Corner Blitz (Burnside Series Book 5)

by David Chill

  "Yeah, yeah," he barked into a headset as he nodded happily at me and motioned for me to sit down. "I know all about Dion and his drinking ... hey, who hasn't been pulled over for a DUI once or twice? Look, there's a first time for everything. And we all deserve a second chance, right ... yeah, that's what America's all about, second chances, the NFL should be about that too, my friend."

  I sat down and swiveled on a comfy office chair facing a circular table. Roper sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers, waiting for the other party to finish their thought, so he could get on with his monologue.

  "I think the league needs to be very careful how they handle these things ... no, I'm not telling you how to run your business. Hey, I'm just an agent, I wouldn't dream of it! ... Look, I once got nabbed for a DUI a long time ago. My father was an alcoholic, so it wasn't my fault ... I'll tell you something. I swore to my mother I wouldn't so much as look at another drink after that ... Yeah, of course it's true. I just want Dion to put this behind him. I think the League should too ... Okay, you let me know."

  Roper flipped a button and took off the headset. "What a bunch of dopes," he said. "A guy can't even take a drink without risking his career these days."

  "One of your clients, I take it."

  "Yeah, guy's been a lush since he was 14. If he wasn't 6'8" and 320 pounds he'd be living under a freeway. Dion's 25 years old and this is his only shot to make a ton of cash. Most coaches would have given up on him by now. But his team is thin on O-linemen. And when you can pile protoplasm that high, it translates into money. I just need to convince the NFL to go easy on him."

  "Sounds like it's not his first offense," I commented.

  "Everyone deserves a second chance. In his case, he deserves a few of them."

  "Ah. I forgot for a moment who I was speaking with."

  "Don't get too cute," he warned, pointing a finger at me.

  I laughed. Cliff Roper stood all of 5'3" but carried himself like he was a foot taller than anyone else.

  "It's my nature," I said. "But I'm here with some news you'll probably like."

  "My favorite kind of news," he replied, getting up from his desk and taking a seat next to me. "I'm clearing my calendar for the next 10 minutes. Go."

  "That's big of you. And you'll pleased to know Xavier Bishop didn't hit his girlfriend."

  "Tell me something I'm not aware of."

  "I can tell you he did punch someone else."

  Roper took a breath. "Did he now?"

  "Upstairs neighbor was with Desiree. Xavier walked in on them. The guy made the mistake of taking on a football player who can bench press 300 pounds. Xavier put him on the floor a few times and walked out. He never touched Desiree."

  Roper processed this. "But someone hit Desiree. So it had to have been the neighbor."

  "That's what she told me."

  "And is that what she's going to tell the police?" he asked.

  "I think I got her to the point where she'll admit her mistake. But this is where it gets tricky. The neighbor was assaulted by Xavier. He could press charges."

  "Yeah, but the neighbor also assaulted Desiree. Which means if he files a complaint against X, Desiree could go file a complaint against him. Case closed."

  "Not so fast," I said. "We haven't even talked to the neighbor. And from Desiree's description, he may still be upset about what happened. It's been over a week, but you never know about human nature. Some people stew in their own juices for a while before taking action."

  "Okay, I'll buy that," Roper said, looking up at the ceiling. "Anyone taking on Xavier Bishop mano a mano can't have their head screwed on straight."

  "He's a kid. Barely out of his teens. Their frontal lobes aren't fully developed yet. They don't always do the smart thing."

  "And you want me to make sure he does the smart thing here," Roper said slowly, probably counting the amount of money he'd need to fork over.

  "That's your call," I said. "I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do. I just don't want you sending your goons around to threaten him. I'm just advising you there's a smart play here. Something that will make everyone happy."

  Roper pondered this. "Making people happy. That's what I live for. How much do you think it's going to cost me to make everyone happy?"

  "I have no idea. You're the expert on this," I said.

  "Don't insinuate things," Roper warned. "So what's this guy's name?"

  "You need to promise no one else gets roughed up."

