Fade Route (Burnside Mystery 2) Read online

  It took the paramedics five minutes to arrive, which put them a few minutes ahead of the police. The investigating officer was a plainclothes detective named Barney Sack, a bloated man with curly black hair and a face that could have been composed from silly putty. Depending on how the light hit him, he could appear striking and intense, or opaque and non-descript. I got the feeling if someone stuck a pin in him, he might start to deflate.

  Since I was the one who discovered Wayne's body, I was one of the first to be interviewed. Sack had a rumpled look about him, with the top button of his yellow polyester shirt open and the brown rep tie pulled down. At first glance one might think he was working hard, but my guess was he probably left the house each day with this look. He worked for the Bay City Police Department but he could have been with just about any law enforcement agency. I knew the type. Enough years in a police uniform breeds nothing if not a healthy dose of cynicism.

  "Name?" Sack asked, looking down at a clipboard as he chewed the crust of a sandwich.

  "Burnside," I answered.

  "What time did you find the victim?" he queried, his face still buried in his paperwork.

  "About an hour ago."

  "Did you know Fairborn well?"

  "Somewhat," I said. "Wayne was the founder of Second Chance. I've known him for about a year, and I've done volunteer work for him. Off and on for about twelve months."

  Sack sniffed. "Big of you."

  I didn't like the comment but chose not to respond. Bay City had for decades been a haven for the homeless, maybe not as much as Skid Row in downtown L.A., but it was a problem nevertheless. My involvement with the Center started innocently enough. Last year I had read that Wayne and Rusty Haas would be making presentations about Second Chance, and I stopped by to speak with Rusty. I had always felt a little bad about what happened to him when we played Notre Dame many years ago. He listened to my apology but offered nothing in the way of forgiveness. Wayne was nearby and struck up a conversation, and the next thing I knew I was being asked to take part in their organization. As Burnside Investigations had seen a dip in business last year, the firm's owner and star employee agreed to be a part of a charitable cause. I had an abundance of spare time after Gail left, and wanted to give a little something back to the community. Get out and meet a few people, improve the world a bit. Sitting at home and brooding was not good for the soul. And Wayne, a born politician, was very effective at persuasion.

  "Were you alone when you found the victim?" Sack asked, looking back at his clipboard.

  I paused for a moment. "Are you reading these questions off a form?"

  The detective looked incredulously at me. "What did you say?"

  "I merely inquired whether you were thinking up those questions yourself, or if you found an old copy of Dick Tracy's crime stopper handbook."

  Sack stepped forward and put his face up near mine. He pointed a finger and tried to look menacing.

  "You think this is a game?" he asked, and then continued on without waiting for a reply. "Well it ain't. Quit mouthing off or you're going to spend some time in the hoosegow. Clear?"

  I paused for a moment to see if he was planning on answering that question too. Since I had been let go from the LAPD three years ago, cops were not my favorite group of people.

  "Clear," I finally responded. "Like an azure sky in deepest summer."

  Sack's eyes widened but discretion quickly took over. He glanced at the crowd of people milling about, probably remembering that some of them were reporters. Nobody likes a cop with a short fuse, except maybe in the movies.

  "Just let me do the intake," Sack said wearily and stepped back. "Again. Were you alone when you found him?"

  "All alone."

  "Why did you go upstairs?"

  "Well, it's like this. Whenever I hear a gunshot I believe it's my civic duty to investigate. It's just in my blood."

  "It may get you killed one day," he said, peering at me. "You ever do Security work?"

  "Thirteen years on the force. LAPD."

  A look of pain came over Sack's face. "You were on the job? What the hell are you giving me such a hard time for then? You know the routine! Why make our lives difficult?"

  I grinned at him. "Nothing personal against you. Let's just say I've developed an attitude problem."

  "You were dismissed," he guessed.

  "That's putting it delicately. I have a history that would straighten your hair."

