Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (15 page)

I stopped off at the Purdue precinct looking for Captain
Lafferty but he hadn't arrived yet. Saavedra was supposedly in, but nowhere to
be found. When I'm on to an important stage in an investigation I despise
waiting, so I poked around looking for a familiar face. And I found one.

"Hello, Detective," I said as pleasantly as I
could.

Mickey Batson looked up from his newspaper and put his
doughnut down. Cops eating doughnuts were now as stereotyped as Italians eating
pasta, Jewish people eating lox, or Irishmen drinking beer.

"You lost, boy?" he said, wiping some powdered
sugar from his moustache.

"No sir," I answered politely, looking down at
his LA Times. "You're just the man I'm looking for. How'd you like to get
your name on the front page?"

"You know I still owe you one from last week, ya
sonuvabitch," he said, standing up and pointing a finger at me. "You
keep playing around and I'll pay off that debt right here and now."

I swallowed my thoughts that might have suggested the
debt, like his I.Q. had room to grow. But I needed Batson right now and being a
smart ass would have no upside here. Entering Robbie Freeman's apartment on my
own was too dangerous and would jeopardize whatever I discovered in there. I
decided to pacify him.

"Sorry about the other night," I said.
"It was a hot one. I lost my head."

"You lost it all right. Damn stupid thing to do,
messing with me. I've put guys twice your size in the hospital."

I held up my hands. "I have no doubts."

"And you ever mouth off to me again and I won't
hold nothing back. We clear on that?"

"Clear," I said. As a crystal blue lake in the
Canadian Rockies, I thought poetically but kept to myself. "I don't want
us to be enemies, Mickey."

"Okay," he relented. "What the hell do
you want then?"

"How'd you like to solve the Robbie Freeman
case?"

"The Freeman case is closed. We solved it."

I shook my head. "It's re-opening."

"Says who?"

"There's something in Robbie's apartment that may
show that he had another visitor in his bedroom that night. Someone besides
Curt Salvo, someone who had access to the apartment. An insider. You know
yourself everyone was accounted for at that party. The DVD proved it."

"What's in there, then?"

I pretended to grope for an answer. "I'd rather
show you then tell you."

"Still a real cutie pie, huh?"

"It won't take long. And you might wind up a
hero."

Batson looked me in the eye. He blinked first.
"Y'know," he began, "I wondered about that whole case. Lafferty
did eighty-six the thing pretty quick. Lafferty's an asshole. I wouldn't mind
showing him up."

"I can help," I said. Nothing like spreading
harmony.

Batson smiled brutally. "Let's motor."

*

We took Batson's unit which thankfully had leg room, not
to mention a powerful air conditioner. The trip took about ten minutes, during
which time Batson and I discovered we had a few friends in common within LAPD.
Will wonders never cease.

Arriving at the building, Batson flashed his gold shield
at the security guard. "We're goin' upstairs, pardner. Apartment 2201. Get
the key."

The guard shook his head. "No got."

I put my hand up and jingled the keys Harrison Freeman
gave me. "I'm one step ahead of you."

Batson shook his head. "Leave it to a private
dick."

We went up to Robbie's apartment and unlocked the door,
slipping latex gloves on our hands before entering the premises. The silence of
being twenty-two flights up hit me as we walked through the living room. The
street noise, car horns blaring, the hum of the freeway, those banal sounds of
urban life were all left far beneath us. It was similar to being on a tranquil
airplane cruising far above the world of the living. Perhaps the reason I
hadn't noticed this during the party was because the thunderous pounding of the
stereo had created far more of a disturbance than any ruckus on the street
could have provided.

The sliding glass door had been left open and that
should have ventilated the apartment, but the putrid odor of stale beer still
lingered in the air. The living room had that morning-after-a-party appearance,
with paper cups partially filled with golden colored liquid and half eaten bags
of chips strewn hither and yon. A garbage pail outside of the kitchen was piled
high with empty cans and bottles, along with a few Styrofoam coffee cups
undoubtedly left by the valiant men in blue. I lamented the days when cops left
no stone unturned; this was a case where that attitude might have speeded up
the process and kept a few people alive. There were plenty of stones that lay
undisturbed and a vicious snake was hiding under one of them.

