Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  We drove up to the school's security gate and I told Lazar to let me do the talking. I handed him a white USC baseball cap, and instructed him to pull it down low and turn his face toward the passenger side window. Hopefully, the guard wouldn't recognize him from his obnoxious behavior the day before.

  "Hello there," I beamed, smiling as close to a rich man's smile as I could muster. The guard beamed back.

  "Daughter forget her sneakers again?"

  "Nope," I said, the confident smile pasted on. "Big playoff game tonight. Want to make sure we get good seats."

  "Sure. So what's your daughter's name again?"

  I thought quickly. "Riley Joyner," I said.

  The guard waved me through and even gave me a small salute. I turned to Lazar. "I hope you're taking notes. Honey catching more flies than vinegar, and all that."

  Lazar made a grunting noise. "You're giving me advice on how to talk pleasantly to people?"

  "Um, okay. Fair enough."

  We parked and walked over to the sports complex. Once inside, we sat down in the bleacher seats and watched the girls stretch and practice. Nearby, a man about my age sat and watched as well. After a few minutes, I walked over and sat down next to him.

  "What do you think of the team's chances tonight?" I asked.

  "Very good," he responded. "I don't think Brentwood can stay with us. Another win and we go to the regional semis."

  "Big game," I agreed. "You have a daughter on the team?"

  "Oh, I'm not a parent. I teach AP Math here. Couple of my students are playing. You?"

  I shrugged. Lying was part of my job, and I was going at it pretty good this week. "I'm coaching at UC Santa Barbara. Looking at a few recruits here."

  "You're probably after Riley Joyner then," he said with a knowing glance.

  "Riley," I said slowly, noticing Lazar moving to the row in front of us and turning his head. "Riley Joyner. Yup, she's a heckuva player."

  "You may have to hustle. I hear UCLA wants her bad. They need a hitter who can get some kills."

  "Yeah," I muttered, wondering where this lingo emanated from. Looking over at Lazar, I could see he was itching to pounce in with a myriad of questions. I gave him a subtle sign with my eyes to keep quiet, but I had no idea if it would register. This matter required delicacy, and while I was hardly light on my feet, I was a veritable Baryshnikov compared to my new journalist companion.

  "Any other girls here I should keep my eye on?" I asked.

  "Oh, there's a few, but Riley's the star."

  "What about Molly?" I asked, watching him carefully. "Is she ever coming back to the team?"

  He gave a shrug. "That one? Who knows. She's actually a decent player, she comes up with some digs. When she shows up, that is. She comes and goes. Kids like her are part of the reason I'm leaving the school after this semester."

  "How's that?"

  "I'm a little frustrated. Teaching isn't what I expected it to be. Don't get me wrong. This is a good school, by and large."

  "I understand a lot of kids here wind up at great colleges."

  "Sure. But the smart ones would probably get into them anyway, no matter what high school they went to. The middling kids benefit the most, especially the ones whose parents are big donors. They'll go off to a top college because they're legacy. The parents went there and they have the Stone Canyon seal of approval. But mostly it's because their families can give a lot of money."

  "Like Molly."

  "Yup, like Molly. She puts in the bare minimum, but her family donates a lot. Grandfather, especially. She'll have her ticket punched to a great college. That's how it works."

  I nodded. "If you don't mind my saying so, you sound quite cynical."

  "Yeah, I probably am."

  "Good idea to leave then," I commented. "Better to get fed up and leave than to get fed up and stay."

  He looked at me thoughtfully. "Fair point."

  "So what are you going to do now?"

  He shrugged. "Back to the private sector. I have a job lined up running data analytics with one of the big tech companies in the Bay Area. Loretta wasn't too happy to hear about that. CEOs don't like replacing teachers in the middle of the year."

  "What do you mean by CEO?"

  "Oh, yeah, sorry. Ms. Moss. Our Head of School. She's more like a CEO. Steers the ship from a business point of view. She does a good job of bringing in wealthy parents and tapping into large donations. Ms. Moss is all about growing the greenbacks. Doesn't hurt she has quite a foxy body for a middle-aged broad. I think half the dads give extra money just to drool over her cleavage for a little while."

