Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (11 page)

*

I walked back to the Pathfinder and took a glance down
at my watch. It was only half past nine and I was already perspiring. My shirt
was stuck to my lower back and beads of sweat were forming on my brow and
temples. I climbed into the truck and lowered the windows rather than turn on
the air. It was twenty minutes to my office by surface streets and only ten by
freeway so I took the latter to save a few minutes. Either way I'd reach my
destination before the interior ever really cooled off.

Traffic was light but as I approached the Cloverfield
exit ramp, a car charged up behind me. I was in the fast lane and going
sixty-five but my new friend tailgated for half a mile. I decided to apply that
wonderful touch of class I learned from my seasoned driver's ed teacher. When
someone is right on your tail, simply go slower. I took my foot off the gas and
slowed to fifty, but when that didn't dislodge him I initiated a trick I
learned on my own. I jammed my finger against the windshield washer button and
held it there for five seconds. One glance in my rear view mirror told me I had
hit pay dirt. The car’s wiper blades worked furiously and were followed by
flashing headlights. Usually the other car slows down a smidgeon but this
fellow was intent on riding my backside. After another thirty seconds of
playing road hog, I decided I had inflicted enough ill will for the morning and
moved my truck one lane over. Big mistake.

The car zoomed up beside me and began cruising at
parallel speed. I looked over and saw an angry pair of male faces. They were
familiar but I couldn't place where. My body tensed up. It was a maroon BMW.
The passenger side window opened and I saw the barrel of a shotgun emerge. The
gun was aimed directly at my head. I slammed my foot onto the brakes at the
same moment that a puff of smoke and a loud bang were emitted from the gun. I
heard a pop where the load smacked into the truck's A-pillar just before the
windshield. A shard of metal came flying off and it was plainly horrifying that
I had just come within inches of being shot in the head. I forced my foot down
harder on the brakes, but the BMW slowed also, as Curt Salvo tried to steady
his aim for a better shot. I then released the brakes and floored the
accelerator as I heard another pop followed by the banging sound of a clump of
buckshot crashing into the rear door.

The Pathfinder's V6 engine responded after a moment’s
hesitation and surged forward strongly. But the sheer weight of a truck would always
offset the amount of horsepower. These vehicles were made for hauling and
camping and ruggedness. Quick response was out of the question. I tried to
outrace the BMW but it roared up besides me once again. More drastic measures
would need to be implemented.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Curt lean out of the
window, his arm extended as he tried to steady his aim. I responded by swinging
the steering wheel hard to the left. The Pathfinder lurched across the lane and
my body shifted across the interior of the cab, restrained only by the snugness
of the seat belt.

The truck smashed directly into the BMW, forcing it
against the center divider. This was followed by the deafening sound of metal
crunching and glass shattering. My vehicle caromed off of the car like a
tailback bouncing off a middle linebacker, and the truck spun off into the
empty third lane. It wobbled unsteadily in the same direction of traffic before
finally coming to a slow halt. The BMW did not have a lane to skid into and
thus had no such luxury of movement.

On certain freeways there is a shoulder on either the
extreme right or left side of the road for disabled cars to pull off. This was
inserted to prevent cars from bottling up an entire freeway lane if a breakdown
occurred. The enormity of traffic congestion in Los Angeles was such that these
shoulders were often turned into an extra lane of traffic to incorporate the
additional volume of cars that materialized over the years. The primary victims
of this maneuver were those whose cars stopped in traffic and could not get off
the road. A secondary casualty was Curt Salvo's once stylish maroon BMW, which
now had nowhere to go but into an unforgiving wall.

By virtue of the collision with the Pathfinder, Curt's
car skidded to the left and crashed into the cement divider with a horrifying
force. Careening back into the number one lane the vehicle spun completely
around and plowed into the barricade once more, with almost as much ferocity.
It skidded back into the freeway again and finally came to a helpless stop in
the third lane, leaving a trail of broken auto parts and leaking fluids behind
it.

A few drivers behind us stopped to watch the debacle,
gazing with horrified expressions at the twisted sight. A young couple in a
white Audi pulled over onto the right shoulder just before the next exit ramp
and began running over to see the damage first hand.

I surveyed my face in the rear view, and to my surprise,
observed no visible marks. My heart rate however had escalated immeasurably and
my breathing was erratic. My clothes were drenched in sweat and my ribs ached
from the sudden lurching and braking of my Pathfinder.

The couple reached the BMW first and tried to look
inside the shattered windshield. The glass had crackled into spider webs, an eerie
sea green color that blocked any view of the compartment. The man, wearing
little more than shorts and flip flops walked around to the side and glanced at
the driver. He turned away immediately. The girl was about to look as well,
when her boyfriend took her arm and spared her whatever repugnant vision lay
inside. They walked around the BMW with amazement, shaking their heads,
awestruck.

