Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (9 page)

We talked for a while longer before Gail retired for the
night. I gallantly offered to spare her the half mile walk home but she gave me
a hug and said some other time. I drove to my apartment on a soft cloud,
feeling lighthearted and carefree until I thought of Danielle once more and my
emotions went on a roller coaster ride. Feeling enraptured and mournful at the
same time was very perplexing. Once I climbed into bed it took forever to fall
asleep, different emotions tugging at me.

When I reached the office the next morning I called Juan
Saavedra at the Purdue precinct and learned, as I suspected, that Curt and his
two cronies had their alibis in line. The three goons had gone to lunch
together and confirmed each other's whereabouts even though it was merely
sandwiches at one of the guys' nearby apartments. Danielle had disappeared
mysteriously after she had arrived at work, and was next found slumping
lifelessly in my chair. No suspects, an investigation unlikely. Any tie-in with
the Freeman death would be viewed as coincidental. No one had an explanation
for why they dumped her body in my office, least of all me. Lafferty had said
maybe I was getting a reputation for attracting wayward adolescents. He was
lucky he didn’t say it to my face.

"The Captain’s a real piece of work," Saavedra
warned. "You may think Batson is difficult, but Lafferty's the one to
worry about. With Batson, at least there's no doubt about where you
stand."

"I'll remember that," I said and changed the
subject. "Any chance of picking up that DVD from the Freeman party?"

"Hey Burnside, you wanta get your rocks off why
don't you just download some porn."

"No, someone like you might check my computer one
day," I said. "How 'bout it, pal?"

He sighed loudly. "I suppose I can sneak it out for
a day or two. Who cares at this point. C'mon over this afternoon. It's in
lock-up but I might be persuaded to bend some rules."

It was my turn to sigh. "How much persuading?"

"Dodgers-Giants next week. Box seats."

"Done." Like I said, everyone had their price.

*

It was almost eleven by the time I parked across the
street from Neary's, and while the winds were tapering off somewhat, it felt as
hot as ever. Inclement weather was one of the problems with surveillance work.
Since I might be here a while, running the air conditioner all day would drain
either my battery or my gas tank. I resigned myself to sitting with the
ignition off and the windows open. The thought of having a black vehicle was no
longer as chic as I once hoped. I would have liked to have worn shorts but
there remained the problem of hiding my weapon. So reluctantly I wore a pair of
white pants that safely covered the .38 strapped to my ankle.

Dehydration was also a real problem on a day like this
so I stocked up on a large bag of pretzels, a smoked turkey sandwich on rye
bread and a couple of bottles of water. This presented another tricky issue but
fortunately there was a Shell station down the street. Hopefully the men's room
was in good working order.

I brought along two newspapers and a stack of Sports
Illustrateds that I had been saving for a rainy day which never came. If I got
bored I could always gaze at the nubile bodies walking hither and yon outside
my truck. A day like today offered a lot to gaze at.

The first hour was uneventful, save for me polishing off
most of my picnic lunch and one-half of my water supply. At ten after twelve,
Curt and one of his cronies emerged, walked down the street to a cheap diner
and returned forty minutes later. The refrigerator at home was probably out of
generic bologna and Wonder bread.

At three-thirty things began to get interesting. Two
familiar faces came strolling along, Max Brewer, and a fellow named Scotty who
had worked the camcorder at the bachelor party. Funny meeting you guys here.
Getting a little extra-curricular studying in, boys?

The two re-surfaced an hour later. I put down an article
about HGH use and hopped out of my truck to follow them. They rounded the
corner and as they neared an alley I caught up to them.

"A minute, fellas?"

They looked at each other as if to find an answer in the
other's face. No one home.

"I just want to ask you a couple of
questions."

Max shook his head. "I answered all of your
questions the other day," he said.

"Something else has come up," I said.

"We don't have to talk to you," Scotty said
blankly.

I stepped forward and gave him a hard shove. "I
don't have to kick your ass either," I said. "But I'm hot and I'm
tired and if you give me the slightest reason I'll mash your fingers and ruin
your career as a cameraman." He looked askance and for a moment I wondered
if he'd call my bluff. Decking someone without cause generally went beyond my
code of values. He looked me over and finally caved in.

