by David Chill
Gail gave me a puzzled look.
"Chewy."
"Oh," she laughed. "Of course. And I get to play with her again today. Actually I think I'm going to take her in for a bath. She needs one."
"Every girl deserves a spa day once in a while."
"Well today's going to be hers."
We kissed and I dropped Gail back at the apartment. I had a few to-do items on my agenda for the rest of the day. The first was to go talk to Art Luttinger. I did an Internet search, but it came up empty, he was still listed as living on 11th Street with his wife, Betty. I didn't want to go back to Betty's apartment, so I drove over to Bay City Motor Cars. It was a Sunday, so it was unlikely she'd be around. Maybe those who were there might be in the mood to talk.
I parked down the street from the dealership and walked onto the lot. Betty Luttinger wasn't there, and not many others were either. I saw one other patron walk around a BMW three times before they opened the driver's-side door and peeked tepidly inside. I pretended to be interested in a Porsche Cayenne, a small SUV that had a retail price of $90,000.
"Now that's a good family vehicle," said a voice from behind me. I turned and saw a familiar face. Christy Vale approached, looking like she was wearing some extra rouge on her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her eyelids looked heavy. It wasn't hard to tell she had been crying recently.
"Maybe if you're a Kardashian," I commented.
"Well now, you're going to be a married man soon. You have to plan for the future."
"I'm certainly trying to," I said wryly. "And you have a good memory."
"It's an occupational requirement," Christy said. "Know thy customer."
"I'll bet you're a good salesperson," I remarked.
Christy nodded sadly. "I am," she sighed. "When there are people to sell to. But you can't sell when you don't have floor traffic. This is a slow period. And it's tough without Gil. I miss him a lot. We all miss him."
"I'm sure this whole episode has been quite a shock."
"It's been very traumatic," she agreed. "I don't even think I'm able to mourn yet. I keep trying to forget this whole nightmare never happened. It feels like that's the only way I can get through it."
"Denial only helps for so long," I pointed out.
"Oh, I know. It's bad for me personally, and it doesn't help that our business is bad too right now. Gil was the marketing guy, he knew how to bring customers in the door. It's not the same without him. I'm trying to keep my spirits up. We'll get through this, but it's tough."
"Have you heard anything from Betty?"
"No, she hasn't been in all week. I'm a little worried about her."
"Because of Gil?"
"Sure."
"What about Art?"
She peered at me. "What do you know about Art?"
"Not much. I was hoping you might fill me in."
"Arty," she sighed. "What a lame-o. Betty's had it rough."
"Why do you say that about her husband?"
"He's a failure. A never-do well, I think you call him."
I decided not to tell her it's pronounced ne'er do well. And I didn't want to sidetrack her.
"I heard he was in sales too," I said.
"Sure, I guess you could call Arty a salesperson. He works in telemarketing, which is the lowest of the low. He used to work here. Hard to believe, but he did. In six months I think he sold one car."
I stared at her. "Art Luttinger worked at the dealership?"
"He did. I guess Betty leaned on Gil to hire him. Big mistake. He can't sell toner, much less expensive cars. They finally got him out of here, which was a relief to everyone. Legit buyers were walking out the door because he was a bumbling fool. If a client is going to spend upwards of six figures, they want to be sure their salesperson knows what they're talking about."
"He didn't know much about cars?"
"He knew something about them. He just couldn't communicate it well," she said, her voice starting to rise suddenly and become more animated. "He'd have been better off working for Ike in the service department! Oh hi, baby!"
I turned to see Isaac Vale, dressed in his usual short sleeve shirt that displayed his massive, hairy arms. I guess if I had guns like that, I'd wear short sleeve shirts too. If you've got it, flaunt it.
"Hello again," Isaac boomed.
I stuck up a hand and waved, lest he decided to test his grip on my right hand again. Given its tender status, I didn't need any more damage inflicted.
"You're becoming almost like family," he said. "I keep seeing you here."
