Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (4 page)

"Who wants to play the whipped cream game?"
yelled Tiffany. By now the two were down to just their panties. A cadre of
volunteers stepped forward to meet the challenge. Lenny, the receiver whose skills
were lambasted by Robbie, took a step towards the girls before stumbling and
falling clumsily on his face. He staggered to his knees but as he attempted to
lift himself to his feet, he tumbled once again to the floor. Immediately,
Robbie was standing over him and counting to ten like a referee counting out a
boxer. By the count of seven, the whole party joined him.

"Eight...nine...ten!!" they roared and
everyone applauded as Robbie held up the bottle of tequila and signaled the
bout was over.

"The winner and still champion!" he cried.

"Long live the champ!" a voice yelled.

"Somebody give me a hand with this
lightweight," Robbie said. "We'll stick him in the next room."
The bouncer, Curt, stepped forward quickly and the two of them lifted the
fallen soldier from the carpet and dragged him off into Robbie's bedroom.
The whipped cream
game consisted of spraying the white topping carefully on the breasts of the
two girls. After a dose was lavishly distributed the men would take turns
licking the cream off with their tongues. Norman was drafted as the first to
sample the wares and he did so competently, albeit without any real display of
enthusiasm. As he performed the ritual, the camcorder zoomed in for an
up-close-and-personal vantage point. Half a dozen more took turns lapping up
the confection before the girls removed their last remaining garments and took
the party to its next level.

"Who wants to play the dildo game?"

At this point I decided to leave. I didn't think
Norman's assailant would materialize tonight, if he ever did. It was a needle
in the haystack. I'd talk to a few of the guys when they were sober and then
see if any leads developed. The focus for the rest of their evening though
would be lusting after buxom young women who would tease and tantalize and
create a few fantasies. They weren't going to be showing me anything I hadn't
seen before. Or at least so I thought.

I slipped discreetly out of the party and rode the
chrome express down to the main floor. By comparison to the party, the lobby
was so quiet I could hear the rubbing of my shoes on the soft grey carpet. I
started to walk out into the street when the aging security guard called me
back.

"Could you sign out for me, sir?"

I walked back to his station and signed my name again,
directly adjacent to my signature from two hours ago. Checking my watch, I
wrote down 11:01 p.m. next to my name. As I put the pen down, the silence was
shattered by what sounded like an explosion in the street. We looked at each
other and raced outside.

On the hood of a crumpled white Corvette lay the
battered and bloody pulp of what was once a human being. The upper torso had
landed directly on the windshield, shattering it on impact and sending shards
of glass upwards of thirty feet from the car. The legs were twisted grotesquely
and an arm dangled awkwardly to one side. The body lay face down so the
features were not visible, but I didn’t think much identification could be
garnered. One thing remained intact however and there was no mistaking it.
Maroon suede cowboy boots with little gold spurs. There was no doubt about it.
Robbie Freeman was dead.

The police cordoned off the area near the building's
vestibule, and the usual curiosity seekers hovered on the other side of the
barrier. An ambulance arrived and scraped what was left of Robbie off the
Corvette to take him to the County morgue for an autopsy. Knowing the local
coroner, it might take him a few minutes to determine it was too late for
surgery.

The police directed the partygoers to remain in the
lobby until we could be questioned individually. The group had sobered up
considerably and mulled around wide-eyed and stunned. The two strippers were
now dressed in sweats and appeared to be more nervous than anything else.
Little wonder. From experience, I knew that some were hookers, some had police
records, and all wanted to simply do their thing and slip quietly back into
anonymity.

In a corner, Norman looked stunned and a few of the guys
went over to pat him on the back and whisper a few supportive words of
sympathy. I expressed my condolences briefly, noticing the dampness on his
cheeks and the raw shock that emanated from his reddened eyes. There are few
things in life as horrible as losing a family member in a tragic and sudden
way. One moment they’re right beside you, and then they’re gone forever. Norman
will never talk to Robbie again, never joke with him, and Robbie will only
exist in Norman’s memories. As hardened as I had become through working in law
enforcement, I never lost sympathy for people forced to deal with the sudden
death of someone close. My heart went out to them. My feelings about cops
however, were another matter.

I was interviewed last, and most of the crowd had
dissipated at that point. The investigating officer who took my statement was a
short, bulky man named Mickey Batson who seemed more interested in taking a
doughnut break than in probing my answers. He had black hair cropped short, a
weak chin and a bulbous nose. If I squinted, his face came close to resembling
that of a boar.

