by David Chill
I took a bite of food. Chewy pawed my leg and looked up hopefully with a pair of soulful brown eyes. "In the short run," I said, "I can put some pea gravel out on the balcony. We can leave the balcony door open. A benefit of being on the third floor of a four-story building."
"And you think she'll make the connection with the pea gravel?" Gail asked dubiously.
Chewy pawed my leg again, and this time I got up and grabbed the bag of dry dog food I had purchased at Petco. I poured some into her bowl and set it down in the kitchen. "Maybe what we really need is a dog walker."
Gail thought about it for a moment. "Do you happen to know the owner of the poodle?"
"No," I said, "but I'm happy to go make the acquaintance. You never know."
After dinner, I walked down the building hallway and knocked on a door next to the elevator. A pleasant-looking woman in her 60s opened the door. Her name was Dorothy and though we had lived in the same building for 15 years, we never had an occasion to introduce ourselves. A nod and a hello was all most people here typically did. I told her about Chewy and asked if she knew of any professional dog walkers nearby.
"I wouldn't know. I'm the one who takes Skylar out for walks. Four times a day. She has a small bladder."
A light bulb went on over my head. Ordinarily the idea of giving a stranger a key to my apartment was anathema, but she had lived down the hall for years, and I got a good feeling from her.
"Might you be available to walk Chewy during the day? We'd pay you, of course."
"That could work. I'm retired so I'm home during the day. And I could always use a few extra dollars. Fixed income, you know. When do I get to meet her?"
I invited both her and her poodle Skylar over, and Chewy gave both of them a proper greeting. Within 10 seconds, Chewy and Skylar began playing, chasing each other around our apartment.
"She's wonderful!" Dorothy said. "I'd be delighted to walk her."
As Dorothy left, I put my arms around Gail. "I think we're forming quite a nice family."
Gail smiled and looked over at Chewy, who was now sitting on the couch, playing with one of my socks. "She does fit right in."
Chapter 15
After making a number of attempts at jumping into bed with us, Chewy finally got the message that a ménage à trois was not going to be in the cards. Gail established the sleeping arrangements decisively; Chewy sleeps on the floor. When I rose at my usual 5:30 a.m., I discovered I had to step over our new roommate as she lay sprawled in our bedroom doorway. She heard me go past her and lifted her head up for a moment, before laying it back down on the carpet and falling back asleep. Not wanting Gail to have to walk her on the first morning, I shook Chewy awake and led our sleepy puppy outside for a few minutes to do her thing. She reluctantly complied, and after pouring some more dog food in her bowl, I felt free to start my work day.
I decided to go to my office first. I had some paperwork to catch up on, and it was too early to make any visits. I also thought I'd stop by a coffee shop for breakfast, not wanting to wake Gail and Chewy to the sounds and smells of bacon frying. Gail was not a morning person, but I was.
I pulled the Pathfinder out onto Montana, and was pleased to see there were no other cars on the road at this early hour. Driving three blocks, I was able to make the green light and turn left onto Ocean Avenue hardly slowing down. The dawn's early light was bright and blue, and it looked like it was going to be a nice, sunny day. I decided to take a glimpse at the sparkling Pacific ocean, so I turned right to go down the California Incline.
While its name had a dramatic flair, the California Incline was simply an extension of California Avenue, which runs parallel to and three blocks south of Montana. The Incline part refers to the steep drop that the service road takes as it descends towards Pacific Coast Highway. It was originally built over a century ago as a walkway for local residents to access the beach, but was later expanded to allow for auto traffic. Over the years, considerable erosion had eaten away at the underpinnings and there was talk of closing it down. That would be a shame, I thought. The California Incline offered a sensational, panoramic view of Santa Monica Bay, and it allowed you to see the shoreline twist its way out toward Malibu. On a morning like this, it was a beautiful sight to behold. But then things got very ugly, very fast.
It started as I approached the traffic light at Pacific Coast Highway. I tried to apply the brakes, but nothing happened. Nothing at all. I pumped the brake pedal with my right foot, and then pushed with all my might, yet there was no response. I tried to engage the emergency brake with my left foot and the vehicle seemed to slow down slightly, but not by much. As I rumbled down the Incline, the one saving grace was that it was very early and there were no cars in front of me. Still, the traffic light was red and I was faced with driving straight through it. As my feet kept trying to work the brakes, I turned my head back and forth in a pivot motion to see if there were any cars moving along PCH. I caught a glimpse of a small yellow sports car speeding south. I jammed my palm onto the horn and gave a half-dozen short honks, followed by two long ones.
The sports car slowed, which was fortunate for both of us. As I skidded through the red light and across the intersection, I spun the steering wheel back and forth freely in case I needed to jerk the vehicle out of harm's way. Nothing was in my path and that was both good and bad. The Pathfinder had picked up some speed going down the Incline and as it barreled along, I was faced with crashing into a cement wall or into the Javelin Club, an exclusive downtown group that maintained a private beachfront property in Santa Monica. Club members had access to a secluded beach where they could frolic in the ocean without having to swim next to the great unwashed. With less than one second to decide where to crash, I quickly chose the Javelin Club.
