Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  I took a detour onto Pico Boulevard. and stopped by Pacific Repairs. The manager had the name "Jorge" stitched over his blue shirt pocket. The standard pronunciation was OR-hay, although he introduced himself as George. He was speaking with one of the mechanics, instructing him on which cars had priority this afternoon. I didn't hear the word Pathfinder in the conversation.

  "Hi there," I began.

  "Yes, sir," Jorge said. "What can I do for you?"

  "My car was towed here this morning. Some front-end damage. The brakes failed. It's the black Pathfinder."

  "Oh yes," he said. "I've put together an estimate for the body work. But you'll also need to put in new brake lines."

  "Do you know how they got damaged?"

  "They were cut. You must have really ticked someone off."

  I frowned. "Why do you say that?"

  "This type of cut doesn't happen through normal wear-and-tear. Whoever did this cut a hole into the line, and the fluid began to leak out. If they had cut the lines just before you started to drive this morning, you might not have noticed it right away; it would have taken a while for all the fluid to leak out. But if it were sometime last night, it could have all leaked out over a period of a few hours. By morning, most of the fluid would be on the ground. Did you notice a puddle underneath your vehicle before you got in?"

  "I honestly don't recall. And I don't even think I needed to apply the brakes right away. I live very close to the California Incline. There are only a couple of stoplights and they were both green when I approached them. And it was early in the morning, so we didn't have much traffic."

  "You were lucky," he acknowledged.

  "So there's no way that gash in the brake line could have happened any other way? Maybe the underside of the vehicle hitting something on the road?"

  Jorge shook his head no. "These brake lines are hard to damage. They're made with reinforced rubber, so they can withstand most elements. Like if you go off-roading. Even if someone tries to cut the lines, it can be tough, takes a lot of effort. But they can always find a way. It looks like they used a hacksaw. Or maybe an awl. It's a long, pointed spike. Since they had to crawl under your vehicle, they needed something portable and compact. And something that wouldn't have drawn much attention."

  "Sounds like they knew what they were doing."

  "Oh, I'm sure they did," Jorge said. "This wasn't the work of some amateur. If it was, they would have just slashed your tires or jammed a rag into your tailpipe. Whoever did this has a very good knowledge of cars. They knew exactly what to do."

  Chapter 18

  Jorge told me it would be at least a week before they could perform all of the body work, as well as send the Pathfinder out to have new brake lines installed. I didn't ask the price, instead I handed him the name of my auto insurance company. Given my chosen profession, I always made sure I had a low deductible on my policy so my out-of-pocket cost would only be $200. Detective work had more than its share of "accidents."

  I tried to think who might have done this, but the list was so long I decided to focus on who knew something about cars. One person sprung to mind, although I didn't know quite where Oscar Romeo fit into this puzzle. One way to find out was to ask him.

  Friday afternoons were the worst times of the week to be on the streets and freeways of Los Angeles. To save myself a little time, I called Patrick Washington before heading out. Oscar had stayed with him for a few days, but when he came up from San Diego, he frequently moved around from friend to friend. Last night he was down in Palos Verdes, and Patrick said he was expected to be there for the weekend. I checked traffic and grimaced at the red and yellow lines on the Sigalert.com map. It would take well over an hour to get down to P.V. It ended up as a long and grueling drive, stop and go most of the way. When I reached the Wade residence, the sun was beginning to set, but the mood on Rocky Point Drive was quiet and peaceful. And the bright blue Lamborghini was parked in the long driveway.

  I rang the bell and Ted Wade answered, dressed in tan shorts, a dark green Oregon t-shirt and flip-flops. He initially had a pleasant enough look on his face. Then he recognized me.

  "What the hell do you want here?" he demanded.

  "It's so nice to see you too," I responded pleasantly.

  "I thought I told you not to bother my parents anymore," he sneered. "I'm not joking around."

  "Good. I'm not here to joke either. And I'm not here to see your parents. Or you either, for that matter."

  His mouth opened for a moment and it took him about five seconds to form some words. "I think you better leave. Now."

  "I'm here to see Oscar. Would you mind telling him he has a visitor?"

  "I said fuck off!"

  "No, you didn't. You didn't say anything of the kind. And you don't even own this house, so you don't get to tell me to leave."

  He stared at me. "I think you're going to be one sorry ass dude if you don't get the fuck out of here now."

  "And I think you should have taken the scholarship offer from Stanford. You might have learned a few things about proper diction."

  Ted Wade took a couple of deep breaths and then came at me, like a bull charging a red cape. I could practically see the steam flying out of his nose. He tried to grab me, but I took two steps backwards and then moved suddenly to my left, taking hold of his right arm. Sticking my right foot out, I guided his racing body past me, as my foot caught Ted's ankles and took his legs out from under him. This was part of jiu-jitsu theory; using the opponent's own energy against him. He stumbled and lost his balance and careened onto the curved brick path leading toward the front door. Grunting as he crashed to the pavement, a trickle of blood formed on his left knee where a raw red spot would soon form.

  "I'm gonna get you, you bastard," he said, breathing heavily.

  "Aw, you got a skinned knee," I said. "You want to put something on that? It might get infected."

