Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (2 page)

Cindy Wachs may have been forty, but she looked every
bit of fifty-five. She had a stocky build, a pug nose, brown hair combed
without much attention, and an enormous brace wrapped around her neck. She
parked her car in the driveway, exited it gingerly, and went to unlock the
padlock on her garage door. All the while, the camcorder whirred and picked up
her every movement. After opening the door, she walked back to her car and
drove it into the garage, and my work day had come to an abrupt conclusion.

Driving up to Santa Monica I took Vista del Mar, the
coast route, and watched the sea gulls mingle among the surfers and the hang
gliders. A pair of bikini clad girls wearing baseball caps tapped a volleyball
back and forth. It was June, sweet June, and the golden sunlight would linger
well past eight o'clock. I would have time for a leisurely dinner at The
Lobster, and if the clams didn't fill me up, the crab cakes certainly would.
Afterwards, I might sip on a Mojito and help the sun fall below the sea. Summer
was here, and the climate was warm and pretty. Life seemed good right now and I
was eager to take advantage of it. I knew things wouldn't stay that way. They
never do.

I rose early the next morning, as was my custom of late.
It was my custom because my downstairs neighbor rose early and the moaning
pipes from her shower were enough to wake the dead. By five o'clock the sun was
already blinking a few rays of diffused light through my curtains and Ms.
Linzmeier was undoubtedly lathering herself up. Not wanting to run out of hot
water, I waited a few minutes until the pipes groaned again before taking my
turn.

It was noticeably warm already, so after toweling myself
dry, I again passed on the buttoned down look for a white knit shirt and a pair
of khakis. I brewed a pot of French Roast and drank two savory cups, strong and
black. The orange yolks in my poached eggs were perfect, and when I dipped in a
piece of sourdough toast the yolks oozed out gracefully. Sometimes things work
out the way you want them to.

As the California sun began to brighten, I hopped in my
truck and zoomed down a lonely freeway. School was already out and that meant
an easier time navigating through the city. During most of the year, the
fourteen mile trip from my Santa Monica apartment to USC would often take
upwards of an hour. When I was a student it took just twenty minutes.

The University of Southern California is located in
downtown Los Angeles, next to a neighborhood that could not even be called
marginal. The blighted shops along Vermont Avenue had seen better times, but
those times might have been sixty or more years ago. A few stores were boarded
up, and many of the others were on their way towards extinction as well. The
residents who ventured out at this wee hour trudged through the streets slowly
or stood aimlessly on a corner. The smog was especially thick down here, and my
horizon line barely reached two blocks.

I parked on the USC campus, telling the sleepy security
guard I had a package to deliver. It had been twenty years since I first
employed that excuse and its usefulness never failed. The first time I tried to
drive onto campus I discovered that honesty only brought me a directive to do
an about face and leave. I had acquiesced, circled the block, and told the same
guard I had a package for the Provost. He quickly ushered me past the gate.

Few people arrive at Heritage Hall, the USC athletic
headquarters, by the crack of dawn. Especially two months before the football
season begins. But few people had the makeup of Johnny Cleary. Johnny was a
genius when it came to putting together defensive schemes. He lived and
breathed football, whether it was mid-November or mid-June.

I entered the building and maneuvered past the multiple
Heisman trophies and countless memorabilia that lined the lobby. The office I
walked into was a small windowless room with coarse, burnt sienna brick walls.
Photos of past glories were omnipresent and I caught a glimpse of one that
featured a younger version of yours truly. I looked like a completely different
person.

"Knock, knock," I said, as I pushed an office
door open. "Anybody got a good defense for Calvin Johnson?"

Johnny Cleary looked up from a diagram. "Two broken
legs'll do the trick."

"You always were up on the latest techniques, John.
It must be from that wealth of playing experience at cornerback."

"In college I had to be creative. My free safety
had an attitude problem."

"That's unfair," I protested with a smile.
"I just took a keen interest in observing a master at work. After all, I
had the best seat in the house."

Johnny Cleary emitted a droll smile as well. It was the
best I could ever manage from him, for Johnny's ferocious intensity overwhelmed
most of his other emotions. He would never be the life of the party but he was
a guy you could count on when the going got tough. His hair had thinned
noticeably but the lean, taut, disciplined body was still intact.

