by David Chill
I half-expected the woman to come back and tell me to go away, but instead she opened the door and led me into what one might call a parlor. It was more like a sunken living room, down three steps, tastefully decorated, with soft blue carpet and a white baby grand piano situated against a picture window. A very husky man with a shock of white hair and a thick white mustache, sat in an easy chair. He had on a plaid shirt, gray trousers and camel-colored tasseled loafers. He didn't bother to get up, but since he was in his 80s, I didn't really blame him. And if I were worth $100 million, I wouldn't bother getting up for every visitor, especially one who arrived uninvited.
"Good evening, young man" he boomed, and pointed to the couch. I sat. It had been quite a while since anyone had called me a young man.
"Good evening to you, sir. Thank you for seeing me."
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed the opportunity. After I saw what you did to that big fellow out there, I figured I'd meet with you. I'm intrigued. Genuine tough guys don't come around here much. Not lately, that is."
"You mean they used to?" I asked, feeling a small grin start to take shape on my face.
"I once ran with a tough crowd. Gave as good as I got. But that was a long, long time ago. My only fights these days are with the little woman."
"You're safer that way."
"Don't be so sure about that."
I laughed. "My name's Burnside."
"I know who you are," he said. "I saw your card. I also know my son went and hired you."
"He did. And it turned out his daughter was here all the time. With her grandfather."
Buster Palmer nodded slowly. "Yes. She wasn't missing. That was a ruse. Kept her away from the parents, away from the campaign and away from any chance to do the damage that young people are prone to do. Which is to say, open up too much and say the wrong thing. That unfortunately runs in the family."
"Okay," I responded. "May I see Molly? Just to make sure she's really okay?"
Buster Palmer shook his head no. "Not at this point. I need to talk with her about a few things. I wasn't really expecting anyone to find her. But I should have known teenagers can't go long without texting their friends. And once they start texting each other, you might as well publish their every move in the newspaper. Which I know is coming tomorrow morning."
"You know about Adam Lazar?"
"Who?"
"A journalist. He works for the Times. He's writing a story about this. My sense is it's not about Molly per se, but she may get mentioned. And as the governor's daughter, that story will overshadow everything else."
"Your sense is correct. It's about that rotten business across town, those murders, but Molly will be collateral damage. I didn't know the writer's name. I was on the phone earlier with Harry Blumstein."
"The Times publisher."
"Yes, we go way back. He did me the courtesy of providing a head's up on the article."
"Nothing like having friends in high places."
"That's quite true."
"You know, about that business across town," I started. "The police are looking for Molly. They need to question her. Like it or not, she's involved. Even if she had nothing to do with those acts. Even if she wasn't there. The police still want to talk with her."
"I know. But you let me handle the police. I'll make arrangements. Just not yet."
I took a deep breath. You sometimes meet people who know how the world really works. Not how it's supposed to work. How it actually works. And with Buster Palmer, he was one of those who helped build this world. There was no point in pushing him. Being in his good graces was the only sensible option.
"So tell me something, Governor Palmer."
"Buster," he interjected. "Call me Buster. I stopped being governor decades ago. Nasty job. Your friends are disappointed when you can't do every favor for them. Your enemies just end up hating you even more. And your life's not your own. Even your own family can turn against you."
"But your son ran for governor. You didn't try to talk him out of it?"
"Do you have children, Mr. Burnside?"
"My wife is expecting. Our first."
Buster Palmer shook his head approvingly. "It's a joy and a heartache all wrapped together. But you'll find out quickly enough they have minds of their own. And after about age 10, they usually stop listening to you. Maybe age 13, if you're lucky."
"Does Molly listen to you?"
"Ah, grandchildren. They are a different story. There is a special bond between grandparents and grandchildren."
"How's that?"
"We have a common enemy," Buster Palmer said, giving a wink and a small chuckle.
I paused to think for a moment. Parents and children and politics. Buster Palmer was a rock-ribbed Republican, a supporter of conservative movements from the tax-cutting revolution to the John Birch society. But his son was none of those things. Rex was as middle-of-the-road as they come. A moderate, a consensus builder, a politician who was cautious in nearly all things that mattered. The only risk he ever took was making an off-color joke about his opponent's accent, an atrociously ill-timed comment that might cost him his career.
"Just what do you think of Rex's politics," I asked.
Buster looked past me, gazing off into the distance. He didn't speak for a while and neither did I. Finally he took a deep breath and let it out.
"Rex thinks we're living in a new era. Maybe we are, although things never really change much."
"Did you encourage him to enter politics?"
"Oh, no, I would never do that. He's the one who chose to run for public office, I certainly didn't push him into it. But once he entered the arena, I certainly bankrolled him."
"But you couldn't have been happy when he pursued a political agenda different from your own."
"You know something about politics, do you, young man?"
I shrugged. "Just what I get from the media. And what I cobble together."
