Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (12 page)

The dawn's early light brought with it an abatement of
the scorching heat that had reached into every pore of my body. On this
morning, I opened my eyes to the sweet coolness of the day, languid and lovely.
Gail, her body wrapped tightly in a beige sheet and nothing more, dozed
silently next to me, breathing in a rhythmic pattern. Her lips were pursed,
slightly apart but as pretty and pouty as ever.

I moved gingerly out of bed, partly to avoid waking Gail
and partly to refrain from putting any more pressure on my aching ribs. I
didn't want to leave without saying anything, so I looked around for a sheet of
paper, to no avail. A vase of flowers sat atop her walnut chest of drawers
however, so I quietly plucked a tulip and laid it down on my pillow.

The freeway was wide open as it normally is at
five-thirty and I zipped along unimpeded. I stopped for breakfast at a coffee
shop that at one time employed carhops on roller skates, but that was many
years ago. I ordered a cinnamon roll and coffee, pleased that if nothing else,
the waitress was considerate enough not to tell me her name. She refilled my
cup half a dozen times as I read the newspaper all the way through. After being
satisfied I was properly awake, I paid and left a tip equal to the amount of
the check. Good service should be rewarded.

It was seven-thirty by the time I reached the Freeman
estate. The birds were chirping and the jacarandas were still sending delicate
lavender petals floating to the ground. I parked on the glazed driveway, the
Focus cutting nowhere near as dashing a figure as my disabled Pathfinder had.
All things heal in time, I reminded myself.

The brass knockers made a loud clanging noise and a
tanned, well groomed woman answered the door. She had blonde streaky hair, an
appealing figure and large tawny eyes. She was dressed in a pair of neon pink
shorts and a white knit shirt with blue and pink vertical stripes. She was
older than Norman, but not by much.

"May I help you?" she inquired.

"I'm here to see Harrison Freeman. The name's
Burnside."

"I'm Mrs. Freeman. May I help you?"

I smiled. Harrison, you old dog. Money can buy anything,
I suppose.

“I need to talk to your husband, ma’am.”

“You can talk to me,” she insisted.

"Oh. Well. All right. You see, I'm from the
lot. We need Mister Freeman's okay to start exporting Hondas back to
Japan."

"You whaaaa....? Oh, this sounds complicated. I
better get Harrison. Please come in."

I waited a few minutes in the foyer and amused myself by
counting the pieces of Irish crystal in the majestic chandelier. I had reached
seventy-six when the vast shadow of Harrison Freeman approached and directed me
into his office.

"Burnside?”

“Indeed.”

“What the hell kind of crack was that about sending cars
to Japan?"

"Sorry. I didn't know if your wife was aware of my
investigation. I try to be discreet."

"I see," he said. "Well then, what do you
have?"

"Nothing."

"What?! That's outrageous!" he said
indignantly, the veins in his neck sticking out. "I demand an explanation.
What in god's name have you been doing the last few days?"

"Oh, getting punched, kicked and shot at among
other things. My ribs feel as if a stick is jabbing them every time I breathe.
I've seen three more dead bodies pile up as a result of my investigation. And
I've also been losing sleep but that's not really your problem."

"Dead bodies? Shot at? Burnside, what in blazes is
going on here?"

"I'll explain later, but for now I need to know a
few things. First, how bad was Robbie's coke habit?"

Freeman shuddered. "Coke? I don't know what you're
talking about. I asked you to look into his death, not pry into trivial matters
regarding lifestyle."

"Cut it out. Robbie's lifestyle had everything to
do with his death. I haven't fit all of the pieces together but on that point
I'm positive. Now let's talk about your son."

Freeman slumped a bit in his chair. He took a deep
breath and blew it out, his cheeks pumped out in resignation. He finally spoke.
"Have you found out if it was an accident or if Robbie was murdered?"

"It was murder."

"Oh God," he whispered. "By who?"

"I'm working on that. Now what did you know about
his drug use?"

"Robbie had been doing drugs for a while," he
said sadly. "I guess it's been a couple of years. At least that I know of.
It wasn't until he came to me last month asking for money that I could confirm
it."

"Did you give him the money?"

"No. It was thirty thousand dollars but that wasn't
the point. I could afford it certainly but I feel a man has to take
responsibility for his actions in this world. Get out of trouble on his own.
Become a man. Oh, I know that sounds cruel and I wish to hell I could pay that
debt now if..." he said, his voice starting to crack. "if it meant
bringing Robbie back to life."

"We can't change the past," I said softly,
wishing it were true and not just for Robbie's sake.

"No," he said, his face flushed and his eyes
moistening. "We can't. Was... was that what happened? Was he killed over
money he owed for drugs?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I'm going
down a couple of paths here trying to find the right one. Let me throw some
names at you. Tell me if they mean anything."

"Okay," he agreed.

"Curt Salvo?"

"Never heard of him."

"Danielle Crowley?"

"Ditto."

"Tiffany Walters?"

Freeman frowned. "He spoke a few times about a girl
named Tiffany. I never met her though."

"Terry Kuhl?"

"Quarterback that replaced Norman? If that bum
could throw a pass straight, I'm certain Robbie would've been a first round
draft pick."

"Was Robbie mad about that?"

"Robbie, no. Robbie didn't get mad about much. In
fact I think he even liked that Kuhl kid."

"Evan Wurman?"

"Evan? Sure, the Wurmans used to live down the
road. Until the car accident. He and Rob were good friends."

"Max Brewer?"

"Yeah, he and Robbie used to pal around
together."

"Lenny Caputo?"

