by David Chill
"Yeah, I got a daughter, her name's Honey. She works for Disney. That okay with you?"
"What should I talk with her about?"
"About getting me bailed out of jail is what. I'm being arraigned this morning. She needs to get a hold of Silverstein, my personal lawyer. I already have a criminal attorney working this."
"Have you tried calling her?"
"She doesn't pick up my calls."
I wasn't entirely surprised. "Tell me what happened."
"I gotta explain this to you? Geez Louise."
"I guess you do have to explain this to me," I said, a little testily. "That is if you want my help."
"Gilbert Horne was shot to death last night."
My mind became instantly alert. "Where?"
"Where. At his house. Where else?"
"And the police think you did it."
"You're a genius."
"Did his wife accuse you?"
"His wife? April's not accusing anyone of anything."
"How's that? I'm surprised she's not a suspect."
"That would be nice," he growled. "But she's dead too. Police say the same person popped them both. And they think it was me."
Chapter 8
Honey Roper lived in Burbank, near Toluca Lake. She worked for Disney on the studio lot, but wanted to meet me at a nearby Starbucks. I surmised she didn't want her colleagues overhearing our conversation and I didn't blame her one bit.
I arrived at 8:30 a.m. and while the line to order coffee was long, many of the tables were empty. At one table however, I saw a strikingly pretty young woman sitting alone and nursing a latte. She looked young, and had a lean, athletic build. Everything about her was simply beautiful. Large, china blue eyes, an exquisitely cut mouth and long, shimmering, dark blonde hair. She was wearing a blue sweater which accentuated her eyes, but her face had an unusual intensity to it. I wasn't sure if that was natural, or just brought on by recent developments.
"Hello, I'm Burnside."
She stood up immediately and shook my hand firmly. Her long legs made her taller than I had thought. "Thank you for coming out here," she said with an air of seriousness.
"No problem. I'm doing some work for your father, I'm a private investigator. You heard about what happened?"
"I just went on the net a little while ago. I read about it."
"Sorry."
"No, it's okay. In fact, I'm kind of used to it. This sort of thing happened to Dad before. When we lived up in Vegas."
"How'd you deal with it?" I asked.
"Mostly pretended it didn't happen. I had some real problems obviously with Dad's behavior. My mom divorced him a few years ago, it wasn't a pretty episode. But in the end, your dad's your dad. You only get one and you have to accept him for who he is. In school, a few kids poked fun. But others were a little scared of me. I actually think it gave me some street cred."
"Guess it depends on what crowd you run with."
Honey took a sip from her latte. "When I was in high school, I hung out with some kids that were from, well, I guess you'd say the wrong side of the tracks. I drifted away from them when I got to college, UNLV. Played on the women's basketball team there. That helped provide some separation."
"What did you study?"
"I earned a degree in business, I was planning to go work for one of the casinos. Then Dad moved his operation to L.A. So I figured, well, there would be more opportunity out here."
"So you wound up at Disney. From gambling casinos to kids entertainment. Quite a leap."
"Maybe not so much," she pointed out. "I work in marketing. I write ad copy for feature films that are being released theatrically. It's interesting work. But in the end, I just help promote a film. The product I work on is a means to an end."
"Which is?"
"Moving up the ladder. Getting ahead. I guess in some ways I take after Dad. Hopefully just the good ways."
"I've only just met you, but you seem to have a lot of maturity and perspective," I acknowledged. "And you seem well-grounded. All things considered."
Honey laughed for a moment, displaying a sweet smile, but just as quickly she took it away. Her face suddenly became serious again. "When you grow up in Vegas, you grow up quick. I guess I grew up quicker than most," she said, and then paused. "So what was it you wanted to drive here and talk with me about? You're cute and everything, but I'm sure you're busy."
I looked at her for a moment. Honey was as engaging as her father, but without the thorny personality. Her rapid movement from topic to topic was unusual but intriguing. "There are a couple of things I need to discuss with you," I started. "First, what do you know about your father's business partner?"
"Gil?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "More than I'd have liked. He's been hitting on me since I was 16. One time when he was drunk he even exposed himself to me. I finally told him to stop it or I'd twist his johnson into a pretzel."
I burst into laughter. "That got his attention I'm sure."
"Well, yes it did. Sorry for the graphic description," she said.
"They probably don't talk that way at Disney."
"You'd be surprised."
"Okay," I said, having trouble keeping a smile off my face. "But seriously. I don't think your dad did this. I really don't. It just doesn't add up."
"Thanks. I don't think so either. And not just because he's my dad. Who would want to shoot both Gil and April? My dad didn't like Gil, didn't respect him. But Dad would never do this. He once told me the only reason he stayed with Gil as partners was because Gil was bringing in business. It was an interesting lesson for me."
"How so?"
"That you can choose to work with someone you don't like. The business world is simply about money. If someone is helping you financially, you put up with them."
"Interesting lesson indeed," I said, growing more and more impressed with Honey Roper.
"Absolutely. But was there anything else you wanted to talk about? I'm going to have to figure out where Dad is and go see him. That's what family does. Be there when they need you, although I'm not sure what I can really do beyond provide moral support."