  I laughed. "Whatever works."

  "Yeah. I went to a private school like this maybe 20 years ago. It's changed a lot. The headmaster was more about the teaching. Here it's more about the money. And the reputation."

  "I guess it takes a lot of dough to build a campus like this," I said, figuring I had gotten as much out of him as I could. I wished him good luck and walked off. Lazar didn't bother to wait two seconds before getting up and following me. I walked toward a group of students on the other side of the gym, Lazar was in back of me, but quickly breezed past and suddenly took the initiative.

  "Hey, guys, you got a minute?" he asked a group of six students, half boys, half girls. He began to pepper them with questions ranging from Molly Palmer to Diego Garcia, to problems they had with Stone Canyon, as well as any racism they'd seen against Latinos. Whether he'd get these students to reveal anything more than annoyance was questionable.

  I drifted away from them, suddenly wishing I could slip away and not have to escort Adam back to his car. Part of me thought of stranding him here anyway, which might have been a fitting end. Instead, I went back to the bleachers and sat down behind a trio of middle-aged women, most likely moms of the girls playing today. I listened to their banter for a few minutes. Most of it was just general gossip, but then one of them began to talk about Molly Palmer.

  The conversation centered on when Molly would be back on the team, and meandered to when she would be back in school. There didn't seem to be any discussion questioning her whereabouts or of her being missing at all. It mostly focused around how her absence would affect the volleyball team. Finally, one of the women noticed my eavesdropping. She elbowed the others and they changed the conversation. One woman, 40-ish, with long blonde hair that looked unusually straight and golden, glanced up at me.

  "You seem familiar," she said, her big brown eyes looking at me curiously.

  I smiled. "I get that a lot."

  "Are you an actor?"

  "Only when I need to be," I said and gave a wink.

  The blonde woman laughed. "You must be a Brentwood parent. We've been sending our kids here for years, and I've never seen you."

  "A Brentwood parent," I nodded. "Yeah. Something like that."

  "Oh, a spy! All right, we'll let you be secretive."

  "So, do you think Stone Canyon will win today?" I asked. Burnside, the glib conversation maker. I guess if Gail and I ever manage to have enough money to send our child to a school like this, I'd need to hone the skills of small talk. And if Gail ever decides to run for political office, making friends with strangers would become a requirement. Gail would call these stretch projects for me.

  "Oh, I think we'll win," she said, displaying a smile that were very even and very white. It was a pretty smile to look at. "You?"

  I gazed out onto the court. The logo on the floor spelled out Stone Canyon in streaking letters, and also featured their nickname, the Coyotes, with a picture of a cuddly little animal, smiling happily.

  "As long as Riley comes through," I said slowly, "I think the Coyotes are probably going to the finals."

  The blonde gave a puzzled expression. "You know about Riley?"

  "Sure. I follow the game," I said, the wheels in my head spinning to remember my conversation with the departing math teacher. "She's headed to UCLA next year. At least that's the rumor."

  "Goodn
ess, you sure know a lot about things here. Did you know Riley's my daughter?"

  I blinked. "Ah. Lucky you. She's very talented."

  "She is."

  "And she'll probably get a scholarship. A full ride will save you some money."

  "Seriously, money's not an issue with us."

  I kicked myself. Her comment served to remind me about the people I was dealing with here. To spend $40,000 a year on high school tuition meant they were paying a lot more now than they would pay at UCLA. Or at any other state university for that matter. Unlike for me, money was not an issue for these folks. They had it, they spent it, they managed to get more.

  "Sure," I said. "So do you work outside the home?"

  "Oh, not any more. I used to be a drug rep. But I gave that up."

  "Smuggler?" I joked.

  She laughed. "No, I would call on doctors and talk to them about prescribing medications my company had on the market. Drug rep is a legitimate job. It's just developed a bad reputation lately."

