Jet Sweep

by David Chill

  “How do you know Kristy hadn’t given it to him yet?” I asked.

  Rainey considered this. “You sure are standing up for Cody. One of your USC pals. You guys stick together, huh? Through thick and thin?”

  “I don’t look at the world like that.”

  “All signs point to that book being Cody’s. We’ll verify the prints, but that’s where this is leading.”

  “And you think Cody dropped it when he was pushing Kristy’s car over the cliff,” I said, starting to wonder about all this myself. “Be pretty sloppy of him, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t see too many criminals who are tidy, especially the amateurs. And if I learned anything in my years on the force, it’s that they all make one mistake.”

  “Sounds like you’ve watched too many cops-and-robbers movies,” I said. “But I think you’re off the mark if you’re zeroing in on Cody here.”

  “And we keep coming back to this. You keep taking up Cody’s side of things. We still haven’t figured out your role in all this. We’re starting to wonder if you weren’t down in San Pedro yourself last night.”

  “I’ve got an eyewitness,” I said and tried to look bored. “My wife.”

  “Oh, right,” Rainey said. “The prosecutor. Or former prosecutor.”

  “I guess you watch the news.”

  “Yeah, I stay current.”

  “And I heard you two worked with her once,” I mused.

  Rainey looked at Hartwick for a moment before answering. “Yeah, we did. And things didn’t go good. She’s pretty demanding. I could say a few other things.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  I thought of Gail’s comment, that the two detectives screwed up the case by being sloppy. I also thought that if he uttered one more slight about Gail, I’d be tempted to stop using my words to express my displeasure. Then I thought of Dr. Rosenbloom again, and I also thought of the sheer absurdity of challenging an LAPD detective to a fistfight. If ever there was a no-win situation, this was it. I thought of ways to calm myself, but I also knew my blood was starting to boil.

  “She likes to do things the right way. Follow procedure,” I said slowly, seeing my right hand had balled itself into a fist. I unclenched as best I could. “She liked to put bad guys away.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Rainey said dryly. “We like to put bad guys away, too. And I’ve got my eye on you. Something about you doesn’t feel right. We’ll be in touch.”

  And with that, the two of them started to walk out the door.

  “Hey, Detective Hartwick,” I called out.

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  I pointed to his hand. “Would you mind giving me that painted rock back?”

  *

  Rainey and Hartwick departed my office and left me with a lot to ponder. Hartwick also left me simmering, and I am not one to sit and stew in my own juices. I thought of where I could go and who I could talk to. I did not feel like going back down to WAVE today, nor did I think that would be the best plan, given Rainey’s smarmy comment about my interfering with a police investigation. I did, however, wonder about the Super-Fit gym, having recalled the yellow t-shirt Ted Stoner wore the other night down in Playa Vista. I looked up Super-Fit and discovered it was a chain of gyms with a dozen locations in the Southland. There was only one on the Westside, though, in Culver City, along a commercial strip just north of Westchester.

  The gym was located along the same street as a tire shop, a FedEx outlet, an Italian grocery, and a Jack in the Box. Across the street was a bar called the Tattle Tale Room. This was a middle-class neighborhood, with both apartment houses and private homes nearby. It was a ten-block stretch that was technically Culver City. But the demarcation points between Los Angeles and Culver City were largely indistinguishable, even by lifelong Westside residents, the only clue was that the street signs had different colors.

  The storefront for the Super-Fit gym was all glass, and at 5:00 p.m., it looked fairly busy. Once inside, I saw people in sweats pumping the universal weight machines, running on the stationary treadmills, and lifting free weights. About half were with personal trainers; some of them wore the yellow Super-Fit t-shirt, but I couldn’t tell who was a client and who was an employee. A man in his mid-thirties approached.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I didn’t bother to ask if he knew of anyone named Ted Stoner, instead pulling out a now-crumpled copy of Stoner’s image from when he left my office building a few days ago. I also showed him my private investigator’s license.

  “Doing an investigation,” I said. “Have you seen this man?’

  He looked at the photo and rolled his eyes. “Have I ever.”

  I frowned. “Is he a client?”

  “Worse than that. He’s an employee. Ted’s one of my trainers. What’s he done now?”

  I frowned. “Not entirely sure,” I lied. “Just need to ask him some questions. What has he done to make you say that?”

  “Guy’s a piece of work. Shows up when he wants to. Leaves in the middle of his shift. He knows his way around a gym, and the clients love him, that’s why I haven’t canned his sorry ass yet.”

  “Why do you say he’s a piece of work?” I asked.

  “Welp, he makes lots of friends here, but I think he’s running some kind of side business. It’s not drugs, but I’m not exactly sure what it is. We have all sorts of people coming through here looking for him, and they’re pretty vague about why. Lord only knows what he’s up to. But I’ve just about had my fill of him.”

  “Is he working today?’

  “Just finished his shift. He’s done for the day.”

  “Think I might catch him tomorrow?”

  “You can probably catch him right now,” he said and pointed to the bar across the street. “He always goes there after work for a drink. Or maybe ten.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “He’s probably on his third one right now, so if you hurry, he’ll be semi-with it.”