"I just can't stay away," I said. "You always work Sundays?"
"Just stopped by to take care of some loose ends. No rest for the weary."
"Know the feeling," I agreed.
Christy slipped her arm inside Isaac's. "I was giving Mr. Burnside the skinny on Arty Luttinger."
Isaac moved a step away from Christy. "Oh yeah. Him. Didn't work out. Why the interest?"
"I'm doing an investigation. About Gil and his wife."
"Oh ... I thought ... well, I had read that the police arrested his partner in that other business. That sports agent."
"I don't think he did it."
"Really? You're thinking Art was involved?"
I turned my palms skyward. "I'm not sure what to make of things. I've never met the guy, but he does have a motive. Gil was sleeping with his wife."
"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly as he pondered this. "That's plenty of motive. I could see where he'd be totally pissed."
They both stopped talking and looked behind me. I turned and saw a very unhappy Duncan Whitestone approaching.
"Mr. Burnside," he started. "May I ask the reason for your visit today?"
I stared at him. "I need a reason?"
"Yes, you're taking up my people's valuable time with your investigation."
"Sounds like you have something to hide."
"I have nothing to hide," Whitestone said angrily. "And you're not the police. I am not going to have my place of business disturbed by some rent-a-cop who is wasting everyone's time."
"I don't care whose time I'm wasting," I said evenly, not liking the rent-a-cop crack one bit. "My job is to make sure a man doesn't go to jail for a crime he may not have committed."
"And you don't know that. And that's why we have a process, a system of justice in this country. To prevent those types of mistakes."
"That process doesn't work so well. Maybe you should stick to selling overpriced cars and not give me a lecture on our criminal justice system."
"Overpriced?!" he snarled. "Maybe to people like you who can't afford them."
"Most of the world can't afford what your peddling," I fired back. "And judging by the number of people on your lot today, I'd say the world agrees with me."
Duncan Whitestone drew in a breath and I half-expected it to come out of his ears in the form of steam. "Ike. Christy. I think you both have work to do," he said to them and then he turned to me. "It's time for you to leave."
I briefly thought about challenging him to see if he could make me leave. But then I remembered the big arms of Isaac Vale, as well as my sore right hand, and decided not to push the envelope any further. At least not right now.
"Sure," I said. "I wouldn't want to interrupt everyone's busy day."
Chapter 21
I walked a few blocks to cool off before stopping at a familiar sign. Growing up decades ago in Los Angeles, we had not yet been blessed with convenience stores such as 7-Eleven or Circle K. The liquor stores effectively served as convenience stores. Besides alcohol, they sold everything from newspapers and magazines to candy bars and milk. Stopping at Jerry's Liquor, I bought a paper copy of the Sunday L.A. Times, something I hadn't done in a dozen years. With the advent of the Internet, I got my news electronically. But no matter how hard I searched the Times website, I could find nothing on open houses for Giles & Giles today. Perusing through the hard copy provided me with the answer I needed. They had one open house on June St
reet, tucked inside the exclusive enclave of Hancock Park. I drove there, parked, read the newspaper, and waited for it to end at 4:00 p.m.
At roughly 4:05 p.m., Noreen Giles and her husband walked outside, locked the door and removed the open house signs from the property. It was a beautiful home, older, stately, very dignified, certainly very expensive. It screamed Old Money. The pair drove off and about 30 minutes later another couple arrived and entered the home. I waited 10 minutes and walked to the front door and rang the bell. A small sign with the words "Pelletier" sat above the buzzer. A man and a woman, both in their late 60s, both well dressed, opened the door together.
"Yes?"
"Hello," I said and flashed my P.I. badge. "The name's Burnside. I'm a private investigator. Do you mind if I have a word with you?"
They looked at each other. "My goodness. What's wrong?" the woman said.
I smiled. "It's a little complicated. May I come in?"
"What does this concern?" she asked, suspiciously.
