by David Chill
I called Harold and gave him our location. About 15 minutes later, an LAPD cruiser approached and I flagged them down. Harold Stevens apparently had a lot of juice.
"You Burnside?"
"I am."
"Hear you have a pickup for us."
"Around the block in the alley. Follow me."
I led them to Noreen Giles, who by now had twisted herself onto her back and was fruitlessly struggling with the plastic cuffs. The two uniforms emerged from their patrol car and walked over to look at her. Then they looked back at me.
"The name Burnside sounds familiar," one of them said. "You ever on the job?"
"Thirteen years with the department," I told them.
"Bound and gagged," he said. "A little over the top, don't you think?"
"She's a career criminal. I don't have much sympathy. You'll find the stolen item in her pocket, probably worth six figures. She lifted it yesterday at an open house in Hancock Park. Owners are filing a complaint. Their name's Pelletier."
One of the uniforms removed the rag from Noreen Giles mouth. She immediately went into her act.
"Officer, arrest this man. He kidnapped me and he planted evidence. He's a monster. He pulled a knife and a gun and he was going to kill me. He's a menace to society. He needs to be locked up. He impersonated a police officer. He ... "
At that point the uniform sighed and put the rag back into her mouth. I handed him my gloves. "Use these to pull the stolen item out of her pocket. No sense getting your prints on them."
"Thanks," he said. "We'll take it from here. How do we get in touch with you if we need a statement?"
I handed him my card, and then showed him my official P.I. license, not the fake shield I used as a prop. He looked at it, made a motion to his partner, and the two uniforms lifted Noreen Giles up, replaced my plastic cuffs with official police handcuffs, and put her into the squad car. They didn't give me back my plastic cuffs and I didn't ask for them.
The drive back to June Street took about 20 minutes. Laura Pelletier answered the door and I gave her back her jewelry, minus one piece. I instructed her to call the police with the instructions that a priceless diamond necklace was missing following her open house yesterday, and she suspected her realtor, Noreen Giles. She seemed a bit shocked at getting most of her valuables back and asked what she could do to thank me. I smiled and said to forget she ever met me and not to tell the police about anything I had said or done. Seriously. My actions today could easily cost me my P.I. license. But I didn't become a private investigator just to mindlessly follow a set of bureaucratic rules. If I wanted to do that I'd have remained a cop.
Chapter 24
With one case almost closed, I was now free to focus entirely on the murders of the Hornes and of Oscar Romeo. Which was important, because it was increasingly looking like my own fate might rest in the balance. Being able to apprehend who did it was probably the only thing that would fully remove me as a suspect.
At this stage, the two people who could best tell me more about Oscar Romeo were Ted Wade and Patrick Washington. Since Ted Wade was unlikely to give me anything more than a rematch from the other night, I decided to stop in on Patrick. He answered the door and nodded, as if he were expecting me. We walked into the living room.
"I'm sorry," I said, sitting down on a couch across from him. "I know you and Oscar were good friends."
"More like brothers," he said sadly. "You don't know how hard this is for me."
"I can't even imagine," I said, although with 20 years of law enforcement experience behind me, I had seen this scenario play out many times. In some parts of Los Angeles, death was a regular part of everyday existence. Robberies, gang wars, drive-by shootings, all were part of the fabric woven into inner city life. And never more so than in the South Los Angeles neighborhood that Patrick Washington grew up in.
"I had this happen once before to someone close to me. My cousin. Devin's little brother. Got caught up in crossfire. It was the middle of the afternoon and he was just walking home from school. Good kid. Minding his own business, never did nothing to no one. He was only 12 years old."
"This one looks different," I said gently. "Oscar was targeted. Your cousin sounds like he was just an innocent bystander."
"Dead is dead," Patrick muttered. "Neither one deserved it. Both were good people. Now they're gone."
"You're right," I said, wanting to be sensitive to his pain, but also needing Patrick's help. "If this isn't a good time, I can come back another day. But I'm really hoping to try and figure out who did this. Because whoever killed Oscar, had to be involved in killing Gilbert Horne and his wife too. This is no coincidence. It has to be connected."
Patrick looked at me with moist, bloodshot eyes. "I get it. Whatever I can do to help. I just don't know what that is. Oscar didn't have any enemies. He was a fun-loving guy. Everyone liked Oscar. Even guys he played against. He'd knock them down hard on a play and then go over and help them up afterwards. Slap 'em on the butt and even give them some encouragement. His coaches hated that. They told Oscar to treat the other team as the enemy. Oscar didn't buy that. He said they were the opponent, not the enemy."
"He was right," I said. "Especially in the world of the NFL. The guy you hit today could be your teammate next season."
"True," Patrick agreed. "The NFL is a business. We learn that early on. You know what play Oscar liked the best?"
"What's that?"
"He liked it when the QB had to use a safety valve. Oscar could blow that play up like nobody else."