  Indeed it had. Drug reps were notorious for lavishing gifts on physicians, not just taking them out to pricey lunches and sponsoring exotic vacations, but in a few cases, handing them envelopes of cash. Most doctors refused the direct bribes, but often accepted everything else. When I was working plainclothes with the LAPD, we did sting operations and made a number of arrests on bribery charges. One time I posed as an internist and an exceedingly attractive drug rep practically gave me a lap dance, along with a pitch to prescribe more of her Company's medications. She didn't offer me any money, and the lead detective decided there was no law against being shameless in making a sale.

  "So you don't have to deal with deal with doctors anymore. I imagine that's a relief."

  "Hmmm. Not exactly."

  "Oh?"

  "I have to deal with a doctor all the time."

  "Injury?"

  "Oh no. Not at all. We're perfectly healthy."

  I frowned and shook my head to communicate my lack of understanding.

  "It's the reason I'm no longer a drug rep. I don't call on doctors anymore," she said, holding up her left hand and displaying a sparkling diamond ring. "I married one."

  *

  Stone Canyon won the first game by three points against Brentwood, although Riley Joyner did not play all that well. I wanted to stay for the rest of the match, but my new friend Adam Lazar was chomping at the bit to leave and write his story for tomorrow's edition of the Times. He wouldn't tell me what would be included, but promised it would be worth the read. I finally dropped Lazar off at his car and returned to Stone Canyon.

  I waited in the parking lot until the volleyball match ended, whiling away the time listening to the radio. I couldn't find any shrinks on the air, so I alternated between sports talk, political commentary, and religious shows. After a half-hour of listening, I learned nothing new. USC would be in for a rough game tomorrow at Washington, Rex Palmer was in trouble with his re-election bid, and many people in L.A. were going to burn in hell. I finally switched to a music station.

  It had grown dark by the time Riley Joyner and her mother arrived at the parking lot and got into a white Mercedes. They pulled swiftly out of the lot, and I followed them onto Sunset, and then up a side street that led into Tigertail Road. We drove for another half mile up Tigertail, before they pulled in front of a large home. Riley got out and waved to her mom, who sped off quickly. Instead of using a key to get in, she knocked on the front door, waited a minute before it opened, and went inside.

  Pulling out my iPad, I cruised the Internet until I found a site that listed the property owner of each house on Tigertail Road. Most of the homes were owned by family trusts and interestingly, the assessed values of the homes varied wildly. Some were listed at over $15 million, others at the relatively paltry price of $500,000. In California, the price you paid for your home dictates the assessed value and therefore the property taxes you pay. It doesn't matter if your home was purchased over 30 years ago and the actual value has increased more than tenfold. This was all due to Proposition 13, the landmark tax bill that all but freezes property taxes until you sell or re-model your house. So two homeowners, owning identical properties side-by-side, might be paying wildly different amounts in taxes. It all depends on when the homes were purchased. And the home Riley Joyner walked into was purchased a good 45 years ago. The owner was Buster Palmer.

  I let the Pathfinder idle as I pondered my next move. After 10 minutes of pondering, I turned off the engine. And then I waited. The vaunted life of a private eye actually meant spending long periods of time waiting for someone to do something. Anything. In this case though, I only had to wait another 20 minutes.

  Two teenage guys walked out of the house. One was familiar, Connor Pierce, who I spoke with yesterday. The other was a bulky kid, not quite as tall, but with much wider, thicker, frame and carrying a good bit of belly fat. They walked toward a shiny new black Escalade with chrome molding, and unlocked the vehicle with a remote. I hopped out of my 10-year-old Pathfinder and jogged over before they could get in. Connor was at the passenger side door, the other guy was the driver.

  "Hey fellas. Got a minute?"

  A glint of recognition crossed Connor Pierce's face. "Oh, yeah. You're the detective. I spoke with you yesterday."

  "You did what?!" the other kid exclaimed. "What did you go and do that for?!"

  Connor shrugged. "It's not a big deal, Alex."

  I walked over to the big guy. "Alex? Alex Gateley?"

  He stared at me. "How do you know my name?"

  "Like your friend said, I'm a detective." I took out my fake gold plastic shield and held it up briefly. A nearby street lamp provided enough light to suggest it was an important-looking badge, but not enough to actually discern anything.

