Jet Sweep

by David Chill

  Later that afternoon, we had Marcus’s new friend Sam and his parents over. Roberto De Santo came with his wife. Gary Adler called and said he wouldn’t be able to make it, making mention of an ongoing work situation that I might be aware of. I had put the pork ribs into the smoker in the morning and took them out eight hours later to finish them on the grill. They came out perfectly. Sometimes things did work out as planned.

  On Monday morning, I took Marcus to day camp, then I stopped at Starbucks for a single iced coffee, draining it before I reached Dr. Rosenbloom’s office in Beverly Hills. I arrived at ten on the dot, and she opened the door a few seconds later.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Please come in.”

  I walked in and sat down. She smiled and looked at me. I didn’t smile back.

  “It looks like I’ve had a few setbacks since my last session,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “I had a physical altercation with someone, and I was the one who instigated it.”

  Her smile disappeared. “What happened?”

  “I was conducting an investigation of a man suspected of committing a shooting. The man was uncooperative and hostile. It was in an alley where no one could see us. I felt my anger boiling over, but I couldn’t stop it. I hit him a few times, and then needed to disarm him.”

  “Disarm him?” she asked, putting her hand over her mouth. “He had a weapon?”

  “He had a handgun. Ironically, it was the same gun someone else used to shoot him to death later that night.”

  Dr. Rosenbloom’s eyes widened. “That’s a terrible thing to have to go through.”

  I nodded without agreeing or disagreeing. The taking of a life was often tragic. In the case of Ted Stoner, I wasn’t so sure the world wasn’t a better place without him in it.

  “It got intense.”

  “How do you feel about all this?”

  “It’s very complicated. And the person who shot this man, well, I believe he had been following me. He worked in law enforcement, but he was involved in some pretty ugly things. Fortunately, he’s been apprehended and locked up.”

  “That’s good. But again, how do you feel?”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m probably a little numb. But in a way, I have to be. To do what I do requires stifling some of my emotions. If I think too hard about this, I might not be able to do my job that great. In a way, it’s a bit like when I was coaching football. I’d tell my players they needed to react quickly. That all their training they had led them to this point, and they needed to trust their instincts. Players who overthink things usually don’t perform as capably on the field.”

  “Why do you bring this back to football?” she asked. “Why is that important?”

  I thought some more. “This past week I came into contact with a couple of players I’ve gotten to know over the past few years. One, in particular, is the client who hired me for this case. He runs a startup company that rents electric scooters. I coached him a few years ago at USC.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s a bright kid, a guy who made some money and got some fame through football. He saw a business opportunity and turned it into something. I’m not so sure it will be a success, but he’s gotten it further than most people could have.”

  “What else is there about him?”

  I leaned back in the chair. “He had an older sister, although not a blood relative; technically she was adopted. He wasn’t. And they had a pretty awful relationship, at least from the sister’s point of view. She had a lot of resentment toward him, and couldn’t deal with it in an acceptable way. She met the wrong guy, and things spiraled out of control. The sister and her companion tried to have him killed, and when that didn’t work, the sister tried to fake her own death, and pin the blame on him.”

  She frowned deeply, and I began wondering what she thought of my line of work. I was starting to have some thoughts myself, as I listened to my own matter-of-fact telling of the details.

  “Is he all right?” she asked.

  “Physically, yes, although discovering that a sibling, even an adopted sibling, was trying to harm him in a horrible way had to be devastating. Their relationship is obviously now destroyed. Irreparably.”

  “Their parents must be heartbroken,” she mused.

  “Well, that’s another element. Their parents died in an accident a few years ago, the private jet they were on went down. The bond that held them together got swept away. I have to wonder, if the parents were still around, would the girl have ever agreed to be a part of this. We’ll never know, I guess.”

  “You’ve had quite a week,” she said. “Some people go their whole lives without this much drama.”

  I was about to say it’s a living but I decided not to. I wasn’t so sure of what to say, so I said nothing. We waited about fifteen seconds before Dr. Rosenbloom spoke.

  “Let’s go back to that incident where you got into a physical altercation,” she said. “Take me through how his behavior enraged you. To the point where you lost control and hit him.”

  I thought back on this. “I was trying to get some information out of him. But he brought the subject of my wife into the conversation. I have a very clear line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t. He crossed that line.”

  “And that was what triggered you. Mentioning your wife.”

  “It did.”

  “Was there any way you could have simply ignored what he said? Or reacted in a different way?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I felt I had to demonstrate that bringing my wife into our situation would be dealt with harshly. With blunt force. No way I could just let that go.”