I walked into the bathroom and was immediately taken by
its enormity. There was a black marble floor, stand alone sink with gold
faucets, sparkling blue tile shower unit and a Jacuzzi situated smack dab in
the middle of the room. A pair of soft beige towels hung evenly on the gold
rack. On the sink lay a few reminders that a freewheeling bachelor once thrived
there. Menthol shaving cream, safety razor, cologne, and a few condoms lined
the top of the sink. I opened a drawer out of curiosity, only to find dental
floss, two kinds of mouthwash and a slender can of mousse lying undisturbed.

"You said something about evidence in here?"
Batson said, checking his watch.

"Right," I answered and headed for Robbie's
bedroom, with Batson in tow. He gave a low whistle as we walked into the room,
the mirrored ceiling obviously striking a chord in his soul. Every overgrown
adolescent's dream room. I opened the closet door, a huge walk-in that could
have almost served as a second bedroom. A long rack of clothing, mostly golf
and dress shirts of various colors, different slacks, jeans, and a number of
jackets. On the floor were at least two dozen pair of shoes, boots and
sneakers, and a pile of shirts lay bundled together that were obviously
awaiting a trip to the dry cleaners. Folded carefully next to the bundle was a
white denim jacket that looked brand new.

I lifted the jacket and began to inspect it. There were
brass buttons going up the front of the garment and silver stars sewn into the
collar. It might have been worn a few times but had a stiff feel to it and did
not appear to have been washed yet. The size was listed as medium.

Rifling through the pockets, I pulled out a few pieces
of paper and a pack of spearmint gum. Unfolding one of the papers I came across
a credit card receipt from a restaurant in Venice, a ticket stub from a local
movie theater, and a voucher from the Beverly Hills pawn shop. I handed the
receipt to Batson and pointed to the name. He gave a laugh, albeit cynical, and
handed it back to me.

"Ain't that a kick in the ass," he chuckled.

While one could hope for greater eloquence in a crusty
world, Batson's comment was nevertheless quite poignant.

*

We arrived back at the precinct at one-thirty and Batson
went to swear out a warrant. He asked me to help him out and do a background check
of the pawn ticket and I agreed. He had, after all, gone out of his way to
visit Robbie's apartment with me. He wasn't a bad cop, just overly dour and
skeptical. I was beginning to feel sorry I kicked him in the shin.

While in the police station, I decided to track down
Juan Saavedra and finally corralled him in front of the coffee machine. Like
most institutional coffee makers, this one served up a sour black swill that
was devoid of anything resembling taste. He stirred some non-dairy creamer into
a large mug featuring a Superman insignia on the outside, and followed that up
with a packet of artificial sweetener. Next to the mug was a pair of cupcakes,
dipped in artificial chocolate, with a white squiggly line down the center.

"Have you ever thought of trying food you can
savor?"

"Nah", he said. "It takes a real man to
keep this down."

"I get it. You'll turn your nose up at Quiche
Lorraine but coffee a la mud gets a hearty endorsement."

"You know Burnsy, I still find it amazing you were
once on the job. You're not into disciplining yourself. How'd they ever let you
in?"

"The brass liked my tenacity. They just didn't
expect me to turn it on them towards the end."

Saavedra pondered that a moment and then motioned for me
to follow him. We walked down the corridor and entered his office. A pile of
paperwork laid spread out on his desk. He combed through a stack of folders and
quickly pulled out a single sheet of paper.

"Here," he said, handing me the page.
"Eighteen citations written that night in front of the Freeman apartment.
My kids are looking forward to the Mets. They want to see R.A. Dickey."

"No one throws a better knuckleball."

