Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (3 page)

"I assumed you'd be by here today. Coffee?"

I nodded cautiously. "What roast?"

Dick snorted as he poured some black fluid into two
mugs. "A tantalizing combination of sludge and fertilizer. It's what we
call the house blend."

I reached for the mug and smelled the aroma before my
first sip. He had not been too far wrong.

"I'd like to thank you for directing a source of
income my way," I said.

"Pleasure's all mine, buddy. I figured you'd like
this assignment. Finding the one car in Los Angeles that fired a shot on the
freeway."

"On top of not getting the license plate, Norman
didn't even remember the color of the car."

"But you're a super sleuth," Dick laughed.
"No challenge too great. And in this case, no paycheck too easy to cash.
The kid's loaded."

"I kinda figured that out. If he normally walks
around with a few grand on him, he'd be better served hiring me as his
bodyguard."

"Ah, to Norman it's all monopoly money. It comes
out of a faucet in a never-ending stream. He's harmless though. He'll take over
his Daddy's business, marry his little sweetheart and settle down into a nice
upper class life of royalty."

"He tells me he's getting married soon."

"Yeah. Girl's a real looker too. Name's Ashley Stark.
Works for McCallum over at Graddis Hall. That's how Norman met her."

"To the quarterback go the spoils," I said.
"What about his brother?"

"Robbie?" Dick shrugged. "Just another
jock. Didn't follow in his brother's footsteps, but I hear tell he didn't think
too much of Norman's milk and cookies lifestyle. Drinks a few beers with the
boys. Gets into a fight once in a while. If his name wasn't Freeman it wouldn't
raise any eyebrows."

I tasted some more coffee and winced. "What about
their parents?"

"Father's a self-made man. Started out selling
cars, did well enough to buy an equity position in a dealership. After a while
he began to buy a few lots on his own."

"And the little woman?"

"I think he dumped his starter wife after he made
his ninth or tenth million. Man in that income bracket can afford snazzier
models."

"That's a highly sexist remark for a man in your
position to make. Especially in this day and age."

"Ah, it's okay," he said. "The door's
closed."

Dick sat back and chuckled at his own sense of humor. If
nothing else, Dick Bridges was a wealth of information about what went on in
his domain.

"It's easy," he said with a wave of the hand.
"You go to a few meetings, a few cocktail parties, football games. There's
always stray scuttlebutt floating around that someone is just so eager to tell
you about. And I file it away for the right occasion."

"Any other gems you care to part with?"

He looked me in the eye. "Yeah," he said, with
a smile. "That little beauty who brought you in here?"

I nodded.

"She really can take you apart."

*

After fending off repeated attempts to pawn more LAU
coffee on me, I left Dick's office knowing a little bit more about my client. I
also had the names of a few players who were staying on campus this summer. Most
had already left their dorm rooms by the time I knocked on their doors, but I
did manage to find Terry Kuhl in. The bleary eyed expression on his face told
me I had woken him up.

"Terry Kuhl?"

"Who wants to know?"

I sighed. The morning had been so pleasant thus far.
"The name's Burnside. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to you
for a minute."

The sleepy eyes began to focus. Terry Kuhl was a slim
black kid, about twenty years old. He wore a burgundy silk robe and he looked
like he hadn't shaved in three days. In a couple of years he'd probably sign a
multi-million dollar contract and could afford to buy a razor. My own pro
football career never got off the ground, and I probably still had a little
resentment at my bad luck.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"Can I come in?"

"No," he said with an annoyed expression.

"Actually," I remarked, "you're supposed
to say something clever like the place is such a mess and it's the maid's day
off. They should have taught you that in charm school."

"Whaaa...?" he managed.

"I want to talk to you about Norman Freeman."

"Oh. Yeah. Norman. What about him?"

"You were his backup quarterback in your freshman
year. Were you guys friendly?"

"Friendly?"

This wasn't going to be easy. "Did you hang around
with Norman at all?" I asked. The eyes blinked. Signs of life.

"With that big chump? Uh-uh. He had his friends, I
had mine. The only time we saw each other was at practice and at the
games."

"How about his brother Robbie?"

