Safety Valve (Burnside Series Book 4)

by David Chill

  His face went straight into the windshield, causing a massive, light green spider web of cracked glass. From there, his body was thrown violently backward, breaking the passenger seat. He then flew up into the top of the car where his skull smashed into the ceiling. He came back down, and after ping-ponging one or two more times, including bouncing painfully off of my right shoulder, his body finally came to rest. The last I saw of him, his body was sprawled awkwardly out of the passenger door, which had become unhinged during the collision.

  I breathed in and out, slowly and repetitively. A wall of silence permeated the car. Blood was splattered everywhere. I moved my arms and they worked. I moved my legs and they worked too. So did my fingers and toes. After a few minutes, I managed to pull myself out of the vehicle and stumbled a few feet away, landing on a patch of dirt. I didn't know whether Isaac Vale was dead or alive, and at this point I didn't really care much. I only knew that I was alive, barely, and I was very much grateful for that.

  I pulled out my cell phone and somehow managed to get a signal and call Sean Mulligan. I'd let him contact 9-1-1. Cell phones had a history of being notoriously poor at accessing emergency services. Getting a call from an LAPD officer would bring a quicker response. That, and the fact that I really had no idea where we were. I stumbled over to where Isaac Vale was hanging out of the car. I reached into his pocket and removed my .38. I noticed his pistol was nowhere to be found, but I was sure it would turn up. These things always did.

  I couldn't believe it when I saw Sean Mulligan pull up five minutes later. He went around the side of the car, checked Isaac Vale's pulse and then pulled out his own phone and called it in. A few minutes after that, the paramedics were on the scene. I crawled under a nearby tree and watched them work on Isaac Vale. Sean Mulligan came over and sat down next to me.

  "You been drinking?" he asked.

  "Nope."

  "That tree just jump out into the road and hit you?"

  "Yup."

  Mulligan smiled. "Feel like telling me about it? I'm a better listener than Johnson."

  "I'll bet you are," I said, and told him about my outing with Isaac Vale, beginning with my arrival at the Seaside and omitting the morning's escapade of carjacking and robbing a jewelry thief. Telling the story took about the same amount of time as the Paramedics took to pull Isaac Vale out of the Highlander, load him onto a stretcher and grunt as they lifted him into the back of their unit. As they drove off, two LAPD cruisers arrived.

  "I guess this long day is going to get even longer," I said, resigning myself to the inevitable.

  "It will," Mulligan said. "But I think it's going to have a happy ending, even if it's a late one. Besides, I owe you."

  "How's that?"

  "You really tore Johnson a new one this morning. Lots of guys have wanted to tell him where to go and how to get there. But you're the one who did it."

  "Were you watching me behind that two-way mirror?" I asked.

  "Nah. Someone recorded it. Within five minutes, everyone at the Division had a copy of that clip sent to them."

  "Glad I could help the cause."

  "Hey, you made everyone's day. Look, I'll even try and keep your name out of the media. Unless you want the publicity."

  "Not this kind of publicity," I said. "Hey Sean, I need to ask you something."

  "What's that?"

  "Were you the one following me all the way from Santa Monica?"

  "Uh-huh. All the way from Patrick Washington's, actually. I saw what was happening. Didn't jump in right away because I figured Vale might lead us to an interesting place. But then you made a quick left turn and I lost you. Good thing you called. I was ready to go back to the Division. You can only trust your hunches so much."

  Chapter 26

  Sean Mulligan was correct, the day was indeed a long one. Isaac Vale was still alive when they got him to Saint John's Hospital in Santa Monica, although he was in critical condition for almost a week. After he stabilized, the City Attorney charged him with four counts of murder. He pleaded not guilty due to insanity. Gail and I both agreed that he might have a good argument there.

