by David Chill
Chapter 9
I found myself leaving the Hollywood Division a little hungry, so I absently bought a sandwich from a vending machine on the way out. I took two bites and kicked myself for not remembering how bad the food was there. Tossing the reminder in a trash bin, I climbed into my Pathfinder and thought about my day thus far.
The Horner murder case was SOP for the police, standard operating procedure. Take the easy way out, find the path of least resistance. By charging Roper, they'd wiped a double murder off their plate and handed it over to the City Attorney for prosecuting. Whether the City Attorney was actually able to move forward successfully was of little concern to them. What was important was that it looked like they had quickly solved a crime. If the prosecution failed to convict Roper, that was their problem.
So all of a sudden, my investigation was no longer limited to my client, Cliff Roper. I was now faced with the need to exonerate myself from any wrongdoing. My thoughts drifted first to Johnny Cleary's beautiful Palos Verdes home, and then to the even more palatial estate of his neighbors, the Wades. I began to wonder about my career choices. I worked as hard as anyone, but while they lived in the lap of luxury, I lived in a rent controlled apartment. It wasn't too late to try a new line of work, but making a radical career change just to earn more money was a dubious move.
I struggled to change the focus of my thoughts. Sometimes when I distance myself from a knotty problem for a while, creativity blossoms and fresh thinking begins to take shape. And with that, I recognized I needed to pay some attention to Harold Stevens' case, that of the questionable burglary victim, Noreen Giles. I checked her address and discovered she lived only about a mile from the Hollywood Division. It seemed like a good stop before I went back to Santa Monica.
Will and Noreen Giles lived on a tree-lined street near Melrose Avenue. It was a nice enough neighborhood, albeit nothing fancy. This was a slice of old L.A., wedged between the wealthy Hancock Park zip code featuring stately manors, and an inner-city working class neighborhood lined with rundown apartment buildings. Hancock Park was one of L.A.'s toniest neighborhoods, and had numerous Tudor-style homes and well-maintained properties. The street the Giles lived on was more pedestrian, with older, smaller homes that were nicely kept up, built back in the 1920s. Their house was beige with a red Spanish tile roof. A sign promoting GSL Security Systems was hammered into the lawn. The sign was wrinkled and weather-beaten, and it looked like it had been there for quite a while.
I rang the doorbell and a nicely dressed, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length auburn hair appeared. She was wearing slacks and a white top, nothing special except for a stunning emerald necklace that draped her neck.
"May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
"Hi," I said. "My name's Burnside. I'm an investigator working with the Differential Insurance Company. I'm looking for a Mrs. Giles."
"Oh yes," she exclaimed, and motioned with her hand. "Come in."
Unlike the reception I received at the Hollywood Division, this was a nice change of pace. Noreen Giles ushered me into the living room, where she had me sit down on a green leather couch and offered me some coffee. The room was small but nicely appointed. The taupe carpeting appeared new, and a pair of crystal lamps sat on pecan end tables on either side of the couch. A couple of small chairs were situated in each corner.
"No thanks. I've reached my limit for the day. Anything more than six cups and I get too jittery."
"I'm a coffee addict," she bragged. "I drink it all day long. Even before bed. Doesn't affect my sleep."
"I've heard about people like you. I'm envious," I said, at the same time wondering what the point was of drinking regular coffee right before you went to sleep.
"It's interesting," she said. "It gets me going through the day, but by nighttime I get a serenity that's very nice."
"You're one of the lucky ones," I commented, knowing that caffeine was a drug and we were both addicted, just with different levels of tolerance.
"Oh yes," she gushed. "I know. Lucky indeed. So what is it you need from me today?"
"Just a routine follow up. Why don't you tell me about the burglary you had here."
"Not much to tell," she said. "It was daytime, we were gone, it happened sometime between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. We were at work. They smashed the sliding glass door in the back. They took our TV and sound system, a few paintings from the walls, a little cash, and of course, all the jewelry. They seemed to know right where it was."
