Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (5 page)

"Mr. Burnside," Norman began, "I'd like
to thank you for spending time looking into what happened to my brother. You've
taken your job seriously and I appreciate it. But, at this point I think you
can stop your investigation."

"You've paid me for five days, kid. I'm only
halfway through my second day."

"The family believes," Ashley said, "that
Robbie's death was an accident. That he was drunk and on some kind of drug, and
he fell off the balcony through no one's fault but his own."

Looking at her, I began to notice that she had the kind
of beauty that wore off as you got closer. It was kind of like an Impressionist
painting. I also smelled a brand of perfume that probably cost a fortune, but
only served to irritate my nose and make me want to sneeze.

"You're being pretty tough on Robbie. He was no
angel, but I think there may be a little more here than meets the eye."

"Robbie was a crazy kid," Norman said. "I
tried to help him but he didn't want my help. And at this point, Robbie is gone
and there's nothing more we can do to help him."

"Except bring a possible killer to justice."

"Mr. Burnside," Ashley broke in, "we just
want to get on with our lives and put this behind us. This was a terrible thing
to have happen, but it's over. And the police have made their decision. They're
not investigating any longer. They think it's an accident."

I drew in a breath and my mind conjured up an image from
about two years ago. It was the image of a seasoned officer with thirteen years
on the beat, all of them performed to the best of his abilities. He always went
by the book and was a staunch defender of the system, not to mention the status
quo. And when they asked for his gun and his badge for a crime he didn't commit
and couldn't acquit himself of, everything he had once held dear began to
crumble. Even when they returned it to him, his attitude was forever altered.
He re-built his life to be sure, but he was no longer the staunch defender. He
was a changed man. The memory of it stung and caused me to wince.

"Does everyone in your family believe Robbie's
death was an accident?" I asked softly.

Norman and Ashley glanced hesitantly at one another.
"My father still thinks there was foul play," he said.

"Why?"

"Mr. Freeman sometimes has trouble accepting life's
... inevitability," Ashley said.

"Dad is stubborn. He can't just deal with it. He
needs someone to blame. He's not the kind of guy who can let go."

I rubbed my eyes. "I understand what you two are
saying. I think you're wrong. I think there's some things unexplained. But if
you want to discharge me, that's your business."

"We appreciate it," Norman said, and the two
of them rose and left my office quietly.

I lifted my feet onto the credenza behind my desk, and
looked out onto the street. Robbie Freeman's brother had hired me to look into
some trouble he thought Robbie was in. I learned Robbie had experimented with
some drugs, and he associated with a few unsavory types which his older brother
might not approve. Nothing dangerous or life threatening in that, certainly.
But I had only started to scratch the surface of the kid’s involvement. There
was something else lurking beneath the surface, a dynamic I could only sense
intuitively at this point.

My thoughts drifted back to the party. If Robbie was
able to pick Lenny up and help drag him into another room, how could he have
been so unstable as to stumble over a balcony railing? He wasn't depressed and
on that night he seemed in fine form. He joked, he laughed, and more
importantly he was making sure everyone else was having a good time. Suicide
could easily be ruled out. But somehow, someone had provided Robbie with help
in reaching the edge of that balcony. Yet everyone at the party had been
accounted for.

On the street below, Norman Freeman opened the passenger
door of a silver Acura ZDX that glowed in the sunlight. His fiancée sat down in
a prissy manner and he closed the door carefully. Skipping around the perimeter
of the car, he hurriedly climbed inside as if she might disappear if he dawdled
too long. The car pulled out onto Olympic Boulevard and glided away.

The space they vacated stayed open for all of thirty
seconds. A Ford pickup truck with a weather beaten paint job pulled in, and two
Latino day laborers got out and walked down the street towards Holly's Liquor
and Junk Food Emporium. I felt like joining them.

Instead, I thought and pondered, coming up with so
little it was hardly worth the effort. There were at least two people at the
party who saw Robbie as he entered his bedroom, Lenny Caputo and Curt the
bouncer. Lenny wasn't much help and I suspected Curt wouldn't be either.
Besides, a motive needed to be established first and that would take some
digging if I chose to keep myself involved. Maybe I should listen to Norman and
back off. He was moving on with his life and the police were moving on as well.
It certainly made sense that I should too.

