by David Chill
"A few days ago. That was when?"
"Thursday."
I tried to process what I had learned thus far. The gunshots were fired yesterday, on Sunday. Maybe the two incidents were related. Maybe not. Vig was a street term for the interest payment on a loan, so it sounded as if Gilbert Horne indeed had debts and his creditors wanted him to make good. Shooting him would not achieve that, but a close call might spur him to come up with the money quickly. Christy had an unusually close relationship with her boss. Maybe it was paternal. Maybe not. And hidden somewhere in this morass was Horne's relationship with his partner at the sports agency, my new well-heeled client, Cliff Roper.
"Was Gil a gambler?"
"Oh, you could say that," she said in a sing-song voice.
I took this in. "So where do you think he might be?"
"I don't know," she shrugged. "I doubt he's left town though."
"Why?"
"If he's going to find his way out of these problems, running away won't help. It never does. Your problems just follow you."
"Well said," I commented.
With that, Christy seemed to compose herself quickly, wiped her eyes, and grabbed the gear shift. In a moment, we were flying down San Vicente. After a few turns, we were back at the dealership. As I got out of the car, Christy thanked me and began to walk away.
"There's one last thing," I reminded her.
She turned and gave me a puzzled look.
"I need my driver's license back."
Chapter 5
My apartment was on 4th Street a few blocks from the bluffs overlooking Pacific Coast Highway. The building was indeed north of Montana, but just barely. Montana Avenue separated the quaint bungalows and apartment buildings to the south of it from the strikingly large McMansions and estates to the north. In fact, my apartment was actually right on Montana, albeit on the northwest corner of 4th Street. I hadn't bothered to clarify this factoid with Christy at the time.
I walked into my apartment and immediately smelled something good. The scent of garlic wafted through the air and the lovely view of Gail Pepper, hunched over the kitchen counter hard at work dicing vegetables, suddenly came into focus.
"I love the smell of garlic in the evening. Smells like ... home."
She turned and smiled. "Nice, isn't it?"
I returned the smile, walked over and kissed her. "Very much so."
"Now aren't you in a good mood," she said, her radiant smile still shining. Gail's shiny chestnut brown hair was tied back and she wore a purple apron over her dress. Gail was the most beautiful woman I had ever gone out with, and I still had to pinch myself at the mere thought of us getting married. Somewhere along the line, I had gotten lucky and the gods had smiled on me.
"I've had an interesting day," I said, "and a lucrative one."
"Well that sounds wonderful. I look forward to hearing about it. That is, after you set the table for dinner."
I laughed, gave her another kiss and went about my assigned chore. Gail and I had become engaged six months ago, and we quickly moved in together. Or I should say, she moved into my apartment. It was not a huge amount of space, and in some ways the apartment was now rather cramped. But oddly, I didn't mind. I had spent many years alone, too many perhaps, and sharing my home with a lovely young woman was a welcomed change. At some point we would need to look for something bigger, as the need for our own personal space would become important. But for now, we were two cooing lovebirds, discovering more and more about each other. And liking what we were finding.
I opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured two glasses. A few minutes later we sat down to dinner. Chicken, mushroom risotto, grilled vegetables and rosemary bread. I was duly impressed.
"This looks amazing. Especially considering you worked at the office all day," I said, taking a bite and smiling in appreciation.
"Part of it is timing things right. Part of it is Trader Joe's. I can do a lot of things quickly. Risotto takes all day to cook properly. That one came frozen. Sorry."
"No need to apologize. It beats anything I ever put together as a bachelor."
"I'm not sure I want to hear about those details. But I do want to hear about your day. It's been a while since you described your work as lucrative. In fact, I'm not sure you ever have."
"I know. And I actually have two cases," I bragged.
"When it rains, it pours."
"Indeed. The first one is through my old pal, Harold Stevens. Standard fraud case. A woman claims she was burglarized and lost a lot of expensive jewelry. But she doesn't live in an affluent area, and there's no reason to believe she had that much ice on her. And everything seems too pat."
"Did she file a police report?" she asked.
"I'm sure she did. Had to for insurance purposes. Her name's Noreen Giles. Why?"
"I can take a look at her background, if that's all right with you."
"Fine by me," I said. "I never turn down free information."
"How about your other case? And I guess that's the lucrative one."
"Ah yes. Does the name Cliff Roper ring a bell?"
Gail frowned, and those beautiful pouty lips protruded out in thought. "It does. The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it."
"Cliff was the sports agent I encountered last year. He was the one trying to blackmail Marcellus Williams from USC into signing with his agency. You might remember Marcellus. After the UCLA game, he gave us both big hugs. You especially."
Gail laughed and her dazzling smile was again on display. "Oh, I remember now. Yes, Marcellus was quite ... enthusiastic. You got Roper to back off. But wasn't Roper the one with the checkered past? Didn't he even change his name at one point?"
"He did indeed. When he operated up in Vegas he went by the name of Hal Delano. I guess after being arrested a dozen times, he decided his brand name needed freshening up."
"Charming," she said. "Are you going up against him one more time?"
"Actually, no. He's my new client."