Terry nodded and you could practically see the wheels
inside his head begin to turn, albeit in a rusty and uneven manner.
"Robbie, yeah. I hung with Robbie now and again. He was cool."

I tried to wake him up. "Know why anyone would want
to kill either of them?"

The young man pondered this with more thought than
anyone should ever have to. A full minute went by. "Nah," he finally
said.

Within the room a soft female voice called out his name.
He turned around and told her to shut up. "You done?" he asked.
"I got me some other business here."

I told him that would be it and he closed the door
without bothering to say good-bye. Or what a pleasure it had been to meet me.
Or how I should call on him again. I think his charm school teacher would have
been very disappointed.

I spent the rest of the day driving around the city,
attempting to speak with various friends and teammates of Robbie Freeman. Most
weren't home and the two that were did not want to talk. I returned to my
apartment at seven, in time to shower and put together a couple of roast beef
sandwiches. Normally I prefer to prepare something a little more intricate but
when time is limited, so is the cuisine. Chomping away, I thought back to what
football players' parties were like. Liquid refreshments were imbibed, often
heavily. Any food beyond pretzels and potato chips was rarely given much
consideration.

Norman's bachelor party was held in his brother's swank
apartment along the Wilshire corridor just adjacent to Beverly Hills. It was
after nine o'clock by the time I pulled up, and the faint traces of a smoky
orange sunset were fading from the western sky. Night was descending and it was
only now starting to cool off. I strapped on my .38 special snub nose revolver
which was snuggled inside a ballistic nylon shoulder holster, and I tossed a
jacket on over that. I had another gun wrapped against my ankle. Going anywhere
unarmed makes me feel a tad naked.

Robbie's apartment building rose twenty-two stories and
came complete with a doorman, a security guard, and a small gourmet shop for
those last minute items which the maid might forget to pick up. There was a
doorman on duty dressed in full costume with a grey coat and matching grey cap,
gold shoulder tassels, and white gloves. He barked a crisp "good evening"
as he swung the glass door open for me and I offered a crisp "thank
you" instead, which seemingly fell on deaf ears.

The security guard was a quiet, balding man who looked
as if he were more interested in reading the L.A. Times than in keeping the
building secure from unsavory characters. He had on a dark blue uniform with a
shoulder patch that advertised his firm, Watchdog Security Systems. The picture
of a snarling German Shepherd sat beneath the logo. He inquired whom I wished
to see and directed me to sign the guest book. There were about a dozen names
before me, most planning to visit apartment 2201.

I rode swiftly up a very quiet chrome elevator. When I
reached the top floor, the pounding bass from a powerful set of speakers could
be heard through the walls. I practically felt the booming in my gut.
Approaching the apartment, I rang the bell but it took an eternity for someone
to answer. I tried the doorknob but it was firmly locked. Finally, a husky
reveler in a black shirt and jeans opened the door and invited me in without
bothering to ask who I was.

The noise expanded as I walked into a spacious apartment
with thick white carpeting. An entertainment center with a profundity of glass
encased stereo and video equipment took up part of an entire wall. A myriad of
glowing dials and switches flashed in tempo with the beat of the music. A
painting of a car balancing delicately on the edge of a cliff was on the wall
above a black leather couch. To the right of the painting was one of those
clocks they sell in Las Vegas where the dice served as the numbers. On the face
was the name "Mirage," printed in small italic letters.

There were about a dozen young men in their early
twenties standing around the living room laughing and joking and offering
toasts with beer bottles. They looked rather alike, muscular guys wearing
jeans, untucked shirts and running shoes. Their voices were as loud as their
physiques were strong. I had on a dark blue shirt, white cotton trousers and
topsiders. I didn't exactly fit in, as I had almost twenty years on most of
them. Much of the group had their hands around bottles of Budweiser, with some
holding shot glasses filled with gold tequila. Four large bottles of
Patrón Añejo
sat on the kitchen table, one of them empty, the
others partially consumed.

The kitchen was off to the left and I ambled in to see
if I could locate more palatable refreshments. A quick perusal of the
refrigerator confirmed it had been stocked by a college student rather than by
one of the Iron Chefs. Four cases of Budweiser, some cold cuts, Miracle Whip,
and white bread were the delicacies of choice in Robbie Freeman's apartment. I
sifted around and managed to find a bottle of Corona.