"Just another receiver on the team. Say, what's
this all about? Do you think any of Robbie's friends did this to him? That's
crazy! It's impossible!"

"Think about it," I said. "Robbie was at
his brother's bachelor party. He was surrounded by his friends and Norman's.
They were the only people who knew he'd be there. This is an inside job, Mr.
Freeman."

He looked down intently at his thumb for a long minute.
He bent it back and examined it as if he were viewing it for the first time.
Finally he spoke. "You're saying the killer was invited to the
party?"

"All I'm saying is the killer knew Robbie and knew
he'd be there. Whether he was an invited guest or not is undetermined. The
investigation is still going on."

I walked out of his office leaving the old man to ponder
his thumb or his navel or how many cars he would sell this month. I
didn't expect much help but he did trigger a thought in my mind and at this
point I was grateful for anything. I moved down the long cherry wood floor
towards the front door, glancing up before I left to make sure the chandelier
was still there. As I walked outside I heard the sound of an ignition being
turned over. Exhaust fumes were coming slowly out of a silver Acura ZDX. I
sauntered over to it amiably.

"Hello, Norman."

Norman Freeman looked up, his face a myriad of
confusion. "Mr. Burnside. What are you doing here? Have you found out what
happened to Robbie?" he asked, the timbre of his voice indicating concern.

"Not yet, Norman. All things take time."

"Yeah. Listen, I really don't appreciate what you
said to my fiancée the other day. I mean, we just don't see the point of it
all. Robbie's dead. It's in the past. It's finished. It doesn't exist any more.
Why dwell on it?"

"Doesn't exist? Norman, I didn't realize you were
such a new age buff. Into metaphysics, too? Next thing you'll be telling me
about the power of crystals and that all you want out of life is to be
happy."

He looked like a puppy that just been kicked. "So?
I do want to be happy. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong," I mused to no one in
particular. "What's wrong. The possibility that somebody killed his
brother is right in front of his nose and he wants everyone to stop searching
for the truth. Well, I'm sorry to be such a harbinger of bad tidings but you
better accept that Robbie was murdered by someone. That may not make you very
happy and it shouldn't. A very horrible thing has happened kid, and sticking
your head in the sand like an ostrich and saying let's not dwell on it smacks
of someone who's closed himself off."

"If I have, that's my business. You don't have all
the answers or you wouldn't be doing this for a living."

My nerves began to tense up and I felt an explosion
coming. "No, Norman, I don't have all the answers. In fact, I probably
have more questions about most things than I have answers. I don't pretend I've
got everything in life wired, but how boring life would be if I did. I worked
for everything I have. I wasn't born into the right family and I didn't have a
cushy job waiting for me when my football career fell through. Nothing was ever
handed to me and maybe if it were I'd be as casual about losing a brother as
you seem to be. If I had a brother who might have been killed I'd be kicking
ass from here to Mexico. A guy could easily wonder if you had anything to do
with this murder."

"Me?! How can you think to even suggest that?
That's crazy! I can't believe you said that!"

"Everyone's a suspect. But I think you're too stupid
to do something this clever. You know, I was impressed with you at first,
coming to me trying to find out what was happening to Robbie, but maybe you
were more concerned about yourself. Maybe you were scared shitless when someone
shot out your window and you were afraid it might happen again to you but with
a different outcome. Maybe you were just afraid they might be more accurate the
second time through."

"I was concerned about Robbie! But that was when I
could do something about it! What can we do now?"

"We can bring a cold blooded killer to justice
before he kills again. We can make him pay for his actions. We can see to it
that justice is being served. And we can show the world that a person is
responsible for what they do and they have to accept punishment. Pretending
awful things don't exist is for candy asses. You're in for a rude awakening one
day, kid. It might as well be now."

With that I turned and walked off, leaving him sitting
in his nice new ZDX puffing out fresh white exhaust fumes onto a slick,
polished Brentwood driveway. Judging from the open mouthed expression on his
face, a few of my words had hit home. I began to wonder if Norman really was
clever enough to kill his brother. It wouldn't have been the first time. A
fellow named Cain spearheaded that one.

*

The freeway had bottled up before I was out of West
L.A., so I exited at the first opportunity and took surface streets over to the
Crenshaw district. Traffic was fairly light and I made it to the Kuhl residence
in about twenty minutes.

In stark contrast to the pristine, countrified serenity
of Brentwood, the Crenshaw district in South-Central was an unmistakable slum.
Grassy lawns were replaced by filthy sidewalks, Tudor homes by stucco
bungalows. Along the commercial streets, liquor stores, fast food outlets and
storefront churches were the most common sights.

I pulled up to the address Terry Kuhl's girlfriend had
provided for me. When I knocked on the screen door, a heavy set black woman
with a kind face opened it a few inches. She wore a plain housecoat and when
she said hello, a pair of gold caps glistened. I asked for Terry, and she
quickly invited me inside and called his name out.

The interior was as depressing as the outside. Old
carpeting with the texture of Brillo pads, musty chairs with stained doilies
and the lingering smell of fried bacon hung in the air. White shades were
pulled all the way to the window sill giving the already gloomy atmosphere an
even darker quality.

"Man, what now?" came the voice of Terry Kuhl,
as he walked into the living room.

"A kind greeting and a warm smile would be a
start," I smiled. "But you can only squeeze so much water out of a
stone."

"What are you are talking about? Why don't you just
leave me alone? I ain't bothering nobody."

"Maybe, maybe not. I have a few questions for
you."

"I answered your questions."

His mother interrupted. "Terry, this man came to
talk to you. Now you show some manners, do you understand?"

Terry's eyes lowered. "Aw, momma."