by David Chill
Gail continued to smile. It seemed she was enjoying Honey almost as much as I was. “No, Honey. I don’t think you could manage to pull that one off.”
Turning back to me, Honey’s face all of a sudden turned serious in that odd way of hers. “Dad has something of a more tangible thank you which he wanted me to deliver.”
I looked at her and kept my mouth shut.
Honey reached into her bag and pulled out a large, white envelope. She leaned over and handed to me. “Dad said he always takes care of people that do a good job. It’s good karma and it’s good business.”
I opened the envelope. It was a check for $10,000, made out to me. I looked up at Honey. “I’m not sure quite what to say. Thank you springs to mind. But your father already paid me. And he paid me for 10 days, which I didn’t quite fully put in. Although there might have been some overtime in there.”
“Dad mentioned that, he figured you would remember the details.”
“So what is this for?”
“Well Dad said to tell you it’s kind of a bonus.”
I frowned and remembered I was dealing with Cliff Roper. “That sounds like kind of pregnant. Either it is or it isn’t.”
“What Dad told me,” Honey said as she stood up, her lithe body catching my eye almost as much as the large check. I quickly turned to Gail. Fortunately, she was captivated by Honey as well. “Was that this is for future considerations.”
“Future considerations,” I laughed. “Dare I ask just what that means?”
“You know Dad,” she said, as she moved toward the door. “It means whatever he wants it to mean.”
Chapter 27
Gail and I went home and spent some quality time with Chewy. We took her to a dog-friendly park we found in Mar Vista and played fetch with a tennis ball. I brought along a Frisbee, but every time I tossed it to her, she just watched it slowly sail by. Gail and I sat and cuddled underneath a silver maple tree and watched Chewy play and run and make friends with every dog and person who came near her. After about 20 minutes of sprinting around the park, Chewy's tongue was hanging out and she came over and curled up between us. When I started to stroke Gail's hair, her snout jutted up in the air and we could hear a low level of growling. I wasn't sure if she was jealous of Gail or me. Clearly, a substantial amount of training was going to have to be done.
Having eaten more than our share of cake, neither of us were in the mood for dinner that night. With a $10,000 check in my wallet, I felt comfortable enough to take Gail to Spago a few nights later. An L.A. institution for over three decades, Spago had maintained the contemporary quality of everything from the decor to the food. It had almost graduated to the level of old-school. Maybe not quite as much as The Apple Pan, but it was on its way. We had a wonderfully expensive dinner, and were even visited by Wolfgang himself. As we were finishing dessert, the famous owner stopped by our table to ask how everything was, and then gave us a talk on the subtle differences between a blackberry and an olallieberry. Everyone should be an expert on something.
I picked up a few more cases from Harold Stevens over the next month, simple investigations that required neither the brandishing of weapons nor the raising of fists. Thankfully, my life gravitated back to being peaceful and routine for a while. Our wedding plans were finalized over the next month, and Gail and I were married on the first Saturday in June. Our wedding was held at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, a few blocks from our home and just across the street from the famous California Incline.
It was a warm evening and as we walked slowly down the aisle, I glanced around at our group of guests. Gail's side included her family, her friends from college and law school, and some new colleagues at the City Attorney's office. On my side of the aisle sat mostly friends I had from either USC or from law enforcement. Johnny Cleary stood up for me as best man, and some of our old teammates from 20 years ago were able to make it as well. Juan Saavedra and a number of past and present LAPD officers were in attendance. Harold Stevens was there, as was a pair of special guests who Gail and I had a long discussion about whether to invite. Cliff and Honey Roper were finally green-lighted, but only because Gail insisted. I glanced at them and saw Honey beaming at us. Cliff's eyes were downcast; he was texting someone on his iPhone.
We exchanged our vows and after slipping rings on each other's fingers, we kissed and smiled at each other and began walking back up the aisle. As we did, Gail, her left arm interlocked with my right, leaned over and whispered something in my ear.
"I guess it's time to tell you this," she said.
I looked at her with more than a measured amount of curiosity. "You've been keeping something from me?"
"I'm afraid I have."
"Now's a heck of a time to tell me, you know."
"There's never a perfect time," she sighed.
"Were you afraid I wouldn't show up if you told me beforehand?" I asked.
"No. But I didn't want you to be pre-occupied during the ceremony."
I look hard into Gail soft gray eyes, the eyes that always made me think of spring raindrops. They were clear and warm and added immeasurably to an extraordinarily beautiful face. We continued walking past the point where the flower girl, Juan Saavedra's daughter, had been tossing lavender rose petals. We continued over to a fountain, not far from where the cocktail reception would begin.
"I think I can handle doing two things at once," I pointed out. "But now I can focus on this. Just what is it you want to tell me?"
Gail stopped and put her arms around my neck. I drew her closer so that we only needed to whisper to one another. I held her so that it felt like we were the only two people in the world. We formed our own little cocoon.
"I want to tell you that Chewy is going to have a sibling soon," she smiled. "I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby."
My breath started coming in spurts and I held her a little tighter. "Well now," I said, smiling nervously back at her. "That's the best wedding present you could have ever given me."
"Are you a little scared?" she asked. "They say a lot of men are at first."
"I'm shaking in my shoes," I said. "But it's quite a wonderful feeling."
