Post Pattern (Burnside Mystery 1) (17 page)

I arrived at the Freeman estate as a gardener was aiming
an obscenely loud leaf blower at a pile of Jacaranda blossoms. He wore a
surgical mask over his mouth and nose, and the tips of a pair of foam plugs
were visible inside his ears. At least someone found a way not to be bothered
by the ungodly noise of those contraptions.

I pounded the brass knockers and Mrs. Freeman answered
the door. She looked divinely chic in a turquoise nylon sweat suit with color
coordinated flip flops. Her chestnut colored hair was tied back with an orange
silk scarf. I decided she and Norman were probably the same
age.

"Harrison Freeman, please."

She gave me a truculent look. "This isn't about the
lot, is it?"

"No, I'm afraid it isn't."

"I'm Harrison's wife and I don't appreciate being
deceived. Or made a fool of."

"That wasn't my intent."

"Then you can tell me what this is about," she
declared. "You don't need to disturb Harrison. He was very upset this
morning. Everyone was."

I peered at her. "You want to know what I'm going
to tell Harrison?"

"And then I'll relay the message."

I nodded. "I'm going to tell him who killed his
son, Robbie," I said. "Would you like to get a pen and paper?"

She put her hand over her mouth. "You're
serious."

"I'm serious."

Her tawny eyes filled with concern and she ushered me in
without a word. I followed her into the living room where Harrison Freeman was
quietly watching the evening news in a dark green wing chair. Norman was with
him, lounging on the couch.

"Good evening," I said, my voice particularly
somber. This was not a time for jokes. What I was about to tell them was the
second bombshell they would have to endure in one week. I didn't envy them,
wealthy or not.

"Burnside," Harrison said, his voice anxious
and his face drawn. "What did you find in Robbie's apartment?"

"I found out who killed Robbie."

Both Harrison and Norman drew collective breaths.
Harrison's wife sat down quietly next to her husband, and pushed a button on
the remote control. The television went dark.

"Who?" he asked. "Tell me who and I'll
tear the son of a bitch apart limb from limb."

I shook my head. "The suspect is already in police
custody. And you've got the wrong gender as well."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"I have something to tell you. It won't be very
pleasant to hear or very easy to accept. But it's the truth and you need to
know it."

Norman sat up. "Who are you saying did it?"

I turned to him. "I'm sorry, kid. The police
arrested Ashley Stark today. She'll be charged with homicide."

"What?!" Norman screamed, jumping up.
"You're crazy!"

I shook my head. "Ashley entered the apartment
during the party. When Robbie and that pimp Curt dragged Lenny Caputo off to
the bedroom, Curt popped Robbie over the head. Curt returned to the party and a
few minutes later, Ashley threw him over the ledge."

Norman was on his feet, fists clenched, breathing
through his nose like an angry bull. His muscles were tensed and he seemed
poised to take action. Considering his state, I didn't especially want to
tangle with him right then, so I took care to avoid any wise ass comments.

"Lies!" he shouted. "Your a liar. I hired
you to investigate Robbie, not frame my fiancée!"

I rubbed the bridge of my nose without taking my eyes
off him.

"Your fiancée wears a white denim jacket, correct?
With stars on it?"

Norman nodded angrily. I continued.

"I noticed in the party DVD that somebody with a
white jacket entered the apartment. That same someone left later but without
the jacket, because all I saw was a black sleeve. Apparently she left the
jacket there, and we found it stuffed in Robbie's closet. Understandable, after
all, it was a hot night and she had other things on her mind. And inside the
jacket was a claim stub from a pawn shop. She hocked your engagement ring to
pay Curt. To help her take out Robbie. She slipped into the party and one of
the strippers there caught a glimpse of her in Robbie’s room. We know she was
there because she got a parking ticket outside the building that night.”

"That's nuts!" Norman said. "She told me
the ring slipped off her finger and..."

"What kind of a car does Ashley drive?" I
interrupted.

"Acura," he fumed. "Same as me."

"Is her license plate --," I stopped and took
out Saavedra' list of citations given that night. "6XYY618?"

Norman frowned. "I'm not sure."

"You can confirm that. And you can double check the
VIN numbers if you like. Her car was cited for a parking violation in front of
Robbie's apartment. At 10:58 p.m. That's about three minutes before your
brother was killed."

"But why?" Harrison frowned. "Just why
would she do all this?"

"I’m not sure yet. But I do know Ashley had a
checkered past. You probably don't know this, but she was arrested back in
Cleveland for prostitution."

"No way!" Norman shouted. "That's absurd!
I can't believe this guy!"

"It's true. And Ashley used to work at Neary's, the
strip joint Robbie and some of his friends hung out at. So that’s how she knew
Curt. Best I can figure is Robbie found out about Ashley's background and
threatened to reveal it to your family. Ashley whacked him to protect
herself."

"Protect herself?" Norman frowned. "But
from what?"

I looked over at Harrison and shook my head. Norman's
naïveté was a little much at times. "Million dollar families don't grow on
trees."

Harrison Freeman sat down and put his face in his hands,
while his wife stroked him softly. Norman meanwhile stood fixated in front of
the couch, fists still clenched, but his mouth was open and his expression was
of bewilderment more than anger. He didn't look like he wanted to take a swing
at me anymore. If anything, he looked rather helpless and pleading. Say it
ain't so, Burnside.

As if there weren't enough bombs dropped in the Freeman
household tonight, Norman uttered another one. As his father proffered a
horrified look, Norman asked where he could find Ashley. He wanted to be with
her. Despite the fact that she was a street walker who hired some ape to kill
her fiancée’s brother, or that she finally took it upon herself to throw Robbie
off a twenty-two story building, Norman Freeman still cared about her. Go
figure.