"Okay," he said, his breathing coming in
spurts. "What is it? What do you want?"

"Who do you know in there?"

"No one."

I pushed Scotty again, this time a little harder.

"Look," said Max. "We just went in there
to see this girl. She's kind of a friend."

"Who's that?"

"One of the dancers. Her name's Tiffany."

"And...?" I asked.

They looked at each other again. I could tell this time
something registered. Scotty spoke. "She's just a friend."

I wondered if I even had the energy to push him again
and finally decided against it. The day was too much of a scorcher.

"Look guys, I know what Tiffany is. I'm not a vice
cop, and I'm not looking to bust anyone for having some fun. But two people
have been killed and there aren't any clues except both of them were at the
bachelor party and both frequented that shit hole down the street. So if you're
holding out on me, I'm gonna make both of you pay when I find out. And remember
Max, I know where you live and who your father is."

He gulped a little, just like in the movies. "She's
a regular at some of our parties," Max said. "She's done some of the
guys on the team. Robbie used to bring her around. He knew all the people over
at Neary's." He said it with a measure of respect.

"It was weird," he continued. "It was
almost like Robbie's second home. Coming from a family like that, you'd of
thought he'd be the last one to hang out there."

"Give me a break. Was Robbie pimping?"

"No. But he'd do some, uh, favors for Tiffany and
some of the girls. They'd pay him back by taking it out in trade."

"Was he dealing coke in there?"

They shook their heads no, albeit rather adamantly.
"Was Danielle into this scene too?"

"Who?"

"Danielle," I said, patiently. "The other
stripper at the bachelor party."

"I don't think so. She was pretty new. I think
Tiffany just brought her along for the night."

I don't entirely know why, but I sighed with relief.
"You know anything about that bouncer, Curt?"

"He kinda looks after them," Scotty said.

It was the nicest definition of a slimeball I had ever
heard. I told them to take off. We went off in opposite directions, me making a
quick pit stop in the gas station for the third time this afternoon. I went
back into the truck and waited a while. Finally Curt emerged an hour later and
walked in the same direction as the other two. I followed close behind and as
he neared the alley I reached down to my ankle for my .38 special. I grabbed
him by the collar with my left hand and pointed the gun at his nose. Shoving
him into the alley, I instructed him to place hands on top of his head. Real
slow like, pardner.

"You lookin' to die, bud," he said softly, in
as ominous a manner as I had heard in a while.

I reached inside his pants pocket and yanked out his
pistol. "The Indians say this is as good a day as any."

He gave me a blank look and shook his head.

"It's from
Billy Jack
," I said.
"Don't you ever watch old movies?"

His eyes never wavered. "You dumb piece of
shit," he said.

"Let's not get nasty Curt," I said. "I'm
the one holding the guns."

"Fuck you and fuck your guns."

“Nice mouth.”

I reared back and kicked him square in the groin. He grunted
and clutched himself, falling to his knees in the process. With head bowed and
mouth twisted hideously, he grimaced so hard I almost sympathized with him.
Almost.

Taking a careful look around the alley, I saw that we
were alone. I reached into his pocket again and removed his wallet and keys. If
only my Scoutmaster could see me now. I noticed a large wad of greenbacks but
that was hardly my interest. After a minute of searching I found a car
registration. Curt Salvo was his name and a Marina del Rey address was listed.
He drove a one year old BMW. I put it back in the billfold and threw it at him.

"Get up," I said, and slapped him across the
top of his head to emphasize the request. Putting both guns in my pocket, I
kept my right hand inside, finger squarely on the trigger. Curt staggered to
his feet and I pushed him out of the alley.

"I’m gonna get you for this," he managed. How
many times had I heard that? It was as old as "you better be out of town
by sundown".

I directed him to go in the same direction as he had
been walking in, and half a block later we came across his maroon BMW. Opening
the door, I scanned the interior carefully, finding only empty coffee cups, a
dog-eared Thomas Brothers guide and a couple of porno magazines. One can never
do enough research, I suppose.

