal, I decided not to make things worse by telling him Gail had been an undergraduate at our cross-town rivals in Westwood.

  We stopped talking for a moment and stood up to watch the opening kickoff. The game began on a sour note for the Trojans. Cal's kickoff returner caught the ball near the goal line, and began moving up the middle of the field before cutting sharply to the near sideline. Outrunning everyone in the coverage, he scampered untouched all the way into the end zone for a 99-yard touchdown. Within seconds, USC was losing 7-0.

  "Bad karma, Miles. You should have let those Cal people wear their caps."

  "Heck no," he scowled. "It's un-American. Don't worry. We'll take control of this game soon enough. I have a good feeling about today."

  I did too. It had been a few years since I had sat in 50-yard line seats, and it was a treat I wanted to savor. When my old teammate Johnny Cleary was named head coach, he had offered me some sideline passes if I would come in one day and address the team. He wanted to bring back some of the old time Trojan spirit. I told him I would be happy to do it, and with the season winding down, I needed to get back to him soon and keep my promise. As well as working in time for my new client.

  "So Miles, I'll stop by your office this week and we can discuss how to approach this."

  "Good."

  "I just hope we don't get tossed out of the Coliseum today. I'd like to see the end of the game."

  "I promise. But I can't vouch for Clara."

  "Oh? Has she popped anyone?"

  Clara sat back and grinned. "Nope. But I came close last year."

  I raised my eyebrows. "You almost got into a brawl?"

  Clara gave a devilish smile. "Oh, it wasn't a fight. Last year a couple of young men in the row in front of us decided they wanted to watch the game standing up. I gave one of them a good poke with my umbrella and told them to sit down. They started whining about their rights, too."

  Miles chuckled and broke in. "That's when Clara really jammed the umbrella into one of them. Told them if they didn't sit down they wouldn't have any ribs left by halftime."

  "I take it they sat down."

  "Oh they did. They said they paid hundreds for their seats and I told them we've paid millions to begin the Coliseum renovations. They weren't going to top that."

  I doubted many others would either. I looked at Clara. "Glad Miles didn't have to slug anyone."

  "I'm glad too," she smiled. "But I think those fellas were more worried about me."

  *

  The game ended on a high note and Miles' prognostication about today proved correct. USC overcame a seven point deficit at halftime and roared back to beat Cal, 34 to 14. Despite the lopsided score, most fans stayed until the end of the game, causing the usual traffic nightmare exiting the Coliseum area. It took me nearly an hour to navigate the six city blocks from the parking lot to the Harbor Freeway, but once on it, my black Pathfinder hummed down the stretch of asphalt.

  Los Angeles International Airport is located on the edge of the Pacific. It's called LAX with the three letters spelled out individually, because that's its three letter airport code. Spotting tourists was easy, as they often pronounce the airport as "Lax," until someone points out they sound like a rube. Traffic was light on a late Saturday afternoon, and I quickly found parking inside the airport. I made my way to the gate at the Southwest Airlines terminal, but discovered Gail's flight from Oakland was delayed a few minutes. I stood inside a bar in the terminal to watch the ESPN highlights of the USC-Cal game I had just come from. Even though I had been at the game, watching the same event on TV always had a different feel to it.

  The doors to the gate opened and passengers began exiting the jetway bridge in single file. It took a few minutes, but the love of my life finally walked gracefully into the terminal. She wasn't hard to find. Gail Pepper had dark brown hair that drifted well past her shoulders, pouty lips, and a gleaming smile that could light up a city. She wore jeans and a black turtle-neck sweater. When she saw me approach her, she threw her arms around me and greeted me with a long kiss.

  "Hi there, honey," she said."Hope you haven't been waiting long."

  "I passed the time thinking of you."

  "You're sweet," she smiled. "And you lie a lot."

  "Only white lies," I countered. "And I try to use them judiciously."

  Gail slipped underneath my right arm, and we walked slowly and contentedly through the terminal and outside into the cool evening air.

  "You should be happy," she said, as we walked towards my Pathfinder.

  "I am, but is there something in particular you're referring to?"

  "USC beat the Bears today."

  "Ah. Yes. Good game. I'm surprised you know about it. Football was never one of your passions."

  "Still isn't. A group of guys were yelling and screaming in the airport bar before we boarded. They kept complaining, so I imagine Southern Cal was winning."

  "You know we prefer to be called USC these days."

  "Yes. And I've heard some of your Trojan friends refer to my fellow students as the Dirty Hippies. That was about a century ago."

  I smiled. "We do have some diehards. In fact, one of them may become my new client."

  Gail seemed i
ntrigued. "I look forward to hearing about that one."

  We reached the Pathfinder and I slid her suitcase in the back. As we headed up the San Diego Freeway towards Santa Monica, we argued playfully back and forth on dinner options before agreeing on El Cholo. We were seated quickly and settled in with a pair of margaritas.

  "Tell me about your trip," I started.

  "Great interview," she said, licking some salt delicately from the rim of the glass. "It would be an amazing opportunity, working on some very high profile cases. The boss is sharp and the money's not bad."

  "Any downsides?"

  "It's in San Francisco."

  "Right. One of our country's most picturesque cities," I pointed out absently and without much conviction.

  "I've come to like the Bay Area. ... " she said, her voice trailing off.

  "Except?"

  "Except you're down here."

  I picked up my glass and brushed the salt away with my fingers. Lifting the drink to my mouth, I took a deep swallow. The cold, tangy liquid tasted good.

  "I've always been down here," I said.

  "And I've missed you for the last three years. I've missed you a lot. Being around you feels good. In fact I plan to use my temporary freedom from work hanging around with you for a while. Your schedule permitting, of course."

  "Fine by me," I said. "But aren't there comparable jobs down here in L.A.?"

  "I guess. But having spent three years at Berkeley, my contacts are all up north. One of my professors is taking a high-level position in that office. In fact, that professor recommended me and arranged for the interview."

  I felt a bad thought coming on. I tried to keep it inside of me, but I knew it would come out eventually. When you have a girlfriend who looks like Gail, being a little insecure comes with the territory. Better to put the concern on the table now than let it marinate.

  "Sounds as if he really likes you," I managed. "And he wants to work closely with you."