  I walked out of the gym and weaved my way across Sepulveda Boulevard. The Tattle Tale Room was a classic dive bar, the kind that used to be everywhere in L.A., but now was more of an oddity. It was a no-frills place, a small dark area with a couple of pool tables, and some space for a karaoke setup. I had last stopped by over a decade ago, a former partner liked ending his day here, and I accompanied him once or twice. It had not changed much over the years, and that was probably fine for locals. It was great for those who liked a nondescript place to drink, but it was not the type of bar most people would go out of their way to seek out.

  There were about a dozen people inside, and naturally, they all had drinks in front of them. It was quiet right now, but I suspected the karaoke would start up soon. A few patrons were talking in hushed tones. Three large men in dark blue overalls sat together, half-full pints of frosty beer sitting in front of them. A bleach-blonde bartender who looked to be in her forties, wearing a Green Bay Packers jersey with the number 4 on it, was washing some glasses. At the far end of the bar, I saw Ted Stoner. He was still wearing his leather jacket, but now he had a blue Rams t-shirt on. I approached.

  “Well, look at this,” I started. “You never know who you’ll run into here.”

  He looked up at me and grimaced. “Oh, shit,” he said, his nose wrinkling.

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Look man, I don’t have your money,” he said, hands raised, trying to indicate he had nothing to hide. It also might have served as a possible defense against an impending assault. This probably wasn’t a surprise, considering the types of people I suspected Ted Stoner hung out with.

  “What a surprise,” I said.

  “Hey, you know, after what you did, you don’t deserve to get paid. I hired you to be the lookout. Nothing more. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking maybe I’d try and stop someone from getting murdered,” I said, taking a look around the room. “Why don’t we take a walk out
side where we can discuss this in private.”

  “Yeah,” he said and extended an arm, pointing toward a rear door that opened into the alley.

  “You first,” I said.

  He shrugged, rose from his barstool, and walked out into the alley. I followed. We reached the alley and he turned toward me.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do,” Stoner said. “But I’d be very careful. I can hurt you.”

  “Sure you can. You actually work out at that gym across the street? Or just get referrals to commit murder for hire?”

  He looked at me oddly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. But I want some answers. What was that all about? Down at WAVE the other night?”

  “Had a job to do. You had a job, also. I don’t know what you thought you were doing, but again, all I asked you to do was be a lookout. I told you that you wouldn’t be breaking the law. What’s your problem?”

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to be shooting up the place,” I said. “Even if you were trying to miss.”

  A small smile crept across his face. “You figured that out, huh?”

  “It wasn’t exactly rocket science.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me what happened. Were you hired to shoot them?

  Stoner shrugged, which I took for his way of saying yes.

  “And then you just decided to just shoot at them … and miss?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t me that was the decider,” he said. “Client changed their plans. I go with the flow.”

  “Why would this client want you to just shoot at them? To scare them?” I asked.

  “How would I know? They don’t tell me everything. But when their plans changed, the money changed. That’s why you didn’t get the full fee I promised you. If I get stiffed, you get stiffed. That’s how it goes.”

  “You work in an awfully funny business.”

  “Hey, look. I just provide a service. I don’t ask too many questions. You shouldn’t, either. And I’m telling you to back off. Just because I missed the other night doesn’t mean I always do. You’ve been warned.”

  “Yeah, I’m just quivering here. But let me tell you, I don’t like being lured into something. There are plenty of laws I could have ended up breaking because of that stunt you pulled the other night. I could have lost my license.”

  “Boo-hoo.”

  “You want this to get ugly?” I asked.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Tell me who hired you,” I demanded, my anger starting to rise.

  “No can do. Sorry, bud. You don’t worry me.”

  “Maybe you should worry.”

  “Can’t imagine why. I can take you apart. To the point where that pretty little wife of yours won’t even recognize you.”

  It took a split second for my left fist to slam into his mouth and send him staggering backward. I drove my right fist into his solar plexus, and he doubled over. I threw another right onto the side of his head, and then hit him with a left uppercut to the nose, causing him to groan. I chopped him on the back of the neck, and he fell over. Before I could grab him, he had managed to jerk a small chrome handgun out from inside of his jacket, but I kicked it out of his hand. It skidded down the alley, clattered a few times, and came to a stop next to a trash bin. I punched him in his left ear, and he winced in pain. Lifting him up on his feet, I shoved him against a brick wall and grabbed his jacket with both hands.

  “You going to tell me now? Or you want to go another round?” I demanded.

  “Man, you sucker-punched me,” he whined.

  “Too bad,” I said, resisting the urge to say boo-hoo. “Who paid you to shoot off your gun down in Playa Vista.”

  “Hey, it don’t matter what you do to me. You’re not who I’m worried about.”

  “Why’s that? This client of yours going to torture you?”