"This concerns theft at open houses," I said. "Have you checked your valuables yet."
"Why no, we just arrived home," said the woman. "What's happening?"
"There have been some issues with theft of valuables."
She turned to her husband. "Charlie, would you mind checking?"
"I don't know where you keep your jewelry," he protested. "Hell, I barely know where you keep my single malt Scotch."
"Oh good lord, I'll go check," she said. Charlie stood at the door. We looked at each other for a few minutes and said nothing. A yelp from the back of the house told me what I needed to know.
"It's gone!" she cried. "All of it! All of my jewelry! And the diamond necklace, that was priceless! And your Rolex, Charlie. And those diamond earrings you gave me for our silver anniversary."
"Damn!" yelled Charlie. "I knew we shouldn't have had an open house. Laura, I told you so. It makes us sitting ducks for burglars. But those realtors, they insisted."
"Insisted?" I asked.
"Yes," Laura wailed as she returned to the front door. "They told us that was the only way to sell a house these days. Buyers don't get driven around by realtors much anymore. They just come by the Sunday open houses to check them out."
"They make it all sound so reasonable."
"Oh yes," she continued. "They also said we couldn't be here. They said buyers and sellers should never meet. They said we should never be at our own open house."
I closed my eyes for a moment and then blinked them open. "May I come in?"
Charlie threw up his hands. "Why not? Anything valuable we own is now gone. Nothing else left to steal. Come on in! Make yourself at home!"
I walked into their home. It was neat and tidy and elegant. A handwritten note from Noreen Giles was sitting on the large oak kitchen table, which probably could seat a dozen people. The note let them know there had been a number of interested parties, and she thought multiple offers would be coming this week.
"How well do you know your realtors?"
"Know them?" Laura asked.
"Yes. How did you meet?"
"We got some of their flyers," she answered. "Seems like they leave one on our doorstep every week. When we decided to sell our house, we talked to three or four different realtors. Noreen and Will said they lived nearby and said they worked this neighborhood almost exclusively. They seemed liked good salespeople. They said they could get a lot more money for our house than any of the other realtors said they could."
"Say," Charlie broke in. "You don't think ... "
"Oh no." she moaned.
"Oh yes," I said. "They've been involved in a variety of insurance fraud schemes. I can't be positive they're the ones who stole your valuables, but it makes sense at this stage. There are burglars who go through open houses, but in this instance, I think this was an inside job."
"I'm calling the cops!" Laura declared.
"No, I'm gonna find out where they live," Charlie declared. "I'll go get everything back."
"Wait a minute," I broke in and turned to Charlie. "How are you going to do that? They'll just deny everything."
"I'll make 'em understand the situation," he said. "They don't know who they're messing with."
I stared at him. "You don't happen to have a gun, do you?"
"Sure I do. This is L.A. Everybody's got a gun."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Your wife has the right idea, Charlie. Let the police handle this. You're dealing with professional thieves. You don't know what they're capable of."
"They don't know what I'm capable of," he insisted.
"Charlie, he's right," Laura told him. "Calm down. It's not worth it. You don't want to wind up in jail yourself. Or worse."
Looking sheepish but feeling outnumbered, Charlie shook his head and muttered something before going over to the couch and sitting down.
"Do you happen to have photos of the stolen jewelry?" I asked.
Laura said yes. "I do. Our insurance agent suggested I take shots of valuables. More in case of a fire, but theft is covered on our policy too. I have photos of everything."
"Great. Do you have a copier here?
"Yes. Do you want a copy of the photos? But why?"
"I have an idea of how we might get these back. And I could actually use two copies."
Laura went and found the photos while I watched Charlie stare at the floor, obviously disappointed he wouldn't be able to threaten anyone with a gun today. She returned a few minutes later with the copies.
"Should I file a police report?" she asked.
I thought for a moment. "Why don't you wait until tomorrow," I said. "I have an idea here." Knowing how under-staffed the LAPD was these days, it was unlikely this would be a priority for them. But it might be for Harold Stevens.