The whole family could have probably used some
professional counseling, but my license only covered investigations. And not feeling
it was my place to tell someone how to live, I gave Norman the address of the
Purdue precinct and wished him luck. Lord knows, the kid sure needed some.

*

I stopped by a florist shop and picked up a dozen
sterling roses, and they smelled as pretty as they looked elegant. I arrived at
Gail's apartment to find her dressed in sweats, makeup gone and her hair pulled
back. Handing the roses to her, I kissed her cheek.

"They're beautiful. Let me put them in water."

Taking a large crystal vase with squared panes lining
the exterior, she filled it from the tap halfway. Pulling a pair of scissors
from the drawer, she clipped the stems one by one so they fit in comfortably.
She placed the vase on the kitchen table carefully, and took a few steps back
to admire it.

"
Voila
," I said. "You do wonders
with simple things."

"It's not exactly out of Architectural Digest, but
it's a start."

We settled into the couch, Gail with a glass of Pinot
Noir, me with a bottle of Blue Moon. I offered to take her to dinner but she
thought ordering a pizza would be more appealing tonight. I could hardly
disagree. It had been a rough day.

She flicked on the television and seemingly the moment
it came on, a picture of Robbie Freeman flashed on the screen. The anchor
woman, a pretty Korean, said that a member of the LAU athletic staff had been
taken into custody and was being charged with murder. No mention of Norman was
forthcoming, however they showed a ten second talking head shot of Captain
Lafferty speaking about how he broke the case. Nobody bothered to ask him why
he had closed the case two days ago and declared Curt Salvo as the culprit.

"What a hero," Gail said dryly.

"Life isn't always fair," I reminded her.
"But things have a way of getting sorted out in the long run."

"You cracked that case. You deserve the
recognition."

"It's not everything. Feeling satisfied with myself
is worth a lot more. Not to mention the fee I collected for putting in one
week's work. Plus, I didn't do it alone. If it wasn't for you, the suspect might
be halfway down the Baja right now. I owe you."

Gail managed a smile, albeit a little one. "That
brings up something else you owe me, you rat."

"Rat? Me?"

"Yes, you!" she said, elbowing me softly in
the ribs but managing to cause me to wince nonetheless. "In case you don't
know, it's common courtesy to talk to a girl the day after you sleep with her
for the first time."

I raised my hand in surrender. "You have a point. I
get kind of involved in my cases."

"And you especially should have called when you left
without saying good-bye."

I frowned. "You looked so lovely. I didn't want to
wake you."

"Next time wake me. It's an empty feeling to find
yourself alone when you're not expecting it. I feel a little vulnerable
afterwards."

"Message received," I said, happy there would
be a next time. I sipped some beer and the sports anchor came on and talked
about the Dodgers snatching defeat from the jaws of victory by walking in two
runs during the ninth inning today. Not everyone was on a roll.

"That was part of why I came over today," she
said. "The other part was about Ashley."

"I know. Dick Bridges told me."

Gail shook her head. "What a faker. Ashley Stark
had everyone on campus assuming she came from a ritzy background. I met her
once and came away thinking she was part of a Midwest aristocracy. She told me
her father was a meat packing executive before he died. And that her parents
were killed in a private jet crash over Bali. My contact in Ohio said in
actuality she was a second generation whore. Father unknown. Ashley had been
walking the streets since she was an adolescent. It's not difficult to see how
someone could become so hardened that way. She had everyone fooled."

“Especially Norman,” I said. “She was a good actress.
Most whores are."

Gail stroked my wrist and seemed to read my mind.
"Bringing back some memories of Judy? There's not much you can do about
that one. You tried to help and she betrayed you. A real Judas."

"I was also thinking of Danielle. I tried to help
her and couldn't."

"You know," she said, "there are some
things you just can't fix."

"Maybe," I answered. "But if you give up
on others it just means you give up on yourself. It's a negative sum
game."

*

My Pathfinder was ready a few days later and it looked
good on the outside. The grill was shiny once more and the radiator, fender and
front end had been replaced. The garage had even gone the extra yard and washed
it. Gleaming in the warm sunlight, it looked as sturdy as ever. The Focus had
gotten me where I needed to go, but the Pathfinder was like a dependable old
friend. It was a part of me.

I returned the game DVD I owed Johnny Cleary and told
him I wasn't ready to trade in my magnifying glass for a whistle and a tackling
sled. Football had been Johnny's whole life; for me it was a stepping stone to
something more intriguing, not to mention more satisfying. The Ashley Starks of
the world posed a bigger challenge than Notre Dame ever could.

There was one piece of old business left and I decided
to take care of that today. The mechanic at the garage had apologized for not
having the proper chrome side molding yet so I asked him for a favor. I
suggested he lend me something that would cut through thick metal with as
little fuss as possible. He blinked a few times but then pulled out an enormous
pair of wire clippers that were so sharp they could sheer a man's hand off at
the wrist. I told him it would definitely do the job. To his credit, he didn't
bother to ask what exactly that was.

I arrived at the home of Cindy Wachs at a little after
three. Parking my truck across the street, I calmly walked across her driveway
and began to work on the padlock that was hooked into her garage door. If any
of her neighbors noticed, they kept it to themselves. After a couple of tries I
snipped the lock open, jerked it out and put it in my pocket. I replaced it
with a padlock of a similar style. Then I went back into my truck and waited.
And waited.

At about six-thirty Mrs. Wachs came chugging along. She
turned her Plymouth Fury into the driveway and slowly eased out of her car. The
oversized brace was still wrapped conspicuously around her neck and she moved
with the fragility of a woman twice her age. As she went to unlock the garage
however, a curious thing began to happen.