The left side of the car was ravaged from front to back
and the right side had a large dent in the passenger door. The front end was
mangled and the color coordinated bumper hung inches from the ground. The left
front tire had dislodged, and the right front was blown. A puddle of greenish
radiator fluid with tiny rainbow streaks was forming under the engine.

The couple finally remembered there was another party to
the collision and jogged over to yours truly. Apparently my vehicle wasn't as
spectacular a sight. Thankfully.

"You okay in there?" he yelled.

I looked down at him. He had brown hair, long and thick
in the back, and a trimmed beard. A green tattoo with an indiscriminate design
was emblazoned on his left arm.

"Hope so," I finally managed, as I worked to
free myself from the confines of the shoulder harness. That done, I opened the
door to climb out and stumbled haphazardly into the man's arms.

"Whoa there," he said, catching me by the
waist. "Take 'er easy."

I struggled to stand up straight and without any
assistance. My legs were wobbly and I felt myself gasping for air. My head was
light and the ground swayed beneath me. The guy had one hand on my elbow and
the other grasping the back of my belt.

"It's okay," I managed. "Let me try it
myself."

He released the grip and I took a step, feeling like a
novice ice skater navigating along a treacherous path. I steadied myself with
the truck door and took a second step, finding this one a little easier and
hoping I wouldn't have to ever re-learn any other basic functions. Suffice to
say, it was not fun but at least I had the capacity. Apparently it was more
than I could say for my counterparts.

"You don't look so good, pal," the man said.
"But it's like they say, you oughta see the other guy."

"Let's," I said.

"Name's Honch," he offered.

I had to think for a minute. "Burnside. One
word."

The other car was about fifty feet away and I hobbled
over to it. I felt sore and dizzy as I walked along the ominous freeway, cars
inching past on the outside lane for a glance at the grisly scene. A bit of
steam emitted from the hood of their car and added an exclamation point to the
heat that was bearing relentlessly down on us.

I approached from the rear and looked inside. Even after
thirteen years of police work, the goriness of mangled, bloody faces never
ceased to affect me. There they were, Curt and his cohort Whitey, lying
shoulder to shoulder beneath a generous sprinkling of glass shards. Their faces
were drenched in blood, Curt's almost to the point of being unrecognizable.
There was no need to check their pulses; these two were finished. I felt a wall
of nausea rise from within and I needed to turn away suddenly and breathe a few
deep gasps of air. It could have been worse, I told myself. It could have been
me.

A Highway Patrol cruiser pulled up a minute later and
two uniforms slowly emerged. Both were women, one stockily built with blonde
hair tied back into a knot and the other wiry with short auburn hair. Not too
long ago there was an unwritten policy against two female uniforms riding
together, the thinking being they needed a man around in case things got tough.
I never bought that. Since most were well versed in martial arts, I found they
could handle themselves in almost all situations. The only problem came about
convincing a few suspects who thought they had a better chance slugging it out with
a woman. That's why many developed a tough, caustic shell early on.

The blonde approached us and directed her question to
Honch. "Were you the driver of one of the vehicles?"

Honch pointed to me. "Him."

"Is that your truck?" she asked.

I nodded and looked back at my Pathfinder. All things
considered, it didn't look too awful. A nasty looking dent in the front left
fender, a cracked grill, and a busted headlight. Not to mention a few shotgun
shells lodged in the steel body. It was probably my crazed state but the truck
seemed to be winking at me.

"Would you tell me what happened?"

Before I could respond we heard a loud "oh my
god" and I didn't even have to look to know the wiry officer had just peered
into the BMW. I chuckled to myself. They were better at martial arts.

I gave the details to the blonde who jotted them into a
notepad. She frowned a few times when I related the gunplay but her demeanor
never varied. Very professional, I thought. I hadn't noticed the gun anywhere
in the BMW but I wasn't about to look too closely. Regardless, there were holes
in my truck door if anyone cared to dispute my story. Since no one would get
the perspective of either Curt or his buddy, this wasn't a real cause for
concern.

I spent the better part of the day talking to my auto
insurance company, filling out paperwork and licking my wounds. My Pathfinder
was sitting over at the police impound lot, awaiting examination from
ballistics before I turned it over to the body shop for repair. I made sure I
took everything out of the glove compartment before I turned over the keys.
DVDs, papers, everything. I had learned that police protection had its limits.