"Damn, Burnside, it's been a while," he said,
as we shook hands. "You were still on the force last time I saw you. How
ya doing?"

"Fair to midland. I see you're still an early
riser."

"Old habits never die."

"That was the Bulldog's line," I said.

"Smart old guy that Bulldog. They don't make head
coaches like him anymore. He and McCallum over at LAU, they were the last of a
breed. Hard talking, hard drinking." Johnny pointed to his desk.
"Half of what we do now comes from a computer."

"McCallum's still around. Can't imagine him doing
anything except by instinct."

"He's a relic," Johnny agreed. "Bulldog
would still be around too if he could've given up drinking bonded bourbon and
smoking those Havanas."

I nodded. Bulldog Martin had been head coach at USC for
the better part of twenty years, and Johnny and I were fortunate enough to play
for him in his heyday. We were part of a secondary he dubbed the "Snake
Pit" because of our ability to strike an opponent quickly and decisively.
Any receiver that wandered into our lair paid no small price.

USC finished second in the nation during our senior
year, a loss at Oregon State being the lone blemish on our final season. We had
played poorly on that rainy day in Corvallis, and the Bulldog's post-game
speech consisted of, "those of you who need showers please take
them." Johnny was the true talent on our defense, and after a ten year NFL
career, he returned to USC to coach the defensive backfield. Five years later
he became defensive coordinator. From the hours he kept, it was likely the head
coaching torch would be passed on to him in a few years.

"So what brings you back to old SC?"

"Business."

"Don't tell me you're looking for a real job?"

"Not even close," I said. "I had one for
far too long. It was almost the death of me."

"I know. I read the articles in The Times. That
girl you tried to help didn't exactly do you any favors."

"Yeah," I said, thankful I still had friends
who would give me the benefit of the doubt. I thought of young Judy, but wanted
to stay with the matter at hand. The less I thought of Judy Atkin the better.
"What do you know about Robbie Freeman over at LAU?"

Johnny gave a rueful laugh. "More than I care to.
The guy gave us nightmares for a couple of years."

"Heckuva receiver."

"The best," Johnny concurred. "We started
off double teaming him. Then triple teaming him. And he still found a way to
catch the ball. Then we got lucky."

"How's that?"

"His older brother graduated. We weren't sure if
Robbie was that good a wideout, or his brother Norman was that good at getting
the ball to him. Didn't matter much. When they were on the field together they
could practically read each other’s minds."

"Play catch with someone for your whole life and
you get to know them pretty well."

"Uh-huh. But when Norman left, Robbie stopped being
a factor. Oh, he'd still get open sometimes, but their new quarterback couldn't
deliver the ball like Norman could. Besides, Terry Kuhl was more of a running
quarterback, he used the Read Option a lot. By the end of last season, Robbie
was practically phased out of their offense. Made my job easier, I'll tell you
that."

"So it was Norman that was the player."

"Yeah, but don't get me wrong. Robbie was a good
receiver. Real good. He just needed someone on the other end. A better passer
than Terry and who knows what could have happened."

I concurred. Who knows. Life was full of intangibles and
unanswered questions and forked roads. It's always intriguing to imagine the
possibilities if everything lined up right, but for a lot of people that never
seemed to happen. Life often became a series of missed opportunities. Or risks
taken rather than seeking a more conventional path. I sighed. More than ten
years on the LAPD had shown me plenty of life's underbelly. During the last two
years I had been out on my own and the view was not any rosier.

"Do you have any footage of the two of them in
action?" I asked.

Johnny rummaged through a file behind his desk and
handed me a DVD. "This was Norman's last game against us two years ago.
What's the interest?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Just curious."

Johnny plucked a football off his desk and flung it at
me. Instinctively, I jerked a hand up and swatted it aside. It tumbled
harmlessly to the soft carpeted floor.

"Good reaction time. I think my secondary could
learn a few things from you. Anytime you want a new career, lemme know."

I smiled and moved to leave. "I'll give it some
thought."

"Hey," Johnny said. "What's the interest
in the Freemans?"

"Can't say."