A safety valve play is pretty much what it sounds like. Whether on a boiler or on a football field, it's designed to relieve pressure and keep a catastrophe from happening. When the quarterback drops back to pass and his receivers are all covered, he only has a few choices. He can throw the ball away, tuck it under his arm and run, or invoke the safety valve. This is where one of his pass-eligible blockers, usually a running back, stops blocking and becomes a pass receiver. The quarterback tosses him the ball and it's then up to the running back to make things happen with his speed and moves.
"That's a play that drives defenses crazy," I said. "The secondary blankets the receivers so they can't get open. The goal is to have the quarterback hold the ball long enough for the blocking to break down and the pass rush get to him. When the quarterback can use the safety valve, the play starts all over again."
Patrick gave a sad smile. "Spoken like a defensive back," he said. "You do your job, shut down your receivers and good things will happen. But sometimes they don't, especially if the quarterback is smart and knows the tools he has at his disposal. And that means he has to go through all his progressions. The last one is the safety valve. Without it, the quarterback becomes a sitting duck, just waiting to get clobbered."
"And Oscar did a good job of reading that."
"Partly reading it, but mostly he was so damn quick for a linebacker, he could get to the running back right after he caught the pass. He could usually blow the play up and tackle him for a loss. I saw it firsthand, playing with him for years, and then on the field against him. Just when the quarterback thinks he's out of the woods, Oscar takes the safety valve and turns it upside down."
Patrick wanted to talk more about Oscar, and he wanted to pay homage to his friend. All very natural and all very human. When someone dies, we push aside the negative memories and focus on the glorious ones. We want to remember the people we cared about in a positive way that celebrates their achievements. It makes us feel reassured they had led a life filled with meaning. I didn't want to push Patrick away from this, but recanting Oscar's exploits on the gridiron wasn't going to help me find the person who killed him.
"I appreciate what a great player he was," I said softly. "And the fact that you two had been friends for most of your lives. But I need a little direction here. And maybe you can help guide me. Could you possibly tell me about the last few days. What do you know about what Oscar was doing? Anything at all would help."
I thought of something. "Since Gil's not there, who was he working with?"
"Some blonde girl. He was talking about her the other day."
My antenna went up. "He mention a name?"
"No. He usually didn't. In Oscar's mind women were pretty much all the same. Just the hair color and body shapes were different."
I thought a moment. "You know if there was anything going on between them? Anything that actually transpired?"
"Hard to tell. With Oscar, any girl who looked at him was someone he thought he could do. He would say it's a question of when, not if."
"I'm sure being a pro attracts a lot of women," I mused.
"Sometimes more than you want," said Patrick. "I have more women coming on to me than I can handle. And I'm just big and rich. Oscar was good looking too. He didn't have to work very hard to get them."
"Anything else you can think of here? Anyone else he saw? Ted Wade? His family?"
Patrick shook his head. "No, Ted and Oscar were friends. They didn't have any problems."
I tried something. "If I told you that both Ted and Oscar were having a thing with Gil Horne's wife, would that surprise you?"
Patrick shrugged. "The only thing that would surprise me would be if someone wasn't having a thing with April Horne. Oscar and Ted, they looked at women as just toys to be used and then discarded."
I sat back for a moment and took this in. When I was at USC, there was no shortage of women who came on to me because I was a football player. I went out with some of them for no better reason than because I could. But I was still in my teens and early 20s, not a fully formed adult, and didn't have an appreciation of just what I was doing. I like to think I've evolved since then, and I like to think that Gail Pepper could only be attracted to the person I am today, not the person I was two decades ago.
I thanked Patrick for his time and once again expressed my condolences. Walking outside, I thought about where to head next. Nothing seemed like a sure thing right now. I felt as if I still had a number of paths to go down on this case, but none seemed obvious. I leaned on my car for a while and looked out at the street. This part of Beverly Hills always seemed so quiet and peaceful. And then something happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, a dark blue sedan entered the long driveway and pulled up next to my Highlander. Out stepped Detective Sean Mulligan, who stopped and stared. We both seemed surprised to see one another.
"Burnside."
"Detective."
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Probably the same thing as you," I said.
"I'm working the Oscar Romeo case."
"What a coincidence," I said. "Me too."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm a little surprised," I offered. "I thought Jim Johnson had me lined up as the person of interest here. Johnson all but wrote out a confession for me to sign this morning."
"Uh yeah," Sean smiled. "I think he may be having second thoughts about that. What you said apparently hit a nerve and got him thinking. And that's certainly a nice change of pace."
"So he's keeping the investigation open."
"He is. And Patrick Washington was Oscar's best friend. Looks like you're one step ahead of us," Sean said.
I didn't bother to agree. "Patrick's in a lot of pain. I don't know how much information he can provide."
"Can't hurt to ask a few questions."
"Maybe you guys should just follow me around and I'll lead you to the killer," I said, only half-joking.
"Jesus. You think we can't run our own investigation? We know a little about detective work too. Long as Johnson doesn't join me in the field, I can work better. Rely on hunches rather than use some by-the-numbers manual."