"Where was the jewelry?"
"I had it hidden in a shoe box in the walk-in closet. I must have 50 boxes of shoes, but they went through each and every one of them. They took it all too. Some really lovely pieces. A couple were heirlooms, been in the family for generations. Irreplaceable."
"You should check some of the local pawn shops," I suggested.
"I have. Nothing's come up."
"Can you show me the sliding glass door where they entered the premises?" I asked, standing up.
"Of course," she responded and led me down a narrow hall, highlighted by a low, curved archway. The house was indeed older, probably built close to a hundred years ago. There was no central heating, just a furnace in the middle of the house, tucked away inside a closet, and connected to a few floor vents nearby.
Mrs. Giles led me into a small back room which was furnished with a desk and a credenza and a filing cabinet. Everything was neat and tidy. The replacement glass had already been installed, and not by the best craftsman. As I opened and closed it, the sliding door did not feel like it was rolling properly on the rails; a rattling was evident, and the glass itself was not flush with the frame.
"I noticed you had a sign for a security company out front. Do you still use them?"
"No. It's been there a while, before we moved in. We just started living here this year, since January. My husband and I are realtors, and business has been slow. We should have signed up with the security company, but you know, hindsight is 20-20."
"I'm sure it is," I said, recalling a coarse joke about how hindsight may indeed be 20-20, but it's hard to look through that little hole.
"So," I said, "they smashed the glass door, came in, took the items and exited the same way."
"Yes. Very simple."
"Any witnesses? Neighbors?"
"No, not a one. No one heard a thing. My guess is they used a baseball bat wrapped in a towel. Keeps the sound down. It's the smashing of glass that gets people's attention."
My eyebrows shot up. "Why do you say that?"
"Oh, well, I don't know for sure, mind you. Just a guess. I heard that's how burglars work," she said, suddenly apprehensive about details. "I think I read about it in a magazine."
"Sure," I said. "But I must say that's a lot of expensive jewelry to have around the house. Even it were hidden in a safe."
"Oh, I know, isn't it? But well, I'm in real estate, just like my husband. We sometimes have to show off a bit to let clients think we're successful. That's the main reason I kept it handy. To wear it."
"The image can be the reality for some people," I remarked.
"Oh, that's so true!" she cried. "Especially in this town. If you look successful, people just assume you really are successful. Who has the time to investigate?"
I responded by smiling. One person in particular had the time.
"So do you see any problem with getting our claim processed quickly?" she asked, smiling back at me.
I gave her a noncommittal answer, mostly because I didn't have a good answer. "Quickly is hard to say, that's up to the claims people, you know how they operate. But nothing here seems out of the ordinary."
"Oh, good. You know getting burglarized is quite traumatizing. We just moved in here and we're wondering if we should even stay."
"Where are you from?"
"Nebraska. We moved here years ago when the real estate market was hot. We figured we'd take advantage of it. You know, make hay while the sun shines. But we're actually thinking of going b
ack to Omaha after this. Too many lean years."
"Understood," I said, and we started walking to the front door. "Big cities have their share of crime. I'll file my report, although I may need to come back for a few more questions."
"That's no problem. It's better if you call first, I'll make sure Will's home too."
I rarely set appointments when I was investigating. Seeing people when they least expected it was a good way to gauge things. "By the way," I said as I was leaving, "that's a gorgeous necklace you have on. I guess the thieves didn't get that one. Is it emerald?"
Noreen Giles opened her mouth in surprise for a moment. "Oh," she exclaimed. "No. This isn't emerald. Costume jewelry. Just looks like the real thing."
I smiled at her as I walked off. "Sometimes that's almost as good. Maybe even better."
"How's that?"
"Most people can't tell the difference. And you don't have to worry about it getting stolen."
She gave me a long look and swallowed hard. "Good point."