The parking lot to the Javelin Club was blocked by a chain that had a "Keep Out" sign attached to it. Unable to follow the directive, I smashed through the chain and went over a dip that sent the Pathfinder airborne for a brief moment. At that point I lost control of the vehicle and when I came down, it spun directly into a brick wall.
In some ways it was good fortune that the chain slowed my momentum, because when I finally hit the wall I was traveling at less than 10 miles an hour. It was bad luck otherwise because the chain did a number on my front end, breaking a headlight and damaging both the grill and bumper. I sat for a long minute trying to catch my breath and regain my thoughts. Thank goodness for seat belts. I swore at that moment I would never drive another car without being harnessed in. My psyche was shaken up, but otherwise it seemed I was uninjured. Unbuckling myself, I climbed out of the vehicle, feeling a bit woozy, but otherwise maintaining my equilibrium.
"Sir, are you all right?" yelled a young man running up to me. He was dressed in white pants with a white t-shirt.
"I think so," I mumbled. "I'm not so sure about my ride."
"Wow. That sounded awful. I heard the crash clear on the other side of the parking lot."
"I'm surprised someone's working this early," I said, still feeling a little wobbly. "But I suppose the Javelin Club keeps staff around for moments just like this."
"Sir, why don't you come with me," he said, leading me by the arm and guiding me inside a building. We walked into the main room, and he went and brought me a glass of cold water after sitting me down on a chair. A few minutes later a couple of patrol officers from SMPD came by. The Santa Monica cops dressed similar to LAPD officers, but the uniforms of the beachside officers were a lighter shade of blue. I told them what had happened and they dutifully wrote things down in a notebook. I agreed to stop by later in the day to fill out a formal accident report. They told me a tow truck would be by in a few minutes. When they asked if I thought I needed any medical attention, I politely declined and took another sip of water, which had now become room temperature. The cops left and a Javelin club official came by and asked if I would mind signing a statement saying the accident was my fault. I was still feeling lightheaded, but not so much that I co
uldn't tell him to shove his statement up his ass.
I called Gail and she swung by a few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt. "Oh God. What happened?"
"My brakes didn't work."
"Had you noticed any problems with them lately recently?" she asked.
"Nope."
"Uh-oh."
"Yeah," I said. This didn't look like any accident. The person who did this wanted me to stop the investigation. But if the intent was to scare me into backing off, they had picked the wrong guy. If they were trying to kill me, they had used a very uncertain method. My guess was they were trying to send me a message. It was either the killer, or someone trying to help the killer. The more I thought about who this might be, the more my head started to swim.
I assured Gail I was fine to drive, although convincing myself took some doing. Despite some strong misgivings, she drove me over to a rental car agency and I selected a gray Toyota Highlander. It wasn't as big as my Pathfinder or as rugged-looking, but for now it would get me to and from where I needed to be. And the gray color wouldn't stand out if I needed to tail someone. The kid at the rental car desk asked me how long I'd need the vehicle.
"I don't know," I shrugged. "I was just in an accident. It'll take some time to do the repairs."
"Sorry to hear that," he said, as he finished the paperwork. "So I assume you'll be taking the collision damage waiver."
"Why's that?" I asked. "Your assuming I'm a lousy driver?"
"No, I'm just assuming you're a smart guy."
"Collision damage waivers are a bad investment," I pointed out.
The kid looked at me and then down at his computer. "It all depends on whether you think you'll be in another accident," he mused, in an absent sort of way.
"Can you tell me whether you get a commission on this?"
The kid pursed his lips. "Well, yes and no."
I started to laugh. "What does that mean?"
The kid smiled a shy smile. "It means yes I get a commission. But no, I'm not supposed to tell you that."
"Why are you telling me then?"
"You strike me as a man who values honesty."
"You're a perceptive guy," I laughed. "I'm sure you'll go far."
"I'm sure I will too."
'What are you doing working here, then?" I asked, not overtly trying to be a smartass, but these gems seemed to just pop out my mouth.
"I get my bachelors degree in June. This is just a way station. I've got plans."
I looked at him admiringly. There were a lot of paths to success. Even the wrong path could still get you to the right place. "Okay," I said, still feeling I wasn't thinking as clearly as I should. "You win. I'll take the collision damage waiver. Consider it my contribution to your career goals."
"All right," the kid smiled.
I turned to Gail and she was holding back a grin. She told me to drive carefully and to call her immediately if I experienced any problems. I kissed her goodbye and she went off to work. I needed to go to work too. I just didn't quite know where to start.
With cars on my brain, I decided to drive over to Bay City Motor Cars. I asked for Betty Luttinger but she was again out sick. Duncan Whitehead hadn't come in yet and Christy Vale was on a test drive with a customer. I thought of trying to make a few new friends, but wasn't really in a sociable mood. I was also starting to get a headache. I went back home, took a couple of Advil pills and laid down on the couch for half an hour. Chewy climbed up next to me and I absent-mindedly stroked her belly as I rested.
Feeling only slightly better, I looked up Betty Luttinger's address and phone number, and drove over to her apartment on the hill near Ocean Park and 11th Street. I waited in my car for a few minutes before dialing her number. Not knowing if her husband was home, I decided calling first was better than just knocking on the door.