"You made it," a voice called from behind.

I turned and saw Norman Freeman approach me, arm
extended. We shook hands and I suggested he introduce me around to the guys.

"Seems like a small crowd," I observed.

"A few more should stop by," he said ruefully.
"School's out though and some of the crew went home for the summer.
Actually these are more Robbie's friends than mine. They're more into this
bachelor party thing."

"Young kids are like that," I said, smiling.
Norman agreed with a wholehearted sincerity just as I was taking a sip of
Corona. It was all I could do to keep the beer from shooting out of my mouth.
Norman, who was all of twenty-four years old, smiled innocuously and led me
through the kitchen.

Nobody I had spoken with today was at the party and that
made me feel more comfortable. "To avoid making anyone too nervous,"
I said, "maybe you should introduce me as someone who works for your
father, rather than a private investigator. Especially if your brother isn't
too crazy about the idea of you hiring one. It'll come out eventually, but no
sense hurrying it."

Norman nodded. "Okay. But don't worry. The only
ones who know I hired you are my father and Ashley."

“When’s the big date?”

“Next Saturday. Ashley didn’t think it was a good idea
to have the bachelor party right before the wedding. She didn’t want me hung
over when we walked down the aisle.”

“Understandable.”

We first walked through Robbie's bedroom, which must
have been designed by a decorator using Playboy as inspiration. An enormous bed
with a dark pine base took up half the room. The black satin sheets were covered
by a mink comforter with furry white spots, and a circular mirror was
positioned on the ceiling, directly over the bed. A bookcase filled mostly with
magazines sat against the far wall. No text books were in sight.

"Let's go meet Robbie," Norman suggested. I
offered no objection.

Robbie Freeman was about four inches shorter than his
brother, and his reddish hair was fairly long in the back. He wore a tan shirt,
jeans, and a pair of stunning maroon suede cowboy boots. The boots were
accented with golden buckles and tiny gold spurs. A real cowboy would probably
die of laughter. From appearances, this was one improbable set of brothers.
Finally, unlike Norman's clear and innocent complexion, his brother's face was
loaded with freckles and he seemed to have a look in his eyes that foresaw
mischief on the horizon.

"Robbie," Norman said, placing an arm, around
Robbie's back. "I'd like you to meet Burnside. He's a new guy out at the
Honda lot."

Robbie reached out and pumped my hand enthusiastically.
"Glad to meetcha. See you found my stash of Corona."

"I hope you don't mind," I said.

"Nah. None of these guys can tell the difference so
I figured I'd pump 'em up with Budweiser."

"Nice place you have here," I commented, hoping
Robbie wouldn't ask me any questions about Hondas. Like where the dealer lot
was located.

"The place suits me," he laughed. "I
spent my first two years in the jock dorm before they kicked me out. They like
athletes to stay on campus but if you get rowdy enough they decide you can live
in an apartment. Big of ‘em."

"How did you like LAU?"

"Fun, fun, fun," he smiled.

"Till his daddy took his Porsche awaaay!"
broke in a tall, skinny kid with a nose that a hawk might envy. A bottle of
Patrón
was gripped in one hand and an empty shot glass in the other.

Robbie jabbed at the guy's ribs. "You gonna drink
that stuff, Lenny? Or just show what a big, tough man you are?"

Lenny poured out half a glass of tequila unevenly before
Robbie said "gimme that" and grabbed the bottle out of his hand. He
took a gulp in the manner of an old west gunslinger and offered the bottle to
myself and Norman. We politely declined.

"Wimps," he declared.

A few years ago I would have considered it a point of
honor to take the bottle and prove him wrong. But the experience of a tequila
hangover taught me that restraint is often the better part of valor. Looking at
his buddy, I decided I was right.

Lenny took a big gulp of the fiery liquid and his eyes
widened as he gasped a couple of mouthfuls of air. "That was
awesome," he managed.

"Awesome, huh?" Robbie laughed, as Lenny
struggled to keep his balance. "You wouldn't know awesome if you slipped
in it."

"Friend?" I asked Norman.

Norman jerked his thumb at Robbie. "Friend of
his
.
The name's Lenny Caputo. He played backup flanker."

