by David Chill
Once back across the street, I leaned against a cinder-block wall separating the Tattle Tale Room from a shop that sold aquarium tanks and supplies. I looked at a few aquariums and thought fish would be easier to care for than Chewy, our little black cocker spaniel. I also thought they’d be a lot less fun.
A Culver City PD squad car pulled up, and the three hefty men in their dark blue overalls got out, one after the other. It reminded me of the clown cars you see in circuses, where dozens followed. But here they stopped at three. None of the three looked very happy, and fortunately, none of them saw me.
I waited a little while before going back inside the bar. Once inside, I headed back over to Adler, who motioned for me to step back into the alley, and he also pointed to one of the big men in overalls. Once outside, he looked back and forth at us for a minute before he spoke.
“Maurice, this is Burnside. Burnside, Maurice. I think you two are acquainted, right?”
“This is the guy. We saw him last night,” Maurice said. “We stopped a beating.”
Adler looked at him. “Yeah, I got that part. Take a good look at him. When was the last time you saw this man?”
“When we stopped the beating. Like I just said.”
“What time?”
“Maybe 5:00 p.m.”
“He leave on his own?” Adler asked.
“Yeah,” Maurice said.
“He return to the bar? And you better be sure about it.”
“I can’t say for sure. A couple hours after he left, we saw Ted walk out here into the alley again. The bar was crowded and we weren’t payin’ a lot of attention to Ted.”
“You know Ted?”
Maurice shrugged. “Just from hanging around here.”
“Then what happened?”
“I already told you.”
“Tell me again,” Adler snapped at him.
“We heard some pops. Kind of like fireworks, but not exactly, you know what I mean? We went outside and saw Ted lying in the alley, and some guy in a striped dress shirt was running toward Sawtelle.”
Adler pointed toward me. “Was it this guy?”
“Couldn’t tell. All we saw was his back.”
“Was Burnside wearing a striped shirt earlier? When he got into the fight with Ted Stoner?”
Maurice shook his head. “No. But he could have gone home and changed.”
Adler blinked a couple of times. “Yeah, thanks for the heads up on that, Sherlock. What happened when the guy in the striped shirt got to Sawtelle?”
“It was dark out by then. He ran across Sawtelle and stopped for a minute. Kind of like he was trying to figure out which way to go. Then he ran toward Sepulveda.”
“You see him again?” Adler asked.
“Nope. We called 9-1-1, and the cops came and shut the place down. That’s about it.”
“Okay, Maurice. Go back inside and wait for me.”
Maurice turned around and went back into the bar. Adler waited until he was out of sight before turning to me. “You own a striped dress shirt?” he asked.
“I don’t own any striped shirts. And I’m not looking to add any.”
“What did you do after you left here last night?”
I swallowed hard. “You know, it got a little complicated. Stoner knew who my wife was. He intimated he might make contact. I couldn’t risk my family’s safety, so I took them to a hotel last night. The Miramar over in Santa Monica. I was with them the whole night.”
“We’ll verify this with the hotel. The Miramar, huh? You’ve got expensive taste.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want my son to worry. I tried to make it a fun outing.”
Adler looked at me. “For all the shenanigans you get yourself into, you still strike me as a good dad. I don’t quite understand you.”
“There’s a long list of people who don’t understand me. I’m not entirely sure my wife understands me.”
“Your wife,” he said. ”That’s Gail Pepper, right?”
I looked at him. “Impressive memory.”
“Yeah, it’s a good thing to have for this job. And for most jobs. Look, I’ll need to check this out, and I’ll need to talk with her. You got anything else you want to share before I cut you loose for the time being?”
I thought for a moment and looked down the alley toward Sawtelle. Something struck me. I started walking over to the end of the alley. Adler followed me. I crossed Sawtelle and looked down at the curb. There was an opening under the curb where a storm drain was. In L.A., storm drains are all over the place. During the rainy season, the rainwater flows through them and into a nearby wash. But in early July, they were dry as a bone. I got on my knees and looked down into it. There were some fast food wrappers and a few paper cups. I pulled out my iPhone and turned on the flashlight. Pointing it around, I saw a shiny chrome object. It looked like it could have been the handgun I had kicked out of Stoner’s hand. I turned to Adler.
“You want to take a look?” I asked.
“No, but I’ll let you tell me.”
“Looks like there’s a gun down there.”
Adler stared at me and got down on his knees, too. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Looks like there is.”
Chapter 10
I did not wait around for Detective Adler to bring in the specialists who would dig down into the storm drain for the errant handgun. There had been a few instances in my LAPD career when I engaged in dumpster diving to secure some casually discarded evidence, and it was obviously not the most pleasant experience. At a certain point, the satisfaction of finding the crucial piece to the puzzle is offset by the virulent stench of garbage and the sense that someone younger than you, with a more adventurous spirit, would enthusiastically take up the effort. They would also be getting paid for this task. I would not.
After some rumination, I invited Gary Adler and his family to join us for our Fourth of July barbecue, something which he laughed off, saying it would be inappropriate for a police detective to be socializing with a suspect in a capital crime. He casually asked what we’d be grilling, and when I told him baby back ribs, a faint twinkle of interest emerged in his eyes. He mulled this over for a second and then said he’d think about it.