Surprisingly, my own body felt a lot better by the end
of the day, although running a 10K race wouldn't be high on my to-do list in
the near future. I rented a Ford Focus until my Pathfinder could be made whole
again, and drove the little thing back to my office. Not a Pathfinder
certainly, but it would at least shepherd me around. When I returned to the
office I decided I needed something to perk my spirits. Nearly getting killed
can put you in the most depressed mood. I called Gail Pepper and made dinner
arrangements for eight o'clock.

As I finally concluded it was time to call it a day, the
phone of course rang. Mr. Cadwell from the Differential Insurance Company
wanted to know the status of the Wachs case. I told him the status was
unchanged.

"That doesn't make me very happy," he said, in
a tone one would not confuse with excitement.

"I'm not a happy camper myself today I can assure
you."

"This goes before the State Disability Board in two
weeks and we will be in need of your findings soon. I hasten to add we don't
have much to go on except a co-worker who claims Mrs. Wachs is holding down a
second job. Have you been tailing her?"

I just loved guys who used trade lingo. "Been on
her tail every spare minute," I said.

"Good. I have a hunch this one's up to something.
Her accident was just too suspicious."

"They all are, my friend," I said, vaguely
wondering if Curt Salvo had bothered to take out insurance. Curt struck me as
the type who would boast a bumper sticker saying insured by Smith & Wesson.
"I've got an idea or two. I'll keep you informed."

I hung up and decided it was time for a long hot bath.
And maybe consider another line of work.

*

By eight o'clock I was cleaned and rested and ready for
the evening to bring forth brighter moments. I crammed myself into the little
Ford Focus and it took a full ten seconds to figure out where the headlight
switch was. So much for American ingenuity, although the engineers from Detroit
probably believed they just needed smarter customers. On the way to pick up
Gail, I told myself how much money I'd save on gasoline by driving the little
sub-compact. It worked for a few moments, but the smug feeling left me when I
needed to rearrange my legs.

Gail lived in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica
which bordered Venice beach. It was an area that seemed pleasant enough, though
it was only blocks away from the sleaziness of California's version of
Venezia
.
Innocent on the surface but a tangled web within. Not unlike the people I had
been investigating lately.

Gail came to the door wearing a low cut green top and
shorts. If my tongue was hanging out she didn't seem to notice. It was summer
and she could dress any way she felt like. I wasn't about to complain. I told
her she looked nice and she responded with a simple, albeit playful, thank you.

We went directly to the restaurant, an intimate little
pasta bar near the beach. Candle lit tables with old fashioned red checked
tablecloths and the pungent smell of garlic making its way from the kitchen.
The night was warm as usual but it mattered not. Romance was blooming.

We talked about all of the things two people talk about
when they go out on a first date. This was technically our second date but I
felt the other night was more of a let's-get-to-know-each-other meeting. A good
first date is where you begin to share things from your past and reveal what
you'd like the future to bring. And gaze into the other person's eyes
frequently to see how they respond. And sometimes you get a feeling that maybe,
just maybe something is clicking. It's a dichotomous feeling though, a blend of
elation and fear, of potential and caution. Of being alive, and of your senses
awakening. It's a feeling that doesn't happen often. But it was indeed
happening here.

We both had grown up in Southern California, myself in
the shadow of the MGM lot in Culver City, Gail in the Orange County enclave of
Huntington Beach. We both liked sports, jazz, target shooting, good books and
angel hair pasta. We disliked insincerity, desk jobs, rap music and waiters
that insisted on revealing their first names. Gail did volunteer work with
inner-city youth; I lamented the lack of time my job afforded me to engage in
such humane endeavors. We talked about past loves, ones that had gone sour,
others that simply lost their spark after a few years. She recanted a five year
relationship that had ended last year; I talked about Barbara, my own five year
love many moons ago. Too many. We talked and laughed and sipped coffee laced
with Frangelica until a tired looking waiter cleared his throat and asked if
there would be anything else. Apparently it was almost midnight and we were the
last patrons lingering. The best nights are those where you wonder whatever
happened to the time.

We drove back to Gail's apartment and on the way she asked
me a troubling question. It was bound to come up. In most settings I just
answered it in vagaries, dancing around the topic as smoothly as I could
manage. But I was feeling open and trusting. And I was tired of asking people
questions all day long. For a change, I wanted to talk.

"Why did you leave the job?"

I took a deep breath and turned off the ignition. I
placed a Freddie Hubbard CD back into the glove compartment, which was smaller
than my Pathfinder's but just as messy. I said nothing for a minute, sorting
out my thoughts until they were ready to surface.

"I had made a mistake. It was the type of mistakes
cops swear they'll never make. Never to get involved. Never to let your guard
down. Never to let your feelings get in the way of doing the job."