Moving around the side of the car I noticed Curt
was still slumped over, his hands placed precariously on his family jewels. I
unlocked the trunk and saw something that didn't belong. The carpet in the
trunk was grey, but a couple of large reddish-brown spots were smeared in the
corner. A few dark red drops were evident on the metal frame near the latch.
Blood stains.

I was torn between self-congratulation for my
ingenuity and loathing for lazy police investigations when I heard a noise
behind me. I wheeled around just in time to see a big hairy fist coming
straight at me. Before I could react, it caught me flush on the jaw and my face
felt as if it had been plugged into a 220-watt outlet.

I slumped over dizzily, seeing a barrage of colors swirl
past my eyes. As soon as things became partially clear I got whapped again and
felt myself hitting the pavement. I rolled over and struggled to clear my head
quickly. I sensed someone going through my pockets and I lashed out with my foot,
striking pay dirt as someone grunted loudly. As I got to my knees I heard a car
door slam shut, an ignition turn over, and felt a wall of hot exhaust fumes
shoot into my face. I coughed and spit, and by the time my vision cleared, the
BMW was gone. I reached into my pocket and found my wallet and keys, but
neither my gun nor Curt's was there. Damn.

The Purdue police station is much like any other
suburban precinct. Unaffected by much of the urban crime besetting blighted
inner city areas, it could almost pass for an insurance office. That is, if the
insurance agents carried pistols, wore blue uniforms and presented macho
personas.

I found Juan Saavedra's office and he was in his usual
repose, feet up on the desk reading a report.

"You ever think of going to work for a
corporation?" I asked. "You've got the perfect posture for it."

Saavedra looked up and did a double take. He was wearing
his standard grey suit, conservative tie and size thirteen shoes. A solid man
with close cropped silver hair and a rugged face, he looked every inch the
experienced police officer, so his casual, often breezy personality was
deceptive to those who didn't know him.

Juan Saavedra had been a plain clothes officer for so
long I couldn't picture him doing anything else. He had already put in his
twenty years which meant he could retire whenever he wanted and collect a full
pension. He enjoyed having a place to go each day though, a place where his
colleagues respected his knowledge of how to work within the bureaucratic
system, and more importantly, ways in which it can be manipulated. No one was
pressuring him to hang up his badge and gun yet. He knew where the bodies were
buried.

"Corporate life's a little too dangerous," he
observed. "I prefer the easier life of making our streets safe for the
decent people of River City."

"And how's that coming along?"

"It appears, senor" he said, removing his feet
from the top of the grey metal desk, "that the scumbags are winning."

"You have a true way with words. And it appears you
may be correct. For now, anyway."

Saavedra' face turned serious. "Who sapped
you?"

"A gentleman named Curt Salvo, or possibly one of
his cronies. I didn't get a good look. Curt runs a charming establishment in
Venice called Neary's."

"Right, Neary's. Is that the same place where those
strippers at the Freeman party work out of?"

"Yeah. I had a hunch your boss Lafferty might be
too eager to wrap up the Danielle Crowley murder. So I conducted a little private
look-see of my own. There's blood stains in his car trunk. Maroon BMW."

Saavedra shook his head. "Illegal search, my
friend. You need a warrant. Or probable cause."

"Correction my man in blue. It's you who need
probable cause and a warrant. I'm not limited by the same rules you are."

Saavedra sighed. "Burnside," he muttered.
"What the hell happened to you? You used to be the most straight laced cop
on the force. Never cut a corner. You lived and died by the book. You were the
type of cop the Department dreams of. Has being out on your own done this to
you?"

"Nope. Working on the force did."

Saavedra shook his head. "I'll talk to Lafferty
about checking out this Salvo guy closer. I dunno if we can impound the car
just to check out the trunk though."

"Be creative, Juan. You can swing something."

"I suppose we can always say his trunk was weighted
down or his tail lights weren't functioning," Saavedra mused.

A voice came from the doorway. "That is if we can
find him. Now that he knows we may have something he might just head for the
hills. You may have scared him off Burnside, you dumb asshole."

I turned and there was Mickey Batson leaning against the
door, a sneer pasted on his face. Just when you thought a guy couldn't appear
any more repulsive.

