by David Chill
"Well that was awkward," she said, sitting down and looking splendid in a black pantsuit and a white top. Her chestnut brown hair fell a good six inches past her shoulders.
"I would think it'd be quite flattering," I smiled. "You still can pass for a teenager."
"At 31, I do believe I'd prefer to pass for a grown woman."
"It is uncanny," I said, taking another sip of ale, "how such a poised, professional woman can still maintain such a youthful persona."
Gail smiled her million-dollar smile. "For a tough guy, you have quite a way with words."
"I haven't been so tough lately. In fact, it's been quite a while since I engaged in any fisticuffs."
"And I'd like to say how proud I am of you. I can only hope it stays that way."
I shrugged. "I'll do my best. But just so you know, nothing lasts forever."
"You're not hard-wired to fight people. And your ability to use words rather than violence will serve you well. Especially as you get older."
"I'm glad you noticed my ability to speak extemporaneously."
Gail threw back her head and laughed. "Of course I did. That's one of the things I admire about you. You're strong, but you're smart too. You know a lot of big words and you know how to use them. I met a lot of smart men in law school and I meet more of them now at the office. Men who are very glib. Plenty of them work out and they stay in good shape. But a lot of their toughness is bravado. They're physically strong, but when you push through that emotional layer, they often have the fortitude of a wet paper napkin."
"Don't tell me you dated other men when you were away at law school."
She gave a half-smile, which was still extraordinarily appealing. Her soft gray eyes had a twinkle in them, the kind a mischievous little girl might display. "I admit I went out with a few guys. You and I weren't engaged back then. And the separation was an extraordinary test for us."
"And ... "
"And nothing, senor. I dated a bit but it rarely got past the first date stage. And I did not have any affairs or anything else your wild imagination is going to conjure up."
"Okay," I smiled. "I'm not asking you for anything here."
"No?"
"Well ... maybe a little reassurance."
"And you? Men are the ones more known for straying."
I held up my hands. "My heart was pure when you were away."
"That's good," she said. "I'll think about whether I want to believe you."
I smiled some more and drank some more ale. There were a lot of benefits to having a really smart, savvy woman in my life. The downsides occurred when they shined that intellectual high beam on you. I excused myself and went over and bought Gail a Sierra Nevada of her own and then ordered cheeseburgers from the bar. I was familiar enough with the chef's rules for customers, so I didn't bother to ask for any changes to how the burgers were prepared. On my first visit here, I asked them to hold the bacon but was told the chef doesn't do that and they suggested I order something else. Lesson learned. Two gooey cheeseburgers arrived about 15 minutes later, just in time for another round of ale.
"You know, we have to set aside some time for wedding planning," Gail said.
"All right," I agreed. "Anything in particular?"
"You'll like this part. Tasting wedding cakes. And also tasting hors d'oeuvres for the reception."
"That sounds like fun."
"It will be. Not everything about planning a wedding is hard work."
"Good to know," I said, having resigned myself to letting Gail have the green light to do pretty much anything she wanted. I decided that there would probably be a few things I'd need to draw a line in the sand on and not budge. But for the most part, I had observed that good marriages worked best when the wife got her way most of the time. Sexist as that might sound, it struck me as the best path to follow.
"So tell me about your day, sweetie," she said, as she looked around the table for something.
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Just ketchup."
"Unfortunately they don't allow it in here," I said, picking up my burger and taking a large bite. "Chef's rules."
Gail gave a sad smile. "All right. When in Rome," she said, and dug in herself. Smiling and nodding at the same time signaled that she could live without the ketchup.
"It's important to be open to new ways of doing things," I said.
"Indeed."
"So you've seen the headlines about Gilbert Horne I take it."
"And heard about it at the office. That's what everyone was talking about today."
"What does the City Attorney's office think about their case?"
Gail put her burger down. "You know I can't discuss that with you," she said.
"All right, I'll do the talking."
"That works for me."