"Betty?"
"Yes?" she answered meekly, her voice a little hard to hear on my phone.
"This is Burnside. The private investigator?"
Silence.
"Are you still there?"
"Yes?"
"I'd like to speak with you."
Another sound of silence.
"Can I come up?"
"Right now?"
"Yes, right now. I'm downstairs."
Another tone of silence.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No."
"Is anyone with you?"
"I'm alone."
I waited a beat to see if she was going to say anything else. Nothing came. I told her I would be there in a minute, and this time I didn't bother to wait for her long pause of silence. I ended the call, walked across the street and climbed a flight of stairs. The Luttingers lived in a small, older apartment building that held six units, three on each of the two floors. The building was painted a dark green and bore a resemblance to a cheap motel. There was no doorbell, so I rapped lightly on her door. Betty appeared about 10 seconds later, dressed in sweats, no makeup, looking morose. She glanced at me vacantly, and held the door open as a way of inviting me in. The apartment itself was spacious and clean.
"You look like you've been through the wringer," I said, sitting down.
"You don't look so hot yourself."
"I'll be fine. What about you?"
She sat down next to me and put her head in her hands. "It's a bad time for me. My husband and I have separated. I thought ... I thought I would have a future elsewhere."
"With Gil."
She nodded in agreement. "You know about us."
"Yes. What happened the other night was very tragic," I said, and looked at her carefully. "Can I ask you something? I assume Gil told you he'd leave his wife?"
"Yes," she sighed. "That he did. Many times. But this time I thought he was serious. I just didn't realize he wasn't going to leave her for me."
My eyes widened. "Who was he leaving her for?"
"Well that was the problem," she said. "No one in particular. He was just leaving her. There were ... other women besides me. I should have known. Men like that, they cheat on their wives. If they cheat on their wives, what's to stop them from cheating on their mistresses? I'm not young anymore. I can't compete with women in their twenties. I thought I could, that maybe Gil might recognize he needed someone more mature, someone close to his own age. I was wrong."
"How did you find out about the other women?"
She kept her head in her hands and moved it back and forth slowly. "Someone at the dealership told me. But of course this was right after the shootings so I never had a chance to confront Gil. Never had a chance to ... to even ... say goodbye," she said haltingly, choking back tears.
I watched and waited. Losing someone suddenly, whether it be a loved one or just a friend or colleague, is a blow to the system. One moment they are there in your life, and the next moment they've mysteriously been pulled away. You never get to see them again, never get to talk with them again. All you have are the memories. The rawness of Gilbert Horne's murder was obviously going to have an effect on Betty Luttinger for a long time. Mourning a loved one is a process that can take months or even years. There is no shortcut. And it's all the harder when knotty issues about your relationship have never been fully resolved.
"Did your husband know about this affair with Gil?" I asked cautiously.
She looked out the window. "He suspected. We've been having problems for a while. I finally told him a few weeks ago and he moved out right away."
"Do you think," I started cautiously, "that your husband might have had anything to do with what happened to Gil and April? Anything at all?"
Betty said no. "I can't imagine. He's not the type. And in a way I think he might have been relieved when he found out. In a way, I think it gave him the excuse to leave. To move on, be on his own again."
I considered this, but also knew that people are capable of anything, especially when they've been handed the proper motivation. I'd seen the most timid people transform into bloodthirsty killers when som
ething near and dear to them has been ruptured. And even those closest to them are shocked when they discover this. People are capable of anything. Especially when it involves someone they love.
"What's your husband's name?"
"Arthur. Arty. Arty Luttinger."
"Where does he work?"
"He's in sales. Telemarketing actually. He works for a newspaper now. He has a college degree but it's in anthropology, and he never got a chance to use it."
"Do either of you own a handgun?"
"Well yes, but we haven't used it in years. Arty bought it after we were burglarized. We took it to a shooting range a few times, but since then it's been kept in a drawer."
"Do you still have the gun?" I asked warily.
"Why, I don't know, I haven't even thought of that thing in so long," she said, rising and walking into the bedroom. She came out a minute later. "It looks like it's gone. Arty must have taken it."
I drew in a breath. "Do you know what type of gun it was?"
She frowned. "No. I'm not into that sort of thing. You don't seriously think ..."
I looked at her and gave her the universal palms up sign which said I had no idea. And I really didn't. Arty Luttinger may have simply taken the gun with him when he moved, maybe because he felt it was his. He may have had nothing at all to do with the murders. But without much else to go on, someone like this could never be ruled out. A cuckolded man with a weapon was not someone to be taken lightly. And it was certainly a motive that could propel someone to commit murder.
"Let's hope not," I said, and I did mean it. Betty Luttinger had been through a lot already, some of it emanating from her own doing, from her own poor choices. But to have this situation spiral even further downward would be a horrendous punishment for anyone to have to endure.
Chapter 16
Leaving Betty's apartment, I knew I needed to follow up with someone at the LAPD, but I didn't want to just stroll aimlessly into the Hollywood Division again. My last encounter with the men in blue resulted in my being detained for half a day. This time, I decided to call first.
