Hard Count (Burnside Series Book 11) Read online

  “Mutual friend. I think you know him, too. He’s Brady’s agent. Name’s Cliff Roper. Does that ring a bell?”

  I sighed and stared at my empty plate. Cliff Roper. Yes, I did know him. I certainly did.

  Chapter 2

  There are still a few small pockets of time when driving in Los Angeles is soothing pleasure and not mind-numbing frustration. Mid-morning is one of those times. In this instance, I avoided the freeway and jumped on the winding patch of Sunset Boulevard that snaked out from downtown. This stretch of Sunset had never been a swath of scenic beauty, and it still projected a decidedly underclass feel, with tacky strip malls and aging apartment buildings monopolizing the landscape. But the road was wide open, the green lights stayed lit for gloriously long stretches, and the smooth, steady ride of my Pathfinder made the drive relaxing. That the Hollywood Hills were clearly visible in the background helped, too. It had rained yesterday, and the air was clean and crisp, and the view, even in a pedestrian neighborhood like East Hollywood, was pristine and shiny. It was late April, and that meant the cleansing rains would soon be a thing of the past. Still, today was glorious to behold.

  The main reason I cruised along this part of Sunset was not to take in the scenery, but to make a stop at the office of one of my least favorite people. This would be a busy time for Cliff Roper, what with the NFL draft a week away, and his likely belief that nervous coaches and general managers would need to hear the calm reassurance that drafting his clients would be in everybody’s best interest. I knew it was iffy as to whether Cliff would see me, but I had nothing to lose by stopping by. And as annoying as Roper was, he had tentacles that reached far and wide, and he could also be the source of some very insightful scuttlebutt. Cliff was around a lot of people. He was like the discarded piece of gum that got stuck to the bottom of your shoe; once it became attached, it was difficult to fully remove.

  Roper Sports was located in a glass office tower near Sunset and Vine. I parked in the garage and took the elevator up to the 25th floor. The office was outfitted with deep plush carpeting that felt comfortable underfoot. A sultry receptionist with green eyes looked up at me and smiled. She had straight blonde hair that draped her back, and she wore a revealing black top. Her smile lit up the room.

  “How may I help you?” she asked in a proper British accent.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Roper, please,” I said. “The name’s Burnside.”

  The girl looked down. “Was Mr. Roper expecting you?”

  “Probably not,” I replied. “But I’d appreciate it if he had a few minutes to spare. You can tell him it’s regarding Brady Starr. I’m a private investigator, but he knows that already.”

  “Of course,” she said and picked up the phone. She spoke quietly for a minute before turning back to me. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “All right,” I said and looked at her. “What part of the U.K. are you from?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not British,” she exclaimed with a laugh, her accent vanishing. “I’m auditioning for a role this week. Trying to come off right. I just finished a part where I needed to have a Texas accent. This one is harder.”

  “Well, you had me convinced.”

  “Thank you,” she beamed. “I actually grew up in Studio City. Just over the hill.”

  I smiled and walked over to an orange chair and sat down. I pulled up a picture of Curtis Starr on my phone, and after studying it for a minute or two, I decided he looked familiar. He had a rugged, tanned face, and reddish-brown hair, although I suspected this photo was taken prior to putting on some extra pounds. He still had a jaw that appeared as if it had been carved from granite, and a linebacker’s sturdy build, and it seemed as if he could indeed be an actor, just like the pretty receptionist a few feet away.

  I glanced around the lobby. Aside from the receptionist, no one else was there. The room had a large picture window facing the Hollywood Hills, and the perfectly clean air made for a marvelous view of the Hollywood sign over Beachwood Canyon. When I was growing up, the Hollywood sign was largely in disrepair, with cracks and breaks in the wood that made the sign look weathered and beaten. Years ago, an effort had been made to repair what might well be the single most important monument in Los Angeles. Celebrities chipped in, and the sign was renovated. Like everywhere, money talks. It just speaks louder in L.A.

  “Mr. Burnside?” said a soft voice behind me. A thin, young man who appeared to be in his late twenties approached, walking purposefully to me and holding out his hand. I stood up and shook it. He had large hands and a strong grip, and wore a large smile. His stringy blond hair was slicked straight back.

  “That’s me. Who are you?”

  “I’m Sylvester Means, I work for Mr. Roper. I understand you’re a private investigator, looking into the Starr family.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I helped recruit Brady to the agency. I’m Mr. Roper’s special assistant. Maybe I can help you.”

  “Maybe you can,” I mused. “But first, tell me what’s it like to work for Cliff Roper.”

  “Oh, it’s great. He’s teaching me how to be an agent. I’m learning a lot.”

  I digested this and pondered the education he was getting. If my experience with Cliff Roper was anything like that of his employees, then much of their education would border on the illegal. Agents had a necessary function in sports, the job done best by people capable of spinning narratives and convincing people to do things they had no interest in doing. Whether it was a team owner unwilling to part with a few hundred thousand dollars more than he had planned on, or a player unwilling to move to a snowy climate like Buffalo, New York, a good agent was able to turn a no into a yes, and even elicit some enthusiasm along the way. But with Cliff Roper, there was always the shadow of something unappetizing and unseemly lurking, like a sandwich that had been out in the sun just a little too long.

  “Glad you’re learning things. Hope they’re valuable to you,” I mused. “But maybe you can help me out with this issue I’m working on. How close are you to the Starrs?”

  Sylvester frowned. “Pretty close. Why do you ask?”

