Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (13 page)

"Don't you aw momma me. Just do it!"

I'd have loved to have given his mother a hug right
then. Good parenting doesn't ever stop. "Terry," I said softly.
"I asked you the other day about Robbie Freeman. You know he's dead."

Terry nodded. "Everybody knows that."

"You were friendly with him. You know anyone who
might have had reason to take his life?"

His eyes widened and he shook his head.

"Did he have many black friends you know of? Maybe
some that might live around here?" I asked, not entirely sure where I was
going with this. Maybe I just didn't want to get back onto that crowded freeway
just yet. Maybe I was also running out of ideas.

"A few I guess."

"Any close ones?"

Terry pursed his lips. "Tyus Smith maybe. He was a
lineman on the second string."

I peered at him. "Robbie have any problems with
black people?"

"Nah," he shrugged. "None I can think of.
What's this about?"

"Terry, where were you on Friday night?"

He looked at his mother. "I was right here. With
LeTanya. We came over for dinner."

I looked at his mother and she nodded solemnly. "We
was right here the whole night."

I nodded. If it was just Terry's word I might have a few
doubts but his mother's seemed as strong as the rock of Gibraltar. Another wrong
turn. A person could get mighty frustrated driving into dead end streets.

"If you could make a wild guess," I said
slowly, "as to the type of person who might have killed Robbie Freeman,
what type might that be?"

Terry looked at me like I was crazy. Finally, his mother
nudged him. "Answer the man," she said.

Terry licked his lips. "Can’t see it being a
brother. He had no quarrel with us. Wouldn't be a teammate. Might be a lady. He
didn’t treat them all that well."

I processed this for a moment. Maybe I wasn't heading
towards a dead end after all.

Tyus Smith lived in a small apartment not far from the
Crenshaw district. It was a simple two story walk-up with about a dozen
apartments in the salmon colored building. The neighborhood was quiet, save for
an obnoxious gardener who was operating a whiny leaf blower. The sound mimicked
a buzz saw and could be heard two blocks away. I thought dreamily of a time
when the rake, like the VCR and good manners, wasn’t just in style but was a
regular component of our American fabric.

I knocked on the door that had a big E over the peep
hole and waited while the deadbolt was pushed back. The door opened and I
looked up to see the enormous figure of Tyus Smith looming. He was six-six and
about three hundred pounds, give or take a few pizzas. His head was big and
round and was a perfect match for his protruding gut, which hung over a pair of
gym shorts. His arms were massive and his legs resembled tree trunks.

"Tyus?"

"That's me."

"The name's Burnside. I'd like to ask you a few
questions. May I come in?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"Private investigator." I said, holding up my
license. "I'd like to ask you about Robbie Freeman."

He nodded and invited me inside. The apartment itself was
nothing to speak of but it was clean, and there were some family photos on the
wall. We sat down at the kitchen table and he introduced me to his wife,
Cassandra. She poured three cups of coffee and set them all down on the table.

"Would you like anything to eat?" she asked.
"I can cut you a piece of cake, maybe?"

"Thank you, but no," I said, impressed with
her manners, at least compared to the kinds of people I’d been speaking with
lately.

Tyus yawned. "I just got up," he said, blowing
on his coffee before taking a sip. "The night shift doesn't end until
three. What can I do for you?"

"I'm investigating the death of Robbie Freeman. I
understand he was a teammate of yours last year."

"He was. I didn't associate with him all that much,
but I was sorry to hear what happened. Not surprised mind you, but sorry
anyways."

"Why's that?"

"Wild guy. Liked doing crazy stuff. People like
that eventually have things catch up with them. I've seen the type."

"Were you friends?"

"No, not at all."

"Never had anything to do with him outside the
team?"

"Well... not really. I helped him out on a project
once, I guess. A while ago."

"A project?" I asked.

"Yes. It was more for the school. The recruiting program
actually. I work as a security guard sometimes. It's easy work and I get paid
okay. I'm at a factory now, but for a while there I was working at a bar.
Bouncer work. Didn't like it much. Lousy atmosphere to work in. Most people
don't mess with me cause of my size, but when you stick a few drinks in some
people they think they're tough. Actually this place was more like a strip
joint."