  For the first time, a look of fear crept his face. “He’s got me all jammed up.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said, and reared back with my open right hand and slapped him hard across the face. My hand stung, so I could only imagine how his face felt. “How jammed up are you now?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several figures emerge out of the bar’s book door. The three large men in dark blue overalls had entered the alley.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” one asked.

  “Mind your business,” I ordered.

  “Yeah, well maybe we’ll make it our business.”

  “Back off.”

  “This is our bar,” another said. “You don’t come in here messing with people.”

  “And is this guy a friend of yours?” I asked.

  “Don’t matter who he is.”

  I threw Stoner to the ground and took a couple of steps back. I had a handgun strapped to my ankle but was reluctant to pull it out. A gun would negate their three-to-one advantage, but Ted Stoner was the wild card. I had disarmed him, but he struck me as unstable, the type of guy who might have no reservations about charging someone with a gun if the opportunity necessitated it.

  I also didn’t know anything about these three guys, other than they had been drinking, which meant their brains weren’t functioning at full capacity, although that metric might not have registered so high to begin with. When dealing with people who might be unstable, especially due to alcohol, the chances for a tragedy rise exponentially. Excess alcohol can lead to bad decisions. And the reality was, these three guys may well have believed they were doing the right thing. It didn’t seem as if they knew Stoner, but all of a sudden I recognized there was the possibility they did. They could have been his associates.

  “This man is a suspect in a shooting,” I said, watching them carefully as I stepped away from Stoner.

  “You the police?”

  “I’m working with the police,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” They looked at each other and then turned back to me. “Maybe we are, too. Maybe you could just take your business somewhere else and get the hell out of here.”

  I looked at the three husky, intoxicated men, and decided this might, in fact, be the smartest option. Wordlessly, I kept my eyes on them as I walked slowly down the alley. Stoner had risen to one knee. I thought of calling 9-1-1, but while this scene was tense, it did not rise to the level where emergency action was required. Everyone could simply walk away and the situation could be defused.

  As I went back to my Pathfinder, I called both Rainey and Hartwick, but only got through to voice mail. I left a message but I knew Stoner could be long gone by the time they arrived, if they even bothered to. I thought of Dr. Rosenbloom and wondered how I’d describe this event to her, and why I had lost control again. I was not coming up with a good answer. And then I thought of Gail and the comment Stoner had made, and I began to get very worried, very quickly.

  Chapter 9

  I parked around the corner from my house and walked quickly toward it. Gail was in the kitchen and Marcus was playing with some Legos. I gave him a quick hug and ruffled his hair as I walked inside, telling him to keep doing what he was doing. I put my arm around Gail and led her to the far end of the kitchen, away from Marcus.

  “Something happened today,” I said quickly. “It may be turn out to be nothing, but this case I’m on is taking a very strange turn.”

  “Strange, how?” she asked.

  I told her about my interaction with Ted Stoner, his odd behavior, his remark that indicated he knew about her, and the possible risk he posed. I suppose he had always posed a risk, but the fact that I had just punched his lights out made me more than a little concerned that he could pay us a visit and seek retribution. We had an alarm system, and both Gail and I were formally trained in how to use firearms, but nevertheless, that did not make it a good situation, and the fact that we had a five-year-old made it very precarious.

  “I think we should spend tonight in a hotel,” I said.

  She looked at me carefully. “If you think
we’re in some danger, then yes. Of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea this case would take such a bizarre turn.”

  “Look, when I ran for City Attorney, we knew this type of situation was possible.”

  “But then you would have had a security detail.”

  “True,” she said, “but they can only do so much. What hotel were you thinking of?”

  I thought for a moment. Never having come to L.A. as a visitor, I was unfamiliar with hotels here. But there was one I knew of.

  “We could always go back to the Miramar,” I suggested.

  Gail smiled. “I have fond memories of that place. Where we got married.”

  “And where you told me you were pregnant. Right after the ceremony.”

  “I did leave that part out. Sorry.”

  At that moment, Marcus walked into the kitchen and asked when dinner would be ready.

  “Marcus,” I said. “How’d you like to do a stay-cation with us?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s where we go to a hotel in town. Maybe in Santa Monica.”

  His eyes lit up. “Can we have room service?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “And is there a pool?”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “Yay! When can we leave?”

  I looked at Gail and spoke. “How about you pack, and I’ll see about reservations?”

  “Works for me.”

  I contacted the Miramar and then got a snack for Marcus. It took twenty minutes to get ready and go. As we pulled into the hotel parking lot, we were met with a few traces of a soft gray-and-pink striped sunset remaining on the western sky. We arrived in time for a long dip in the pool, followed by cheeseburgers and french fries in our room. We tried to order an on-demand movie but couldn’t find anything age-appropriate for a five-year-old, so we played a game of Candyland, and fell asleep a little after eleven, considerably past Marcus’s bedtime, as well as ours. We got up the next morning and used the pool again, something we all agreed we could get very used to. We decided to stay another night until we figured out what to do next. Leaving our things in the room, Gail dropped Marcus at day camp and went to work. Both places had private security officers, which made me feel a little more comfortable. I confirmed plans to go and see Cody and Kristy’s grandparents.