"What’s your story, pal?"

"I don’t have a story," I said, a little weary
from the long wait.

Batson peered at me. "Oh, a tough guy. I remember
you. You were on the job. Got yourself into some trouble."

"That’s right, Shorty," I said evenly, my
weariness suddenly being replaced with annoyance.

"Hey look it, you get cute with me and your last
set of problems'll seem like a trip through Candyland," he said, a tiny
piece of spittle growing in the corner of his bottom lip.

"I’m real scared.”

"Watch it," he growled. "I wanna get
outta here sometime tonight. Now tell me what you saw up there."

"You want to knock off work early? Okay. I’ll make
it simple for you. There was a group of wholesome young men eating chocolate
chip cookies and drinking milk. A pair of virtuous young women came by to
explain the difference in the cholesterol levels between regular milk and
low-fat."

“Hey it’s been a long night asshole. You gonna
cooperate?”

“Not with a goldbrick like you.”

Batson reached out and grabbed my shirt with both fists.
Even though we were about the same weight, I was six feet tall and probably had
about five inches on him. I jerked my arms between his hands in a fast upward
motion, snapping his grip on me. He fell off balance momentarily and I reared
back and gave his left shin a hard wallop with my right foot. He drew back his
fist, but before he could let it fly, someone came between us.

"That's enough, officer!" the man barked at
Batson.

"Captain, this man started to assault me."

"I didn’t see any punches thrown. Not by him
anyway. Get some coffee. I'll take over here."

Batson straightened his jacket and glared at me as if to
say this wasn't over yet. He walked away gingerly, and I smiled to myself. I
not only got away with being a smart ass, but it allowed me to move up the
ranks and talk to someone with more authority. You never knew where that might
lead.

"All right. Burnside is it? I'm Captain Lafferty,"
he said. The Captain was my height and had the resonant voice and the polished
look of an ambitious man running for office. He had black hair with a touch of
silver at the temples, slicked back with a healthy dollop of mousse.

"I understand you're a P.I. now.”

"That’s right."

"Tell me what you're looking into."

I recanted the story of Norman and Robbie, detailing
everything except my conversation with Terry Kuhl. Some things simply take too
long and aren't worth the trouble.

"How drunk was the boy Robbie?"

"He'd had a few, although it didn't seem like he
was out of control. When one of the guys passed out, he was able to help carry
him off with no problem. If you're asking was Robbie wasted enough to stagger
over the edge? I'd say no."

Lafferty nodded. "You think he had some help."

"Somebody was gunning for Robbie on the freeway the
other night, only his brother happened to be in the car at the time. That
someone had better luck tonight."

"Any ideas about who did it?"

"No. I mostly have a lot of questions."

"Great," he said dryly. "Anything else
you'd like to offer?"

I shook my head. "Not unless your buddy over there
wants a re-match."

"Mick? He probably does, but he'll cool down. He's
not a bad detective but he’s a hothead."

"Uh-huh."

Lafferty looked around. "I think we're almost done
here."

"Do you have any objections if I go back up to the
apartment and look around?"

"No can do. Not now anyway, they're dusting for
prints. I think they're also examining the video that was being recorded. Yeah
I know, we lucked out on that one. Besides, what do you think you'll
find?"

I shrugged and said I didn't know. Walking outside, I
stopped to take a final look at the Corvette. The top of the car was caved in
and damage to the hood was evident. The windshield was destroyed and the
interior looked like it was the target of a missile. The owner would have quite
a surprise awaiting him tomorrow. A victim of being in the wrong place at the
wrong time. His turn to be picked on. I walked across the street to my Pathfinder
and found a small surprise waiting for me as well, in the form of a parking
ticket. I was too tired to bother with it so I tossed it in the glove
compartment along with my CDs and drove home. It was nearly four in the morning
and there was still plenty of traffic on the streets.

*

It took three days for the police to complete their
investigation. No one had murdered Robbie Freeman. It had been ruled an
accident. A newspaper article quoted Captain Lafferty as saying the young man was
drunk and had fallen twenty-two flights through his own carelessness. No one
would be charged, no one would be found guilty, no further investigation was
warranted. The death was simply an accident. All hands were clean.