"Let me take a wild guess," I conjectured.
"The bar was called Neary's."

"Yeah, man, how'd you know that?" he asked,
eyes wide.

"Luck. Put two and two together. Sometimes it comes
out four. So how did you help Robbie out?"

"Robbie helped organize these weekends for high
school players we were recruiting at LAU. Bring the kids in for a few days,
show 'em the campus, talk about the tradition, show 'em a good time. That was
Robbie's department."

"I take it he enjoyed his work."

Tyus managed a smile. "I think you're right.
Anyways, he asked me if I could arrange for a few girls from Neary's to provide
some entertainment for the boys. Robbie'd take the high school kids down there
and afterwards he'd get some of the girls and go off to someone's apartment.
They called it having sessions."

"I take it this was without the approval of the
coaching staff."

"Approval?" he repeated. "They paid for
the damn women. Fact is, McCallum encouraged it. Whatever it took to get that
next five star recruit to enroll at LAU."

"So it was a lucky thing for them you were working
there."

"Luck nothing. They set me up with the job."

"The coach did?" I asked
incredulously.

"Nah, someone in the A.D.’s office. Look, I'll
admit, if I was first string I'd be working for Warner Brothers right now. But
I was a reserve and there's a certain pecking order. I needed the money and I
took what I could get. They've had a bunch of guys work there."

"How did they hook up with Neary's then?"

"Someone on McCallum's staff knew the manager at
Neary's. Set things up for us. It was tough work for me though. Because I'm big
there's always a drunk that thinks he's gonna prove something by taking me on.
After a while I got tired of tossing them on their heads. It wasn't for
me."

"Anybody at Neary's that Robbie had a problem
with?"

"Nope," he said as definitively as one could.
"Like you said, Robbie was a man who enjoyed his work."

*

It was lunchtime and my early morning cinnamon roll was
wearing off rapidly. I had a filling lunch of smothered meat loaf and sweet
potato pie at a little soul food place nearby, and I pleased the waitress
immensely by cleaning my plate.

"Now you must have been starving!" she
exclaimed. The bill came to a whopping nine dollars and I threw a ten and a
five on the counter. As long as I had a wealthy client who could afford to
shellac his Brentwood driveway, I might as well help the local economy.

My next stop was the Purdue precinct. Activity seemed
busier than usual, but my memory of such matters was often warped. I found
Captain Lafferty's office and rapped softly on the door. His desk was covered
with papers and he sported a pair of bifocals as he filled out some reports.

"Those are very becoming," I said, moving
inside his office.

"Well if it isn't the man of the hour. Trouble
always seems to beat a path to your door, eh Burnside."

"Better than having a desk job. Although that's fine
for less adventurous folks."

"You should try a more sedate life. You'll live
longer."

"I've done all right thus far."

"Sure," he said. "This is a banner day
for you. What with taking out a guy who had committed two murders and was
trying to go three for three."

I raised my eyes. "Two murders?"

He gave a V-sign which at one time meant victory. Or
peace. "Read my fingers. Two. Forensics checked out that idea you had
about the dried blood in Salvo's trunk. DNA matched the hooker's, Crowley,
yeah, Danielle Crowley. We even found some strands of her hair on the carpet.
Nice work."

I nodded. Compliments from cops were few and far
between. "And the second murder that Curt Salvo committed?"

"Robbie Freeman, m'boy. You got us to thinking
about dried blood and we noticed some on Salvo's gun so we ran some tests. They
matched up with Robbie's."

"Wait a minute. You're saying Curt Salvo whapped
Robbie? And that's how he died?"

"What I'm saying, my fine gumshoe is that Curt
knocked Robbie out with the gun butt and then tossed him over the balcony. It
was quick too, because the head wound hadn't started to close up. The fall was
what killed him though, at least if you believe the coroner."

"No way. Curt wasn't in the bedroom when Robbie fell.
He fell at 11:01. And we have the recording which shows Curt in the room at the
time. There had to have been somebody else."

"You're wasting your time, pal. Either the clock or
your watch was off. There's no other sensible explanation. Everyone else was
watching the girls, except that drunk kid who passed out. We have enough
witnesses who swear he couldn't even walk, much less heave a body over a
railing. And nobody else came into the apartment that night 'cause we checked
that registry they keep in the lobby."