"Never to be human?" she injected.

"There's more to it than that. It's not that
simple. Rules exist, some written, some unwritten. It happened two years ago. I
was working vice out of North Hollywood, undercover job. I busted this girl for
soliciting and I swear she looked like she was thirteen. Wholesome, pretty, she
should have been trying out for cheerleader or home playing with Ken and
Barbie."

"Looks are often deceiving. Especially these
days."

"And especially in this case," I agreed.
"As it turns out Judy was seventeen, not thirteen, but the point is she
shouldn't have been out on the streets at all. Hell, she shouldn't have even
been in California. She was from a little town outside Des Moines, mother died
at an early age, father drank and abused her when the mood struck him. Not a
unique story mind you but to hear her relate it, this little child, so angelic,
I tell you it tore my heart to pieces."

Gail's eyes remained steady on me. "And you decided
to do something about it."

I nodded. "I let my guard down. I wanted to make a
difference in someone's life. Judy wasn't meant to be turning tricks in a back
alley. But you do what you gotta do in order to survive and surviving for her
meant getting out of Iowa and as far away from her old man as possible. She
bought a bus ticket to L.A., arrived full of the same dreams that brings
everyone out here, a better way of life. What she found was worse."

"Didn't she even try to find something better than
hooking?"

"Didn't have much of a chance. First thing off the
bus some asshole approached her, bought her a meal, gave her a place to stay,
treated her nicely for a while. Then he put her to work. He told her if she
ever tried to leave he'd kill her. She was in the same prison she tried to
leave."

"And after you arrested her?"

"She turned state's evidence and we put her pimp
away. He was taken care of. But Judy had nowhere to stay, no family, no money.
I took her in. I tried to give her shelter, direction, tried to steer her
towards a better path. I knew it was risky, but I didn't... didn't have anyone
else in my life at the time."

"And you wanted to make a difference."

I swallowed. "Yes. Make a difference. Thirteen
years on the force and most of it spent sticking it to scum. Trying to keep the
streets safe but not raising anyone's life to another level. So I took her in,
let her stay with me. The daughter, kid sister, whatever. That person I didn't
have."

"It didn't work?"

I shook my head. "She had been on the streets too
long. She was good at fooling people. And when she got busted again it was for
turning tricks, but not in some dark alley. She was doing it in my apartment
and all of a sudden I've fallen from model cop to pimping children."

"Did you ever..."

I shook my head again, vehemently this time. "Never.
Absolutely not. My role was strictly paternal. Give her the guidance she never
received from her parents. I was just too late is all. And there’s nothing
worse than being too late. She was too far gone, had too much hate for the
world and couldn't see much good coming out of the future. I didn't fail, I
just never got a clean chance. She used me, betrayed me, call it what you will.
I paid a very big price."

"Were you arrested?"

"Arrested but not convicted. Judy skipped bail,
never to be heard from again. Internal affairs conducted its own investigation
but without Judy there was no testimony so they simply issued me a warning. My
attitude changed though. From that day when I was tossed into a jail cell with
the same slime I had been busting for years, I realized how elusive justice
could really be. And I fell off the bus so to speak."

Gail touched my hand. "Understandable," she
said. "Very understandable."

"Instead of being the dutiful soldier I started
questioning superiors' directives, putting up with less lip from suspects,
administering my own brand of justice. I felt better about myself but lone
wolves aren't appreciated in a system like the LAPD. When they gave me my
walking papers I think everyone was probably relieved. Including me."

"Life has a way of leading you down strange
paths."

Smiling, I said, "Do not depart from the path
destiny has laid out for you."

"Existential philosophy?"

"Nope. Fortune cookie."

We both laughed and drew closer into each other's arms, kissing
softly, tentatively, exploring with our lips and our hands. Her hair was soft
and fine, the scent of jasmine radiating as I grew near. It had been a while
since I had felt anything remotely warm towards a woman and those desires I had
held in check were now swimming to the surface, sanguine and
effortless.

She pulled away for a moment and I offered no
resistance, both of us taking a minute to catch our breaths. I had almost
forgotten we were in a rented sub-compact which would never be compared with a
suite at the W, or even a room at a Holiday Inn. Gail's thoughts echoed my own.

"If we're going to do this," she said,
smoothing her hair, "let's go upstairs. A contortionist, I'm not."

"Lead the way," I said, and we exited the
rented chariot.

She slipped her arm inside my elbow. "Oh. I don't
want to get bogged down on business but I may have something interesting for
you about the Freemans tomorrow. I'm not entirely positive what it is, so it
will have to be a surprise. You do like surprises, don't you?"

I kissed her cheek. "I'm learning to."