As I speculated, I kept returning back to one salient
point. Norman had hired me to find out something, and I hadn't come through for
him. I had taken a week's retainer and put in a day and a half's worth of
effort. As corny as it sounded, I owed him something more, whether he wanted to
accept it or not. I owed Robbie something too, and I figured that he certainly
would have wanted the truth to come out. Mostly though, there was something
gnawing at me, something from my past that this case had dredged up. I never
liked loose ends, puzzles where the pieces didn’t quite fit together cleanly.
Satisfying resolutions don’t always happen in this business. There were
instances when it made sense to leave things be, but others where you just feel
you have to keep poking the stick until something emerges. This case felt like
the latter.

And one thing I did have right now was an abundance of
time. With the exception of following Mrs. Wachs around, I didn't have a whole
lot else to do. Idle hands being the devil's workshop, I decided to take a ride
over to the ocean, but frolicking in the sparkling surf was the last thing on
my mind.

The beach at Venice was normally crowded only during the
weekends, but the searing heat which scorched the basin had seemingly propelled
one-half of L.A. to the cool Pacific waters. After spending twenty minutes of
futility looking for a parking space, I succumbed to the inevitable and paid
ten dollars to park in a lot.

Venice was developed by Abbot Kinney in the early years
of the 20
^th
century, a testament to that lovely city in Northern
Italy. There were similar canals flowing into one another and homes built right
on the edge of the waterways. The ocean was nearby and it was an eclectic, yet
lovely place to live. Many years ago I had a girlfriend that lived there and it
was a soothing feeling to awaken to the sound of water lapping near the window.
Times change however, and so had Venice, California. The Venice of today still
had some trendy parts to it but it also was home to a steamy pit of cheap bars
and sodden people. Parts of Venice had been regentrified, but its charm would
undoubtedly take a longer time to return.

Neary's Bar was located a couple of blocks from the
beach on a sun drenched street that featured an adult bookstore, a bikini shop,
and a little restaurant called the No Name Cafe. A pair of tacky paintings of
naked women highlighted the stucco exterior of Neary's. As I walked through the
old western style swinging saloon doors the smell of stale beer and sawdust
wafted into my nostrils.

"Ten bucks admission," said a fat laden man
with a pencil thin moustache. He had on a cheap white shirt open to the navel,
and cheap black pants held up by a pair of cheap suspenders. Behind him, the
interior of the bar was dark and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust. A
young, well proportioned girl wearing a black negligee danced across a long,
narrow stage that looked like a miniature airport runway. A small railing
surrounded the stage and a few dollar bills draped the top of it. The
thundering beat of a pop song pulsated through the room.

"Does that ten bucks include anything else?"

"This ain't no massage parlor, Jack," he
snarled. "Pay up or screw." He emphasized the last word by jerking
his thumb over his shoulder.

I handed him a ten and he thanked me by looking away as
I walked past him. I assumed it was up to me to seat myself. About
fifteen seconds later, a waitress in her thirties with barely more clothes on
than the dancer approached to take my order.

"Bottle of beer," I said, knowing that a place
like this would be unlikely to stock Sierra Nevada.

She returned five minutes later with a clear bottle of
Miller and a glass that was wet if not clean. I told her the bottle would be
sufficient. No sense testing the dishwashing skills of the help behind the bar.

"Got a minute?" I asked, tossing a ten on her
tray.

She smiled. "All the time you want to pay
for."

The woman had short blonde hair that fell cutely into
bangs, a face that might once have been pretty, and a figure that still was.
Her body clung to a low cut red miniskirt, and what wasn't visible to the naked
eye was easily imaginable. Behind her, the dancer had squirmed her way down to
a black bra and pair of rainbow panties.

"I'm looking for a fellow named Curt. Big guy, dark
complexion, moustache. Ring a bell?"

"He's around somewhere."

"Is there a Danielle or a Tiffany working
here?"

"Yeah," she said, shaking her head
enthusiastically. "Danielle's here. She's on break. Stick around."