*
My route back home took me past Pink's Hot Dogs. I briefly thought of stopping there for lunch, but the combination of a long line and a less-than-healthy meal convinced me to keep driving. I went back to my office first, and figured I'd grab something nearby. But as I approached the door, there was a hulking figure waiting outside in the hallway. He was big, blond and didn't look happy.
"May I help you?" I asked.
"I'm looking for Burnside."
"You found him. Who are you?"
"I'm Ted Wade. I hear you've been looking into me."
I opened the door and we sat down. I moved behind my desk, Ted Wade sat in an office chair I had claimed from a former neighbor who was evicted for not paying his rent. The chair had looked comfortable at the time, but clients told me it lacked the ability to lean back. I opened the bottom desk drawer and left it open. Inside was a .38 special.
"What I've been looking into," I began, "is the shooting incident at the Horne residence. It's now morphed into murder."
"Why were you talking to my mother?" he asked, ignoring what I had just told him.
"Because you weren't home."
Ted Wade thought about this and nodded slowly. He was dressed in white pants and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt. His shoulders were square, his thick arms were large and muscular, and his hands were big. His jaw was square and even his face looked solid.
"I'd like you to stay away from my parents," he said.
I gave him the once over. "I don't know that I'll need to talk with them any further," I said. "You, however, are another matter entirely."
A look of confusion flashed across his face. "Why do you want to talk to me?"
"You're Gilbert Horne's nephew," I remind him. "He was your agent. You introduced him to other football players who became his clients. These players were upset with how your uncle was representing them. He cost them money. So someone tried to shoot him the other night and yesterday someone killed him. That's why I need to talk with you."
"Oh. Have you found out anything?"
"Just that there were a number of people who had issues with him."
"Who hired you in the first place?"
"That's confidential," I said, starting to wonder who was going to be asking all the questions here. "But why don't you tell me about your uncle. You helped him sign some of your teammates at Oregon."
Ted Wade rubbed his eyes as if he were very tired. "All I did was make the introduction. Patrick and Oscar were the big fish. They were the two who hit it big in the NFL. Those guys are just crying because they're not grabbing every last dime they could. My uncle negotiated great deals for them when they got drafted. He also helped a few other guys out, Ricky Catalano, our strong safety, Tony Clifford, our kicker. There were more. But most guys don't last long in the NFL. It's super competitive. Sometimes you make one mistake and that's it. Or you get injured and you're out."
"I thought the teams don't cut guys if they're injured. Part of the union contract."
"Unions," he said derisively. "They don't do squat except collect dues. The teams get around that rule by helping a player rehab from their injury as quickly as possible. Then they cut them."
"Got it," I said. "Does Catalano or Clifford live in L.A.?"
"Catalano lives in Orange County."
"And Clifford?"
"Lives up north. Heard he owns a pot farm. Typical kicker, real weirdo."
"Okay," I said, smiling to myself. Kickers were never full-fledged members of a football team, their roles were very different and their skill sets unique. The best football players were big, strong and fast; the best kickers were often short, slender, and not especially athletic.
"You really think a football player did this?" Wade asked.
"I dunno, kid. I really don't. These guys were angry and they had motive. But so did some other people. Your uncle had money problems. And women problems."
Ted's eyes lit up. "Who?"
I looked past him. "Can't say. But it sounds like more than a few. And the fact that his wife was also killed makes this case even more complex."
"Yeah," he said. "The only one who'd have wanted to kill April was probably Uncle Gil."
"Why's that?"
"They had a bad marriage."
"So I heard. But that's usually fixed by divorce, not murder."
Ted's mouth tightened. "I'd like to hire you," he said.
I frowned. "To do what?"
"To find out who did this."
"I'm already hired, kid. I'm working the case."
"Yeah, but I want you working for me."
"Can't do it," I said, shaking my head. "Conflict of interest."
"What do you charge? I'll pay you double your rate."