  Sack wiped his face with his fat hand and then looked at the palm to see how much sweat had accumulated. He flung some moisture to the floor and turned back to his clipboard.

  "Who's this Nina Lovejoy?" he asked.

  "Volunteer with the Center. She's only been with Second Chance for about a month."

  "She sure left her card in an interesting place," he chuckled sarcastically.

  "Come on Sack. She's about as likely a suspect as Mother Theresa. She went upstairs with Wayne, sure, but...."

  "Was she the last person you saw with Fairborn?"

  I stared at him. "Yes. But you don't actually think Nina was involved?"

  "Well, I think maybe she's using a little reverse psychology here. Folks see her go upstairs with the deceased, so she knows she'll be a suspect. Drop her card on the victim to make us doubt her. People can surprise you. I've seen it all, believe me."

  I blinked a few times. "The old reverse psychology trick," I managed. "I guess they have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool you, Sack."

  "Damned early," he said with a measure of pride. "Why don't we see if we can finish this up quickly, eh? I got a lot of people to talk to."

  Finally I agreed with him on something. "Me too," I said.

  *

  Sack took my contact information and instructed me not to leave town without telling him. This would hardly pose a problem. I not only didn't have enough money to take a vacation, but I would barely meet my office rent this month.

  The police continued their investigation and I began mine. No one was paying me and the police would undoubtedly prefer I stay out of their way. There were a couple of problems with that, though. Wayne Fairborn was a friend, but more importantly he was a friend with a problem and had solicited my help. To find out who killed him, I would first have to learn why he needed me in the first place. No one was paying me, but aside from trailing the dermatologist's wife through a cornucopia of shopping malls, I didn't have much else to fill my days.

  In addition to Wayne and I, there had been three people at the workshop tonight who had previously done volunteer work at Second Chance. There was Nina Lovejoy, her boyfriend Mel, and Wayne's brother-in-law, Rusty Haas. As best I could remember, none were downstairs when the shooting occurred. And none were around when the smoke had cleared.

  I tried to talk with some of the new volunteers, but after Sack took notice he directed a couple of the uniformed officers to usher me out of the building. As I was escorted into the street, I noticed someone else following us. From his bulky physique, I wondered if Sack hadn't directed one of his goons to work me over. My stomach tensed as he drew near.

  "Hey, got a minute?" he asked, as the uniforms trudged past him and walked back inside.

  "That depends," I said warily. "What are you selling?"

  The big man shook his head, his jowls jiggling ever so slightly. "Not selling anything. Just want to talk."

  "That's usually my line. Who are you?"

  He gave me a business card with the emblem of the Bay City Tribune on it. "I'm a reporter. Name's Virgil Hairston."

  "There used to be a basketball player on the Lakers named Hairston," I remembered. "His nickname was Happy."

  "No relation," he said, sticking out his hand. "If there was, I got the fat genes, he got the tall ones."

  I shook the hand and put his card in my pocket. "I'm Burnside. I'm a friend of Wayne Fairborn. And also a volunteer at the Center."

  "And a private dick if my acute hearing is still working right."

  "I
nvestigator. We like to be called private investigators. The word dick seems to have taken on a whole new meaning in the last fifty years."

  Hairston smiled a little. "Understandable. What's this Second Chance about?"

  "It's a Center designed to help the homeless. It's not a soup kitchen like the one they have near City Hall. It's more of a Placement Center to teach people how to get jobs and support themselves. We give them a helping hand, get them a room somewhere, but it's ultimately up to them to make a life for themselves."

  "Sounds like a worthwhile program. Lord knows there are enough homeless around. Think it'll get all these people off the streets?"

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "Some are too far gone. This place helps people who can still function in mainstream society."

  "What do we do with the rest?" he asked.

  "Damn good question."

  Hairston jotted something in a notebook and looked up at me. "Were you the candidate's bodyguard?"

  I shook my head no. "He's only running for mayor of Bay City. I don't think he's in the type of league where bodyguards are required."