On the drive home, the freeway was wide open. The Dodger game had gone into extra innings and there were relatively few cars on the road. I arrived in Santa Monica feeling good. And then, as I drove up 4th Street, I knew immediately that something was wrong. There was commotion up the road and the police had Montana Avenue sealed off. Barricades were set up and there were about 10 police cars, as well as half a dozen TV news vans. I parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the way back to Montana.
"What happened here?" I asked a bystander, a young man in his late 20s, wearing a t-shirt and shorts.
"Police found a body. In a dumpster behind that building," he said, pointing to my apartment building.
I froze, although my imagination began to go wild. "Man or woman?" I managed.
"Oh it was a man, all right. A very big man. Apparently someone really clobbered him, hit him in the back of the head."
I stared at him. "That's pretty gruesome. And that certainly counts as news. No surprise the media's here. But why so many of these news trucks?"
"Guy's famous. He plays for the Chargers. Or used to, I guess. Linebacker. Name's Oscar Romeo."
Chapter 22
I knew there was no point in calling Detective Mulligan, or anyone else at the Hollywood Division. If they hadn't already figured out I lived in the apartment building next to where Oscar's body was left, they would do so eventually. It was better to be proactive and start the process. I decided to go down first thing the next morning.
"Sweetie, I think you should have a lawyer present when you're being questioned," Gail said.
I considered this. "You know, this is something I've been through before and I know the drill. I've been on both sides of the table. I understand you're just being careful. But this is something I can handle."
"I worry about you," she said, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
"I worry about you too," I said and stroked her long brown hair. "When I saw all those police cars, my mind went to dark places."
The next morning brought more of the usual. Overcast, gloomy and depressing. I opted to stop for a maple scone and a vente dark roast at a Starbucks on the way over to the Hollywood Division. I ate the scone at a small table as
I combed through my iPad, reading the various articles on Oscar Romeo's murder. In the time it took for me to finish my scone, I learned everything that was publicly available. The coffee was always too hot to drink right away, so I sipped it on the drive over to the LAPD station. The coffee wasn't bad, although I still preferred the taste of my home-brewed French roast.
It was almost 7:00 a.m. when I arrived at the Hollywood Division. This time I dumped both my .38 special and my cell phone in the glove compartment. I walked into the Division and it was as busy as ever. When I reached the homicide unit, the assistant there knew exactly who I was.
"Oh my," she said. "Mr. Burnside. Detective Johnson was going to call you."
"I figured as much."
"I'll go get him."
A minute later Jim Johnson appeared, and he carried his own cup of Starbucks. His was a smaller, grande size. He gave me a long look. I looked back at him and then motioned to my coffee cup.
"Mine's bigger than yours," I said.
Johnson continued to stare at me. "Trouble seems to follow you everywhere, doesn't it, Burnside?"
I smiled. "Trouble is my middle name."
"A real wise guy. Okay, follow me. You know the routine."
We entered the same room we had been in for last week's interrogation. It was still as bare and stark as it was last week. A window on one side, a two-way mirror on the other. The two-tone green paint job still needed some touch up work. I noticed some additional paint chips lining the floor just underneath the baseboards.
"You guys paint these rooms now and then?"
"Sit down. Forget about the paint."
I took a sip of my Starbucks. I wondered what roast they were using. Maybe Ethiopian, the birthplace of coffee. While the flavor would take some getting accustomed to, the caffeine kick I was getting was as good as my French roast. Maybe better.
"This Starbucks is good coffee," I remarked.
"Yeah. Sure. Better than what we serve here."
"I'll bet you ordered the blonde roast."
He looked at me and opened his mouth for a brief moment and then closed it. He continued to stare at me for a long minute. Maybe it was two minutes. Very standard. It was a tactic designed to try and make me feel ill at ease and start to squirm. Unfortunately he forgot I had been a cop for thirteen years.
