Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  "Is someone else in the house?"

  She quickly said no. "It's our puppy, Chewy. She's probably gone out the doggy door. We don't walk her. She uses the backyard as her personal toilet."

  There was something very pat and rehearsed about her response, something that told me she had thought about this scenario and had a ready answer. It was an answer that was clear and concise and made sense. It was most likely a lie, but pushing her would not change the story, it would only harden her position and shut her down.

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about your husband? Anything that might help in getting to the bottom of this shooting?"

  April sighed. "I don't know who did it. I'm just concerned that the shot came too close to hitting me."

  "Maybe," I said, in as paternal a manner as I could, "that might have been the idea."

  She stared at me in disbelief. "Huh?"

  "If your husband owed people money," I said patiently, "then shooting him would not got them paid. Scaring him might. And scaring you might put even more pressure on him to come up with the money quicker."

  She took this in. Another sip of tea and five seconds of deep thought. "I guess that makes sense. Although the way things have been going lately, seeing me in danger wouldn't motivate Gil one damn bit. As a couple, we're pretty much done."

  I took this in. Over the years I had seen more than my share of bad marriages. From breaking up domestic disputes as a police officer to conducting private investigations on behalf of distraught spouses. I had learned more about the inner workings of bad marriages than anyone ever should. I stood up and handed her my card. "Give me a call if you think of anything else. Or if anything else happens around here."

  Looking at the card for a long minute, she drew in a breath. She finally seemed to be waking up. "Hey, wait a minute. You're not with the police."

  "I never said I was."

  She slowly digested this. "A private investigator? Can I ask who you're working for?"

  "You can ask. But I can't tell you. Sorry. Confidential."

  "Great. Just great. For all I know you're working for the goons who took a shot at us."

  "I'm not," I said, knowing she wouldn't be reassured at this point. "But I'm also trying to figure all this out. Just like you."

  "Sure. Wonderful. I think you should leave now."

  I rose and walked down the hallway, taking one last look out of the glass windows. The sun had started to peek through the clouds and it seemed like it might turn into a nice day. A small streak of sunlight reflected off the barbecue grill and I squinted to make out what looked like a small black cocker spaniel in the back yard. I watched it poke around before squatting to do its business. And then I saw a large, shirtless young man with short blond hair raise his arms skyward, stretching as if he had just woken up. He reached down to pet the dog, but the dog surprised him and jumped up to try and bite his hand. He jerked his hand away and gave the dog a dirty look before going back into the house.

  Chapter 6

  On the way back down from Laurel Canyon, I stopped off at La Brea Bakery and had another two cups of coffee and a ginger scone. I sat on a surprisingly comfortable wooden bench outside the bakery, and watched the traffic flow past as I ate my breakfast. Enjoying it considerably, I went back in and bought a loaf of bread for tonight and some more scones for tomorrow morning: ginger, blueberry and currant.

  I reached the Pathfinder, but just as I was about to climb in, my phone began to buzz. I looked at the caller ID and sighed. Cliff Roper wanted to talk.

  "Hi there," I began.

  "You find my ex-partner yet?"

  "Hello to you, too."

  "Yeah, yeah. Hello and how's the family. Where's Horne?"

  "I don't know."

  "Geez. What've you been doing the past 24 hours?!"

  "You'll get a full report," I said evenly. Investigating for Cliff Roper paid generously, but the working conditions left something to be desired.

  "Tell me you found out something at least," he said.

  "I found out something."

  "What?"

  "Your partner's been staying in the Marina," I said, withholding the name of the actual hotel. "I'll confirm it this morning."

  "What else?"

  "He's owes money to people. And he's having trouble paying them."

  "Uh-huh. Keep going."

  "Horne's wife is having an affair."

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I waited until it passed. It took Roper about three seconds to begin speaking again. "With who?"

  "Didn't get a good look at him. Other than big, buff and he had a blond crew cut."