"I met with Roper's daughter this morning and she's arranging bail."
"Already done. Roper's out."
I smiled to myself. No surprise that Honey Roper moves quickly. "And I spent the better part of the day with the distinguished detectives at the Hollywood Division. It seems they have this idea that a certain smartass private investigator had something to do with the double murder."
Gail's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding."
"Nope. Apparently they are wondering why I was identified a number of times yesterday at the Horne residence. And why April Horne had my business card in her possession. And why I was representing Cliff Roper."
"Circumstantial evidence," she said. "They have nothing. It sounds like they're just fishing."
"It also sounds like they themselves may have some doubts about Cliff Roper's involvement. They wouldn't admit it, but finding Roper's gun at the crime scene is just a little too convenient. The key issue here is who broke into Roper's safe and took his gun with them."
"Inside job."
"In some ways, absolutely. But that still doesn't rule out a professional here. And the person who was most likely to have the combination to the safe was Gilbert Horne himself. At first I thought this could be a murder-suicide case, but neither Gil nor April's prints were on the gun. Neither were wearing gloves. And the gun itself was found outside the house, away from the crime scene."
"So someone took the gun off of Horne."
"Or he gave it to them for some reason," I added.
"And where does that leave you?"
I took another big bite of my cheeseburger, chewed slowly, washed it down with some more ale and then smiled at my lovely fiancée. Everyone has their own comfort foods and this burger was one of mine. I hoped it would also become one of Gail's. The more things a couple shares with each other, the stronger their bond becomes. And the stronger their bond, the better their relationship. I had read somewhere that the best relationships were those where the window between a couple and the outside world was raised, but the window between the couple themselves was always down. Gail and I worked in a similar field and that was bound to cause a conflict at some point. How maturely we dealt with that would help determine how much of a window would exist between us.
"I'll be fine. I have an alibi for where I was at the time of the murder last night."
Gail smiled that extraordinary smile again. "Indeed you do."
"And someone might inquire about that at some point."
"I'll be happy to testify on your behalf," she said, playfully. "I have intimate knowledge regarding your whereabouts. Although I may need to be discreet about your exact position."
Chapter 11
While it was still the end of April in Southern California, we had already entered that period called May Gray, which would soon evolve into June Gloom. The morning skies were dim and overcast, as the marine layer continued to throw its cloud cover across the region. Over the next two months this pattern would be repeated, and the sun would usually burn its way through by the afternoon, doing so earlier and earlier. But for now, the mornings were depressing. The mood did not get any better when I walked into the offices of Bay
City Motor Cars.
Betty Luttinger was seated at her desk, working on the computer, and didn't notice me until I was standing in front of her.
"Good morning," I said, clearing my throat.
"Oh yes, Mr. Burnside," she jumped, and turned suddenly toward me. "Mr. Whitestone is in conference at the moment. Please have a seat."
I glanced over at the pair of uncomfortable looking chairs nearby and decided to stand. "How are you holding up here?"
She sighed a deep sigh. "It's been very hard. Everyone is in shock. It's so sad. You see these types of things on the news all the time, and you just never believe they'll happen to someone you know."
"I'm sure it's been painful."
"Gil had his demons, but he wasn't a bad man. He just couldn't say no to certain things. He had one of those personalities."
"Any thoughts as to who might have been responsible?"
She pulled out a tissue. "Ordinarily I would have thought his wife. But while that's not possible, it might somehow be related to her. She was fooling around with some guy. A football player."
I stared at her. "You know who that was?"
"No," she said. "Someone had mentioned it."
"Really?"
"Well ... someone at the dealership knew about it," she said quickly, almost too quickly. "I heard about it through the grapevine."
At that moment, the office door opened and two men emerged. One had white hair and was dressed in a finely tailored gray suit with a burgundy club tie. The other wore khakis and a short sleeve shirt, light blue, with narrow maroon stripes intersecting and forming a box pattern. His arms were the size of tree trunks, and hairy as an ape's. I approached the man in the nice gray suit.