I swung by the Miramar Hotel for our things, and checked out, apologizing to the desk clerk for our belated decision. I didn’t see a need to tell her that the reason we checked in in the first place was to avoid an unstable man who might kill us, nor that the reason we wouldn’t need the room any longer was that the unstable man had been murdered, and was no longer a threat. Some explanations were just a little too lengthy.
It was mid-afternoon by the time I returned to my office. Bernadette Green called and told me she had received approval from Sean and Ryan to tell me who was the beneficiary on Kristy’s life insurance policy. It was another piece to the puzzle, but things still didn’t quite fit together. I asked about Cody’s beneficiary, and she told me, oddly, that Cody had not stated a beneficiary yet.
Between learning about Kristy’s beneficiary and Stella Frey’s comment about Kristy having a boyfriend, it got me thinking. I went onto a website that listed the property owners on every street near the crime scene in San Pedro. By the sixth street, I had found something interesting. I looked at my watch and decided that any follow-up might best be served by waiting until tomorrow morning. I went home, played catch with Marcus, helped Gail grill some burgers for dinner, and we all spent the rest of the evening watching Aladdin together. Domestic bliss is a nice change of pace from murder and mayhem.
Early the next morning, a little before the crack of dawn, I got up and headed back down to San Pedro after a quick stop at my local Starbucks for two venti iced coffees, the barista being kind enough to go along with my request for extra ice. The temperature was already in the high seventies, so today looked like it would be a scorcher. I had also been growing tired of sipping lukewarm coffee that was supposed to be hot.
I arrived at my destination just next to Bluff Place, a fe
w blocks up from Shepard Street, where the Audi convertible had gone off the cliff. This was an older neighborhood, where apartment buildings and single-family homes often stood side-by-side, erected with haphazard zoning, that had no grand plan in mind. Some of the single homes had been remodeled into two-story behemoths, while others retained the quaint charm of early twentieth-century bungalows. At my destination, I noticed a red Chevy Blazer and a silver Camry with an Enterprise rental sticker attached to the rear bumper. Both were parked side-by-side in the driveway of the home, which was situated on a corner lot. I stopped a few houses away and waited in my Pathfinder. Nothing happened for two hours, but at 8:15, a stocky man wearing a blue and white striped short-sleeve shirt walked out of the house. He climbed into the Blazer and sped off. If I were a betting man, I’d wager that Joe Hartwick was headed to the Pacific Division to start his day.
I tailed him up Gaffey Street, past rickety storefronts and realtor offices. He turned onto the Harbor Freeway and drove a few miles north, but I stopped following him once I saw Hartwick take the 405 transition ramp toward West L.A. I got off the freeway and turned back onto the Harbor south, retracing my path back to Gaffey Street and stopping at a 7-Eleven. I waited about half an hour before using a payphone to call the Pacific Division and ask for Detective Hartwick. He answered, and I hung up. I then placed a call to Gary Adler. They had fished the gun out of the storm drain late last night and pulled some prints off of it. The match was confirmed. Joe Hartwick had fired the gun. A warrant had been issued, and the Culver City PD Chief had spoken to Pete Bates, the Chief of Police at LAPD about how best to proceed. I told him the suspect was sitting at his desk. Adler replied that he wouldn’t be for long.
When I arrived back at Bluff Place, the Camry was still there. I had finished my first iced coffee and was just starting the second. I looked down at the digital thermometer, and it was already eighty-two degrees. Looking around, I noticed the apartment building across the street seemed like it might have a direct view of Joe Hartwick’s property. I got out of my Pathfinder and walked toward it, but it was a security building, and it was locked. I waited patiently before a young man in a tank top and shorts opened the door and wheeled his bicycle out. I grabbed the door before it closed, and then found a stairwell. After accessing the roof, I walked over to the edge and looked down. It had an unobstructed view of Joe Hartwick’s backyard. It was empty right now, but I had a feeling, on a hot day like this, it would soon be occupied. There were some lounge chairs about, and an above-ground wading pool, and a table with an umbrella. And I knew I didn’t have to worry about my prey leaving the home.
It is interesting to do surveillance from a rooftop. No one sees you. Not one single person ever looked up. Various people were walking along the sidewalk, some in bathing suits, most likely heading to the stairway to the beach a few blocks from here, the one that Hartwick had presciently mentioned to me a few days ago. Two young men holding surfboards walked by. The sun was getting brighter and hotter. I looked to the west, and the horizon over the blue Pacific was a little hazy. I thought I could almost make out Catalina Island. Finally, a few minutes before 11:00, I saw what I had been waiting for. A solitary figure in a red bikini entered the backyard and lay down on a lounge chair to do some sunbathing. I walked back down the stairwell and out of the building. Stopping at my Pathfinder, I pulled a pair of plastic zip-tie handcuffs out of the glove compartment.