"If it isn't the winner of the Mister Ed look-alike
contest," I said.

"Hey, smart ass, I still owe you one. I haven't
forgotten."

"The only thing you guys have forgotten, Batson, is
how to do good detective work. If you had bothered to wonder about how the body
might have gotten into my office, you might have checked a few cars, too. Did
you think maybe they killed her and then took the bus over to my office? If it
wasn't for my, quote,
faux pas
today, you'd be ready to close this one
as fast as the Robbie Freeman case."

Batson took a step towards me and I was on my feet in an
instant. Saavedra moved quickly between us and positioned his bulky frame in
such a way that a brawl would be unlikely.

"None of that stuff in my office. Batson, why don't
you take it somewhere else," he said, and then looked to me. "And
you. Do you have to crack wise about everything? You can really get on a guy's
nerves."

I smiled. "You're not the first to point that
out."

Batson wheeled around and walked out, stopping at the
door to point a finger at me and inform me that we weren't finished yet. Big
surprise.

Saavedra reached over and handed me a DVD. "Here's
what you came for. I want it back tomorrow," he said and paused for a
moment. "You know, Batson has a point. Salvo probably jumped ship once he
knew what you found. We'll send someone around for him, but we may not be able
to find the guy now. And you keep away from him, hear me?"

"Sure. Just try looking at the glass as half full,
not half empty."

Juan Saavedra nodded slowly as if he had never heard the
expression before.

"Yeah," he remarked. "That reminds
me."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Where the hell are my Dodger tickets?"

*

I went back home to clean up and get my other gun. Unarmed
I felt naked and vulnerable. Placing the new .38 into my ankle holster boosted
my spirits and strengthened my outlook.

Checking my voice mail at the office, I listened to two
messages. My contact from Differential Insurance wanted an update on the Cindy
Wachs investigation. After a beep I heard the voice of Harrison Freeman wanting
to know what I had been doing the last few days, and if I had found the killer.
I decided to put off returning the calls. There was nothing encouraging I could
report to either.

I pressed an ice pack to my jaw, although my hands
eventually gave in to the temptation to let the bag roam all over my face. It
was a wondrously lavish feeling, however it did not serve to lower the swelling
much on my face. I looked into the mirror and decided the reflection didn't
look all that bad.

After downing a few glasses of ice water, my attention
turned to the party DVD. Slapping the disc into my computer, I hit the play
button and sat back to watch the frolicking for a second time. After a few
minutes of seeing Danielle and Tiffany prance around, I felt an unusually
strong urge to hit the fast forward button. Having watched Danielle be carted
off to the coroner's office like a butchered animal, seeing her on the DVD was
enough to turn my stomach. I concentrated instead on the activity in the
background and what the guests were doing, which mostly consisted of
post-adolescent jocks acting crude and embracing the typical behavior found at
bachelor parties.

All of the suspects were captured on the footage. Some
were in the thick of things, others like me hovered around the perimeter. The
camcorder did a good job of following the ladies' slinky movements although
sporadic jostling distorted the picture on a few occasions. In a number of
instances, the lens was aimed at the front door and I could vaguely see a few
young men entering the apartment. One in particular caught my eye because in
addition to wearing a jacket with the collar turned up, it seemed as if he were
walking towards the bedroom and not into the party. But since the charter of
the cameraman was to capture the performances of the nubile strippers, the
camcorder mostly followed Danielle and Tiffany. They did a copious job of
dancing about the room and there was ample opportunity to observe everyone. I
also saw the clock Saavedra had referred to, and it seemed accurate.

The only point where the camcorder took its eye
away from the women was when Lenny stumbled drunkenly and fell on his face. I
chuckled once more when Robbie counted him out to the utter delight of the
crowd. Robbie and Curt carried him off and it took Curt a full two minutes to
return to the party. Robbie never did. I replayed that two minute scene over
and over but the only unusual point springing forth was that Curt came back
into the room without the gun poking out of his holster. The clock on the wall
read eleven o'clock, just as I had remembered. The camcorder never lies.