  “But by reacting to his comment, didn’t you communicate that this was a sensitive subject for you?”

  I pondered this, and her insight began to seep in. “I suppose I did.”

  “What was it about this particular interaction that triggered you? Were you just concerned for your wife’s safety?”

  “Yes. My wife and son mean everything to me. If anything were to happen to them as a result of my work, it would be incomprehensible. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  She looked at me. “It’s just the three of you. You have a small family.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you grew up in a small family, too,” she commented.

  “Right. Just my mother and me.”

  “And was it always that way?”

  I thought back to something. “I told you my father died before I was born, and that my mother worked at a hospital. But when I was very young, my mother needed to go back to school to get her nursing degree. My grandparents came out here from Nebraska, and they helped take care of me for over a year. I was very young, and I don’t remember it. But there was some other family around.”

  “How old were you at this time?”

  I shrugged. “I was an infant. Maybe six months old. They finally left to go back to Nebraska when I was about two. We saw them occasionally over the years.”

  “All right. So you were largely separated from your mother for a period of time when you were very young.”

  “Not necessarily separated. My grandparents stayed with us. But yes, my grandparents were the ones taking care of me most of the time. I suppose my mother wasn’t around much then.”

  “And you were without your father, as well.”

  “Yes,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

  She looked down and didn’t say anything for a bit. “The part about this case you worked on last week. The brother and sister who lost their parents. I have to wonder if that triggered anything in you. That they were experiencing a loss similar to the one you experienced. Your ages may have been different, but it’s a loss nevertheless.”

  “Because we both had parents who died before their time,” I said.

  “Yes. You lost both of your parents. Losing your parents is an enormous event in anyone’s life, but more so if you’re a child.
Your father died before you were born, and your mother right before you started college.”

  “These were accidents. And cancer. Things beyond our control,” I said.

  “Regardless of the cause of death, it is still a huge loss. And maybe you identified with the young man who lost his parents in an accident.”

  “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I said. “I can’t change the past. What’s done is done. I can’t bring my parents back.”

  “No, of course not. But when that man you were questioning pushed your emotional buttons, he evoked a hostile reaction from you. You can’t control what other people say, but you can control how you react to things around you.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” I said slowly. “How do you suggest I go about doing that?”

  She looked at me and paused for what seemed like an eternity. “I can’t say for sure at this point, we are still very early in therapy. But my sense is that you have not fully mourned the death of your parents. I know this was a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean the pain has gone away. Grieving is a process. If it isn’t completed, the grief may take shape in another form, and may emerge in a way that is socially unacceptable. Like physically striking someone who gets under your skin. Again, I know I’m getting ahead of myself here, but in your case, there appears to be a lot of unresolved anger. And it may be stemming from unresolved grief.”

  I took a long breath. “But again, how do you suggest I deal with this? I’m in unchartered waters here.”

  “There are certain techniques you can use to calm yourself when you’re in situations that get out of control. But more importantly, you work through it by talking about it honestly in a safe place. That’s a lot of what therapy is about. Allowing yourself to talk about, and relive, and to actually feel some of these sad emotions. It’s a start.”

  “You’re saying I need to heal a part of myself.”

  She gave me a hard look. “What I’m saying is, that even though none of this was your fault, that fate dealt you a bad hand and that your parents died too young, there is something you need to do about it. Yes. Something that will allow you to heal and move forward. Regardless of how you choose to live your life, regardless of what your career entails, this is an important thing to do for yourself. And for your family. You know, some people go their whole lives without grieving properly. Their sadness turns into anger and they blame the world for taking loved ones from them.”

  “So, you think it would help if I forgave the world for taking my parents?”

  “That would help.”

  “How do I do that?” I asked.

  She took a long moment before responding. “You’ve already begun.”

  The End

  Thank you for investing the most valuable commodity you have -- your time -- in reading my novel. I hope you enjoyed it!

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  I have written 12 novels in the Burnside Mystery Series. These are all standalone novels that do not have to be read in order. But for those who are interested, here is the list:

  1. Post Pattern

  2. Fade Route

  3. Bubble Screen

  4. Safety Valve

  5. Corner Blitz

  6. Nickel Package

  7. Double Pass

  8. Tampa Two

  9. Flea Flicker

  10. Swim Move

  11. Hard Count

  12. Jet Sweep

  Additionally, I have written one non-Burnside book, a political suspense novel called Curse Of The Afflicted, which details the journey of a political operative, having reached the pinnacle of his career, drawn into an assassination plot at the same time he is diagnosed with a deadly disease.

