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  SWIM MOVE

  Book # 10 in the Burnside Mystery Series

  By

  David Chill

  Copyright © 2019 by David Chill

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or deceased, is purely coincidental. The author assumes no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Curse of the Afflicted

  Chapter 1

  It is an unfortunate truth that children often pay the price for the sins of their fathers. In the case of Amanda Zeal, however, she seemed to have lived a dreamy life for the better part of her twenty-four years. But looks are deceiving, and Amanda had committed a few costly sins of her own during that stretch.

  I had played football with Amanda’s father back in high school, and we had not bothered to stay in touch. That was fine by me. Phil Zellis was the son of a policeman, and was a tenacious guy who never shied away from a fight. In fact, he would instigate many of these, often taking curious steps to provoke physical altercations. It didn’t matter if the other kid was bigger or smaller than he was. What mattered was Phil being able to prove he could dominate anyone in his path. He called it getting respect. The school psychologist called it something else.

  It had been a few decades since I had last seen Phil, and like most of us who landed in middle age, he looked quite different as an adult than he did in high school. But Phil’s changes were largely cosmetic. When he entered my office, he was wearing a black leather waistcoat over a gold cashmere sweater, and had on tailored gray slacks. He sported a shiny gold Rolex, and his tan loafers had tassels on them. Even the haircut seemed expensive. From a distance, he probably appeared dapper and elegant and handsome. Up close, however, he looked like none of those things. His physique was sturdy and tough, and he didn’t come across as someone to be taken lightly. His face conveyed a hoodlum-like quality, albeit a hood who had managed to acquire an awful lot of money.

  Amanda walked into my office behind him. She had an athlete’s physique, square shoulders and long arms, and she was as attractive as he was repulsive. Her demeanor was confident and poised. She had long blonde hair and a pretty face, accented with soft-violet eye shadow and deep-red lipstick. She was dressed in a tight black top and tight black pants. They looked nice on her. Everything looked nice on her. I started to wonder if the two of them were actually related.

  “Burnside,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “It’s been a while. You look good.”

  “I know.”

  The slightest hint of an ugly smile appeared quickly in the corner of his mouth. It disappeared just as fast. Amanda just gave me a bored look and didn’t say anything. They sat down.

  “You were probably surprised by my call this morning,” he said.

  “Not much surprises me these days,” I said slowly. “But I don’t expect much, either.”

  Phil took this in. “I should have kept in touch. But you know, life gets in the way.”

  “I’d say life’s been good to you,” I observed.

  “Good and bad,” he said. “Like everyone else, I guess.”

  For Phil, it was probably more good than bad. “So, what have you been doing the last twenty-five years?” I asked.

  “I’ll give you the short version. Got married early. Suzy was my college sweetheart. We were married junior year.”

  ”Let me guess. She was pregnant.”

  Amanda stopped looking bored and Phil shot me a suspicious glance. “How did you know?”

  “Deductive reasoning,” I smiled, wondering if he would understand I was lying. But Phil’s story was not all that unusual. I had a few teammates at USC whose girlfriends ended up pregnant. Some players went and married them, but most of these couples ended up divorcing within a few years and moved on. Except for the kids, though, whose lives were forever shaken by their parents’ split. When it came to girls, I made sure I took precautions, the careful approach of someone who had lost both of his parents before his eighteenth birthday. When life throws you curveballs, you become tentative about what else the world has in store for you.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “We got married, we had Amanda. Our next kid, Aaron, we waited five years for him. At least I had a paycheck by then. Working in Suzy’s family business.”

  “Good job security,” I remarked.

  “Best kind there is.”

  “And now you’re divorced.”

  The look Phil shot me this time was less suspicious and more annoyed. “You figured that out, too?”

  I smiled and shook my head. Before Phil came over, I took some time and combed through the internet. Even though Phil and I both grew up in Culver City, his journey was far different from mine. We had played football together, but while I managed to secure a scholarship to USC, Phil went to Vassar College in upstate New York, a pricey school that had no football team, and to my knowledge, did not give scholarships to C+ students. Phil was the type of kid who was bright but never applied himself. There was something inside of him that was troubled. His parents, mostly his father, managed to lift him out of whatever adverse situation he got himself into. I had no idea if Phil ever worked through his demons. Most people did not.

  “No,” I said. “After you called, I got curious, so I did a background check on you. Some things are matters of public record.”

  “Like marriages and divorces.”

  “Right,” I said, not bothering to add property values were also readily accessible. Phil had come a long way from Culver City to Beverly Hills, from a modest house off of Jefferson Boulevard to a twelve-million-dollar mansion north of Sunset. I didn’t enter those subtle details into our conversation. Some things did not need to be said. At least not right away.

  “You married?” Phil asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Kids?”

  “One. We’re looking at schools now for the fall.”

  “Colleges?”

  “Kindergarten. He just turned five.”