Something tugged at my gut. The registry. I made a
mental note and continued. "What about a motive?"

Lafferty shrugged. "Some things we can't figure.
You know that. Salvo was into running girls, maybe drugs as well. The Freeman
kid was into that whole scene. Maybe they had a falling out."

"Sounds nice and neat," I said dryly, feeling
a little empty inside.

"Hey look Burnside, I appreciate your help. I
really do. If you didn't come up with the idea of looking in Salvo's trunk we'd
never have known. And as it is four people are dead, and these are four people
I could give a rat's ass about. A drug dealer, a hooker, a pimp, and his
assistant. Even if we didn't solve all their murders, there's hardly gonna be a
public outcry. Let's get practical here."

"Sure," I said. "Practical."

"By the way, we found Salvo's shotgun underneath
the seat. Came back from Ballistics, fired three times just like you said.
Everything checks out, so you're clear on that. No charges'll be pressed. Clear
case of self-defense. You're off the hook."

"Good," I managed. "What a relief."

Lafferty reached inside a drawer, pulled out a thick,
bulky envelope and passed it to me. "For being such a help to us, here you
go."

I opened the envelope and found my trusty .38.
"Thanks."

"It was in Salvo's glove compartment. Hey, like I
say, I appreciate your work. Go get some rest. I owe you one."

"Maybe more than one. You interested in a cocaine
nest?"

Lafferty's eyebrows rose. "Always."

I told him about Evan Wurman but was vague about how I found
out. Lenny Caputo's name never came up. After giving Evan's Westwood address, I
pocketed my weapon and started to leave. It was true I needed some sleep, and
maybe even a hospital bed to crawl into. But I also had a feeling this case had
yet to conclude. Again I was in the minority.

"See you around, Burnside."

"So the Robbie Freeman case is closed?" I
asked.

"Closed," he repeated. "Signed, sealed,
and delivered."

It was mid-afternoon by the time I got over to Robbie Freeman's
apartment building. The weather was slightly more temperate, but it was
unfortunately offset by the now-broken air conditioner in my rented Focus. Open
windows were marvelous for touring along Pacific Coast Highway on a warm Sunday
afternoon, but rather unpleasant on a smoggy inner-city commute during
stop-and-go traffic.

I walked past the doorman who was still dressed in his
official grey frock with gold tassels. He didn't appear to be sweating and this
was because he mostly stayed in the lobby which was as cool and brisk as a
spring day in Aspen. The same balding security guard was hunched over a
paperback, and looked up frowning when I cast my shadow over him.

"Will you sign in please?" he said, pointing
to the registry.

"I'm not staying," I said, and quickly flashed
my identification. "I'm conducting a follow-up investigation of the
Freeman murder that happened here last week."

His eyebrows jumped and I didn't need to get into more
detail. A look which was either borne out of respect or apprehension crossed
his face. Apparently he didn't recognize the fellow who had been standing right
next to him when Robbie Freeman came crashing down from the penthouse balcony.
He also didn't bother asking if I was with the police department. Good help is
hard to find.

"Yes officer," he snapped. "How can I
help you?"

"For starters," I said as officially as
possible, "where were you at the time of the incident?"

"Right at my post," he declared. "Right
here."

"And who do you remember being at this party in
2201?"

"Oh, a whole bunch of young men. Fifteen, twenty
guys maybe. College kids they were. Early twenties, in pretty good shape all of
them."

"Any names?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, reaching over for the
registry. "We have all of our guests sign in before they go upstairs. It's
our policy here."

This was easier than I thought it would be. I took the
book and opened it to the night of the party. There they were. Evan Wurman,
Lenny Caputo, Norman Freeman, Max Brewer, Scotty Haid, and another ten names
you could build a football team around. And maybe a murder trial as well. They
had all signed in between eight and nine o'clock on that fateful night, and
none of them had bothered to sign out.

"How come none of these people signed out when they
left?" I asked as suspiciously as possible.

The guard cleared his throat. "As I recall it, the
police interviewed everybody after the party. An event of this sort has never
happened at Tiverton Gardens, so we weren't operating according to standard
procedures."

I cupped my ear. "Again?"