There was no point in my ringing the bell, Kristy Groh would not be answering it. She was secluded and isolated, and surely wanted it that way. I walked around to a seven-foot-high wooden fence that looked like it could use some varnish. I jumped up, grabbed the top beam, and quietly pulled myself up to determine if she would see me scale the fence, and how quickly I would need to do so. But Kristy was facing the other direction and gave off all the appearance of having her eyes closed. I hoisted myself up and swung my legs quietly over the fence. Carefully lowering my body down, I slowly touched down on the grass. I looked over at Kristy. She had not moved.
I drew my .357 from the ankle holster and slowly walked toward her. I moved silently around the side of her lounge chair, stopping about six feet away. I pointed the handgun at her and cleared my throat. She opened her eyes and blinked a few times before jolting out of whatever slumber she had been in. Kristy whirled around, mouth agape. She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. One day ago, I probably wouldn’t have believed what I was seeing, either.
“Holy fuck,” she exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, looking around wildly.
To put any thoughts of escape out of her mind, I walked over and placed the gun against her temple. “Give me your phone,” I ordered.
Her breath came in spurts. Finally, reaching over to get it from her bag, she handed it to me. I put it in my pocket and told her to get up.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” she said, rising.
I looked at her. “You think not, huh?”
“You know who owns this house?” she asked, a little indignantly.
“I do.”
“Then you know that Joe’s a cop.”
“He’s a crooked cop. And if you make any false moves, I’ll shoot you. And I can pretty much guarantee I’ll get away with it, because everyone already thinks you’re dead.”
She gave me a horrified look. “What … what do you want?” she stammered.
“Let’s go inside,” I said and motioned to the door. We went in, and I told her to go to the bedroom.
“Is that what this is about?” she asked with a frown. “You just want to do me?!”
“No,” I laughed. “I want you to put some clothes on.”
I followed her into the bedroom, gun still in my hand. She didn’t bother to take the bikini off, she simply pulled on a pair of khaki shorts and a black sleeveless top. We walked into the living room and sat down. The room had lots of windows, but the Venetian blinds were closed, and only narrow slats of light filtered in. There was no air conditioning, and the room was warm. I looked through the blinds out onto a quiet street. The front view was not of the water, but of the apartment building I had just come from. From what I could tell from this view, the ocean might have been a hundred miles away.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now you’re going to tell me what happened,” I said, my gun still pointing at her.
“You’re not a cop,” she said.
“No, I’m not. That means I don’t have to follow the rules. Let’s start with what your end game was here. Letting everyone think you were dead. You’re clearly not being held here against your will.”
“Clearly.”
“You helped send your car plunging down to the beach. At the very least you knew about it. You were part of this whole charade.”
She drummed her fingers on her thigh as if trying to figure out how much she should share. “I haven’t committed any crime. Pushing my car off a cliff? What is that, littering?”
I looked at her for a long minute. Technically, it might be difficult to prove Kristy Groh had committed any major crimes, although I was pretty sure that dumping a vehicle on a public beach had to have violated some law. It is not against the law to fake your own death, although there are plenty of illegal acts that often came along with it, like fraudulently collecting a life insurance policy, failing to pay off loans, and falsely beginning a new identity.
“There’s conspiracy to commit murder to start with,” I pointed out.
She blinked. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
“I didn’t say you did. But why don’t you start by telling me about Ted Stoner.”
“Who?”
I rolled my eyes. “The guy you hired to shoot up WAVE the other night. Were you trying to fake your own death there, too?”
“Oh,” she said and gulped. “That wasn’t me. That was Joe’s idea. He knew Ted. He’s kind of a shady character.”
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“Right. So why did Joe have Stoner spray the WAVE building with bullets?” I asked, walking over to her and caressing her right ear with the gun. I thought I saw her start to shake a little. Her breath came in spurts. I didn’t care.
“Joe changed the plans,” she trembled.
“And was the original plan was for Stoner to kill Cody?”
She stared at me. “Uh-huh.”
“And after that, you changed your mind again for some reason. You tried to frame your brother for your fake death. Or step-brother as it turns out.”
She took a deep breath and shook her head. It seemed the reality had begun to dawn on her. “How do you know all this?”
“Not that hard,” I said. “Cody didn’t have a beneficiary on his life insurance policy. And I poked around a little and discovered Cody didn’t have a will. Not surprising. He’s twenty-five, and probably thinks he’ll live forever. But you knew he didn’t have a will either, right?”
Kristy nodded. “Yeah.”
“Since Cody had no offspring and his parents had died, the next of kin would be his sister.”
She nodded again and bit her lip.
“If anything happened to Cody,” I continued, “you’d get everything. Again, not a surprise. You’re his closest relative, and even though you were adopted, you’re legally his sister. Even if Cody goes to jail for your death, he’d be removed from WAVE. And it doesn’t matter if Cody was the one who started the business. Who would benefit from Cody’s demise? That would have to be you.”
She looked down at the floor. The place had hardwood floors that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in a while. There was a discolored patch in the corner of the room where a sofa had likely been. It was an old house and looked as if it hadn’t been kept up. The furniture reminded me of what someone’s grandparents might have owned.
“Everything has always been about Cody,” she said.