  “Wow,” Phil said, leaning back. “You started late. My daughter’s almost twenty-five. My son’s nineteen, he just entered USC last year.”

  “Good school,” I said approvingly and turned to Amanda. “By the way, I’ve seen you on TV a lot the past few months. College football games. I guess you shortened your name to Amanda Zeal. Was Zellis too hard for the play-by-play guys to pronounce?”

  That finally got Amanda to look slightly amused. “No. But it’s not uncommon for people in the media to change their names. Have one that’s catchy. Seems to be working for me. I’m trying to move up to NFL games soon.”

  It didn’t hurt that she was very attractive, I thought, although being pretty was only part of the job of a sideline reporter. On air, Amanda came off as savvy and confident, and she seemed enthused to be doing what she was doing. In person, it was another story.

  “You used to be a football coach at SC,” she said. “Too bad you left before I started. I could have interviewed you at halftime.”

  I looked past her at the blank wall on the other side of my office. I really should hang some pictures. I thought about what she said. In my brief tenure as a football coach, I avoided the media like the plague and let our head coach, Johnny Cleary, talk with them. I was blessed with the innate abili
ty to make an inflammatory comment at just the wrong time. The last thing I wanted was a camera documenting that.

  “Interviews are for head coaches,” I said. “That’s one of the things they do well. Talk without really saying anything. But I’m sure a lot of them are happy to speak with a pretty girl, even if she’s in front of a TV camera.”

  “Yeah, pretty,” Phil muttered. “That may be part of her problem.”

  “Dad … ”

  “Look, Amanda, that’s part of your problem. That’s always been part of your problem.”

  She glared at him and turned away. I turned back to Phil.

  “Is that the reason you’re here?” I asked curiously, wondering if a psychotherapist might have been a better choice for them.

  Phil nodded. “Amanda’s been a magnet for guys since she was twelve years old. Remember the Moose? I had Moose go and have some conversations with a few of them,” he said, rubbing his knuckles and giving me a knowing nod. Moose was an unsavory character from our high school days. Even though Phil Zellis had become a Beverly Hills denizen, it was clear he obviously hadn’t left his working-class roots behind.

  “Good Lord, are we going into this now?” Amanda sighed, exasperated.

  “Old habits die hard,” I pointed out.

  “Well,” said Phil, “I admit I got into my share of scrapes as a kid.”

  “Probably more than your share,” I clarified.

  He nodded again. “My dad taught me how to fight. And to never back down from a fight.”

  “If I recall, you provoked an awful lot of them.”

  He shook his head. “No. It was always someone else. Kid cutting in front of me in line. Someone not looking where they were going and banging into me. Not apologizing. Not showing respect. I didn’t start any of those fights. But I sure finished most of them.”

  I remembered that well. “That’s why your dad had you go out for football. Good place to get your aggressions out.”

  Phil looked me square in the eye. “You psychoanalyzing me?”

  “Sort of,” I said. Football was one of the few places where a guy could physically manhandle someone, lift them up and slam them to the ground, without any fear of criminal charges being brought. In fact, when done at a propitious moment, they would often get showered with applause. In any other setting, they would be looking at jail time. On the football field, they’d be more likely to get a trophy. It was a game that attracted all sorts, some who were well-adjusted, others who were borderline psychopaths.

  “And if I recall, you got into a few brawls yourself, Burnside.”

  I didn’t disagree. Instead, I decided to redirect the conversation. “Tell me more about your daughter’s situation.”

  Phil Zellis paused for a moment. “So, Amanda’s had plenty of boyfriends. Maybe too many. I don’t like the latest one.”

  “You don’t like any of them,” she snarled.

  “He’s your dad,” I said. “He’s not supposed to like your boyfriends.”

  Phil glared at me. “Maybe you should lay off the wisecracks.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Take a good look at my daughter. She’s got a shiner. Covers it up well with makeup, but you can see it if you look hard enough. Her boyfriend, Wyatt, he had some bruises on his face.”

  I looked hard. I didn’t see much. “This Wyatt have a last name?”

  “Angstrom,” he replied with a sneer.

  I turned to Amanda. “So, what happened?”

  “I fell down.”

  I turned back to Phil. “You think this Wyatt hit her?”

  “I don’t know. She said they were attacked on the street. And she fought back,” he responded, a measure of pride forming in his voice. “Probably better than he did.”

  I looked over at Amanda. She was gazing out the window. I turned back to Phil.

  “Tell me more,” I said.

  Phil gave a small smile. “I had given her some pepper spray for protection. That ended whatever dispute those punks had. Amanda and her boyfriend were able to make it back to her apartment okay. Well, not exactly okay. But she took care of the situation. Her boyfriend supposedly owns a gun, but she told me he didn’t have it on him last night. Might have saved him from getting beaten up.”

  “Interesting. You teach your daughter how to fight?” I asked, noticing Amanda had balled her right hand into a fist and the knuckles were starting to turn white.