"Uh, to be perfectly honest, we forgot to ask
people to sign out. It was an oversight. It won't happen again."

I looked him in the eye. "Better not," I
warned. People like this helped me enjoy my job so much. "Records need to
be accurate."

"Yes sir. I think you should know however that
someone came by here trying to get back into that apartment the day following
the incident."

"Who was that?"

"It happened early the next morning so I wasn't on
duty. All I know is they were refused access. The police have sealed off the
apartment, as you know."

"Of course," I said. "Has anyone had
access since then?"

"No sir. We follow police orders to the letter.
Besides, we're not allowed to keep keys to tenants' apartments. There was a burglary
problem a while back and apparently one of the old security company's personnel
was breaking in. We have to go through the property manager now."

"Can't trust anyone these days."

I looked through the registry once more and while no
names sprang out at me, one guest, Chris Wynne, signed in to visit apartment
2304. There was one problem with that.

"How many floors to this building?" I asked.

"Twenty-two."

"Any idea who this Chris Wynne is? The one going to
the twenty-third floor?"

The guard frowned and examined the register. "No
sir. I can't recall."

"Indeed," I sighed. "Is this the only
entrance in the building?"

"No sir. There's the garage. But even still you
would need a key card to get into the building. Then you could take the elevator
up."

"And leaving the building you could take the
elevator down to the garage and exit that way. So you wouldn't have to sign
out."

"Yes, but you’d also need a key card. And that
would be against our procedures."

I nodded blankly. Of course.

*

I took a personal look at the subterranean garage and
decided that it would be easy enough to walk in and out despite the iron gates
that could only be activated by a key card. Satisfied, I went back to my little
Focus and found a parking ticket slapped unceremoniously beneath a windshield
wiper. I walked around to the side of the car and double checked to make sure I
wasn't in a red zone. There were no parking meters and this wasn't the day for
street sweeping. I read the ticket carefully and discovered I had parked in a
restricted neighborhood zone. Meaning I wasn't one of those lucky folks who had
a special permit to park in the neighborhood streets. Sixty-one dollars. I
shrugged and shoved it into my glove compartment and noticed there was one from
last week sitting there under a Dexter Gordon CD. A quick scan of that ticket
told me I had committed the identical violation. A light bulb went on over my
head and I made another mental note.

The rush hour traffic had slowed things down
considerably by the time I got back on the freeway, and moved bumper-to-bumper
until traffic loosened up past Westwood. The way back to my office was
peacefully uneventful. As I walked into my office a cool shot of air met me.
Now that the heat was subsiding, the air conditioner was operable again. Such
is life. I picked up the phone and called Captain Lafferty. He was out of the
office so I left a message for him and asked for Juan Saavedra. We were
connected after a few short clicks. He answered the phone by simply barking his
last name into the receiver.

"Juan, you always sound like you're in dire need of
a tropical beach and a tall
piña colada
with one of those cute little
umbrellas sticking out of it."

"And you sound like my kids," he said, dryly.
"Chill out, daddy."

"You're raising them properly. Better that than
have them wind up like one of us."

"No argument, Burnside. What can I take off of you
today? By the way, the Dodger game sucked. Seats were good but the Dodgers
scored eight runs in the first."

"That's not so bad," I mused.

"It is when you get stalled in traffic till the
third inning. They won 8-2, but as far as I'm concerned the Giants scored the
only two runs when I was there."

"Juan, you're the eternal optimist. I am too, in
case you hadn't noticed."

"Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling you want
something."

"It's your uncanny intelligence and perception,
compadre
.
Actually I would appreciate a favor. I need to know the names of the vehicle
owners that were issued parking citations outside of Robbie Freeman's building
the night he was killed."

"You've got to be joking."

"Juan. You know me."

"Yeah," he said. "That's the problem.
Talk to me."

"Okay. Everyone at the party was accounted for at
the time of the death."

Juan shook his head. "Except for Curt Salvo whom we've
already established as the guy who chucked Robbie over the ledge."

"Just stay with me on this. Assume Curt didn't do
it. Just assume. The killer was parked in the neighborhood, and like me,
probably didn't read the signs that say no street parking without a permit.
They got a ticket. The killer did not belong there at the time of the
murder."