  "Sure," he sniffed. "I promise. With sugar on top. Now what's his name?"

  "You know," I said, looking him in the eye, "if I tell you who he is, and anything goes haywire, your name may get dropped in the media here. And you know the NFL takes a dim view of agents tampering with college football players before they relinquish their eligibility."

  "What?!" he snarled in outrage, leaning forward. "You're threatening me again? Let me tell you something. Nobody threatens me. I threaten other people. That's how it works."

  "I'm trembling. You got anything else, besides bluster?"

  He stared at me. "Why does everything have to be so hard with you? Everyone else thinks I'm a nice guy."

  "I spent 13 years on the police force. I tend to see the worst in people," I said.

  "Okay. Wonderful. I'll just talk to the guy. Maybe give him a warm handshake. That good enough for you? You want me to swear on a stack of bibles? On the eyes of my child?"

  I nodded appreciatively. "His name's DeMarcus. Glad you're willing to cooperate."

  Roper pulled out his iPhone and typed something into it. "So have you said anything to Jeremy yet?"

  "Not yet. This type of arrangement falls outside the margins. I think you're better equipped to handle it. And more motivated. If Xavier goes pro after this year, you'll stand to make a lot of money as his agent."

  "I'm not his agent," Roper said. "That's against the rules."

  "Right. I keep forgetting who I'm talking to," I said and got up to leave.

  *

  As I walked through the building's subterranean garage, I called Crystal to check in. Molly had decided she needed to exercise, which of course necessitated a quick shopping run to buy workout clothes. The two of them then walked down the street to run the 4th Street Stairs. They had done two circuits and were about to do a third. They hadn't been recognized, but had wisely taken the precaution of wearing baseball caps, sunglasses and scarves. Crystal's father, Serge, was on the way, so things seemed in control. I told them I'd stop by later before I headed home.

  There was still something bothering me about Molly's situation. Something she wasn't saying. I couldn't get much out of her, got nothing from her grandfather, and her father was too engrossed in a bitter political campaign to even return phone calls. Her friends were unlikely to talk to me. That left her mother, so I decided to head over to Holmby Hills for another surprise visit.

  It was rush hour by now and the freeways were bound to be packed. I took Sunset the whole way, and even that route snaked slowly across the L.A. basin. After decades of delay, the city had finally started to build a light rail system throughout the region to ease the traffic burden. Millions of people had moved to Southern California over the years, many of them deciding to do so while watching USC play in the Rose Bowl game. When it's 70 degrees and sunny on January 1st, there are few places on earth that could be more appealing. The downside was that since so many people had moved here, the region's infrastructure was now being stretched to capacity. I shuddered to think that as a college football player, I had played a small role in all of this.

  The last traces of a pink and gold sunset were still visible as I pulled onto the Palmers' street. It was mostly empty and very quiet. Soon, the crickets would be chirping. I was about to push the buzzer when I noticed the iron gate had not been fully closed. I slipped inside and saw a few squirrels playing with each other across the wide front lawn. They were cute, and it looked like they were having fun; it would have been nice if I could have gone ov
er and petted them. But I recalled a nugget my Big Brother, the retired LAPD officer, had once uttered. That a squirrel is nothing more than a rat with nice packaging.

  I rang the doorbell but there was no answer. A light was on upstairs, but that didn't guarantee anyone was there. There were, however, flood lights on in the backyard, and that was normally a good indication someone was home. I walked over to the side fence and stood on my tippy toes to see if I could attract anyone's attention. I heard voices and laughter. And I also saw some steam rising from the Jacuzzi. Trying the handle on the redwood fence door, it opened easily and I walked down a narrow stone path leading to the backyard. And that's when I saw them.

  They were standing in the middle of the Jacuzzi, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Their hands caressed each other's back and stroked the other's hair. The two of them were in the midst of a long, deep kiss, and completely unaware someone was watching. Their mouths separated and the two of them gazed into each other's eyes. They continued to touch and stroke each other and their breathing was heavy. They were also buck naked.