As much as I'd have liked to get paid multiple times for working the same case, this was not really kosher. And something smelled more than a little funny here. Nephew of the deceased, friendly with players who detested his uncle, and a substance abuse problem did not mix well. And then I thought of Gail and the cost of our upcoming wedding. And then I thought back to my own code of ethics.
"I'll tell you what, kid. I'm not going to take you on as a client, so you don't have to pay me. But if you want to help me unravel this case, you can tell me everything you know about Patrick Washington, Oscar Romeo, Gil's other clients, whoever might be of interest here. Anyone you know who came into contact with your uncle. Anyone who might have anything to do with what happened. Deal?"
Ted looked confused, and more than a little hesitant about agreeing to snitch on his friends. But I think he knew that anything besides acquiescing would raise red flags about him.
"I guess so," he finally managed. "But just don't talk to my parents again, okay?"
I smiled and didn't say anything. Or agree to his request. I had the odd feeling that I had better start carrying my .38 special with me on a regular basis. I also had the feeling the Wades might indeed get another visit from me. If for no other reason than to find out how one can become a high-level executive and retire in P.V. with a large, ocean-view home.
Chapter 10
It had been another long and trying afternoon. I attempted to get on Duncan Whitestone's calendar today at Bay City Motor Cars, but was only able to secure an appointment for the next morning. Betty was extremely upset on the phone and there was nothing I could say to her that would make the pain of losing Gil go away. I tried to assure her that justice would prevail, but that was of little consolation. When someone you care about is taken from you so suddenly, little else is important. Hanging up, I thought about the people I cared about, and startlingly I found my thoughts drifting to the lovely Honey Roper. I quickly decided that these thoughts needed to go in another direction. Since I never got around to eating lunch. I called Gail to see if she was up for an early dinner tonight. Comfort food was on my mind.
"I think I need a better idea of how you define comfort food, amigo," she said.
"How do you define it?"
"Growing up it was meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Mom had it down to a science. And apple pie for dessert. Once I was in college, good meat loaf was hard to find. Comfort food became hot wings."
"Sounds like you were a real rebel."
I could feel her grin through the phone line. "You have no idea," she said.
"Well let's see. Hot wings doesn't do it for me. How does Chinese food sound?" I asked.
"Is that really your comfort food?"
I thought for a moment. It used to be, but that was back when L.A. had a lot of old-style Chinese restaurants. Good cashew chicken, chow fun noodles and velvet shrimp were getting harder and harder to find these days. In fact, my favorite Chinese restaurant was located downtown, and the last thing I felt like doing was battle traffic for an hour each way. For comfort food.
"How about a hamburger and a beer?" I asked.
"That sounds like my guy," she said, her smile still shining through the phone.
"I'll meet you at Father's Office. How about 6 p.m.?"
"Well all right then."
Every neighborhood should have a place like Father's Office. Many years ago, it was a dive bar along a quiet strip of Montana Avenue. It derived its name from Prohibition days, when some men who were en route to a speakeasy would tell their families they were going to work. Over the years, this dive bar transformed into a very hip tavern, featuring a myriad of craft beers and gourmet dishes. But the crown jewel on the menu were the hamburgers, dry aged and grilled perfectly, nestled in a bed of caramelized onions, gruyere cheese and bacon, on a soft roll. It may not have been made as lovingly as my future mother-in-law's meat loaf, but it was a perfect gastronomic invention. And the added benefit was that it was just six blocks from my apartment. Our apartment.
I arrived a few minutes before Gail and secured a table near the bar. Some nice upgrades to the decor had been made over the years, but the low lighting maintained a dark ambience. Ordering an icy Sierra Nevada pale ale, I'd taken a few sips when I noticed my beautiful fiancée had presented herself in the doorway. Before she could enter however, the bouncer insisted on seeing her ID. It took a few moments of hunting through her purse before she could find it and join me.