  His eyes now blazing with rage, Ted Wade scrambled to his feet and came at me again. He put his hand to his mouth and wiped it, and shook his stocky arms to get ready to start punching. I moved backward onto the front lawn, and he put up his hands in a boxer's stance and began to bob and weave.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw others emerge from the house, two men and a woman. I continued to move backward, turning slightly so I was facing the front door and could see anyone else who might approach. I raised my hands as well, but stayed in a defensive posture with my fists unballed. Ted stepped forward and threw a haymaker with his right hand, which I easily ducked. He stumbled a little, but quickly regained his balance. Then he threw a left, which I sidestepped, and then he tried a roundhouse kick, which I blocked with my arms. I grabbed Ted's his right leg, jerked it upwards, and sent him tumbling down onto the lawn.

  Ted groaned and got to his knees, his chest heaving. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to do next. All of a sudden, a deep voice boomed out to him, as if to ameliorate that problem.

  "Stand up!" the voice screamed. "You can take that guy! You're bigger than he is."

  I looked over at a paunchy man who had to be in his early 60s, with graying hair and a snarl on his face. He wore a yellow golf shirt, white pants and white sneakers. He pointed at me in a hostile manner and shouted encouragement. Ted Wade pulled himself back on his feet. Moving forward aggressively, he came at me again.

  "You stand still," the old guy yelled, pointing a finger at me. "Fight like a man!"

  Ted's breath now came in spurts and the expression on his face had turned from anger to something which more resembled fear. For a brief moment I thought he was going to cry. Instead, he gathered himself together and charged me, not with the intent of throwing a punch, but of tackling me and getting me on the ground. This was the last thing I wanted, to engage in a wrestling match with someone who outweighed me by 50 pounds. I pushed my left forearm in his face to keep his body at a distance. I then punched him solidly in the stomach. He doubled over in pain and I sent a flurry of quick rabbit punc
hes to his right ear and neck. He fell back down onto the grass and stayed there. I stepped back further to give him some space.

  "Come on, get on your feet!" the man yelled. "I didn't raise a sissy!"

  "Why don't you back off," I told him, my own breathing starting to come in spurts.

  The man ignored me and walked toward Ted and bent over. "You don't give up! You never quit. Get up and take care of this clown."

  "Marvin, please," came a female voice. "Stop this nonsense."

  "You shut up," the man screamed back at his wife. Ellen Wade looked like she had just been slapped and took two steps back. Rising to one knee now, Ted Wade gave his head a shake and looked dizzy.

  "Get up!" he excoriated Ted. "I told you to get up and ..."

  With that, I took a few calculated steps and uncorked a hard right punch to the mouth of the man in the yellow shirt. He stumbled straight backward, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth suddenly agape. He landed flat on his back, bounced a few inches and remained motionless.

  "Oh my God!" cried Ellen, now unsure of whether to run to her husband or her son. The older man began to stir and rose to one elbow, but I doubted he'd be getting up soon. He put a hand up to his mouth and began to moan and check his teeth.

  And just then, one more figure began to approach, a large man who had remained in the background this whole time. He approached cautiously, his hands raised in a peacemaker position. Fortunately for me, Oscar Romeo did not want to fight.

  "Let's cool things down," he started.

  "Works for me," I panted. "You're not someone I want to tangle with."

  "You don't look like a pushover yourself," he responded. "I don't need any bumps or bruises going into OTAs. Plus, there's a clause in my contract saying the team can cut me if I'm arrested."

  I was vaguely wondering why Oscar hadn't jumped in, at the very least to break things up. But peacemakers sometimes get dragged into the thick of things. It wasn't uncommon for someone to enter a fight with the intent of breaking it up, only to wind up throwing punches themselves.

  "Maybe you and me could take a walk down the block," I suggested, wanting to move away from this scene quickly.

  "Sure," he said and we started to walk. "You came to talk to me?"

  "I did. I just wanted to talk. Not sure how I wound up in a brawl, but these things seem to happen sometimes."

  "Yeah," he smiled. "Sometimes trouble just follows you."

  "Uh-huh," I managed, and then turned toward him. "So tell me something, Oscar."

  "What's that?"

  "Were you having a thing with April Horne?"

  Oscar gave me a funny look. "You came down here to ask me that?"

  I felt a bit of exasperation starting to come out. "No, I came down here to punch out your friend and his idiot father. What I'm trying to do is piece together who killed Gilbert Horne. I was hired by Cliff Roper, who swears he didn't do it. Someone pulled the trigger, but I don't know who that was yet. There are a bunch of people with motives and unfortunately you're one of them. So excuse me if I'm a little ticked off right now. But someone messed with the brakes of my car and almost got me killed. And if my fiancée had been riding with me, she could have been killed too. So I'm in a pretty rotten mood and I'd appreciate some answers."

  Oscar let out a low whistle. "Okay. I'll tell you about April. I did her. Once. She was drunk and came on to me and I did her. I'm not proud of it. I had problems with Gil and I didn't need more problems. But when a girl who looks like that offers herself up, well, I don't see how I could say no." He paused a moment. "If Gil was still alive I probably wouldn't be telling you this."