"Never believe everything you read from journalists, Mr. Burnside. They just want to color your thinking and have you parrot their ideas. But you're right on point about my not being too happy with my son. Although maybe for different reasons."
"How's that?"
"Rex wasn't as conservative as I was. I could live with that. But he wasn't seizing control in the way he needed to. He wasn't getting anything of substance done. I spent eight years in office and left quite a legacy. Tax cuts, reducing that bloated infrastructure up in Sacramento. My terms in office meant something. For Rex, nothing he did will last. He missed the opportunity. He was too willing to please everyone. When you try to please everyone, you please no one."
"Well said."
"You've been asking a lot of questions. Let me ask you a few."
"All right," I said cautiously.
"Where'd you learn to be such a tough guy?"
I smiled, maybe a bit sadly. I tried not to think about certain things from my past too much. But hearing Buster Palmer talk about his son, and thinking about our baby coming in a few months had loosened me up. And aside from Gail, there weren't many people I felt I could open up to. I was a little puzzled as to why I felt so comfortable with Buster Palmer. Maybe he reminded me of the man I had dreamed my own father might have been.
"It's a long story," I said.
"I have plenty of time, Mr. Burnside. In fact, all I have is time. I'd say someone must have taught you a few good lessons about fighting. Your father?"
"No," I said. "I grew up the child of a single mother. But it's not quite what you think. My father died a few months before I was born. Car accident."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Buster said, leaning forward. "Tell me more."
"It was hit and run. The police never found out who did it, only that it was a rainy night in October, the streets were slick and it was a head-on collision. My father was driving a small car, the other driver was in a big pickup truck. The pickup was speeding, and a witness said it looked like he lost control of his truck. Probably alcohol was invo
lved. After the accident, the other driver got out of the pickup and ran. He was never caught. And as it turns out, the truck was stolen, so there was no way to track the driver down."
"Go on."
"My mother was planning to be a stay-at-home mom. But that all changed. It had to. She went back to school and became a nurse. Worked in an ER for years, sometimes had to work the night shift. She wasn't always there for me. My grandparents took care of me for a while. But they passed away, and from an early age, I learned that I'd need to take care of myself."
"Very astute."
"It wasn't easy. I grew up in LA, Culver City actually. There was a Big Brothers program my mom enrolled me in. The man they assigned to me was a retired LAPD officer. He was a tough guy and he helped me. Taught me things about the world, some good, some not. He was a big reason I joined the LAPD. Before I met him, I thought I wanted to be a fireman."
"Both lines of work are dangerous," he mused.
"Sure. But he told me most firemen were thieves and psychopaths. That you had to be crazy to run into a burning building. And that firemen wore these oversized clothes so they could steal valuables and walk away with them undetected. I guess he arrested a couple of them once and concluded they all did it. Like I said, not everything he taught me was so great. Or accurate."
"But he did instruct you on how to take care of yourself."
"Yes, very true. One thing he taught me how to do was how to fight. In his world, it was a critical skill. And that later became my world."
"And it looks like he did a good job of it. Not too many people would even think to take on a brute like Alex Gateley and then knock him down."
I gave him a long look. "You saw all of that?"
"I did."
"But we were behind his Escalade. Even if you were peering out your kitchen window -- which I doubt you'd do -- you wouldn't have seen it."
Buster Palmer smiled. "Mr. Burnside. I am a wealthy man and a well-known man. I take precautions."
I nodded warily. "You had video cameras installed outside."
"They're almost everywhere. In and around the property. Even on the street lamps, although you're not supposed to do that. I got an exception from someone in the city. I still have pull in this town. And I must say, you pack quite a punch."
I shrugged. "I wish I didn't have to employ it so much. I'm getting older."
"Physical altercations are sometimes necessary. But you've got a ways to go before age will be an issue, I can assure you. And I appreciate your sharing that story with me. I'm sorry about your father. I'm sure you'll make it up to your child. We always try and give our children the things we didn't have."
"I appreciate hearing that," I said softly, and then tried to steer the conversation back to why I was here. "You know, I'm a little confused as to what to do next."
"About what?"
"About Molly. I was hired to find her. I guess I have, although I can't be fully certain."
"And I'll bet you're the type who doesn't like leaving jobs unfinished."
"That's right."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Burnside," he said. "I can't help you any further right now. But I appreciate your diligence. And I can guarantee you good things come to people who work hard."
At that point, the housekeeper mysteriously appeared and said she'd show me out. I thanked Buster Palmer for his time. The only other person with whom I had shared my background in the last few years was Gail, and even then, I hadn't told her everything. Oddly, it felt good to talk about it with someone I barely knew. But people like Buster Palmer always had reasons for doing what they did. I just couldn't figure out what they were yet.
When I arrived home it was close to 10:00 pm. Gail warmed up some leftover pasta she had made for dinner, and we talked about my very long day. It had started by looking into Xavier Bishop's relationship with Desiree Brown, continued with a frustrating meeting with the governor's campaign chief, escalated into another murder along Alvarado, swept me back onto the campus of an exclusive private school, which led to some fisticuffs with a mouthy teenager, and finished with a sit down with one of the wealthiest men in the state. I had put in a full week's work in one day.