"Mr. Whitestone?"
"Yes," he replied.
"The name's Burnside. I'm hoping to have a few minutes of your time."
He looked at me evenly. "Is this about Gil?" he inquired.
"It is."
"I see. Ike, can you give me a few minutes?"
The man with the big hairy arms said of course. "I'm Isaac Vale by the way." He stuck out a massive hand and I shook it, regretting it instantly. I checked to see if I still had any bones intact in my fingers.
"You have a mighty good grip there," I commented, making a fist and releasing it. "I don't think I'd want to get in the ring with you."
He smiled. "Thanks. I run the service department. Still have to get my hands dirty sometimes. Keeps me fit."
"Any relation to Christy Vale?" I asked.
"Yeah, that cutie's my wife. How do you know her?"
"I was in here a few days ago. She tried to sell me a Porsche."
Isaac Vale laughed and shook his head. "Yup. That's Christy. She's a great salesperson."
"I could tell."
"I sometimes have to remind her to stop selling all the time. That not everyone is a prospect."
That was certainly true for me. It would be quite a while before I could come to close to affording one of these vehicles. Especially if they were expecting me to pay six figures for a car with no back seat and a tiny trunk.
Duncan Whitehead spoke. "Why don't we take this into my office. Betty, hold my calls."
We moved inside his spacious executive-style office, replete with a large desk and two comfy looking chairs facing it. There was a couch off to one side and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The TV was turned to The Golf Channel. The walls were wood-paneled and there were no windows. While the indirect lighting made his office rather dark, a bright lamp next to his laptop made the desk practically glow. Not that it was necessary. Duncan Whitestone's desktop was clean and bereft of anything that looked like work, save for a gold pen stand and a gold letter tray with a grand total of one sheet of paper sitting in it.
"So I'm not sure how I can assist you, Mr. Burnside. I told the police everything I know about Gil. Which honestly isn't that much regarding this ... incident. And I understand they've already made an arrest."
"Yes, but I'm not sure that arrest is going to stick. Let me ask you something," I said, trying to steer the conversation. "How did you originally meet Gilbert Horne?"
He smiled paternally. "My previous partner, Coleman, sold his share of the dealership to him. Cole was having financial problems."
I took notice of the minor detail he omitted, the part about losing his share of the dealership in a card game. "I understand that Gil was having some money problems too."
"Lately, yes. A few years ago he was flying high. But cars are an up-and-down business, especially these luxury models. We do great when the economy is hot, we take a beating when there's a downturn. Not everyone can weather the storm."
"So you were aware of Gil's financial situation."
"We were partners. Of course."
"How was he planning to get out from under this?"
Whitestone shrugged. "Can't say as he had a fully formed plan. He wanted me to buy out his share of the dealership, but that was problematic. The value of the lot has gone down along with the economy. And my own financial situation isn't great right now. I couldn't bail him out."
"What options did he have?"
"Not many, unfortunately. Gil had been tapping into the equity from his home, so that was off the table. In fact he was even having trouble meeting his mortgage payments. His sports agency wasn't generating the income it used to. Plus he was having problems with his partner over there. That Roper fellow, the one the police apprehended."
"Did you know Cliff Roper?"
"I met him a few times, he leases his cars through us. Or used to, I guess. Now we'll probably have to repossess them if he goes off to prison. Never was my type of guy. Untrustworthy. Nothing that comes out of that guy's mouth ever struck me as believable. I, uh, wouldn't put anything past him."
"Any of Gil's clients come in here to do business? Football players?"
"Sure. In fact those guys were actually keeping him afloat lately. Some of his clients get their vehicles through us. And of course Gil got the commission, even though he's a partner here."
I had an idea. "Let me run a few names by you. See if they mean anything. Ted Wade?"
"Yup, he got his Porsche Boxster here."
"Patrick Washington?"