Robbie's funeral was the following day and I chose not
to bother the family. Instead, I spent half a day trailing behind Mrs. Wachs,
waiting for any sign she was not the injured party she made herself out to be.
After following her home from her physical therapy, I drove wearily back to the
office and telephoned Juan Saavedra at the Purdue precinct. Juan was a
detective I had known way back when. Through my contacts at USC I was able to
provide him with good tickets for the LAU and Notre Dame games, and Juan's
appreciation was always apparent. Everyone has their price.

"Burnsy? How ya been, buddy?"

"Been better, been worse," I said.

"Whaddya need? I'll make a wager it has something
to do with the Freeman case."

"You're a psychic, Juan."

"Nah, I just get around."

"Talk to me about it. Someone put a lid on the
investigation?"

"No, no, nothing like that. They looked at the DVD
and established that everyone at the party was accounted for when Robbie went
over the balcony. Everyone was in the living room with the strippers. Except
the kid who passed out. And you."

"How could they establish the right time?"

"Clock on the living room wall. Robbie hit the
ground at exactly 11:01 p.m. and they have the doorman and that old boy at the
security desk to back it up. They checked the clock and it was damn near right
on Naval Observatory time. Lucky thing that kid was recording everyone. You
know what they say, the camcorder never lies."

"Never lies," I repeated.

"Although personally I would have preferred a few
more close-ups of the babes."

"You always were a class act, Juan. Any chance I
could get a look at that DVD?"

"I dunno. In a few days, maybe I can swing
something. Wait until this dies down a bit. You think there's something more
going on?"

"Hard to say. A few of the guys were carrying
hardware. Football players can generally take care of most people without
resorting to heat."

Juan chuckled. "Things used to be that way." I
thanked Juan for his help and hung up. The warm breeze outside my window was
making the jagged tops of the palm trees sway. I gazed at them and thought for
a long time. No further investigation would be warranted. No pondering about
the suspicious link between the freeway shooting and Robbie falling tragically
off of his own ledge. No looking into why some of the other men at the party
had guns. The police were satisfied that the death of Robbie Freeman was an
accident. I, on the other hand, was not.

The temperature never dipped below seventy that evening,
as the Santa Ana winds began to whip through Los Angeles. The Santa Anas were
sometimes called the fire winds because of the destruction they're prone to
wrought. Unlike the off-shore breezes that cool the basin, these winds came up
from the south and carry with them a nasty spell of sizzling days and merciless
nights. They kick up a few times a year and could last from a couple of days to
over a week. I slept a few fitful hours before rising in time to see a blood
red sunrise.

I drove up to the Valley and stopped at a local deli for
breakfast. After eating a decidedly unhealthy meal of bacon, fried eggs and a
bagel with cream cheese, I lingered over a few glasses of ice water before
venturing back out into the warmth of the morning. The sign outside the bank
across the street blinked 7:12 and 76 degrees. Things would only get worse.

It took five minutes to reach my first call of the day,
and I was mildly surprised when he answered the door on the initial ring of the
buzzer. Nevertheless, he looked rather sleepy as he stood facing me in a white
t-shirt and dark blue gym shorts. He was tall and slim, with sharp features and
a big nose that I was just starting to get used to. His brown eyes were barely
open and he had the look of someone who would rather not be standing upright.

"Yeah?" he asked blankly.

"Lenny. The name's Burnside. I met you last weekend
at the party, remember?" I assumed he knew what I was talking about. I've
asked more difficult questions of five year olds.

"Which party's that, dude?"

A fundamental rule had been broken. Never overestimate
people. "Norman's bachelor party," I said, a touch of sharpness
seeping out of my voice.

"Oh, yeah. I was at that one," he said, a
goofy smile of recognition crossing his face. "I remember you now. You're
Norman's friend from the lot, right?"

"Actually, Lenny, I'm a private investigator. I
need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?"

Lenny Caputo hesitated for a moment, then pulled the
apartment door open and waved me inside. His apartment was nicely appointed,
but it was the type of decor that was musty and resembled my grandmother's
home. The sofa had floral patterns across it and the teak end tables were
octagonal in shape, with small brass handles on the doors. A large box shaped
CRT television sat in a corner and the olive green carpeting had definitely
seen better days. The thick drapes were still closed, making the living room
darker and drearier than it might otherwise have been. The only noise was the
low hum of an air conditioner.

"I wish you'd have called first," he said.

"I used to do the polite thing at one time, but
people had a habit of not being home when I got there. This way seems to work
out best."

