Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (7 page)

Hallelujah. All that fighting could have been avoided
with just a little communication. I could have cared less whether they
preferred women to men, but certain folks just had chips on their shoulder.
Lord, what some people put themselves through.

"I'm investigating the death of Robbie Freeman.
Tiffany, I need your help. From what I can gather, you may be the only person
who can prove that his death was not an accident."

"What do you mean? I didn't see anybody kill him. I
was in the other room. With everyone else. We were a little busy in case you
didn't know."

"I know," I said, not particularly wanting to
get into the details of who was on top. "But I have reason to believe you
may have seen Robbie pushed off the balcony."

"Look I'm on parole and I'm not going back to jail
for anything. The guys at the party were cool. We asked them to just say we
danced around and didn't really do anything, so no great law was violated.
What's the big deal? The kid's dead and you're not going to bring him back. Let
it be."

"There's something which separates our society from
the animal kingdom," I explained to her. "We have a system of
justice. When a person commits a crime, they have to be punished. If they
aren't and enough people believe the system won't work, we become nothing more
than animals."

"We ain't much more than that now," she said
with a rueful look at her friend who was beginning to stir. "Believe me,
I've seen a lot, and the one thing I've learned is you gotta take care of
yourself in this world. Nobody's gonna do it for you."

"I need your help Tiffany."

"No."

"Did Curt tell you to keep quiet?"

She said nothing but her eyes spoke volumes.

"I can handle that greaseball," I said.
"But I really need your help."

She gave me a look that said she had other considerations
and judging by what I knew of Curt that did count for something. She was scared
but unlike Danielle, she had been in the business too long and had seen too
much. There was no going back to school or to Montana or to anywhere else. This
was real life, baby. Got to take care of
numero uno
.

"At least you can tell me if he was pushed," I
said, moving a little closer. She had amber colored eyes that actually seemed
soft in the stark kitchen light. "Nobody's going to make you testify if
you don't want to."

"How will that help you?"

"It will tell me that I'm not completely wasting my
time."

She diverted her eyes and took a long breath. "He
wasn't pushed off that balcony," she finally said.

My heart sank. Was all this effort for nothing? I looked
into those amber eyes and searched for some knowledge that could help.

"He wasn’t pushed?" I asked cautiously.

"No," she said, taking a pregnant pause. She
looked down at her roommate again before returning my gaze. "He was
thrown."

My body didn't want to go to sleep that night. Two
brawls in one day were more than anyone should have to endure. When I was on
the force I never mixed it up more than a couple of times a year, much less one
day. I assuaged my bruises with a steaming bath followed by a lavish
application of Icy Hot. My nerves were soothed by two bottles of Sierra Nevada
pale ale.

I finally fell asleep at two-thirty and after waking up
to the sound of Ms. Linzmeier cranking up the pipes at five o'clock, I dozed
off again for a few more hours. I began stirring at a little past seven, my
body soaked with perspiration. The side of my head ached, my ribs hurt and
there was a yellowish-purple bruise developing on the inside of my left thigh.
Better there than four inches higher.

A cool shower and a glass of iced espresso started my
morning. It was forecast to be hotter than yesterday but the weathermen were
optimistic that cooling trends were on the horizon. Ever the positive thinkers.

I lounged about my living room, thinking about which
move to make next. If Tiffany was telling the truth, my hunch was verified but
it still left me with the timeless issue of whodunit. Tiffany swore up and down
she never actually saw who threw Robbie off the balcony, but she was just as
adamant that it was no accident. She also swore that if I went to the police
she would deny everything. Two steps forward, one step back.

According to Tiffany, her manager had nothing to do with
Robbie's killing. Curt seemed a likely suspect but he had an alibi. And it was
also a strong possibility Curt had nothing at all to do with the murder, that
he simply wanted his girls to be quiet so they could resume their sultry
careers without interruption. With the exception of a sore body, I was right
back at square one. I decided however, that I wasn't up for another physical
confrontation today so I ruled out going back to the strip joint. I had another
path to explore and besides, the scenery on campus was just as pretty.

I arrived at LAU just after one, and parked in front of
Graddis Hall which housed the University's athletic department. I walked up a
flight of stairs to the administrative offices and was surprised that the only
decorations were a few posters. At USC, a walk through Heritage Hall meant
passing trophies, photos of national championship teams and more memorabilia
than one thought could exist.

I reached Coach McCallum's suite of offices and walked
inside, noticing a pair of secretaries busy at work. One of them in particular
caught my eye, a seductive blonde wearing tight short-shorts and a light blue
halter top. Our eyes met and recognition immediately sunk in.