"Lenny's always gonna be a backup," Robbie
added. "Strictly minor league."

Lenny's eyes flared and for a moment I thought there
might be an altercation. Instead he just nodded at Robbie and mumbled,
"Later."

"Is everyone here a football player?" I
inquired.

"Damn near. Norman doesn't have any real friends to
invite."

"C'mon, Rob," Norman whined. "Quit being
such an ass."

Robbie did a facial mimic of Norman, which caused his
older brother to squirm noticeably. They were a pair, these two. There was
enough about their features to validate bloodlines, but Norman and Robbie
Freeman might otherwise have been culled from entirely different litters.

"I want to introduce Burnside here to some of the
other guys," Norman said.

"Enjoy," he remarked, "I think it's time
for another beer, personally."

He sauntered off and Norman quickly apologized. I told
him not to worry about it. At the age of twenty-four, Norman should have
learned by now not to take himself so seriously. I could hardly wait to meet
the rest of the family.

As Robbie attested, the typical partygoer was a football
player, either current or former. As it was with most jock gatherings, there
was a preponderance of drinking, yelling, and general horseplay. Over the next
half hour I was introduced to everyone, but they were either too high to give
me any background on Robbie, or just too cautious. A few struck me as having a
suspicious look about them but that may have simply been their nature. Or mine.
As I began to feel the evening would turn out to be completely unproductive,
the life of the party arrived. In duplicate.

They were both dressed in navy blue policeman's outfits
and each waived a billy club merrily over their heads. Both had piles of hair
tucked underneath their caps and the skin tight uniforms were unlike any I had
seen at the Academy. The girls tossed their police caps in the air and shook
their hair loose. One blonde, one brunette. Variety is the spice of life.

"I'm Tiffany," the blonde shouted. "And
this is Danielle." Tiffany appeared to be in her mid-twenties and had the
look of one who had grown up on the streets and knew all the hustles. Danielle
was younger, so young that I almost winced. She looked like Judy Atkin. Another
Judy blue eyes. They strutted around the room to the pulsating beat of the
stereo and playfully slapped the bottoms of a few of the lads. In the corner, a
swarthy man wearing a silver suit, dark grey shirt and thick black moustache
watched carefully. When a blond haired guy named Max reached out and grabbed a
handful of Danielle's buttocks, the man appeared poised to swat his hand away.
To Max's good fortune his hand resided on her bottom for only a second.
Danielle gave a sexy smile that conveyed the message that she didn't really object.

The girls danced and smiled and flirted for a few
minutes. Tiffany shook her long blonde tresses as she strutted over to the
guest of honor. Putting her billy club around the back of Norman's neck, she
rubbed her voluptuous body provocatively against his. Norman smiled in an
embarrassed sort of way and his face turned a shade of scarlet. The girls began
to peel off their clothes, starting with the shirts, button by button, until
they were discarded casually on the floor. They wiggled out of their tight
trousers, fabulous bodies hidden momentarily by extensive lingerie including
a-size-too-small bras. As each article of clothing came off, a hungry masculine
roar came out of the crowd, accompanied by the raw clapping of hands. These
were men determined to enjoy themselves.

The girls continued to lift temperature levels
throughout the room, and it was with profound reservation that I steered my
eyes away from the temptresses and back to business. There were about twenty
men in the room and they formed a loose semi-circle around the dancers. One
fellow named Scotty was busy recording the event with a camcorder. I noticed a
few of the guys had jackets on, which was odd for a warm June evening. Judging
by the lumps protruding out from a couple of armpits, I got the feeling some
serious hardware was being packed. I also got the feeling I was the only one
licensed to do so.

The girls' escort was Curt, and he made no secret about
letting his own piece dangle precariously from a shoulder holster. Advertising
one's armament up front can often deter having to produce it later. To Curt's
left, there was a football player named Evan who hid what was either a pistol
under his white linen jacket, or else a highly developed left rib. And on the
other side of the room was another player named Paul who wore loose fitting
trousers that seemed to bulge around his right ankle. Normally I'm the only one
packing something and the sight of a few compatriots was a concern. The ladies,
however, did not seem to notice. Maybe they were just used to this.