"Ain't that the truth."

I glanced at the list. "I really appreciate this,
Juan."

"You getting any warmer towards cracking this
case?" he asked.

"Warmer?" I responded. "My fingers are
burning, my friend."

*

The Beverly Hills pawn shop was located not in Beverly
Hills but a few minutes east of that venerable city. It was actually closer to
the Fairfax district, an older neighborhood whose shops ranged from discount
appliance stores to kosher butchers. The streets were bustling, as elderly
ladies walked in and out of the small markets, clutching brown paper sacks
filled with the day's purchases.

I parked in front of a fruit stand and stopped off for a
healthy lunch. After watching Saavedra put away that chemical-laden snack, I
almost swore off everything that wasn't organically grown. I grabbed a pair of
green apples, a pear and a banana, handed the clerk four dollars, and happily
strolled along the boulevard munching away. The weather was balmy, the
temperature in the high seventies and the sky was as lascivious a blue as Los
Angeles could offer. I stopped outside of the pawn shop to finish the last two
bites of the banana and tossed the refuse in a nearby dumpster.

The door to the pawn shop was locked, but a swarthy man
in a blue nylon shirt with his undershirt visible signaled me to wait. He came
around the counter and pushed a button which activated the buzzer and unlocked the
door. As I walked in he said hello in an accent I couldn’t identify. He had
black, thinning hair, a wide moustache, and was probably thirty pounds
overweight. The inside of the shop smelled of what might have been curry and I
discovered I wasn't the only one indulging in a late lunch. A paper plate with
a pile of rice and indistinguishable mustard colored nuggets sat on the
counter.

"How may I hepp you?" he managed.

I pulled out the pawn ticket and handed it to him. He
perused it the way a liquor store clerk might examine a phony I.D. and went to
his files to look up the number. He took his time scanning through his records
before nodding his head.

"Yes. Zat will be five thousand two hundred and
seventy dollars."

I reached into my wallet and pretended to count the
contents carefully. My walking around money came to eighty-six bucks. I looked
up at his placid face.

"I thought it was four thousand. I'm a little
short. Can I pay you the difference tomorrow?"

The man shook his head. "Is not possible. Five thousand
two hundred and seventy dollars," he repeated. "Cash."

"Yes. Can I just look at it for a moment? There's
something on it I'd like to see."

He shook his head vigorously, which indicated
negotiations were closed. "All jewelry in the safe. I can not open. Boss
has combination."

"Aha," I said, figuring he used that line
about twice a day. I was hoping to find out what exactly had been pawned but at
least I knew it was something of considerable value. If they pawned it at five
thousand, it was surely worth at least two or three times that.

I thanked the man for his time and told him someone
would be back for this. He nodded as if he could care less, buzzed me out and
went back to his meal of curried lumps. I drove back to the Purdue precinct to
pick up Batson, and we headed over to the LAU campus, followed by a pair of
uniformed officers in a police cruiser.

"After we make the collar, we should probably go
back and pick up that registry from Robbie's building," Batson said.
"We scanned through it the night of the murder, but at least now we know
what we're looking for."

"Figured out there's no twenty-third floor?" I
asked casually.

"Aw hell, Burnside. With all the shit we have to
do, there ain't enough time in the day to go over each detail. At least we can
check out this Chris Wynne's handwriting against the suspect's. If we even need
it. They may confess."

"Sure," I laughed. "Right after it snows
in downtown Burbank."

It was about three-thirty when we arrived at Graddis
Hall. As the four of us walked towards the entrance I noticed a few young women
standing over on a grassy patch next to the building, sipping on cans of Diet
Coke. One of the women immediately caught my glance and stepped away from the
group. As it became clear we had arrived for her, the can of soda slipped from
her fingers and toppled over on the lawn. She took a few steps backward and
then broke into a dead sprint in the other direction. The four of us gave chase
at once, but one thing proved clear. Ashley Stark was going to make us work.