  "We got nothing to say," Alex sneered, before turning to get into the Escalade. "Fuck off."

  I took hold of his left arm. "I'm looking for Molly. Is she in that house?"

  The two of them glanced at each other and said nothing for a minute. Their silence told me what I needed to know. Molly Palmer was inside.

  "We can't talk about it," Connor said, still standing on the other side of the vehicle.

  "Maybe you guys ought to," I responded, tightening the grip on Alex Gateley's arm. I saw his face start to wince. "Maybe you should start talking before you get into any trouble."

  "Maybe you should let go of my fucking arm before I kick your ass!" he responded.

  "It doesn't work that way," I said. "Why is Molly in there?"

  "Hey, man," Alex said. "Let go of me! You don't know who you're messing with. I'm a football player!"

  I laughed in his face. "You'll have to do better than that."

  Alex Gateley tried to twist his arm free, and when that failed, he balled his right hand into a fist and threw a sweeping punch that I anticipated and easily ducked under. I slugged him hard in the solar plexus with my right hand and he doubled over in pain. Letting go of his left arm, I hit him in the face with a sharp left hook. He fell against the vehicle, breathing hard. I hit him again with a right cross and he began to slide down the side of the vehicle. At that point, I saw Connor Pierce move around the vehicle. Stepping back, I jerked my .38 out of the holster, pointed it at him and told him to freeze. Unlike his friend, Connor Pierce had the good sense to do what he was told. He also put his hands up.

  "Whoa ..." he said.

  "Tell me why Molly's in there," I demanded.

  "She's with her grandfather."

  "Is she being kept against her will?"

  "No," Connor said. "Not at all. She's there by choice."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?" he asked.

  I sighed. "Why is she choosing to be there instead of at home with her mother?"

  "She's just in a messed up situation."

  "What's messed up about it?"

  "I can't talk about it."

  "Hey," I said, waving the .38 back and forth. "I'm holding a gun here. That means you can talk
about it."

  "Are you going to shoot us if we don't?" Connor asked.

  I stared at him for a moment. When I was a police officer, we sometimes reminded each other that reacting with too much force was better than not reacting with enough. There is a wall in the LAPD offices where they hang photos of officers who were killed in the line of duty. The general presumption was that some of these officers might be alive today if they had been more aggressive. Even if it meant standing trial for their actions. The motto among officers was it was better to be judged by twelve, than to be carried by six. But that didn't seem to apply here. These were kids, not hardened criminals, and there was no reason to think they were armed.

  I lowered my gun and began to wonder if I really would have pulled the trigger if he came at me. I had to fire my weapon twice when I was in uniform, but both were justified shootings. In those instances, I was engaged with armed felons who could have just as easily killed me. In this instance I was only dealing with a pair of teenagers who may or may not have been involved with a missing girl. No proof they were involved in foul play. I was merely trying to diffuse a situation. In the wrong scenario, this could have culminated in tragic results.

  "No," I said. "I'm not."

  We looked at each other for a long minute, none of us entirely sure of what to say or do. Finally, Alex Gateley pulled himself off the ground and found his voice. "I think we're gonna go home."

  I wanted to ask more questions. I knew they had a story they weren't telling. But it was plainly obvious I wasn't going to get any answers from them. At least not tonight. They silently climbed into the Escalade and slowly drove down Tigertail road. I watched the bright red taillights disappear around the bend. The street turned dark again as I looked over at Buster Palmer's house. There was no point in waiting any longer. If one of them hadn't texted Molly about what happened yet, they were bound to do so very soon.

  Chapter 10

  I walked over to Buster Palmer's front door and rang the bell. We were in the hills above Brentwood, and there wasn't much of a front yard. It took a long minute, but finally a Hispanic woman in a black and white housekeeper's outfit opened the door. I handed her my business card and asked to speak with the former governor. No sense pretending with the fake shield. People like Buster Palmer weren't afraid of the police. In their minds, they owned the police. Buster Palmer was worth over $100 million and in that rarified air of money and power, the rules were simply different.