  “Sure, I taught her to defend herself. But she usually didn’t need to. I got her into sports early on. Swimming, soccer, basketball, karate. Girls who play sports are just more confident. That’s what makes this episode so unusual. She said these guys pulled up in a van and attacked them. No idea why.”

  “This true?” I asked her.

  “If he says so.”

  Phil’s eyes narrowed and he studied her for a moment. “Baby, would you mind waiting outside? It’ll just be a couple minutes.”

  “With pleasure,” she said, pulling out her phone as she walked out. She closed the door hard enough for us to notice, but not so much that it slammed.

  “Amanda doesn’t seem to want to be here,” I noted. “Or want any help from me. If she was attacked, it might have been random and it might not have. Probably not, is my guess. But if she’s not willing to cooperate, it’ll make any investigation I do more difficult.”

  “She doesn’t want the publicity,” Phil said. “Thinks it’ll affect her job. I’m more concerned with her safety. I told her I was pulling rank. I need some answers. I don’t want this to happen again.”

  “Okay. Let me ask you something personal. And I’m not trying to psychoanalyze your family. Just trying to learn more. Your daughter have any problems growing up?”

  I waited for Phil to shoot me another look, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he considered this for a moment. “She was a little rebellious as a teenager. Tested limits. I guess we all did. Maybe she more than most. The divorce and all. Probably harder on her than us. I don’t think she ever really forgave me or Suzy.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What would you like me to do here? Find out what happened?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did Amanda and Wyatt file a police report?”

  “They did. For what it’s worth.”

  “Where did they say it happened?”

  “Beverly Hills. On their way home, walking back from dinner.”

  “She still live with you?”

  “Nah. I told her she could, but you know. Wants her independence. She has an apartment a few blocks south of Wilshire. Just off Beverly Drive.”

  “Where were they going to dinner?”

  “Some sushi bar,” Phil peered at me. ”Why does that matter?”

  I peered back. “Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn’t. The more I know, the more I can help you.”

  “Oh, like in Jerry McGuire. Help me to help you.”

  I nodded and didn’t say anything. The quote originally came from an old cop movie called Prince Of The City. But there was nothing to gain by correcting a wealthy client over a trivial matter.

  “Look,” he said, “I should also tell you that I hired the Moose again to look after her. Provide some security and all. Amanda wasn’t crazy about that, what with her going out with this Wyatt guy and all. But I told her, baby, the President of the United States has a team shadowing him. You’re in the limelight now. Get used to it.”

  I thought back to high school. The Moose was Anthony Machado, a teammate on the football team, a 6’6” monster who could intimidate people with just an angry glare. The assets Moose brought were clearly brawn over brains. His grades were so bad that he barely graduated from high school. He didn’t get any scholarship offers, and his parents did not have the financial wherewithal to pay for college. While he did receive financial aid to play at a junior college in Oklahoma, he flunked out after one year. Even the most accommodating of colleges still had a few academic standards, with reading and writing a basic requirement for matricul
ation.

  “You kept in touch with Moose after all these years,” I remarked.

  “I’ve hired him here and there. He can be useful. Moose isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he has some, well, presence. And he could use the money. He’s had a rough life.”

  I frowned. “Just what kind of business were you running, that you’d need someone like Moose for?”

  “Nothing illegal, I can assure you, but sometimes it helps to have a big guy around. I had to deal with some union guys. But no, our business was office products. Plastic desk accessories. You know, those stackable letter trays, the little gizmos that hold paper clips, pen-and-pencil cups. That kind of thing.”

  I glanced down at my desk. There was a phone, a laptop, a yellow legal pad, a few pens scattered haphazardly nearby, and a grande cup of Starbucks that had grown lukewarm. No desk accessories. I probably had some paper clips somewhere, but they were most likely in my top drawer. I didn’t bother to look.

  “Okay.”

  “My ex’s family started the business. Suzy’s grandfather actually. He was an engineer, he began by making plastic containers for cosmetics companies. After a while, the cosmetics companies found it cheaper to buy their containers overseas. The Orientals can do everything cheaper.”

  “I believe they prefer to be called Asians now,” I gently pointed out.

  Phil Zellis shrugged. “Who cares what they want. They were going to put Suzy’s family out of business. My father-in-law noticed that most of the desk accessories back in the day were made out of metal. He figured, why not come out with a line made of plastic. More colorful, nicer design. They already had the injection-molding machines, they could make plastic look like anything. Worked out. The business took off.”

  “And then he brought you in.”

  “Yeah, after Suzy and I graduated, I needed a job, and I needed to support a family. She didn’t have a head for business, she majored in art history, can you believe that? Her father took me in and taught me the ropes. Then he had a heart attack at age forty-five. Her grandfather had retired by then, and I think he was also developing Alzheimer’s. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and her cousins were a bunch of entitled idiots who didn’t want to work for a living. So it fell on me. All of a sudden, at age twenty-five, I’m running a multimillion-dollar business.”