  The media excluded me from their coverage, and I felt feel very grateful to Sean for whatever role he played in that. I was simply mentioned as an unidentified carjacking victim who survived an auto accident. Since the Highlander was rented, there was no direct link back to me, and none of the reporters bothered to investigate why Oscar Romeo's body was left in a dumpster next to my building. Sean had a hunch about Topanga, and organized a search in the area of the crash, complete with a canine team in tow. It took a few hours, but the dogs led investigators to the body of Christy Vale, buried in a shallow grave about two miles away.

  The media lauded Detective Mulligan for cracking the case of a quadruple murder and quoted him extensively in numerous articles. I called him and said this would likely get him promoted. He told me he owed me one, and I put him on alert that I would one day collect on the debt. Jim Johnson wasn't mentioned in any press coverage, one more pleasant footnote to an otherwise arduous journey.

  Cliff Roper was exonerated and he had a few choice words for the LAPD's ability to think and chew gum at the same time. He told the media that this whole episode had cost him millions and he would be filing a civil suit for false arrest and a handful of other issues that could only be salved with financial remedy. I had doubts he would be successful collecting one dime, but I think Cliff Roper may have been more interested in the publicity this would generate, and the chance to keep his name on the front page. When I called him after the accident and Vale's subsequent arrest, he told me to stop by after the weekend for a chat, the NFL draft would be taking up most of his time during the next few days. He didn't bother to thank me and I didn't really expect him to.

  The morning after the accident, my downstairs neighbor Ms. Linzmeier slept in and so did I. Gail had long since gone off to work when I rolled out of bed just before 11:00 a.m. We had spoken ever-so-briefly when I crawled under the covers with her at about 2:00 in the morning. She was more than willing to talk, but I was not, and we settled by cuddling for a long time until we both fell softly asleep. Gail departed quietly for work, being extra careful not to wake me, even though I vaguely remember her leaving. Our bed became just a little less warm and secure than it had been with her in it.

  The first thing I did when I got up was to limp into the kitchen and make a pot of French roast, but this time taking steps to make it extra strong. I took some Advil and sipped my coffee in the living room, listening to nothing more than the cars driving by and the birds chirping. Chewy climbed onto the sofa and sat down next to me. I scratched behind her ears and she responded by lovingly putting her chin down on my lap.

  Having a calm morning was a welcome relief from the past few days. My ribs ached from the impact of the air bag, my hand was still sore from belting Ted Wade's father, and I was nursing a headache as well. Gail had liked the scones from La Brea Bakery so much that she had stopped by there the previous day. I helped myself to a ginger scone and ate it slowly, savoring every bite. I was still a little tired, hurting on a number of levels and probably suffering through a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder. But I also knew how good it felt to be alive, and shuddered at how close I had come to death. Had I waited another minute or two before driving the Highlander into the tree, Isaac might well have ordered me to stop the car so I could get out and begin digging my own grave. When Isaac Vale told me I was going to die, it was obvious that it was no veiled threat.

  By 12:30 p.m. I was feeling a little better. I showered, dressed and thought about what I would do today. The phone buzzed at that point, and it was Jorge from Pacific Repairs, telling me my Pathfinder was ready for pickup. When I asked about getting a ride, he said he'd send someone by to fetch me. That sounded just fine.

  The Pathfinder looked as good as new. They had even done me the courtesy of washing it and applying a layer of wax. The black vehicle gleamed in the sunlight, and even thou
gh it was 8 years old and had rolled up a lot of mileage, it still looked good. I cautiously moved behind the wheel and drove off slowly, testing the brakes a few times as I drove down Pico Boulevard. Everything seemed functional, although the driver was probably not at his best. I drove east on Pico for a while, aimlessly passing the Westside Pavilion and the Rancho Park Golf Course before I decided on a destination for this afternoon. I continued to drive east until I arrived at the offices of the Differential Insurance Company's claims investigation unit. Harold Stevens was finishing lunch at his desk when I walked in.

  "Well," he exclaimed. "Long time no see! It's been over 24 hours since our last meeting. A lot's happened!"

  "You're telling me," I commented, and pulled a chair up to his desk.

  "You do look the worse for wear," he said. "I hope Noreen Giles didn't do this to you."