The End
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Post Pattern Preview
Chapter One
The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.
"They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."
"Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip
in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.
"I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitting next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.
"You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."
Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."
Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.
I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."
"Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."
Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"
Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."
I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.
Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.
"So what are you doing now?" I inquired.
Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."
"Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.
But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slightly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.
Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of makeup including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.
"Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.
"The thought crossed my mind."
"As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."
"So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."
"Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."
I nodded. "All-Conference if I recall."
"Yes."
"You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.
He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."
"Then you graduated."
"I was a year older."
"Of course," I said.
"They changed around the offense after I left. Started using the Read Option. That was probably why Robbie didn't have a great senior year."
"So I gathered. I still follow the game."
"Sure," he commented. "I remember watching you when I was a little kid, Mr. Burnside. You played safety at USC, didn’t you?"
"You've got a good memory. But why don't we get back to why you're here."
"Oh yeah," he paused. "Well it was like this. I was driving Robbie's car last night. You see, our parents had an affair up at the house. I needed to leave early and Robbie's Honda was blocking my car in the driveway. So I just borrowed his."
"Sure. I do the same thing when someone double parks in front of me."
Norman gave me a confused look but continued on. "Anyway, I'm driving on the freeway when all of a sudden someone pulls alongside and fires a gun at me. Shot the side window clean out. I was really lucky they missed, the bullet got lodged in the head rest."
"And you think they were after your brother."
"Who would want to kill me?"
I decided to answer a question with a question. "Who would want to kill Robbie?"
He thought for a moment. "I don't know."
"Did you get the plate number?"
"No," he said sadly. "I was too startled. I can't even describe the car to you."
I asked if he had gone to the police, and both Norman and Ashley responded with concurrent nods. Norman had the perplexed look of a football player facing a Cover 2 defense for the first time. Ashley responded.
"The police took a report,” she said, “but they told us that without a license plate number there wasn't much they could do. They also seemed very busy."
"Business must be booming," I mused.
"Excuse me?"
I held up my hand. "Never mind,” I said, and turned back to Norman. “Before I start sticking my nose into your brother's business, have you talked to him about this?"
He nodded yes. "Robbie... Robbie told me not to worry about things. Not to get involved. He'd be very angry if he found out what I'm doing here. But I'm his brother. I care about him. And I'm worried for him."
I watched Norman's face to see if it would reveal anything more than golden boy looks. He spent most of his time talking with his gaze aimed at the floor. That might have meant either he couldn't look me in the eye or that my linoleum was developing serious wax build-up. Trial judges often instruct their juries to consider a witness's body movements during testimony, but I've concluded that theory doesn’t always work well in practice. People can tell the god's honest truth with a drooped head and slumped shoulders, while others are able to commit blatant perjury while looking someone dead in the eye.
"I understand."
He continued to fidget. "So will you help me?" he finally asked.
"I doubt I'll be able to find the guy who took a shot at you last night."
A pained expression filled his young face. "Can you at least find out why?"
I pondered the question while I glanced at the bare walls in my spartan office. I kept meaning to hang some pictures, but procrastination got the best of me. While I scanned my white walls, I also considered whether to order a pizza tonight or splurge and go for some steamed clams near the beach.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find the answer. But I can promise you the same thing I promise every client. I’ll do the very best I possibly can and I’ll give you your money’s worth.”
Norman nodded. “Okay.”
"Does anyone else know you've come to me for help?"
"Just my father. And he's completely supportive. In fact he'll pay for it.
"
Time to test the waters. "My usual fee is six hundred a day," I said, watching Norman's expression carefully. "Plus expenses."
Showing not the least bit of hesitation, Norman Freeman pulled himself to his feet and reached hastily into his pocket for a wad of greenbacks. He peeled off a small stack and handed them to me.
"Here's a week's retainer. Would you mind keeping receipts for the expenses? Dad would like to deduct them."
In my hand sat thirty pictures of Ben Franklin. I tried to spread them like a deck of playing cards but they barely budged. The bills were fresh and crisp and clung together as if they were bonded. They felt good in my hand. It had been a while since this much cold cash had dropped into my lap and I savored the feeling. Steamed clams, I decided. Definitely the clams.
*
Before they left, I instructed Norman to jot down a list of Robbie's friends and acquaintances, and how I could reach them. He also mentioned that many of them would be attending his, Norman's, bachelor party the following evening. He invited me to join the festivities as well, although he warned me Robbie was going to bring some rather outgoing ladies to liven up the gathering. I told him I'd be on my best behavior.
So now I had two paying clients: Norman Freeman and the Differential Mutual Insurance Company. The Differential, as they were so fond of referring to themselves, had hired me to investigate one of their claimants, a middle-aged woman named Cindy Wachs. She lived in Carson, a smoggy, blue collar suburb about twenty-five freeway minutes from my office on Olympic Boulevard in West Los Angeles.
It was a warm day in the Southland with the mercury rising to the mid-seventies. This summer was very typical so far in the basin: warm days followed by cool evenings. As was my custom in the summer, I spurned the button-down look and wore a red knit shirt with a little tiger crouched over the heart, dark slacks and black sneakers. My hair was short and black, and parted on the right side. While I’d never be in football condition again, I still was lean and strong. I left the windows open as I navigated the San Diego freeway, the warm winds lapping at me as I drove.