  "Interesting. Okay. Anything else?"

  "That's about it. A couple of his employees at the dealership are worried. They seemed to like him. Seemed genuinely concerned about him."

  "Really. Well it's a lonely club they're in. That's all you got?"

  "For now, yeah."

  "Okay. At least you're doing something."

  Yes, and at least I'm being paid nicely, I thought to myself. The client appreciation I was receiving could certainly stand an upgrade. "I'll call you when I have something more."

  "No," he said before hanging up. "Call me when you have something I can use."

  *

  The freeway traffic had snarled, so it took 45 minutes to reach Marina del Rey. The Seaside Hotel was located across the street from a seemingly endless number of slips that housed hundreds of boats docked at the Marina. As is the case with most waterfront locales, Marina del Rey was upscale and encircled by expensive apartment buildings, condos and some luxury restaurants and hotels. The Seaside hotel was modest by comparison, but that just meant it was rather nice by most other standards. It had previously been part of a large hotel chain, but one day the chain's name was mysteriously taken off the building's signage, and it simply became the Seaside.

  I wandered through the hotel's front lobby, which was quiet and peaceful. The early morning checkout rush had finished, breakfast had been served, and the employees were going through their mid-morning routines. The front desk associates were huddled over computer screens. Off to the side was a lounge area, where a pair of bartenders cleaned and arranged glassware. An attractive, young waitress straightened out some black Formica tables nearby and placed folded pink cloth napkins in the appropriate spot. I decided she would be my first interview, mostly because she was young. And younger people are often freer in sharing their comments and observations.

  "Come here often?" I joked, as I took a seat at a table she was setting up.

  She smiled and gave a flirtatious giggle. "Oh, now where did you come up with such an original pickup line?"

  "I've been working on it all morning. Sounds like it could use some tweaking."

  "No, the opening line's just the ice breaker. If a girl's interested, it almost doesn't matter what a guy says at first. As long as he says something."

  "I'll remember that," I said, hoping my days as a bachelor would soon be ending forever. The waitress was very pretty, had a smooth complexion and was very well proportioned. She looked all of 21 years old. If that.

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Oh, I'm Gretchen."

  "And I'll guess ... you've just turned 21."

  She giggled again. "You're close. I'm 22. Say, can I get you an eye opener this morning? They make a mean Bloody Mary here."

  "My eyes are already wide open," I laughed. "But I'll take one without the vodka. I think you call that a Virgin Mary."

  "Indeed we do," she winked, and walked off to the bar. A few minutes later she came back with the large red drink, complete with a celery stalk rising dramatically out of the glass.

  "Would you like to run a tab?" she asked.

  I threw a ten on the table. "That's okay. I'm actually here on some business. Can you talk for a minute?"

  "Sure," she said enthusiastically. "It beats setting up tables."

  "I'm sure. How long have you worked here?"
/>
  "About a year. It's my day job. Pays the bills while I work on what I really want to do. I grew up in Nebraska. I'm just here trying to live the Hollywood dream."

  "How's that working out?" I asked.

  "Slow start. I'm making a few contacts. But things take time. I'm hoping mom and dad will finally accept this when I hit it big."

  I didn't need to ask, but I did so anyway. She told me she was an aspiring actress who did some modeling on the side. When I was on the LAPD we used to refer to girls like these as AMWs, meaning Actress, Model, Whatever. The Whatever usually started off as a Waitress, but once in a while devolved into more sordid activities such as porn and prostitution. All too often, parents did not give their blessing to their daughters moving to California to take a shot at Hollywood stardom. So if the girls began to have money troubles, they often turned to other sources of income, and sometimes to the oldest profession. Not that that always happened, but it did so more often than one would think. I knew that better than almost anyone. My involvement with a girl like Gretchen had effectively cost me my job at the LAPD.

  "I imagine your parents will be a lot more comfortable when you start to get some work in the industry."