"We'll have to be quiet. My mom's still
asleep."

"Right," I said.

"I don't know how much help I can be to you. I was
really out of it that night. I barely remember anything."

"What's the last thing you do remember?"

"Falling down and having some people toss me onto a
bed. I heard some activity and then the police were shining a flashlight in my
face telling me to get up. They were pretty rude about it, too."

"I'll bet," I said, smiling to myself.
"When you say you heard some activity, what exactly do you mean?"

"I dunno. It was dark and I didn't even remember
who carried me in. I found out later it was Robbie and that big dude who
brought the babes."

"Do you remember what happened after they carried
you into the bedroom?"

"Uh-uh."

I stopped for a moment. I didn't want to tax his brain
too early in the morning. "You and Robbie were both wide receivers at LAU.
Were you guys pretty close?"

"Yeah, we were friends. We hung around together
sometimes. Drank some beers, went to a few clubs. I mean, Evan Wurman and
Scotty Haid were probably closer buddies with him. If that's what you're
getting at. But all of us played wide receiver, so we spent a lot of time
together."

"What type of clubs did you go to?"

Lenny shrugged. "I dunno. Robbie would sometimes
drag us off to those divey bars near the beach. The Joker, The Circle Bar.
Robbie really liked this place in Venice called Neary's. I think that's where he
knew the babes at the party."

"He knew those girls beforehand?"

"I'm pretty sure. We all kinda got around.
Y'know?"

I nodded and went along. "Robbie into anything
weird?"

Lenny gave a giggle, most of which snorted out of his
nose until he started to cough. "Nah. Nothing special I can think
of."

"He drink much?"

"Yeah, some."

"Any drugs?"

Lenny shrugged. "I dunno."

I pondered this for a moment. Hanging around with
hookers, maybe smoke some weed. But nothing out of the ordinary.

"Lenny, do you have any reason to believe someone
would want to murder Robbie?"

He gave me a funny look. "No way. The police ruled
it an accident. They wouldn't do that if they thought it was murder!"

Suppressing a smile was not always the easiest task. The
kid had a few things to learn. A college education taught you only so much.
"Let's think in the abstract for a moment. Do you think it's possible he
was murdered?"

"I don't know. I guess if he pissed somebody off
they might."

"Who might?"

A look of concern came over him and he clammed up. I
asked a few more questions but all I got was a succinct shake of the head.
Finally, I handed him one of my business cards and told him to call me if he
thought of anything. Or if he wanted to do a term paper on police assumptions
gone wrong. I was living proof their success rate would never be one hundred
percent.

Walking out, I shut the door harder than I meant to and
a loud bang could be heard down the hall. Oh well, I thought. Mom should
probably be up by now anyway.

*

My next stop was at Max Brewer's home. In stark contrast
to the dim and musty surroundings of Lenny's apartment, Max lived in his
parents' spacious house in the foothills above Encino. Theirs was a split level
home that was set back from the street. A curved driveway led to a three car
garage facing the side of the house. This was the type of home Ward Cleaver
would move the family to when he got that big promotion at the office.

The doorbell chimed rather than rang, and Max's mother,
a pleasant faced woman in her early fifties, answered the door. She had an
apron on and invited me inside when I asked to speak to her son. I was led
through an impressive foyer with high beamed ceilings into a bright, sunny
kitchen. The happy suburban family of four was eating a nourishing breakfast
together consisting of bran flakes, strawberries and skim milk. Strong father,
proud mother, athletic son, nubile daughter. There was even a golden retriever
thumping its tail in the corner. Norman Rockwell couldn't have painted it any
better.

"Good morning," I said. "I'm sorry to
bother you folks so early, but I was wondering if I could talk to Max for a
minute."

Max had very light blond hair that almost matched his
sister's in color, if not in length. He wore an orange golf shirt and dark blue
shorts, and looked like he could easily have been a cover boy for
GQ
.
His sister could have made the cover of
Cosmo
too. Max wiped his mouth
with a napkin and placed it delicately on the table. Such good manners.

"Sure," he said. "Didn't we meet
the other night? At Norman's party?"

"Right."

"You work with Norman, don’t you?" he asked,
trying to remember.

"Actually, I'm a private investigator. Norman had
hired me to look into a situation involving his brother."

The family took a collective breath together. The
father, a powerful looking man with a large bald spot, asked to see some
identification. After I presented it, he offered me a cup of coffee which I
gladly accepted. Very smooth. Probably Mocha Java.