"Oh yeah. Can't miss that guy. It's like seeing a circus freak walk in. We called him Twins because his body was big enough to hold two people."
"That's funny," I said without smiling. I'm sure Patrick would be pleased to know this. People to whom he paid a small fortune were snickering and calling him names behind his back. "Patrick wasn't buying sports cars, was he?"
"Sure was."
"He's such a big guy. How'd he fit in them?"
"He'd buy two. Then we'd send them out to a shop that would cut them in pieces and build a front seat he could fit into. Then they'd weld it all back together."
I smiled. When you had enough money you could do almost anything. "How about Oscar Romeo?"
"Sure, Oscar and his Lamborghinis," he smiled.
"He has more than one?"
"No, he just gets a new one every year or two. Trades in his old one. One of our best clients. In fact, he stopped by the other day to look at this year's models. Quite an outgoing guy. And he knows cars. Everyone on the lot loves Oscar."
"Anyone ever have a beef with Gil?"
Duncan Whitestone pursed his lips at this sudden change in direction and hesitated. He looked down at his empty desk. "Not that I can recall."
"That's not exactly a solid answer."
"I can't say anything more," he said standing up, indicating our time was running out. "Other than Gil's personal life spilled over into his business life. Never a good mix."
"Mr. Whitestone," I said, standing up myself. "If there's anything you know that would help us in this investigation, now is the time to say it."
"Mr. Burnside, I think I've told you enough. More than enough, really."
Chapter 12
I had turned off the ringer of my phone before I entered the
dealership, and saw I now had a voice mail message. The message was from Cliff Roper. He said he wanted to see me at his office. Now.
Ordinarily, having my own P.I. agency meant I didn't need to kowtow to anyone. The absence of a boss had been one of the big upsides to my job. But the downsides included an inconsistent stream of income, so in a sense, anyone who hired me became my boss. And if someone who hired me happened to pay me an upfront premium in cash, they were sometimes given license to become my demanding boss.
Cliff Roper's offices were located on Sunset Boulevard, in an area that had become urbanized over the years. His sports agency was located on the 25th floor of a high-rise tower, one that looked plush and impressive. As I exited the elevator, even the air smelled better. I approached his latest cupcake receptionist, handed her my business card and said that Cliff was expecting me.
"Oh yes," she squealed. "Mr. Roper said to bring you right in!"
I smiled at her exuberance and followed her. She practically skipped down the tiled hallway and ushered me into his office, closing the door behind me. Roper was on the phone in mid-conversation. Or perhaps in mid-monologue.
"Kid, I've been on the phone with Dallas and they've got you down as their 4th round pick. They're not penciling you in, they're putting you in in ink, kid. I said Ink! Dallas is perfect for you, their tight end is getting old and his backup's a putz ... yeah, yeah, you'll get a signing bonus no matter what. Hey don't worry, I'm looking out for you."
Roper finally noticed yours truly and motioned for me to take a seat at his conference table. I listened to him wax rhapsodic as I gazed out at the smoggy view of Beechwood Canyon.
"Okay kid, don't stop your workout regimen, there's OTAs next month and you need to be ready ... how do I know what OTA stands for? Look, all you need to know is it means spring training camp. Me? I'm good, don't worry about me, you worry about you. Yeah, I'll talk to you, bye ... Hey Burnside, let me just take this last call ... Jalen, great to hear from you, buddy. No, no, that stuff in the papers was all a big mistake, it's bullshit, we're taking care of it. Mistaken identity ... Ha! You been there too? Yeah, the government, man, you nailed it, they can't get anything right. Hey, I literally just got off the phone with Miami, they have you on the board, but they know you're a sleeper, so they're holding their powder. You're looking like a 5th rounder, 6th at the latest. You're gonna love South Beach, the pussy there's the best in the world ... I'm excited for you too. Keep pumping that iron, you gotta be at your best when they bring you in next month for OTAs. Yeah, sure, when I know something, you'll know something. See ya."