  "Oh, I'm sure they will too," she smiled.

  "So Gretchen, I'm looking for someone. I heard he comes here a lot." I pulled out the Bay City Motor Cars brochure and turned to the back page as I handed it to her. "Here's his picture. Name's Gilbert Horne."

  She studied it for a second. "Oh sure. He was just in here last night. And well, the night before that too."

  "He's a regular?"

  "No, not exactly. He actually stays here sometimes. He said he was an agent, and I thought, oh wonderful, maybe I'll get an in. Turns out he mostly works with athletes. I mean he told me he knew some producers, but I got the feeling he was just trying to impress me to get into my pants."

  I smiled. Somewhat savvy for a 22 year old. But this was L.A. You got savvy in a hurry or you went back home. "Was he by himself last night?"

  "He came in alone, but you know, he left with someone. Are you a police officer?"

  "No, not at all," I smiled. "I'm just doing a background check."

  "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

  "I don't think so. But that's why I'm looking into this. So from what you've described, he sounds pretty smooth."

  Gretchen shrugged. "I guess, for an older guy. But the woman he met came right up to him, so it's not like he picked her up."

  "This woman, what did she look like?"

  "The usual. Blonde and pretty," she said, looking up at the ceiling as she spoke. Why people did that to help jog their memories was beyond me. Maybe they were hoping for some spiritual guidance.

  "Is it usually a different girl each night?" I asked.

  "Sometimes. But this one I've seen before," she said, looking down and skimming through the brochure. "Nice cars. I didn't know Mr. Horne was involved in a dealership."

  "I think he's involved in a number of different businesses. Anything else you can tell me about him?"

  "Hmmm. Not really. He's a good tipper. But other than that, no. He's always been nice to me."

  I said nothing and waited for her to continue. When you're quiet, people sometimes feel the need to say something and fill the void that silence brings.

  "One other thing," she finally said, her brow furling into a frown. "And this happened last week. I didn't really think about it much at the time. But Mr. Horne was in here for a drink and another man approached him. Big guy. Thought he might have been a professional wrestler or something. Really strong looking, you know?"

  I nodded in agreement, but again didn't say anything.

  "Anyway, they talked for a few minutes and then Mr. Horne handed him an envelope. He told the big guy that was all he had. Then the big guy said his boss wasn't going to be happy about this."

  "Anything else?"

  "Not really. But Mr. Horne didn't look so good after that. He finished his drink quickly and then he left. Looked like he had a lot on his mind."

  "Did Horne refer to this guy by name?"

  She thought for a moment. "No. But they kept mentioning Texas A&M. Maybe he played football there once."

  *

  The thin young man at the desk was smiley and pleasant. His white shirt and tie were covered by a snug gray vest. When he asked if I was checking in today, I told him no, but I was hoping to connect with a guest at the hotel.

  "Their name, please?" he said in a high-pitched voice, looking down at a monitor underneath the chest-high counter.

  "Gilbert Horne."

  He typed a few things into the computer and then a few more things. He looked up at me. "What was that name again?"

  I repressed my inner urges and smiled patiently. "Gilbert Horne."

  He played around with the computer for another minute or two. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Horne checked out this morning."

  "Ah," I said, and flashed my fake gold badge with my right hand. With my left hand I slipped a $50 bill across the counter. I imagined a client like Cliff Roper would understand the absence of certain receipts. "Any idea when he'll return?"

  The young man discreetly slipped the bill into his pocket. "Mr. Horne doesn't have a specific date," he said. "But he's here a lot, so I imagine he'll be back soon."

  "A regular?" I peered at him.

  "I guess. He stays with us somewhat, uh, frequently. We have certain guests who come and go a lot. You know."

  "Sure," I said, having a sneaking suspicion that certain rooms were available on an hourly basis. The fact that the big chain had disassociated its name from the hotel was now starting to make sense.