"I'm not sure what more I can tell you that I
haven't already told the police," Max said.

"I'm actually more interested in learning about
Robbie himself. What kind of a guy was he, what type of people he palled around
with. That sort of thing."

"I don't honestly know much. Robbie was into a much
different lifestyle than I am."

"Lifestyle?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

"We've tried," his father interrupted,
"to instill in our children the idea that your friends are a reflection of
yourself. We're pleased they have chosen to associate with more of a wholesome
crowd than the one Robbie associates... I mean, associated with."

"Just what kind of crowd was Robbie in?"

"Oh, you know," Max said, "People into
doing a lot of partying."

"Not to mention lewd women," his sister added,
poking Max playfully in the ribs and giggling. I suddenly remembered a vision
of her brother reaching out and copping a feel of one of the stripper's
buttocks.

"Don't kid about that, Bridget," Max pointed
out in a tone I thought was a bit too serious. "Robbie used to date some
pretty flashy girls. I heard he actually knew those...dancers that were at the
party."

"How did he know them?"

Max shrugged. "I think it was through someone who
worked for the coaches."

"Who were his friends?"

"Oh, guys like Scotty and Lenny and Evan."

"Evan Wurman?"

"Right. Evan played football his freshman year,
then dropped out of college. He was a fast little receiver but just too small
for the college game. Wurman and the Freemans go back a long ways. They were
next door neighbors over in Brentwood."

I nodded and asked the question that was sure to make
the bran flakes work even quicker. "Do you have any reason to believe that
Robbie's death was not an accident?"

The question produced a response at the table which I
could have predicted with a Ouija board. Deep breaths, a couple of coughs,
shifting of posture. All eyes fell eventually to Max.

"No, none I can think of," he finally said.
"The only one who was out of the living room when it happened was Lenny
Caputo, and he was practically unconscious. After Robbie and that big guy
carried Lenny to the bedroom, Robbie didn't return to the party. That's the
last anyone saw of him."

"Did Lenny ever have any problem with Robbie?"

"A little maybe," Max said, thoughtfully.
"Robbie beat him out of the starting job at flanker, but he did it fair
and square. Robbie was the better receiver. I know Lenny used to bellyache that
Robbie bought it with his father's money but nobody believed that. We all knew
different. But I couldn't see how a grudge like that could be kept for so long.
No, there's just no way that Lenny could have done anything. It had to have
been an accident. There's just no other explanation."

The table grew silent and everyone looked down, caught
up in their thoughts. After a minute, Max raised his head. "It's possible
I'm not the best person to talk to."

"Who might be?" I inquired.

"Maybe Evan. He has a reputation for being into
some weird stuff. I wouldn't trust him. For that matter I didn't trust Robbie
himself too much."

I nodded. That was becoming no surprise. After leaving
my card with the Brewers, I excused myself and left.

*

Since the name Evan Wurman had come up a few times, I
naturally wanted to speak with him. Additionally, he was one of the guys who
was packing a gun at Norman's party. I was disappointed when I tried his
Westwood apartment and learned he wasn't there. The high pitched male voice
that answered the intercom told me he was out of the country for a few days. I
drove back to the office wondering who I'd call on next, when I found a pair of
surprise guests waiting outside my office. Norman said he and Ashley had only
been there for a few minutes.

“Hello there,” I said, and ushered them into my office
and motioned for them to sit down. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Norman said in a low voice.

“I imagine you’ve postponed your wedding. “

“Yes,” he responded. “We’re going to wait until… this situation
blows over. You can't go from a funeral to a wedding this quickly."

I concurred and we sat down. The two were holding hands
but I noticed there was no diamond on Ashley’s left hand.

“Have you put away your engagement ring?”

Ashley’s lips tightened. “I don’t know whether it was
lost or stolen. The other day I looked down and it was just gone. Disappeared.
It may have slipped off my finger. I don’t know. This has simply been a
terrible week all around.”

“Bad things come in bunches. Sorry.”

Both of them looked down at the floor. In a grey t-shirt
and jeans, Norman appeared, if anything, younger and even more guileless. His
blue eyes drooped slightly and there were tiny, sporadic red veins evident. The
end of his nose was tinged with a sharp rawness. He slumped in the chair, his
strong chin held up by a fist whereas previously he had the posture of a Marine
Corps soldier.