I put another five on her tray. "Appreciate
it."

She disappeared and I turned my attention to the dancer.
She couldn't have been more than eighteen. Her body swayed and grinded to the
beat of the music. Smiling and sashaying along the runway, she moved deftly
towards a thin middle aged man with reddish hair, black framed engineer's
glasses and a pocket protector. He looked at her blankly, in the same manner in
which he might have scanned the menu at Denny’s. She reached behind her back
and unhooked her bra, tossing it casually to the floor as she shook her large
breasts to the rhythm of the music. The man responded by draping a dollar
indifferently across the rail.

Across the room, a door opened and Danielle walked through
it, wearing an identical miniskirt, only hers was blue. Her thick brown hair
was tied back into a ponytail, and in the darkened bar she appeared slightly
older than I had remembered. Maybe nineteen instead of sixteen.

She approached me with an unenthusiastic "hi"
and asked if I was looking for her.

"Do you remember me?" I asked.

She shook her head no. "Sorry. Lots of guys come in
here."

I got straight to the point. "I'm a private investigator.
I'm looking into the death of Robbie Freeman. You know, last week at the
bachelor party?"

She looked around the room. "I don't want to get
into any trouble."

"You won't."

"What's in it for me?"

I looked at her and wondered how someone so young could
have become so hardened. A short stint at this dump might have been sufficient.
"I used to be with the LAPD. I have a lot of contacts. I can help you if
you need it." Then I thought of Judy and wondered if I had lost my mind.

Her eyes darted across the room nervously. "This
isn't the place to talk."

"When do you get off work?"

"Six o'clock."

"Where do you live?"

She looked at me and hesitated. I handed her my business
card. “”I’m just looking for information on the case. No reason to worry.”

“I don’t know about this.”

“Look I can find you through the police database. This
way is just easier. I promise it’ll be all right.”

She sighed. "Okay. You kind of look like a cop. I’m
in Mar Vista. One-two-oh-oh-six Washington. Apartment J."

"Got it," I said, jotting it down on a
cocktail napkin.

Danielle looked across the room again.
"Dammit," she whined. My eyes followed hers. Approaching us were two
men: Curt, wearing a dark blue long sleeved dress shirt, and the engaging
maitre d’ I encountered when I first arrived. Neither looked especially happy.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing,"
Curt asked of neither of us in particular.

"It's common courtesy to address people by mister
or sir if you're unfamiliar with them," I pointed out.

"Go stick your head up your ass," he
suggested, and then pointed a finger at Danielle. "I warned you about
tricking in here. Take it someplace else or you'll be out on your butt."

Danielle's lower lip began to quiver. She bowed her head
like a dog who expected to get swatted with a newspaper. My protective
instincts started to surface, the same ones that got me into a uniform, and
ultimately got me out of one.

"Why's that, Curt?" I asked. "Got
something to hide?"

He turned and sneered. "Who is this clown? Look I
don't know you, but unless you want to spit some teeth, go take a walk."

"Actually it's too hot to exercise. I just came in
here to see if anyone would like to join Amway. Their soap products are
environmentally safe and good for your clothes, too. Did you know that Tide cleans
by burning?"

Curt gave me an incredulous look. "Whitey, take
care of this asshole," he snapped.

"Gladly," Whitey said, his belly jiggling
underneath those cheap suspenders.

He grabbed my elbow to lift me up, but I was already rising
and I planted my left foot firmly on the ground. In the same motion I brought
up my right fist in a swift uppercut motion and slugged him right under the
chin. His head shot back as he groaned and staggered into the next table.

I turned to Curt, and by now he had his mitts up, ready
to take charge of the situation himself. Never delegate unless you can live
with the results. He moved towards me, not like a boxer but like a street smart
brawler who knew that fights were won by he who was left standing. I blocked
his first punch with my left forearm but his second got through and caught me
on the side of the temple. It stung a bit and I knew there would be a bruise
growing there soon. I countered with a left jab that hit him under his right
eye, and then feigned another left and threw a hard right that landed flush on
his mouth. It was the type of punch that should have sent him reeling to the
floor to chew on some sawdust. Instead, he merely spit away a trickle of blood
and raised his fists again.