  "No, she was the fun part of my day yesterday."

  I took Harold through my investigation of the Horne murders, Cliff Roper's alleged involvement, and the cast of characters I became mentally and physically engaged with over the past week. The culmination, of course, was the E-ticket ride I had with Isaac Vale yesterday, and my all-too-close brush with death in one of the rural nooks hidden inside Topanga Canyon. Topped off by the many hours fielding questions from the LAPD. That finally ended when the police found Isaac Vale's gun lodged underneath one of the seats in the Highlander, and my story took on some weight. Christy Vale's body was found shortly thereafter, and the police finally decided I might actually have been telling them the truth all along.

  "That is a remarkable tale," Harold acknowledged. "But it's funny how I didn't catch your name anywhere on the news. The story just focused on how Isaac Vale carjacked someone, there was an accident, and the police found his wife's body nearby."

  "I don't think the police wanted me speaking with the media and telling them how badly they mishandled this case. Arresting Cliff Roper and then suspecting that I had something to do with any of this was ludicrous. It was lazy police work. At some point, some reporter is going to figure it out and find me. But I can't imagine how being neck deep in a quadruple murder case is going to be good for my business."

  "Even though you were about to crack the case when Isaac jumped in your car."

  "I was this close," I said, holding my thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart. "I sensed this was related to love and not money. But I was just focused on the wrong couple, the Luttingers. When the cocktail waitress told me that Oscar had been carrying on there with one of the Bay City saleswomen, I was sure it was Christy. I couldn't imagine Christy being the one who pulled the trigger, but people can fool you. I just knew that the trail for all of this led right to the dealership. Only someone who was connected there would have had the wherewithal and the motive to take that step. The person had to know about cars, and especially how to mess up someone's brakes. It was just a matter of time before I got to him. Isaac Vale got to me first."

  "Indeed. And I'm happy to hear this all turned out well and you got out unscathed."

  "That makes two of us. So tell me what happened to Noreen Giles?"

  Harold smiled a big smile. "The police booked her for grand theft. She was screaming your name, saying she wanted to press charges for carjacking, kidnapping and even attempted murder."

  "Sounds like she's familiar with criminal charges."

  "Oh yes, she's quite the pro. But the police had the diamond necklace and the Pelletiers identified it. Quite a beautiful piece apparently. I wouldn't be surprised if the retail value of that didn't run well into six figures. If that were the case she might have gotten a good $30,000 or so from the pawn shop. That is, if they carried that kind of cash. Why she chose a pawn shop in the barrio is strange. I guess she figured that would be a shop the Pelletiers wouldn't think to visit."

  "Smart," I said. "In a twisted sort of way."

  "True. Anyway, the Pelletiers filed their police report, and once the cops told Noreen that the victims identified the item and had a photo of it, she crumbled and admitted it. Well, sort of. She actually said her husband Will stole it."

  "So much for honor among thieves."

  "Yes, and Will Giles himself took a powder right after his wife was picked up. They found out he bought a plane ticket to Buenos Aires and fled the country yesterday."

  "I guess that's the official end of Giles & Giles, a real estate partnership."

  "And we in L.A. will be all the better for their breakup," Harold said. "Which reminds me, I owe you something."

  "You do."

  Harold opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large white envelope with my name on it and handed it to me. "There's a little something extra in there. For service above and beyond the call of duty."

  "Aw, thanks. You didn't have to do that."

  "Well, you made our community a little safer yesterday. In more ways than one. And with Noreen Giles in jail and Will out of the country, you've made everyone a little less susceptible to fraud. Especially the Differential Insurance Company."

  I pocketed the check. "I'll call this an advance on my wedding present."

  "Sure. How is that going?"

  I shrugged. "You were right. I'm leaving most of that to Gail. I'm just agreeing to whatever she wants, showing up and saying I do. And oh yeah, paying for most of it."

  "Smart man," Harold said, standing up and shaking my hand. "Happy wife, happy life."