"Yeah about that," I said with a frown. "There's something else we need to discuss. It's actually the main reason why I'm here."
"What's that?"
"Your dad needs you to bail him out of jail," I said.
Her big blue eyes suddenly grew even wider. "Really? I'm not sure how I'd do that. I don't have that kind of money. I get the feeling Dad's bail is going to run into six figures," she said, and then added wryly, "at least it did last time."
"He's got a plan."
She gave a quick laugh. "That's Dad."
"He told me the title to his house is in a trust. The trust includes both your names."
Honey stopped laughing and gave me a bewildered look. "That's news to me."
"I suppose that might be true," I said. "Anyway, he wants you to use the house as collateral. He said that as co-trustee, you can sign the paperwork. Once that happens, he'll make bail and be released."
She thought about this for a moment. "Okay," she finally said. "I know his personal lawyer, Jack Silverstein. I can have him run the paperwork and I'll sign what I have to sign. Good lord."
"What?"
"My Dad put me on the title to his house and he didn't say anything to me."
"It's strange. When you set up a trust I thought all parties had to sign. Surprise you?"
She stared down at her cup for a long minute and then stood up to leave. "No," she said. "I suppose it doesn't. He's forged my name on things before."
I walked with her out the door and over to her car, a silver Honda Civic. "So let me ask you something. If your dad wasn't involved in all this with Gil, who do you think might have done it?"
In an oddly fascinating way, Honey pushed her lower lip forward in the exact same manner that Gail did when she was thinking deeply. It was adorable and added to Honey's allure. But I had to be careful. If I were 20 years younger
, I'd probably start to get smitten. I still might.
"Gil and April had a marriage that was going south," she said. "Gil cheated. I'm sure he always cheated. Guys like him never stop at just flirting. I think there were a few women at the dealership he was involved with. But I know there was one woman in particular, even Dad commented on her once. He said she would have been good for him. She works at his dealership, but I don't think she'll talk to you."
"Why not?"
"On account of she's married. She was his assistant. I think her name might have been Betty."
*
I stayed off the freeways and took Laurel Canyon over the hill and into Hollywood. I didn't bother driving up Lookout Mountain. The forensics team was probably still doing their investigation at the Horne residence.
When I got to the Hollywood Division, it was buzzing. A lot of people were moving around, there seemed to activity everywhere. I asked for Detective Mulligan but he had not come in yet and my former colleague, Rick Taggart, was still on vacation in Maui. I asked the harried assistant to the chief of detectives if someone could call me today, and that my name was Burnside.
"Did you say Burnside?" she asked, suddenly stopping and focusing on me.
"I did."
"One moment," she said, and picked up the phone. "Mr. Burnside is here ... no, I mean he's right here ... yes, he's standing in front of me."
She moved the phone away from her ear, looked at it oddly and placed it back onto the cradle. "Someone will be right out."
It took only about 10 seconds, which for the LAPD was the equivalent of moving at the speed of light. A tall, well-built man wearing a black shirt and gray tie approached purposefully. He sported a deep tan, and his shiny black hair was combed straight back. He wore a gold shield pinned to his belt, on the left side of the buckle. A .38 special was clipped on the right side.
"You're Burnside?" he asked.
"Oh yeah. Been Burnside all my life."
He looked at me for a long second. "Follow me," he said brusquely, and turned and walked down the hall without so much as looking back. I suppose it would have been quite easy for me to stop and walk in the other direction, but my interest was now sufficiently piqued.
I trailed him into a nondescript office with a table and two black metal folding chairs. The room was institutional. The bottom portion of the walls were painted dark green, the upper portion were more of a sea green. It looked like neither had been painted in a while. On one side of the room was a window facing an alley. On the other side was a large mirror measuring three feet square and was hung against the wall. I knew from experience that this was a two-way mirror and there was someone behind it observing and taking notes. They might also be recording the session.
The detective pointed to one of the metal chairs. "Sit," he directed. "I'm Jim Johnson."
"How nice for you."
He looked at me. "Are you going to make this easy or hard?"
"I don't know yet. Are there any other choices?"
He stood up and walked around the table and folded his arms across his chest. He was about 6-foot-2 and looked like he weighed a little over 200 pounds. His face was as placid as his body was solid.
"Tell me what you know about Gilbert Horne."
"He's dead."
Johnson slowly turned his head from side to side. "You're a real smartass. I heard about you. Got kicked off the force a few years ago. Now you're a free agent. Representing scum."
"It's a living."
"That's some living," he sneered. "Cliff Roper is your client? Is that how low you've fallen?"
"I don't choose to look at it quite that way," I pointed out.
"Oh, and how do you look at taking on a double murderer as your client?"
"He wasn't a murderer when he hired me. And I'm not so sure he is now."
Johnson walked back to the other side of the table and sat down and glared at me for a long minute. Why he stood up in the first place was beyond me. Maybe he thought it added drama to the scene and would make me uncomfortable. If so, he had a lot to learn about me.