  "When he's running against a guy like Jim Callison, you don't take risks."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning there's lots at stake here. Rumor has it Callison's pockets are well lined. A fellow gets used to a lifestyle like that, he don't want to give it up so easily."

  "And Wayne was becoming a threat."

  "Big threat. Not only to the Mayor, but to the people supporting him. There are a couple of major commercial developments in the works in Bay City. Nothing's been approved yet so the business community is, well, concerned."

  "You got any ideas yet?" I asked.

  "I was hoping you might," he smiled.

  "Let's keep in touch," I said, and handed him my card.

  He nodded and went back inside and I walked over to my Nissan Pathfinder. It was dark and quiet out as I climbed behind the wheel. I felt a shudder go through my body. The thought of Wayne sitting there lifeless in his chair was enough to make me want to stop at the nearest bar. But drowning my sorrows could wait. There was some business to attend to.

  The soft September wind rustled through the tall eucalyptus trees as I drove through the darkened bayside streets. The setting seemed more like small town Peyton Place than suburban Los Angeles. Bay City, a beach community just adjacent to Los Angeles, was strange that way. Some parts of it had the calm serenity of a charming, picturesque burg; other sections had the loud cacophony of a pulsating urban city.

  Nina Lovejoy lived in a condominium complex in an upscale part of town, north of Wilshire. There was a security gate, and tall, strapping pines bordered a winding path between the white buildings. I followed a resident in through the gate, and after a few minutes navigated my way to her unit. The bell chimed three times after a single push.

  I heard Nina approach, but then there was a silent pause as she most likely glanced through the peephole before opening the door.

  "Burnside," she said, a tinge of trepidation edging out of her voice.

  "Sorry I'm stopping by so late. You left the Center quickly this evening."

  Her orange miniskirt had been replaced by a scarlet t-shirt and powder blue jeans that could have been painted on. She still had on makeup, but would probably look good without it. This woman was clearly a treat for the eyes.

  "Would you like to come in?"

  I entered the living room, a small, tastefully decorated area with broadloom carpeting, recessed lighting, and a number of brightly colored paintings. I sat down on a director's chair that looked far more comfortable than it actually was.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked. "You look very strange."

  "You haven't heard?" I countered, eyeing her carefully.

  She shook her head no. The movement seemed genuine, but my new buddy Sack had been right about one thing. People can indeed fool you.

  I took a deep breath, as much for drama as for strength. "Wayne Fairborn was killed tonight. Someone shot him to death."

  She looked at me blankly. "Wayne? Are you serious?"

  "Yes."

  She shook her head slowly. "There must be some mistake. I was just with him."

  "No mistake," I said in a somber voice. "Wayne is dead. He was shot in his office."

  The eyes grew huge, and I saw shock beginning to set in. The large china blue eyes began to water. Her full, sensuous lips parted. She blinked a few times, and the tears trickled down her cheeks.

  "Wayne?" she repeated. "That can't be true."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Oh my. Oh my, no. No! NO!"

  She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed without restraint. Her long hair fell in front of her face and when she gave a big sniffle, she flung it back violently. She wiped her face with her hands, grabbed a few tissues and rubbed her eyes and her cheeks. Her breath came in spurts. When she turned back to me, her face held a child-like vulnerability, a clean purity you only see in a person when their defenses have been stripped away.

  "This is horrible," she sobbed. "I was just with him less than a few hours ago. Who could have done something like that?"

  "We don't know yet, Nina. The police are going to come by and ask you what happened. Remember, you don't have to talk to them. You have the right to an attorney."

  "What are you saying? I didn't have anything to do with... oh, you can't mean..."

  "They think you're a suspect."

  "That's crazy," she cried. "How could anyone think that?"

  I pulled out my address book and wrote down the phone number of an excellent criminal defense attorney.

  "Call this man tonight," I said, "and do whatever he tells you to do. From everything I've seen, you have at least someone convinced you didn't do it."

  "Thank you," she said. "That helps."