"What if the killer parked legally? What if he took
the bus? What if there's a hundred tickets issued during that evening? Are you
going to interrogate everyone?"

"Juan."

"What?"

"I think I know who did it."

Silence for a moment, then the obvious question.
"Who?"

"I can't tell you."

"God dammit Burnside! If this is a wild goose chase
I'm going to wipe the floor with you! I don't have time to run down your crazy
ideas!"

"Juan, it's not crazy and it won't take you a ton
of time. Put a rookie on it. They love pushing around the clerks at the DMV.
The reason I can't tell you is I need some solid evidence. If I bring Lafferty
this hunch, he'll laugh it off and not follow up. Besides, he's closing the
case. Please, Juan."

"Forget it. I'm not gonna blow favors on your
hunches, buddy. Besides, you haven't even returned that DVD of the bachelor
party."

I went to the wall. "Four seats against the Mets
next week. Right behind the dugout. Plus dinner."

He gave a sigh of exasperation and I knew I had scored a
direct hit. "I'll get the meter maid records and find out the plates she
dinged that night. But this better lead to something or you're on your own
after this."

It was as good as I could hope for. "Deal," I
said.

"And those four seats better be
good."

"Done," I said. "Your only worry'll be
players spitting tobacco juice on your wing tips."

*

By the time I arrived at Neary's, dusk was setting in and
the garishly painted walls of the building were becoming dull and muted. I
pushed past the swinging saloon doors and let them rock and sway behind me. A
jarhead with a neck the size of an oak tree stood at the entrance. He was
wearing a plaid shirt open to the navel and a very large gold chain dangled
about his chest. Holding out his hand, he said ten dollars. I paid him and
looked around.

"Is Tiffany working tonight?"

"Just finished up her shift. Ya like blondes? We
got a new one startin' tonight. Worth stickin' around for," he said,
licking his lips for emphasis.

"Did Tiffany leave?"

"Probably changing. Like I say, we got
better."

I sat down at a table near the entrance, and turned away
the slender red head that offered a phony smile while she massaged my calf with
her toe. A pretty
Latina
was dancing on the runway wearing only a pair
of skimpy red panties. About twenty men sat in various stages of repose around
the stage, an occasional dollar bill finding its way along the low black
railing.

After a few minutes, a door opened and Tiffany emerged.
She had on form fitting jeans that revealed not the hint of any undergarments,
and a tight red t-shirt featuring a surfer navigating a ten foot wave. The
stretched words across her chest said Banzai Pipeline. As she walked out the
door I rose and hurried after her.

"Tiffany!"

She stopped and turned around for a second but when she
recognized who was following her, she immediately took off in a dead sprint.
While I could normally outrace her in earth shoes, the pain in my ribs slowed
me down enough so that it took a full block for me to catch her.

"Hold it!" I yelled as I overtook her and
grabbed her by the elbow. She wrenched it away from me and took a step back.

"What the hell do you want now?" she gasped.

"We need to talk."

"Look I'm not a karate expert but I've got a can of
mace here and..."

"Use it and I'll turn your face into chopped
meat," I snarled, a throbbing sensation growing in my rib cage. "I
just want to talk to you and you better have some answers. Right now you're the
only eyewitness I've got. And just because you don't want to get involved
doesn't mean you aren't already."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you may be an accessory to murder. You don't
cooperate with me, I'll see to it you're turning your next tricks at the Twin
Towers jail. And I don't think the dykes are going to want to pay your fees
there."

"Look, I'm a dancer, not a hooker."

"Up there it won't matter."

"Oh, what are you talking about? I'm not an
accessory to anything! I didn't know that guy was gonna get thrown over the
balcony! Curt just brought us there to do the party. What do I want to kill
anyone for? Those guys are paying customers. I don't have anything against
them."

"Why did Curt want Robbie dead?"

She averted her eyes and looked down the empty Venice
street. Her face seemed a confused mass of emotions. She was about twenty-five,
old enough to have been hardened by the circle in which she traveled, but even
in those circles murder is not an everyday turn of events.

"He didn't exactly confide everything in me."

"You knew something was up. This wasn't your
typical bachelor party."

"For me it was. Another day at the office."