The girls began to play the dildo game with
Danielle strapping an enormous green dildo around her pelvis and climbing into
Tiffany's waiting arms. Danielle was a bit hesitant at first, but Tiffany
whispered in her ear and stroked her hair, and the two of them began to go at
it. In the background, the revelers began to clap. The girls cavorted for a
minute or two and then stopped abruptly, the two talking quietly with each
other until Curt Salvo's husky voice told them to knock off the chatter. At
that point they invited some of the gentlemen to join them. The line forms to
the left, fellas.

The lens focused on the guys queued up for their turn.
Only Evan, Paul, Curt and one or two others remained on the sidelines. In the
background I noticed a figure slip quickly through the foyer and out the door.
It happened so fast and was in such a small part of the frame I barely noticed.
For a moment I thought it might have been me leaving, but I had departed just
before the girls began to frolic together. I replayed the scene, froze the
frame, ran it in slow motion, ran it in reverse slow motion, even put my magnifying
glass to the screen. Sherlock Holmes would have been proud, but it was all for
naught. The only thing I could see was a black arm opening and closing the
door. It wasn't much to go on. Hell, it wasn't anything to go on.

*

It was almost eight o'clock by the time I set out for
Evan Wurman's apartment in Westwood, which meant it would be growing dark in a
little while. Traffic was heavy, as everyone seemingly wanted to venture out
and play in the warm evening. Like all else in Los Angeles, lingering on the
freeway is the price of admission. The normal ten minute journey wound up
taking twice as long, as I battled through the gridlock. I just hoped he was
home.

Westwood village is a pleasant, upscale community just
west of Beverly Hills. There were numerous movie theaters, bistros and trendy
shops in the village, and the surrounding community was among the more
prestigious addresses in the southland. It was close to LAU and close to the
beach.

I parked on a side street that warned of towing if you were
not wealthy enough to actually reside in the neighborhood, and could display a
special sticker on your car. At one time there was a horrendous parking problem
for local residents as the Westwood theatergoers snagged most of the street
parking. Now the problem had shifted to the visitors. The merchants weren't too
happy as business began to trail off soon after the law was changed, but my
guess was the law would not revert back. The residents were among the most
elite professionals in the city and had significant clout. In most places
that's the name of the game.

The intercom was answered by a male voice that managed
to sound obnoxious by uttering a simple "who is it?" in a whiny,
impatient tone. I shouted the words "UPS" into the intercom and he
buzzed me up without a word.

I reached the fourteenth floor and rang the bell to
apartment 14G. A slender, almost effeminate looking kid in his early twenties
opened the door. He had blond hair slicked back with an overload of mousse and
a silver stud in his left ear. He wore a pair of dark blue Speedos and nothing
more. His chest had no hair to speak of and I would have sworn he shaved his
legs.

"Evan Wurman?" I asked.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked pleasantly.

I decided to try politeness for a change. "I'm a
private investigator. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

"Where's my UPS package?" he demanded.

"Kid, there is no package. It was a ruse."

"A what?"

Just then one of his neighbors walked out into the hall.
"Can I come in?" I asked. "This is pretty personal stuff."

Evan looked around for a moment and said no. Behind him
was an enormous living room featuring a long orange couch and a huge flat
screen TV. From what I could see, there were no pictures on the wall, nor any
window coverings. In the corner, a screen door led into a wrap-around balcony.

"Whaddya want?" he asked bluntly.

"I want to talk with you about the murder of Robbie
Freeman," I said, loud enough for his neighbor to hear without trying. I
thought that might have convinced him to take the conversation inside. Fat
chance.

"I don't know anything," he sneered.
"Fuck off."

So much for politeness. "Are you normally this
debonair?" I inquired. "Or has the weather fried your
disposition?"

He glared at me and swiveled his head around to look back
into the living room. "Pa-aul!" he called, almost singing the words.
"I got some trouble here!"

Some rustling could be heard in the background and a guy
about Evan’s age walked up to the door. He had straight black hair parted on
the side and sported a wispy moustache that barely made its way past his upper
lip. This one carried an extra adornment in the form of a large pistol in his
right hand. It was aimed at my belly button. Both myself and Evan looked down
at it. Being a smart ass could indeed reveal some things.