"I'd imagine you must be exhausted," Gail said.
"I am," I said, as I finished dinner. "You'll excuse me if I go straight to bed?"
"Of course. But you know there is an article in the Times you should read."
"It's out already?" I frowned. "Adam Lazar's piece?"
"It is."
"You think the world will be safe if I wait until tomorrow morning to read it?"
"I think so," she said, kissing me on the cheek, "And you should read it after a good night's sleep."
"That bad?"
"No. It's interesting. But get some rest."
I needed no further motivation. I think I actually fell asleep a few seconds after my head hit the pillow, and I managed to sleep through Ms. Linzmeier's daily sermon from the Southern preacher. Strands of sunlight were seeping through the mini-blinds when I woke up. I felt rested, but only somewhat refreshed. I got the feeling that although my body was resting, my mind had still been active.
Gail had gotten up early and made coffee, but we did not share the same taste. Gail preferred a lighter, smoother coffee, one which did little for me. She was fortunately in the shower, sparing me the temptation of commenting on her choice of beverages. I got dressed, left a loving goodbye note and headed out the door. A quick stop at Starbucks yielded a more preferable venti Italian roast, along with a lemon scone. I had planned to eat it in my office, but the treat was gone by the time I pulled into my parking space. The coffee had just begun to cool to an acceptable level. I brushed some crumbs into my hand, deposited them into a trash bin and walked upstairs to my office.
I opened up my iPad and quickly brought up Adam Lazar's article. Although it was on page one and was seemingly a news story, it had all the earmarks of slanted piece which belonged on an op-ed page. I wasn't surprised at the tone, only that Virgil would allow the story to be published in the news section. After reading it, I drank some coffee, stared into space for a few minutes, and then read it again.
TWO FUNERALS AND AN ELECTION
by Adam Lazar
In the Rampart district, life is hard, and life can be short. This was demonstrated most presciently over the past few days with the murders of teenagers Diego Garcia and Sofia Rodriguez. They were not gang members, they were just kids who happened to live in the neighborhood. They were young lovers, but their murders came less than 48 hours apart. And they were both killed with the same weapon, a 9mm handgun. In the case of Sofia, she was shot six times.
Diego Garcia was a star pupil at the exclusive Stone Canyon School in Bel-Air, a place where the children of the rich and powerful choose to matriculate. It is an exclusive school in many ways. And it was at school that Garcia befriended Molly Palmer, daughter of the governor, an encounter which may have cost him his life.
A police investigation is ongoing, but it has turned up little thus far. It took a private investigator, hired by the Palmer family, to uncover the fact that Molly Palmer had accompanied Garcia back from a football game on Saturday. She apparently had spent the weekend with him. Efforts to find Ms. Palmer have been fruitless.
Sources at the Stone Canyon School have been mum about Ms. Palmer's whereabouts, other than to say she did not show up for classes this week. The Head of School, who is often dubbed "The CEO," would only provide glowing testimonials about her school, confusing an interview about a double murder with an opportunity to provide the public with a marketing message promoting Stone Canyon. She spent her time touting the benefits of applying to a private school with soaring tuition that is beyond the reach of most Angelenos. Her biggest concern seemed to be increasing the number of school applications so that Stone Canyon can turn down an even greater number of kids, thus crowning it as one of the most exclusive prep schools in the state, or perhaps even the country for that matter.
Al
l of this comes on the heels of a rollicking gubernatorial election, which has seen Governor Rex Palmer's approval ratings drop precipitously this week. This is a direct result of his blatantly racist remarks about the manner in which immigrants speak, and his tepid response to the withering criticism. It is no surprise that Governor Palmer's standing in the polls has declined. The governor is a man who can't even account for the whereabouts of his own daughter. How he could possibly think he has earned the right to another four years as governor of California? This is perhaps the most confounding question in what has become a series of stunning questions that have emerged this week.
Very soon, the voters of California will provide an answer to who should lead them as their governor for the next four years. And hopefully the police will be able to provide some answers too, although I'm betting my money that the private investigator will uncover more evidence than the LAPD ever will. The families of Diego Garcia and Sofia Rodriguez deserve better. And so do all the citizens of California. Regardless of the way anyone pronounces it.
I was grateful Adam Lazar had chosen to omit my name from this acid-laced article. But it didn't take long for those with even a tangential relationship to this story to begin leaving messages on my voice mail. By 8:00 am I had over 35 messages waiting for me. I drank some more coffee, and looked out my office window for a while before deciding to listen to them. And just I as I was about to hit the Play button, an unexpected visitor knocked on my door.
"Mr. Burnside," he said. "You're a tough man to get a hold of."
"Not too tough, Arthur. You managed to find me."
"Ah, you remember me. I knew you were a sharp man. From the moment I met you."