"Hunches always worked for me," I told him, and climbed into my Highlander.
Leaving Patrick's estate, I thought about driving back to the dealership once more. Oscar and a saleswoman sounded like a subject which needed some looking into. I began thinking how I would approach this. Duncan Whitestone had already told me I was persona non grata at his place of business, and if I kept returning, I was sure to get a security escort out of there. Calling in the police would be pointless, they were hardly on my side. I also thought about returning to Betty Luttinger's apartment to try and get a lead on her husband. His potential role in the Horne murders made him a serious person of interest. How he fit in with Oscar's murder was another matter entirely. While attractive for a middle-aged woman, Betty Luttinger didn't seem to fit Oscar's profile. I also thought about stopping for lunch, but at that point my cell phone buzzed. I punched the Talk button on my dashboard and a voice came over the speaker.
"Mr. Burnside?" asked a high pitched male voice.
"That's right. Who is this?"
"It's Warren Tell down at the Seaside Hotel. I'm the desk clerk, remember?"
"Sure. The guy who doesn't make enough money. What can I do for you?"
"Uh ... yeah. Well I have something interesting I'd like to show you. Thought you might find it interesting."
"Anything you can tell me over the phone?"
"I kinda need to show you."
I said okay and I'd be right over. Bay City Motor Cars would still be there later today. I made it to the Marina in 25 minutes, drove into the self-park lot, and entered the hotel. At one point it looked as if there had been automatic door openers installed, but I guess once the national chain pulled out, patrons had to make do on their own. I approached the front desk and Warren saw me and motioned to follow him into an empty hallway.
"I wanted to know if there's anything I can do to help you," he said.
"Help me?"
"Yeah, in the investigation," he said. "I heard about Oscar Romeo. And his agent was Gilbert Horne. And Horne used to spend a lot of time here."
"Did Oscar spend time here?"
He gave me a blank look. "Yeah. He was here a few nights ago. With a woman. And the two have to be linked right? This is where Gilbert Horne spent a lot of time."
"Go on."
"That's about it."
I sighed and wondered why this conversation needed to be in person. Or take place at all.
"Look. What you say may be correct. And the part about Oscar being here with a woman is a good lead. But I need more than this. You said you had something to show me."
"Uh yeah. Well actually Gretchen has something. Over at the bar. I think it'd be, uh, worth your time going over there," he said.
I looked across the lobby and saw that there were already a few customers getting primed. Warren cleared his throat in a too-obvious way, and I reached into my pocket and slipped the thin young man a twenty. Not because he deserved it or earned but, well, because I had a weird feeling there was something more going on, and I wanted to have the option of going back to him at some point. Twenty dollars wasn't a lot, but it did buy lunch.
I walked over to the bar and approached Gretchen, the aspiring actress I had met last week. She was wearing a pink top and white shorts, with a cute green apron draped over both.
"How's the budding starlet?" I asked.
"Oh I'm good," she smiled. "So good. I just got my first gig. A commercial."
"For who?'
"One of the Indian casinos out in the desert. Which is pretty weird, considering my family doesn't drink, smoke or gamble."
"Do you?"
"Ha! Maybe a little. Anyway, it's a start and it's a speaking role and well, I'm just thrilled. A one-day shoot pays more than a month hustling drinks here."
I smiled paternally. "Good for you. I'm glad things are going well."
"So did Warren send you over?"
"Yes. He was a bit surreptitious about the whole thing."
"Surrep ... huh?"
"A little secretive."
"Oh. Yeah. He's weird. But we've been having fun
with that car brochure you left behind."
I gave her a puzzled look. "The one for Bay City Motor Cars?"
"That's the one," she smiled.
"I guess I forgot it here."
"I guess you did. Anyway, we've been leaving that brochure out on the little tables where customers sit. Well, talk about an ice breaker! People are gabbing about what they'd buy if they won the lottery, how many they'd buy, in what color. You name it. It's been great."
"Glad I could improve their afternoons," I said. It came out a little more sarcastically then I intended. "But how does that help me?"
"Well there was this big guy in here the other day and he had a pretty girl with him. They were all over each other. Kissing, hugging. People started to tell them to get a room. I mean, that's funny you know? In a hotel?"
"Sure," I managed. "Funny. Who was the big guy?"
"It was Oscar Romeo," she said. "That football player who was killed. But he found a picture of the girl he was with. In that brochure. They got a big kick out of that."
I stared at her. "Who was it?"
"I don't know. They took the brochure with them. Sucks, doesn't it?"
"Maybe yes, maybe no," I said. "What did the girl look like?"
"You know. Blonde and pretty. Like every other girl in L.A."
"Anything more you can tell me? What cars they were driving?"
She thought for a brief moment. "Nope. Everyone in L.A. drives nice cars. That about covers it. Do you think you might know who they are?"
"Maybe," I said, and got up to leave. I tossed a fifty on her tray. Sexist perhaps, but I liked Gretchen better than Warren.