Gail gave me a look. It bespoke both wonder and a puzzled sense of disappointment. For now, I chose to focus on wonder.
"It's not quite what it seems," I started.
"It never is in the beginning," she said, putting her fork down and lifting the wine glass. "Do tell."
"Cliff Roper insists he's the victim in this case. He split up with his partner in the sports agency. Then someone went and fired a couple of shots at the partner. Name's Gilbert Horne."
"And Roper is a suspect in the shooting."
"Person of interest."
"Ah," she said.
"The gun used in the shooting was a Glock pistol. Roper owned a Glock, but claimed it had been stolen recently in a burglary."
"Not surprised he has an excuse," she said, taking another sip of wine.
"True. But there seems to be a growing list of people who were angry at Horne. Former clients he didn't service properly, and some rather unsavory creditors who want to be paid. It appears Gilbert Horne liked to gamble."
"You come into contact with such lovely people."
"And you don't, Ms. Assistant City Attorney? If I recall, you're working on a case where people are stealing checks out of public mailboxes. We're not working with the most upstanding individuals."
"And I'm trying to put them away, señor. You're now trying to help one of them get off."
"Hmm," I said, taking another bite of risotto. "So how's your case going?"
Gail looked across the room. "We have a great case," she began. "And I think we'll get the perps to go for a plea bargain. They'll do jail time. But there have been three more complaints this weekend about mail stolen right out of the mailboxes. We don't know if they're part of this same ring, or if we have an epidemic on our hands."
"Best advice is to not drop mail in the box the night before."
"True, but not always convenient. And one of the victims told us today that he dropped his letters in the box outside his local post office. Someone actually stole it right o
ut of there. They smeared some glue onto a rubber hose and pulled the envelopes right up out of the mailbox."
"Some thieves have no shame."
"Or brains," she added. "In public places these days, there are video cameras everywhere."
I picked up the wine glass and pretended I was a connoisseur. I swirled the wine around and looked at how it draped the glass. I lowered my nose below the rim and took in the bouquet. I then took a sip of the chardonnay and let it linger on my palate. It had what experts called a buttery finish, meaning it tasted smooth rather than tart.
"Cliff Roper is not someone who is short on brain cells," I pointed out.
"Some crooks are more clever than others," Gail responded.
"You know he's never actually been convicted of a crime."
"You've certainly had a change of heart about this guy," she said. "You're usually discerning about who your clients are."
"This case sounded interesting. I'm curious. I think there's more here than meets the eye. And oh yeah. There's one thing I should probably add here."
"What's that, Mr. Wine Expert?"
I smiled. "He's already paid me $10,000 in cash as a retainer."
Gail picked up her glass and took a sip, although she didn't bother with all the gesticulations. "It sounds like he's a little desperate."
"Could be," I agreed.
"It could mean he wants you to find a fall guy."
"That could be true too."
"And so what do you think after one day of investigating?"
"I think," I said with a smile, "That we have a nice, expensive wedding to pay for soon. The Miramar Hotel doesn't come cheap."
"Money shouldn't be the main reason you do things," she said.
"It's not. I'm intrigued by the case. But this is the world we live in. Money's not something I can just ignore."
*
The next morning started with another round of hazy sunshine. I knew it started that way because I was up at 5:30 a.m., with plenty of time to take in what one might liberally call a sunrise. I was up at 5:30 a.m. because my downstairs neighbor, Ms. Linzmeier, had started a new job which required her to be at work at 7:00 a.m. She liked to begin the day now by taking a long hot shower and singing every Beyonce song she knew. And she knew a lot of them.
Sitting at my desk, I combed through the Internet to see what I could learn about Gilbert Horne's online presence. After a half-hour of sifting through mostly innocuous information, I switched over to looking into Noreen Giles, the woman Harold Stevens suspected of engaging in insurance fraud. I noticed a number of name changes, although these could have simply been multiple marriages. Checking further into each name would take more time, so I made a mental note to return to this case in the next day or two.
I got up and made a pot of French roast coffee, and drank it slowly as I watched the black sky turn gray and hazy. I left the apartment at 7:30 a.m., just as Gail was stirring. She was unaffected by Ms. Linzmeier's schedule, blessed with the ability to sleep through almost any kind of noise. I kissed her goodbye, remembered to grab the Bay City Motor Cars brochure, as I headed out into the gray day.
It was early enough that I could hop on the freeway without getting sandwiched in the mind-numbing morning rush hour that plagues Los Angeles. I drove a few blocks and turned down onto the California Incline, a steep service road which connects Santa Monica to the Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean looked dark and choppy, reflecting the gloomy marine layer overhead. PCH quickly led into the eastbound 10 Freeway and it was a pleasure to drive on a relatively empty road for a change. It took only a few minutes to reach La Brea, but another 25 minutes to navigate up through Crescent Heights and into Laurel Canyon.
In one sense, Laurel Canyon is an important north-south artery which connects the L.A. basin with the San Fernando Valley. In another, Laurel Canyon is a world unto itself. During the 1960s it attracted a counter-culture society, and numerous rock stars and entertainment industry folks migrated to it for the rustic style of living. Laurel Canyon allowed people to live in a seemingly rural area, yet be only a few minutes away from the conveniences of a bustling city. Over the years, the rustic feel gave way to a level of urban sprawl. There was still a country feel to the place, but with house after house built right next to one another, the ability to commune with nature became more difficult.