  Jet Sweep is the 12th book in the Burnside series. If you'd like to read an excerpt of Post Pattern, the 1st book in the Burnside Mystery Series, I've attached Chapter One here. Read on!

  Thanks again.

  David

  Post Pattern Preview

  The people who tried to kill Norman Freeman last night came dangerously close to succeeding. Or at least Norman thought they were trying to kill him. Despite having the passenger window of his car shot out on the Santa Monica freeway, he still wasn't entirely sure.

  "They may have been after my brother," he said. "It's very confusing."

  "Getting shot at often is," I answered. During my tenure on the police force, I had exchanged gunfire on two occasions. Both times I escaped without physical harm but paid an emotional price. There were the countless nights where sleep never came, and many others that were altered by petrifying nightmares. Each shooting incident took a couple of months to overcome, but I don’t think I ever fully recovered. The bad dreams still slip in occasionally. Trauma can stay with you forever.

  "I'm just stunned at what happened," he said, as his pretty blonde fiancée sitting next to him took his hand and squeezed it slightly. A large diamond ring glittered from her finger.

  "You told me that over the phone," I reminded him, "but let me ask you something. How did you happen to select me? Burnside Investigations doesn't exactly stand out in the yellow pages."

  Norman brightened for a moment. "Dick Bridges recommended you."

  Dick Bridges was director of campus security at Los Angeles University, more commonly referred to as LAU, and we had known each other since I played football across town at USC. That was almost twenty years ago. Time goes by so quickly. It seemed like yesterday that I resigned from the police department; in fact it was only two years.

  I nodded. "Dick and I go back a long ways. He's done well for himself."

  "Mr. Bridges told me you were the best."

  Laughing, I said, "Dick owes me a few favors. Has he lost any weight?"

  Norman shook his head. "No. He'd make a good offensive tackle. I could have used him two years ago. I played quarterback at LAU."

  I was well aware of Norman Freeman. His name or photo had appeared almost daily in the Los Angeles Times. The blond hair, blue eyes, rugged jaw, and muscular frame were right out of central casting. He wore a long sleeve oxford cloth shirt with a button down collar and pressed khakis. It was as if Frank Gifford, the all-American boy of the fifties, had magically reappeared. He made me feel old, but at forty, that was far from a herculean task.

  Norman had been a second round draft pick of the Patriots, but his pro career was short-circuited by an injury during a pre-season game. When no receivers were open on one fateful play, he took off on a scramble and attempted to hurdle the safety who stood between him and the goal line. The defender upended him brutally, separating the shoulder of his throwing arm and causing a concussion when he landed on the unforgiving turf. Despite attempts at rehabilitation, the shoulder never fully recovered and headaches became a regular part of his day. And Norman Freeman's gridiron career came to a sudden halt.

  "So what are you doing now?" I inquired.

  Norman smiled shyly. "Working for my father. He owns a bunch of car dealerships on the Westside. I'm being groomed to take over the business."

  "Nice work if you can get it," I remarked. Being a smart ass was a gift which came naturally to me. And as off-putting as it might be at times, it often got people to say things they ordinarily didn’t intend to.

  But Norman Freeman sat in silence for a minute, pondering the end of his left thumbnail. I noticed that it had become slight
ly warm in my office, and I made a mental note to contact the property manager to fix the air conditioning. Had I something more interesting to do that afternoon I would have hurried him along, but Norman was more entertaining than staring out my window. And his fiancée was certainly a sight to behold.

  Her name was Ashley and she was about Norman's age, tall and slender, with golden hair that flowed freely down her back. She wore a black top, white slacks and pink and white Nikes. Despite the warm weather, she carried a white denim jacket with little silver stars sewn into the collar. She wore a face full of makeup including violet eye shadow and scarlet lipstick. When she smiled, her teeth were big and white, a gleaming Pepsodent smile if there ever was one. I tried not to linger too long on her and began to mentally review my calendar for the rest of the day. I needed to be at Mrs. Wachs' house at five o'clock, but that was a few hours away. Aside from that, the only thing I had to decide was what to have for dinner.

  "Mr. Burnside, you're probably wondering why I'm here," he said.

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  "As I told you over the phone, somebody tried to shoot me last night. Actually it may have been Robbie they were trying to kill."

  "So you mentioned. Robbie's your brother."

  "Right. He played for LAU also. He was a really good wide receiver. You may have heard of him."

  I nodded. "All-Conference if I recall."

  "Yes."

  "You were All-Conference as well, weren't you?" I inquired.

  He nodded eagerly. "Three years. Robbie was my best receiver the last two. Freeman to Freeman."

  "Then you graduated."