"Hello Ashley. Is the coach in?"

"This is a surprise," Ashley Stark said, her
green eyes filled with confusion. "I hope you're not here about
Robbie."

"Actually I am. I've got a new client. Believe it
or not, this one pays better than Norman."

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"The winning numbers for tonight's lotto would be
nice. Failing that I'll settle for a few minutes with the coach," I said,
and opened McCallum's door.

"Hey, you're not supposed to go in there," she
protested.

The craggy face of Lew McCallum turned towards us. By
now he was in his sixties, yet McCallum had the tough, edgy look of a lion that
hadn't eaten for days. Solidly built, without even the hint of any fat on him,
the legendary coach still looked like he could knock down the bulkiest lineman
on his team. He was probably in better shape as most men half his age.

"It's all right, Ashley," McCallum said in a
charbroiled voice that had an Oklahoma drawl. "I'll talk to this here
young man."

Ashley nodded and exited the office, closing the door
softly.

"Hi, coach. Thanks for seeing me. The name's
Burnside. I'm a private investigator." I handed him one of my business
cards. McCallum looked down at the card and up at me again. A dim recognition
crossed his face.

"You a football player?"

"At one time, yes," I said, a measure of pride
in my voice.

"You were part of Martin's crew at SC weren't
you?" he asked, peering at me as if I were a used car he was about to kick
the tires on.

"A long time ago, coach. Eighteen years ago to be
exact."

"I remember," he said. "I surely do. That
secondary you were in was really something. You and Cleary and what were those
other kids... Mott and that guy Kolamalu, yeah, right. You little SOBs gave me
a few headaches, I'll tell ya. That was back in the day when the Bulldog kept
beating us each year."

I nodded, albeit warily. I wasn't sure if he was
complimenting me or getting ready to throw a punch. McCallum wasn't that far
removed from the Woody Hayes school of personal diplomacy. He pawed my card for
another minute before a wry smile emerged. I suppose he just liked to toy with
people.

"Well now sir. Just what do I owe the pleasure of
your calling?"

"I've been hired by the family to look into the
death of Robbie Freeman," I said. McCallum's smile disappeared.

"Well now. I don't know how I can help you."

"Coach, you knew Robbie for years. Tell me what you
thought of him. Had he changed much? Who was he hanging around with? Anything I
can go on."

"Robbie," he mused, looking off into the
distance. "Robbie was the player who could have but didn't."

I cupped my ear. "Please?"

McCallum took his time answering. He sipped on some
coffee and a melancholy look surfaced. "He had all the tools," the
coach said finally. "He was fast, he was tough, he had the stickiest hands
you ever saw. I once saw him snare a pass while he was lying on his back. Just
stuck a hand out and grabbed it. Damn, that kid was a receiver, let me tell
you."

I said nothing. McCallum seemed to be building a head of
steam.

"He made all-Conference his junior year and if he
could have kept his nose clean last year he would've been an all-American. That
catch he made against SC his junior year was a thing of beauty. You see
it?"

I shook my head no.

"Two seconds to go, we're down by five and Norman
lofts the ball into the end zone. Robbie makes this incredible circus catch and
then bounces into the goal post head first. Knocked him clear out cold, but he
held onto the ball. Won the game for us. We practically had to carry him into
the locker room.

"But something happened after that. I dunno if it
was the conk on the head or what. Part of it was losing Norman to graduation, I
suppose. Terry Kuhl doesn’t have Norman’s arm. But part of it was something
else and I had trouble getting a handle on it. Our talent wasn't as good as the
year before, but that's when the real men rise to the occasion and take charge.
Robbie just started goofing off. Skippin' classes. Beggin' off practice. We
couldn't count on him, so we slowly phased him out of the offense."

"So he changed," I said. "Was he hanging
around with a different crowd, into different things...?"

McCallum wiped his face with a big hand and looked down
into the palm. "Robbie was into himself. Drugs, new friends, what have
you, it don't matter. Robbie cared more about having a good time. He had his
brother's talent but not his desire. Desire comes out under adversity." A
look of distaste had formed on his lips. "Robbie folded like a piece of
wet paper."

The big question. "Do you know anyone who might
have wanted to kill him?"

The big man gave a sad chuckle. "There were plenty
a times I'd have liked to killed the little bastard."

"Seriously."