  I nodded. Sometimes a brevity of words can speak volumes. I left without saying anything more.

  Chapter 3

  I awoke at five the next morning to the sound of a bed creaking violently. Disdaining alarm clocks, my nocturnal slumber was normally disrupted by either a homeless person digging through the garbage cans outside my window or by an overactive libido. About twice a week my downstairs neighbor, Ms. Linzmeier, would engage in some horizontal exercise with a boyfriend who apparently had little use for sleep. I considered pounding on the floor but decided they were too focused to hear anything. Instead I listened and thought of Gail Pepper, and a maudlin feeling of loneliness swept over me. We had met last year, and she quickly became an integral part of my life. I missed Gail tremendously, and though Berkeley was just up the coast, it seemed a million miles away. I took a hot shower and tried to forget the pain in my soul for a while.

  It was still dark when I fixed three cups of French roast coffee and sat at my desk to read the online fish wrap, also known as the website for L.A.'s premier daily newspaper. Good coffee was one of the pleasures I afforded myself, regardless of whatever financial circumstances I happened to be in. The one I was mired in now was not pretty. But some habits simply become part of your life, and the cost of a good pot of coffee was relatively small. I wasn't ready to shelve everything because of a small detail like insolvency.

  The L.A. Times story on Wayne was buried in the second section and was brief. Far more space was devoted to USC's football team which had won its first three games, and would now begin conference play. The weather would be the same all week, high of 74, low of 55. As I finished combing through the news, a queasy feeling came over me. I had committed a faux pas last night by interfering with a police investigation. If Sack found out, he could easily collar me and make my life profoundly miserable. And if Nina Lovejoy had actually committed the shooting, I could be charged with aiding and abetting a murderer. Taking my license away would merely be a prelude for harsher things to come.

  When a person reaches a certain age though, they learn to trust their instincts. Gut feeling becomes part of the process. I had been in law enforcement for over sixteen yea
rs and had cultivated what I believed to be a keen eye for when someone was being straight with me. My gut had only failed me once, and that misstep had cost me my badge. If it failed me this time I stood to lose a good bit more. Without my P.I. license I might spend the rest of my days wearing a rent-a-cop uniform and snoozing at a security desk. But I'd bet the ranch that Nina Lovejoy had nothing to do with Wayne's murder. Only a small part of me harbored any doubt.

  Not being acquainted with many officers at the Bay City Police Department, and not having impressed many last night, I concluded that paying them a visit now would hardly serve my better interests. I had a very casual acquaintance with a uniform named Carl O'Brien who played in my softball league, but decided to save that one for another occasion. His nickname was Ox and if he performed police work like he played catcher, he would be a good guy to have on my side.

  I skipped breakfast and decided to take a drive into the South Bay to begin talking with a few people who were at Second Chance last night. As I headed down the crowded San Diego freeway, I felt as if I were driving within the confines of a misty cloud, the color of a soiled shirt collar. The smog had been exceptionally thick the past few days, the local meteorologists claiming an inversion layer was trapping warm air within the foothills that surrounded the Los Angeles basin. Technically they were mountains, but anyone who had driven through Colorado or Utah found that laughable. These large foothills created abominable temperatures in the local valleys and often prevented the cool ocean breezes from keeping the southland ventilated. September was the worst month of the year for smog, and thankfully it was almost over.

  The address I had listed for Rusty and Sara Haas was on Emerald Street in Redondo Beach. It was a small house, painted light blue, and sat on a little hill across the street from a park. The interior probably held less square feet than my apartment, but was undoubtedly worth in excess of half a million dollars. As they say, location is everything.

  I rang the bell, and a sleepy looking guy wearing a purple and gold Lakers t-shirt opened the door. He mumbled hello and tried to blink some daylight into his eyes.

  "Hi there," I said loudly, flashing a gold badge that read "Private Investigations" in flashy blue lettering. "Name's Burnside. I'm conducting an inquiry. Can I see some identification?"