  "Did it matter to you that Ted was doing her too?"

  He started at me. "How'd you know that?"

  "Detective work. I find out things."

  "Yeah. Well this was before she and Ted hooked up. He came along later."

  "Do you think Ted was involved in this shooting?"

  Oscar frowned. "I don't think so. Ted's got problems. Big ones. But I can't see it. No good reason for him to do this to his uncle."

  I pondered that thought. There was some logic to it, but logic was starting to take a back seat in this case. "One last question," I said.

  "Yeah?"

  "You know a lot about cars. I remember you said your father owned a repair shop."

  "Good memory."

  "Usually," I said wearily. "How much knowledge about cars does someone need in order to cut the brake line?"

  Oscar looked past me and thought. "Quite a bit. But it depends on the car. They have to know where it is on each vehicle. And they have to be pretty strong. Those lines don't cut easily. Even if you were trying hard."

  *

  The Palos Verdes Police had arrived by the time we walked back. After a brief period of question and answer, the Wades decided not to press charges, which was a smart move for a few reasons. First, they'd be faced with the fact that Ted attacked me first, and I had Oscar as a witness. I did proactively knock his old man on his butt, but once a melee begins, proving who did what is tricky. The second and probably more salient reason was that Ted Wade already had a bad-boy image due to his drug use. And getting punched out by someone 20 years his senior was not something the media would ignore.

  I drove home in the dark, and fortunately traffic had eased considerably. I actually felt somewhat relaxed, not surprising perhaps, since I had gotten some of my frustration out by slugging Marvin Wade. Nothing like a physical altercation to put one in a state of peace. But when I reached the apartment, turning the doorknob sent pain shooting through my right hand. Fortunately I had a pair of greeters who were more than happy to make me feel better.

  Chewy was the first to reach me, jumping up and tapping her paws against my thighs, her tail wagging and her tongue hanging out. I scratched her behind the ears and that quieted her down for a minute. Gail walked over and kissed me.

  "You're home late," she said. "The two of us were getting concerned."

  "I had some business to attend to," I responded holding up my right hand, which was by now red and swollen.

  "Uh-oh. Hopefully the other guy is okay."

  "He'll survive. But he might think twice about saying any old thing that pops into his head."

  Gail treated my hand and I told her about my day. Chewy sat next to me on the couch and occasionally licked my face. Gail had ordered a pizza for dinner, which fortunately meant I didn't have to operate a knife and fork.

  "I found out something interesting today," she said, as I reached for a second slice.

  "I'm all ears."

  "It's about Noreen Giles."

  "Really."

  "This isn't her first stab at insurance fraud. Not by a long shot."

  "Okay."

  "Yes, apparently she did this quite a number of times in Nebraska, Texas, Arizona. They moved from state to state. But it was under different names. I thought it might have been due to marriage, but it looks like she just formed new identities wherever she went. Same with her husband."

  "So their real name isn't Giles."

  "Nope, hers is Noreen Schiller, his is Will Cardigan. At least that's how they started out. They're not even from Nebraska. They were born and raised in Massachusetts. They may have even started their life of crime there, although I couldn't find anything beyond Texas."

  "So they've been arrested before?"

  "Arrested, charged and convicted. Both have done jail time. Then they get out, change their names and do it again."

  "It must be comfortable to have a pattern you can just fall back into. Like a warm blanket."

  "Yes it's a pattern all right. Lather, rinse, repeat. They've defrauded a dozen insurance companies, and gotten away with hundreds of thousands of dollars. They do time and they're supposed to make reparations, but it's awfully hard to find them when they disappear, leave the state and change their names."

  "Wonder why they went into real estate?" I asked. "That's a very public profession."

  "Appare
ntly that's related," she told me. "When they hold open houses for clients whose property they've listed, they make sure the owners aren't there. Then they spend time going through the nooks and crannies where people hide their valuables. Before any buyers arrive. There have been numerous complaints of thefts over the years. Always jewelry. Apparently they never touch anything else."

  "Makes sense. First thing a client will check is to make sure their cash is still there. They often forget about the more valuable stuff. Especially if it's tucked away somewhere."

  "Using a very public alias allows them to hide in plain sight," Gail continued. "When they go by another name like Giles, that means nothing, no one would figure out who they were. It's a clever plan."

  "A lot of crooks are smart," I said. "But they're often lazy and don't want to do the hard work that comes with being successful. This is the quick route. And the easy route."

  At that point, Chewy nudged me with her paw. I told her pizza wasn't an acceptable food for dogs. Gail got up and went into the kitchen.

  "Here, give her this," she said, handing me a piece of rawhide, the size of a candy bar. "I went to the pet store today. I don't want my shoes getting torn up as she starts teething. I have a feeling there's a reason they named her Chewy."

  "How old do you think she is?"

  "A few months. Maybe six."

  "A true puppy."

  "Oh yes," she smiled. "We get to raise her."

  "I'm really glad you're into her," I said, waving the rawhide in front of Chewy and getting her to stand up on her hind legs following it. I finally gave it to her and she grabbed the treat in her mouth and trotted off to a corner to work on it.