"You came down here at this hour just to talk
football?"

I turned and gave him what was probably a sad look.

"Yeah," I answered softly. "Actually I
did."

*

The westbound freeway had clogged up by the time I
merged onto it, and it took me nearly an hour to get to my next destination. An
old Buick had broken down and everyone slowed to gawk and perhaps silently
curse the driver for taking an extra half hour out of their day.

In contrast to the seamy emptiness of downtown, the LAU campus
was nestled in a series of lovely rolling hills near the blue Pacific. Instead
of poor people struggling to get through each day, there were dilettantes
struggling to achieve the perfect tan. The students at the two schools were not
all that different, but the surroundings could not have been more disparate.

When I was in high school, both USC and LAU recruited me
heavily. I chose USC not so much for the football program or even the
academics, but for the tradition and camaraderie that existed there. The LAU
students were very
nouveau riche
and appeared arrogant with little
reason to be. Whether it was the ravaged neighborhood of a downtown slum, the
storied history of the University, or the understanding that wealth in and of
itself did not buy happiness, the USC campus seemed a more down to earth and
well adjusted milieu. Across town it struck me that part of the LAU student
body attended football games mostly for the social scene.

I found parking about a mile away from the campus and
hiked up a sandy trail shaded by enormous palm trees. A cool breeze whistled
through the hillside and as I reached the top of the path I looked down upon
the rippling blue ocean. Two buildings down stood Baron Hall and it was easy to
figure out what lingered inside. Four bright blue patrol cars were parked near
the entrance.

As I walked in, a pretty girl with smooth brown hair
tied back into a ponytail perked her head up from behind the desk. She wore the
standard khaki officer's uniform, but it fit in a snug way that left no doubt
as to where the curves formed. Her lips were full, in a pouty sort of way, and
the cheeks seemed actually rosy. She asked how she could help me.

"I'm here to see Dick Bridges," I said
politely.

"All right," she said. "Let me ping him.
What is your name?"

"Peyton Manning."

"One moment Mr. Manning."

It actually took about five minutes before she ushered
me into an oak paneled office with the nameplate "Director of
Security" boldly emblazoned on the door in gold lettering. The girl smiled
and bounced happily out of the office.

"Is that one a part of your rough and tumble
security force?" I asked.

Dick Bridges choked back a grin. "She can take you
apart any day of the week."

"I'd be happy to give her the opportunity. Do I get
to be handcuffed as well?"

"We go to any lengths for a man with your celebrity
status, Mr. Manning. I must say, you certainly have changed over the years.
Most noticeably you've lost a few inches and gotten considerably uglier."

"You haven't exactly been sipping from the fountain
of youth," I responded. "I can see you still have a problem with your
refrigerator door."

Dick smacked his belly a couple of times and rubbed it
in a circular motion. He had never been slender and since our chance meeting
eighteen years ago, he had probably gained another thirty pounds. On some
people two hundred and forty pounds looks obese, but on Dick Bridges it just
seemed like beefy muscle.

Many years ago, Dick had been a patrol officer in USC's
campus security force. After one month on the job, he noticed a hoodlum prying
a stereo from a new Firebird in the parking lot. Being young and naive he
yelled at the intruder to freeze, but the local product began sprinting for the
Jefferson Avenue exit. While Dick could hold his own in any match that included
sparring or wrestling, he was badly outclassed when it came to outrunning a
perpetrator. A football player who excelled in this endeavor just happened to
be strolling back from class at that precise moment, and sprang quickly into
action. It took me less than thirty seconds to catch up with the lad, but when
I grabbed him and jerked him down, I unfortunately lost my balance and his body
landed awkwardly on top of me. Dick came puffing along a minute later to
officially make the collar.

As it turned out, the suspect had not only spent three
of his twenty-six years behind bars for various flavors of robbery, but was
supposed to have been on a work furlough a few blocks from campus. The college
newspaper made a big deal out of it, and Dick moved quickly on to bigger and
better things. As for me, I was awarded a torn ACL for my efforts and whatever
chance I had at a pro football career just fizzled away at that point. No
matter. The exuberance I felt from capturing someone not clad in shoulder pads
and a helmet eventually launched me into a new career.