McCallum gave me a look. "He was a talented kid
with some problems. He bullied people when he couldn't get his way. Maybe one
of that crowd he hung around with. Wurman, Caputo, that bunch are no
good."

I thought of something just then. "Coach, one last
question. What did you think of Norman?"

"Norman? Great natural athlete. Fine competitor.
Wished he'd have used his head more. He has a dense side to him. Sometimes that
kid could look at a blue piece of paper and swear it was yellow. Robbie was the
one with the street smarts. Probably too much for his own good."

I wasn't entirely sure of what to make of that but the
coach had stood up, indicating our time together was running out. I rose and
thanked him for talking to me.

"S'all right," he said, walking me to his
door. "Our secondary's gonna be the death of me this year. I just wish I
could get a few more boys that can hit like you used to."

I peered at him through slit eyes. "What do you
mean used to?"

McCallum let out a roar and slapped me on the back.
"Atta boy. Take care now, son."

*

I walked out of McCallum's office and started out into
the hall. I heard my name called and turned around. Ashley Stark looked
troubled and wanted a word with me. We adjourned to an empty office.

"I need to ask you something," she said in a
concerned voice, arms folded against the light blue halter. "Do you
honestly think there's something more to Robbie's death?"

"There's a possibility," I said.

"What have you found out so far?"

"Not much, just an indication that he had some help
falling off of that balcony."

She looked incredulous. "That's so horrible to even
think about. Who do you think did it? "

"Honey, if I knew that I would be at the police
station swearing out a warrant. Why the sudden interest?"

Her face tightened. "Norman and I are setting up a
new date for our wedding. Next month. I want to put this problem behind us.
We're anxious to move on with our lives."

The only thing I felt moving on was a rising level of
anger. "Yes, you told me that. You want to move on. Put it in the past,
maybe forget it ever happened.”

“We asked you to stop your investigation. Why can’t you
just listen to us?”

“I have other priorities. And if I come up with Robbie's
killer then I guess that just delays your nuptials even more. Maybe even gives
Norman a chance to get cold feet about marrying you. You might have to return
all those nifty wedding shower presents and miss out on seeing Kauai with all
the other lucky couples."

Her body tightened. "That's not true at all. You
make it sound like I'm marrying Norman for his money."

"Of course not. The kid's father's worth more than
most people can count to, but that thought never crossed your mind."

"You’ve got a lot of nerve," she said hotly.
"Oh, I don't even know why I'm discussing this with you. I don't have to
explain myself."

"Of course not. And money isn't an issue at all.
I'm sure you'd be chomping at the bit to marry Norman even if his father pumped
gas or hauled garbage."

"You don't know that," she said, her face
getting flushed. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know all I care to. Your fiancée’s brother takes
a swan dive off a twenty story building and your biggest concern is whether you
can reschedule your wedding quickly."

"We can't bring him back," she said, her
breathing getting heavy. "What else can we do but move on?!"

"You can show some respect for the dead by not
trying to cast their memory away as quickly as you can. You can stop trying to
manipulate your boyfriend by having him call off an investigation before it's
barely underway. You're what? Twenty-two? You've got your whole life in front
of you. What are your plans after the wedding? To spend your time getting your
nails done and doing lunch with Buffy and the girls?"

"How dare you talk to me like that!"

"I talk any way I want to," I said, and walked
out of the office. The Burnside of a few years ago would have treated her with
kid gloves. She was just young and had a narrow focus. But I was trying to
piece together a puzzle, getting punched and kicked along the way, and didn't
appreciate the malice I was being awarded for my efforts. The Burnside of today
pulls few punches.

*

My next stop was back at Campus Security. In contrast to
the malevolent reception I received from Ashley Stark, the officer with the
pouty lips and pretty brown hair was all smiles when I walked in.

"Mr. Manning, what a pleasant surprise," she
said, getting up from her chair. "I'll bet you're here to see Dick Bridges
again, aren't you?"

I gulped. She was being a little too sweet. "I take
it you figured out who Peyton Manning is."

She moved her lithe body close to mine, the wide smile
ever present on her lips. "I'm not much of a football fan," she
admitted. "I prefer sports I can participate in myself. Football obviously
isn't one of them."

"Perhaps you can tell me about them sometime,"
I managed.

"Now Peyton, how do I know who you really
are?" she asked very playfully.

I smiled and bowed my head. "I stand humbled,"
I said. "I promise to be more respectful."

"That's better." She wrote a phone number down
on a piece of paper, and under it she included the name Gail Pepper. I put it
in my pocket, feeling my pulse beginning to jump.