  There are moments when a private investigator should step back from his job, and give people their privacy. I was not hired to investigate anyone's love life, and I didn't like the role of voyeur. There had been a few cases in which I was hired to look into a straying spouse, and had to shoot video for the client. I honestly didn't like doing this, but it was part of the job. And yet in this particular instance I had trouble diverting my eyes from the couple. It was surprising in so many ways and also quite mesmerizing. Unfortunately I had stared at this scene for too long. Had I turned away and departed right when I saw them, they never would have noticed me.

  I suddenly thought back to something from the other day, something ancillary to this case, something that perhaps only a red-blooded American guy might have remembered. It was trivial at the time, but not any longer. I had been correct in my assessment, although I didn't think I'd get to observe it in quite this way. And while Nicole Palmer was certainly attractive enough without any clothes on, I could now confirm, without any doubt, that Loretta Moss had one hell of a body.

  "Who's there?!" Nicole Palmer called out loudly and climbed out of the steaming water.

  I turned to leave but heard her call again, demanding that I wait. I gave myself two seconds before looking back. By then she had wrapped a towel around her torso and was walking quickly toward me.

  "Hey!" she said as she approached me. "Who is it?"

  I took a deep breath myself. "Sorry," I said. "I just came in to read the gas meter."

  She stopped about 10 feet away from me. "You're that private detective Rex hired. Bernstein, was it?"

  "Burnside. You were close."

  "How did you get in here? And what the hell are you doing on my patio?!"

  "You got me. I'm a Peeping Tom. But a word to the wise. If you're going to engage in a carnal embrace, you should really keep the gate locked."

  "That's none of your damn business," she said. "It's my property. And it's my life, I'll do whatever the hell I like. And I don't need any of my husband's lackeys telling me what I should or shouldn't do."

  And suddenly things became clear. Through the hazy steam and the surprising romance came the answer I had been wondering about. Rex Palmer was in a tight election and Molly Palmer had moved out of the house. Why would the governor's wife, a person with such a high public profile, allow herself to be found in such a wildly compromising position? The media had been camping outside Buster Palmer's house today, it was only a matter of time before they descended on Nicole's. She wouldn't have known how, she wouldn't have known when, but Mrs. Rex Palmer clearly wanted to be found out, caught, and placed squarely in the public eye. A politician's wife who drank too much and showed off too much was someone who wanted her husband to lose an election. I didn't know why and it probably didn't matter much. Nicole Palmer's prime concern was most likely that I wasn't from TMZ or the National Enquirer, and that I hadn't shown up with a video camera.

  "So this is the secret Molly didn't want to share," I said. "And the one Buster wanted to hide."

  "Yeah, so what? Are you homophobic? Or do you just like getting your rocks off watching two women?"

  "I don't really care who your lovers are," I said, and this was true. Whether she liked men or women was a non-issue. As was my momentary fascination with them. The issue was what to do next. I was hired by Rex, overseen by his campaign staff, paid extra by Buster, and now in possession of some explosive scuttlebutt which could determine the next governor of California. And yet deep inside me, I knew the one person I needed to look out for here was a very troubled 18 year-old girl. Through no fault of her own, Molly Palmer was embroiled in this unusual episode.

  "So then what are you going to do?" she demanded as Loretta Moss, now draped in a similar towel, quietly moved over to join us.

  "I'm not totally sure," I said. "I feel as if I have multiple clients, and they're all part of your family. Your husband, your daughter, your father-in-law. Not to mention your husband's campaign staff. And they all have their own agendas. As do you."

  "Oh, and what's my agenda?"

  "To wreck your husband's political career," I said.

  Nicole looked up at the early evening sky. Loretta Moss's eyes, however, were locked straight on me.

  "That's quite an accusation," Loretta said.