  "Would it be too much trouble to give me a call when he returns?" I asked, handing him my business card.

  "Oh. You're a P.I."

  "I am."

  "I thought you were a police ... oh, I guess it doesn't really matter. I thought maybe you were, you know, legit."

  I smiled again. "I am legit. I'm just not with the LAPD anymore."

  The young man looked around and lowered his voice. "I thought I might hook on as one of your snitches."

  I considered this. "You still might. What's your name."

  "Warren Tell."

  "Okay, Warren. Let's keep this to ourselves. There may be some more opportunity to earn something down the road."

  He gave me a long look and lowered his voice. "The pay here sucks. I'm good with helping you."

  I gave him my final smile and walked out toward the parking lot. In many hotels that are located in upscale neighborhoods, valet parking is a given. At the Seaside, it's imaginary. At one point in time, this might have been a more opulent hotel. Times change. Nothing stays the same.

  Chapter 7

  I ran a quick white pages search on my iPhone and found Ted Wade's address easily. Checking the traffic app, I smiled when I saw that the freeways were now wide open. Taking bites of a ham and cheddar sandwich I bought at the hotel's Grab n' Go kiosk, I drove out to my next unscheduled appointment. Once I reached the Harbor Freeway, it took me only 15 minutes to cruise down to San Pedro. But the drive through scenic Palos Verdes to the Wade residence took over half an hour.

  Next to perhaps only Beverly Hills, the four communities perched on the Palos Verdes Peninsula had the highest priced homes in the L.A. area. Jutting out into the blue Pacific, P.V. offered spectacular views and even more spectacular homes. The area had a somewhat countrified feel to it, and at one point I passed a beautiful ranch with a series of stables. A couple of young women strode atop a pair of golden palominos. A mile down the road, I slowed for a stop sign, only to encounter a group of half a dozen peacocks strolling across the road. One stopped in the middle and looked at me quizzically before turning and continuing his walk.

  The Wade property was on an ocean-view street called Rocky Point Road. I pulled into the long driveway, which featured an enormous garage built to house five cars. The main residence was nearby. When I rang the doorbell, a tony lookin
g woman in her 50s answered it. She was dressed casually with white slacks and a turquoise pullover.

  "Hello," she said pleasantly.

  "Hello to you," I said. "I'm looking for Ted Wade."

  "Ted? He's not home right now. May I ask who you are?"

  "My name's Burnside," I said, handing her my card. With some people I didn't get the feeling I'd need to obfuscate things with a fake badge.

  "A detective?" she asked, her eyes widening. "Is Ted in some kind of trouble?"

  "No," I said reassuringly. "I'm actually looking into an acquaintance of his."

  "Oh, dear," she said and opened the door wider. "Why don't you come in."

  I entered the spacious residence. The foyer was lined with a glossy tile floor, and a circular staircase was situated nearby. A huge crystal chandelier was hanging from the vaulted ceiling, a good 40 feet off the ground. We moved into what one might call a parlor area. There were two striped couches facing one another, a gorgeous mahogany table separating them, and a baby grand piano off to one side. Soft white carpeting lay underfoot. The window offered a panoramic view of the ocean. We sat down on one of the couches. It felt brand new.

  "I'm Ellen. I'm Ted's mother."

  "Nice to meet you."

  "So what has he done this time?" she asked, in a resigned voice.

  "This time?"

  "Ted doesn't run with the finest crowd these days. I'm a little worried about him, considering the people with whom he associates."

  "What I'm here for may or may not involve him," I started. "It's mostly background work."

  "Background work?"

  "There was a shooting in the Hollywood Hills a few days ago. No one was hurt, and I don't have any reason to believe Ted was involved. But he may have known people who were."

  "A shooting? Dear God."

  She sat down and took a breath. I sensed Ellen Wade was more than willing to talk, and possibly even looking for an excuse. "Has Ted's behavior changed lately?" I asked.