I turned left onto Lookout Mountain Avenue, and drove about a mile up the hill. The farther up I drove, the more the road narrowed. I passed a quaint row of rusty mailboxes, the kind with the little red flag you lifted when you needed the postman to pick up letters to be mailed. This was a throwback to another era. In most parts of L.A., those who still used these types of mailboxes made sure they came equipped with a lock on them. But this was part of the quirky charm of Laurel Canyon.
It was early enough so that most normal working folk would be up and about, but still likely to be at home. My guess was that April Horne would be home, though probably fast asleep. I parked in a driveway with a hand-carved sign that read, "The Hornes," posted nearby. Next to me sat a white Mercedes Roadster and a black Porsche Turbo Cabriolet. Leaning on the bell, I buzzed for a good five minutes before a drowsy looking woman in her late 20s opened the door and asked what the hell I thought I was doing.
"Good morning," I smiled.
"Look, whatever you're selling, we're not buying," she said, tightening the belt on her red robe. It didn't appear she was wearing much clothing underneath. It did appear she had more than ample cleavage to reveal.
I flashed my P.I. badge. "I'm not selling anything. I'm an investigator looking into the shooting the other day. Mind if I come in?"
The woman ran her fingers through her peroxide-infused blonde hair for a moment and blinked a few times. "I've already been through this with the detectives the other day."
"Just doing some follow up, ma'am," I said. "You're April Horne, right?"
"Uh ... yeah," she said, after a long moment's worth of thinking.
"Maybe we can talk inside?"
She stepped back, which was about as much of an invitation to enter as I would likely receive. "Give me a minute," she said, and pointed to a corridor. She turned and went in the opposite direction.
The interior hallway spilled into a living room that was awash in light. A large skylight in the ceiling, coupled with what seemed like a wall of glass windows, made it difficult to tell if you were inside or outside. The windows faced a back yard that consisted of mostly shrubs, trees and foliage. A small patio with a gas barbecue grill was nearby. I sat down on a bar stool next to a white countertop and waited for her to join me. After a few minutes, she returned in shorts and a tank top. Her hair was pulled back, and some quick makeup had been applied. She put some water in a mug and microwaved it, then slipped a Good Earth tea bag inside, dunking it half a dozen times. Sitting down, and without bothering to offer anything to me, she took a quick sip of her tea, winced at the heat, and gave me a blank look.
"So what do you want?" she asked in a monotone voice.
I refrained from making a smartass comment. No sense pushing her this early in the morning. "Has your husband been in contact with you since the shooting?"
"He's called me."
"Is he still in town?"
"I'd rather not say," she said.
"You know, we're just trying to learn who fired that gun the other night. Anything you can tell us is helpful."
She blew into the mug and took another sip. "Gil's in town. He's staying at a hotel but I can't tell you which one. In all honesty, I don't even know. He wouldn't tell me."
"Could it be the Seaside in Marina del Rey?"
She gave me a stunned look. "Why did you bring that up?"
"Let's just say I'm good at my job."
She stared at me blankly, in a way that said she didn't want to discuss this, and in a way that I interpreted as having hit pay dirt. I tried another tact. "Don't you think that's strange that he wouldn't tell you where he's staying?"
"I
think our whole marriage is a little strange," she said, a tinge of bitterness coating her voice.
"How's that?" I asked, trying to evoke her obvious need to vent.
"Look, we've been married six years," she said looking down into her teacup. "But his lifestyle has been pretty much the same as when he was single. He's always out hustling for new clients. Or whatever."
"That's the world of a sports agent," I pointed out. "Showing a player a good time is part of the deal. I'm sure you knew that going in."
"What I knew was that Gil was a fun guy. What I didn't know was that he had a gambling problem. And a womanizing problem."
I processed this piece of information. "The two sometimes go hand in hand."
"Yeah, and he also told me he had a fallout with his sleaze ball partner."
"You mean Cliff Roper."
She gave me another blank look. "Yeah. The two made a lot of money together. Gil brought in some big clients for a while, he had a cousin up at Oregon, this quarterback who was helping him sign a bunch of college football players."
"And that pipeline was drying up."
"I guess. All I knew was that he was acting differently. And then we started getting some threatening phone calls."
"You think these calls were a precursor to the shooting?"
"I guess. Gil said he owed some money, gambling probably. He was talking about selling the car dealership. Ironic, I guess, since he won the damn thing in a card game."
"So I heard. Tell me about the womanizing."
"What's to tell?" she said in a dismissive voice. "He sometimes comes home and I know he's been with other women."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I can smell it on him."
I leaned back and took a momentary break. There wasn't going to be a whole lot more I wanted to learn going down this path. But it was still bound to be a piece of the puzzle.
At this point I heard a rustling sound coming from another part of the house, a movement that seemed as if someone had just woken up. The faint noise of a door closing was audible. April Horne pretended not to hear it. I chose to not pretend.