  "Thank you. It took a while to stitch it together. I obviously didn't think I'd be seeing you here. But now it makes sense why you were so unconcerned about Molly's absence. You knew she wasn't missing. Everyone knew she wasn't missing. Except maybe her father, who seems to have other problems to concern himself with."

  "What are you going to do?" Loretta asked.

  "Right now, I think Molly's grandfather had the best idea. Keep Molly out of public view until after the election, and then sort all this out. And the one thing I keep coming back to is that Molly is an adult now and can make decisions for herself. And one of those decisions is where she lives and who she lives with."

  "She may be of age," Loretta said, "but I can assure you she is still a child. It's not healthy for a child to have to make that sort of decision."

  "I know what's not a healthy situation for her to be in. It would be nice if Molly had two parents who wanted to be involved in her life. But that's not the case here. And that's why she was attracted to Diego. He didn't have much, but he had a loving family that wanted to protect him. They couldn't. I don't know who killed Diego or Sofia. But somehow Molly was connected."

  "And just what are you saying?" Nicole demanded. "That she was involved in a double murder? That's outrageous."

  "I'm not saying she did it. Just that there's a connection."

  "You're insane."

  "You wouldn't be the first to suggest that," I said. "But you're hardly a poster child for sane behavior."

  Nicole's mouth twisted in rage. "I've had enough of this. And with you. Get out. Get off of my property or I'll have you arrested and jailed for trespassing. I can do that, you know. I'm still the first lady of California."

  "All right," I said, knowing she could very easily follow up on that threat. "I'll leave. But one thing still bothers me. Neither of you have even asked if I know where Molly is. Or how she's doing."

  Nicole shook her head. "She's with her grandfather. I'm sure she's fine."

  At this point, I thought it might be best to let her believe that. It didn't appear her mother was worried, and I had a funny feeling she didn't really care.

  I walked back to my Pathfinder and decided this would be a good time to check in on the women of Adelaide Drive. The traffic eased up on the way to Santa Monica, and I parked down the street from Crystal's house. Nobody answered the doorbell so I walked down the block to the 4th Street Stairs. I found them there, Crystal and Molly, sweaty, exhausted and smiling. They were neatly disguised, and had it not been for Molly's pink Old Navy baseball cap, I might have missed them entirely.

  "Now there'
s two healthy-looking girls," I smiled. Both of them smiled back. It was the first real smile I had seen from Molly. It looked good on her.

  Crystal spoke in halting words as she struggled to catch her breath. "Molly insisted we do five trips. Up and down. It's been a while since I've done this. My legs are going to be hurting tomorrow."

  "Hate to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "No matter how much they hurt tomorrow, the second day's the worst."

  "Lovely," she said. "I'll keep a bottle of Advil handy."

  We walked back to Crystal's house. As we approached the gate, I noticed a light blue sedan parked in front of her house. No one was at the wheel. But the license plates clearly spelled out it was a Government vehicle. We quickly moved up the pathway and Crystal unlocked the door. As she did, a figure stepped out from the shadows. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, and holding a gun in his right hand. Bill Thorn motioned to the door.

  "Let's take this inside," he said.

  Chapter 13

  We moved slowly into the plush living room. Thorn relieved me of my .38 and we sat down on the two facing couches, Thorn on one, Crystal, Molly and I facing him on the other. Thorn put my gun in his suit pocket and tucked his own firearm away into a holster clipped to his belt.

  "You must be pretty good at tailing," I started. "Didn't see you in my rear view mirror."

  "One of my boys slapped a GPS device under your fender earlier today. At first I thought Molly was hiding out in that apartment building down by USC. I'll have to pull my surveillance team off of that detail."

  "Unrelated case," I remarked.

  "Yeah. But your visit to Nicole sure wasn't. She probably gave you quite a show."

  "It wasn't what I had expected."

  Thorn laughed. "I remember the first time I saw those two. They were going at it like weasels."

  "You've known about this tryst for a while?" I asked, taking an awkward glance at Molly, who was paying no attention to our conversation, her eyes seemingly glazed over. "How widespread is this?"