By this time, Whitey had recovered enough to move closer
and I noticed another goon approaching as well. The three surrounded me and I
decided it was time for the great equalizer. I moved backwards and reached
quickly down to my ankle. I brought out a .38 and waved it as menacingly as I
could. They froze in their tracks.

"Just what the hell is this?" Curt said.

"I don't happen to have two other gorillas handy to
match up with you," I pointed out as I eased sideways towards the front
door. "This will have to do."

The music stopped abruptly and the stripper, who had
just removed her panties, grabbed her garments and scattered off the stage. The
patrons with some sense had already ducked under tables, while the others sat
and gawked with their mouths agape. At the first opportunity, Danielle and the
other waitress made a beeline for the dressing room.

I backed out of the swinging doors, my gun still
pointing at the puzzled troika. My grip on the gun was tight and it startled me
for a moment when I saw blood oozing out of my right hand. As I moved outside I
relaxed my grip and let the doors swing shut like they did in the old west,
haphazardly and one at a time. The three continued to watch me and made no
motion to follow.

Walking briskly back to my truck, I imagined the group
was wondering just who that masked man really was.

*

I arrived back at my apartment covered with sweat, only
part of which I'm sure was resulting from the oppressive heat. I sat down in my
recliner and gave serious merit to dropping the case. The police had closed it,
Norman Freeman had stopped bankrolling it, and all I had to show for my efforts
was a lump on the side of my head and a bandaged right hand. At times like
these however, a mystical sign sometimes materializes. In this case it came in
the form of a voice mail. The message was from Harrison Freeman. He wanted to
see me. Now.

While my initial desire was to take a soothing shower
and a long swig from a bottle of Canadian whiskey, I settled for the shower.
Exuding liquor on the breath was unlikely to enhance a reputation. After a
brief respite to collect myself, I dressed and drove over to the Freeman estate
in Brentwood.

To say the Freemans lived luxuriously was to say that
the sky is blue. The front lawn was so lush and well manicured it might have
passed for emerald carpeting. A half dozen bushes, carefully sculpted to appear
wind swept, stood majestically in the front yard. Lavender blossoms from nearby
Jacaranda trees were sprinkled daintily along the grass. The house itself was a
tall, stately McMansion, painted white, with a red, Spanish tile roof and ivy
climbing up to the second story. California eclectic.

I drove my Pathfinder across the glazed, brick driveway
and parked behind a gold Mercedes sedan, a silver Volvo station wagon, and a
green Hummer. The Freemans owned Honda and Acura dealerships but none
were in evidence. As I exited my truck I made sure I had the keys with me. If
anyone's car was blocked, they would simply have to wait.

Walking up a red clay path, I reached the front door and
rapped twice with the polished brass knocker. Approximately thirty seconds went
by before an overweight maid wearing a flowered apron opened the door.

"Yes?" she asked shyly.

"The name is Burnside," I said, handing her a
card. "Mr. Freeman asked to see me."

"
Un momento
," she said and closed the
door. Two minutes went by slowly before she reappeared and directed me to
follow her.

The interior of the Freeman homestead was as impressive
as the outside. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung down from an ornate ceiling
as we walked through the foyer and into what some might call the family room. A
pair of long, identical black leather sofas faced each other, perpendicular to
a wood burning fireplace with a stack of split logs bundled alongside it. We
walked down a long hallway of cherry wood floors and into a stately office
complete with skylight, picture window and a number of impressionist paintings
hanging on the wall. A large, powerfully built man in his late fifties sat
working at a huge maple desk that was strewn with papers. His hair was as
golden blond as Norman's, indicating either expert coloring or a hair weave. At
this level, a weave was a good presumption. I watched him work for a minute and
then cleared my throat.

"Yes, yes, I know you're there," he said
without looking up. "Give me a minute."

He gave himself about three, by which time he had
finished whatever urgent business needed to be transacted at that exact second.
He put his pen diligently back into an elaborate silver holder that was mounted
on a square green onyx base. Looking at me for the first time, he rose, offered
a confident expression, and extended a hand.