"Well let's just take a look at this, shall we?," he snarled. "The Hornes were murdered by someone using a Glock. Their bodies were found in their living room with no trail of blood. The shooter was kind enough to leave the Glock outside the crime scene. We found it in the bushes. When we inspected the gun we ran the serial number and saw it was registered to Cliff Roper."
"And your point is?"
Johnson shook his head. "You need everything spelled out for you?"
"Sure. Spell it out," I retorted. "And while you're at it, did it occur to you how stupid your whole theory is? If it had really been Cliff Roper, leaving the gun behind would have been the dumbest thing in the world for him to do. I'm sure you dusted it for prints, and I'd bet anything that Forensics comes back with nothing. I'm sure it was wiped clean."
"Oh you're sure," he smirked. "We've got this case wrapped up. Just need to put a bow on it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's easier to move on with a confession. But your stubborn client would rather risk lethal injection than cooperate and get a sentence of 40 to life."
"Maybe he didn't do it."
"Sure. And pigs fly too. The gun was allegedly stolen out of Roper's safe, but he never filed anything with the police. The Hornes were shot at the other day by a Glock and we found a bullet lodged in the wall. And Roper has no alibi that will hold up. Got any more smart answers?"
"I didn't know pigs could fly. They don't usually move too fast. Especially in this Division."
The sneer on Johnson's face stayed there. "I want to know everything you've got on this case," he said. "You hold anything back and I'll not only pull your license but I'll have you charged as an accessory to murder. You and Roper can grow even friendlier up in San Quentin."
At that point I decided to refrain from making further witty observations. And over the next four hours I explained, in excruciating detail, what my role was in the case, as well as my movements over the past two days. I repeated it again for Johnson, and then two more times for two other detectives. Finally, Johnson walked back into the room.
"Well, hello again," he said sarcastically. "You still comfortable in here? Get you a nice sandwich? Bottle of pop?"
"I'm fine," I lied. They weren't going to bring me anything, so there was no point in letting them think I was getting worn down.
"Been a long morning for you," he said wryly, the hint of a smile crossing his thin lips.
"Sure," I said. "Or is it afternoon by now?"
"It's 2:30," he smiled. "Don't worry, I'm your last stop of the day. Anything more you care to disclose here? Before you're in so deep that you can't get out?"
"Nope," I answered. "But like I told you earlier, the only thing Roper did was hire me to find out who took a shot at the Hornes last week. It wasn't altruistic, and I know Roper was a person of interest. He had a breakup with Horne and he wanted to dissolve their partnership. Came at a bad time for Horne, he owed money on what was probably gambling debts. And his car dealership wasn't doing well. He lived in the fast lane, but a lot of what he lived on was borrowed. Not unusual. Not in L.A."
"Sure," he said. "But you have to recognize that the reason for Roper's arrest is that we have evidence. And a motive. And a murder weapon."
I stared at him for a long moment. "When you think it through, do you really believe it made any sense for Roper to take this action now? He knew the police were targeting him, that they had identified him as a possible suspect in the shooting last week, that they knew the gun used was the same as the one he had owned. It would have been insane for him to move forward and do this."
"You know the routine," he said. "You were on the job for a long time. Great reputation I hear. Well, until the end anyways."
I gave him a look. "Okay, you read my file, you did your homework. I had a bad time of it in the end. The department suspended me. And when I got exonerated, well, things changed
. I wasn't willing to play by the rules any more. Sure, that attitude got me kicked off the force. But it also set me on a new path, one where I wasn't going to take the easy way out just because it was expedient."
"What would you have done?"
I looked at Johnson and then took a look at the two way mirror and spoke to the mirror. "I'd have done some good detective work, because that's what I was paid to do. What I wouldn't have done is take the easy route just because it's there."
Johnson tried to nod sympathetically. It wasn't easy for him. Being nice didn't come naturally to most cops. I knew that from personal experience. "Your prints are all over the Horne's house," he said.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Again, that was because I was there yesterday morning, talking to April."
"And you came back in the afternoon just to sit in your vehicle and watch the house."
"Yes," I said, not liking at all where this was headed.
"You would understand how we might wonder about your involvement here."
"And I'd have to be a really stupid assassin to visit the victims' house multiple times in one day before going inside and pulling the trigger on both of them."
"You're insisting Roper's innocent. Maybe he is. Maybe you're not."
"And maybe," I sneered, "you ought to come back with some concrete proof, rather than some half-baked innuendo."
"You made a good point a few minutes ago," Johnson observed.
"I'm sure I did."
He ignored the crack and continued. "You said we should do some more detective work."
"No," I reminded him, that cantankerous feeling rising back to the surface. "I said you should do some good detective work. I'm not sure you know the difference."
Johnson gave an ugly laugh. "You've got a big mouth. But we're letting you go. For the time being that is. And yes. That's only because we don't have anything concrete on you just yet. Maybe your client will throw you under the bus after we finish grilling him. But if I were you, I'd come clean now rather than later. You got anything to tell us, it's in your best interest to put it on the table early."
The only thing I wanted to put on the table was Johnson's head with my fist bearing down on it. Instead I told him I had nothing further to share. And as I left, I thought about the wisdom of taking this case and began to feel as if someone had handed me a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit.