  *

  By the time I meandered back to the Westside it was after 4:00 p.m. I decided to swing by my office and take care of some paperwork. As I walked up to my office however, I noticed my door wide open and I heard some voices inside. My last few days had been a whirlwind of activity and I knew I was skittish about things. I had two cases that were seemingly put to bed, but a few odds and ends had slipped through the cracks. One of which was Will Giles, who had supposedly skipped town. And I never got to speak with Art Luttinger. And Duncan Whitestone was pretty angry over our last encounter. Drawing my .38 from its holster. I kept it in my right hand, my arm hanging loosely at my side. My gun was ready if I needed it, but it turned out a firearm wouldn't be necessary. One peek inside told me things might actually be far more dangerous.

  They were sitting in my office, chatting and laughing and even eating together. The two of them were getting to know each other and seemed to like what they saw. I probably shouldn't have been surprised. There were reasons I was drawn to both women, they had traits I found marvelous. They were savvy and smart and direct. They were also both insanely beautiful. But the picture of Gail Pepper and Honey Roper sitting on a couch together, smiling and giggling, was something my stress-addled brain was having some trouble comprehending.

  I secured my .38 safely back in its holster where it couldn't do any accidental damage. Walking casually into my office, I pasted a smile onto my face and wondered what fate had in store for me now.

  "Well, you finally got here," Gail smiled.

  I said hello back and went right over to give her a kiss on the cheek. I turned and looked at Honey. "Hello to you too." I said. I made no motion to kiss her.

  "I think I better settle for a handshake," she said, an impish grin on her face.

  I shook her hand and was surprised at the firm, professional grip. I looked at the two of them, and they were not only enjoying themselves, but they both had plates filled with dessert sitting on their laps. On my desk sat four small cakes, each one different, but each looking rather exquisite.

  “So what brings you both to my humble office,” I asked with great hesitancy. “Bake sale at the local PTA?”

  “You know something, sweetie,” Gail said, “you and I have been talking about doing a cake tasting. And I know how busy you’ve gotten. So I thought I’d bring the tasting to you. Grab a plate.”

  I walked behind my desk and took samples of all of four. Thankfully I had had a light lunch. There was a classic white cake, a chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, a strawberry shortcake and a carrot cake. All fo
ur looked good and all four tasted good.

  “They’re fantastic," I said after sampling the fourth one. "Where are they from?”

  “Sweet Lady Jane," said Gail. "On Montana. Best cakes in town.”

  “Now, my favorite is the carrot cake,” Honey said, taking a small bite of one that seemed to have toasted coconut embedded in the frosting wall. “But you can’t go wrong with any of them. And you can’t go wrong with Sweet Lady Jane.“

  “I am finding,” Gail said, “that Honey and I agree on quite a bit.”

  This could be good or bad. I took another bite of the carrot cake. It was good, but not my favorite. I’m not so keen on sweets and I tend to default to chocolate. But I decided that my own humble opinion mattered less in situations such as these. This was not one in which I needed to draw a line in the sand.

  “I agree," I said. "The carrot cake is sensational. It’s not traditional for a wedding cake, but I like to think we’re something of a non-traditional couple.”

  “Indeed we are,” Gail smiled. “And I’m glad you agree. Carrot cake it is.”

  I turned to Honey. “It’s nice to see you once again. Did you just happen to be in the neighborhood?”

  Honey smiled. “No, not exactly. I’m actually here as an emissary of sorts.”

  “Oh?”

  “My dad is very busy right now. But he wanted to send a special thank you for your work over the past week. He feels very grateful.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, pondering all this. “But I’m sure your Dad could have worked in a meeting with me. Especially for the guy who got him off the hook for a capital crime. Not that he doesn’t have more pressing issues, what with the NFL draft this weekend and all.”

  Honey smiled and looked at Gail. “He is so cute. You are so lucky to have nabbed him.”

  “I know,” Gail smiled in return.

  Honey looked at me and then back at Gail. “Under the right circumstances, I’d try to steal him away from you,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “But something tells me I’m in over my head here. I don’t think I could pry him away.”