  “Just routine,” I said, giving the standard detective answer, which disclosed nothing and implied less. I sat tight-lipped, waiting for him to respond. When there’s no dialogue, some people feel the need to speak and fill in the dead air. That’s when I sometimes learn the most important things. Silence can be deafening, and a lot of people begin to talk in order to minimize the discomfort.

  “So,” he began, “I helped recruit Brady to the agency. I’ve met his parents. His dad, I mean, Curtis. And his stepmom.”

  “You’re a runner,” I said. A runner was a go-between that did the things an agent could not do. They were usually closer to an athlete’s age, and could serve as a makeshift friend, a benevolent big brother, or play whatever role was needed. There were strict rules about how and when a registered sports agent could approach a college athlete. So, agents like Cliff Roper often employed runners to do the dirty work, or in some cases, the blatantly illegal. Agents were not allowed to provide gifts; friends were. Agents were not able to take a player on a weekend to Vegas. But a friend had no such constraints. Runners sometimes provided money, electronics, or other enticements to smooth the way for an agent to sign a top player. As long as the player signed with the agent in the end, it all worked out. Everyone got paid. If the athlete signed with a different agent, however, things could go sideways.

  “I’m Mr. Roper’s special assistant,” he corrected me. “The term runner has a bad rap.”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

  Sylvester gave me a long look. “I guess you know something about the business. You being a former football coach and all.”

  I nodded, impressed. “Feels like a lifetime ago, but yeah. I was. Cliff tell you that?”

  “No. My little brother played high school ball at Roche. With Brady. I remember when you guys came to recruit Brady. Coach Cleary
wasn’t interested in my brother, he was a two-star. Not fast enough. Or tall enough. That was my problem, too. I played for Roche back in the day, too. Go Cubs.”

  I sighed. Two-star athletes usually didn’t get scholarship offers at big-time colleges because they lacked speed or strength or size. Or sometimes all three. There were certain things players could do to better themselves. Strength could be improved through weight training, and an athlete could actually get a little faster with the right coaching. But there was one thing you couldn’t teach, and that was height.

  “You play in college?” I asked.

  “I went to San Diego State for a year. That’s another connection to Brady. But I broke my foot in fall practice, freshman year. Left school after that.”

  “Okay. You got to know Brady through your brother. How well do you know his family?”

  “Well enough. The dad had a rough go in the NFL, drafted by a crappy team without much in the way of coaching. Then someone took out his knee. Never quite the same after that. He made some good money though, and then spun it into some real gold out here. But I think Curtis resented never becoming a star in the league.”

  “How’s his relationship with Brady?”

  Sylvester smiled. “They’re tight. Really bonded. Maybe a little too much so. Always got the feeling Curtis is living through Brady. I’d see him at high school games, and you know, he’d be that parent. The guy screaming at the refs, telling Brady to listen to him, ignore the coaches. I get that he knows the game, played in the NFL and all. But you got to let some of this go.”

  “Mmmm. How does the new wife play into all this?”

  He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Second-wife syndrome,” I said. “They get uncomfortable when the kids are around. Feel like they’re left out of things.”

  He looked away. “A couple of issues. I don’t know that that’s the case here.”

  “How often is Brady home?”

  “Living there now. Didn’t finish his senior year. Once football season ended, Mr. Roper had him up here going to the gym every day. Taking meetings with team reps, trainers, financial advisors. Getting ready for the Combine last month, and now the draft. It’s a full-time job.”

  “With a big payday at the end,” I added.

  “Yeah. That’s the other thing. Brady won’t start earning money for a while, so he’s living at his dad’s place up in Mandeville Canyon.”

  “And the new wife isn’t crazy about seeing her husband’s offspring wander in and out.”

  Sylvester licked his lips. “Probably not.”

  At that point, I heard a noise behind me. I turned to see a short man with a deep tan and closely cropped silver hair walk up to us, a cocky smile pasted on his face. It was the smile of a man who thought himself to be king of the hill, and in need of creating slippery slopes for everyone around him.

  “Well, look what we have here. The future First Man. I always knew that hot wife of yours would eclipse your career. She’s got the looks and the brains. Didn’t know she had the political chops, too. But she’s good, Burnside, I’ll tell you, she’s good. Not sure what you bring to the table any more. But I’ll keep that to myself.”

  When Cliff Roper went into his act, it was enough to make me ball my fists, but his performance was just who he was. A high-powered super-agent could get away with saying pretty much anything he wanted to. In Cliff Roper’s case, he often took things a step beyond.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said dryly. “I was hoping you might be free for a few minutes.”

  “I’m tied up all day,” he declared. “Tell me something. Would you just drop in to the White House to see the president?”

  “You’re not the president and this isn’t the White House.”

  “I know, and I’ll bet I’m a lot busier than him. Plus, I have more important things on my plate. And I make a lot more money than he does. Why anyone would want a government job is beyond me. And living in the White House? That place is a dump. I’ve been there. No view, and I swear I saw a cockroach running across the floor.”

  “You’ve been to the White House,” I said. “Bring a sack of money with you?”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, wagging a finger in my face. “I’m a big donor, it’s all legit. I get access. When I call, he picks up. Just like every other politician I contribute to. Including your better half.”

  I peered at him. “You contributed to Gail’s campaign?”

  He looked at me like I was insane. “Of course I did. One day I may need to have a conversation with the City Attorney. My clientele, how should I put this. They live carefree lifestyles. I make sure the people in charge know who I am. And respond when I need a favor.”

  More than a few prosecutors knew about Cliff Roper. In his earlier years, he was brought up on manslaughter charges and managed to evade conviction by a variety of techniques, some of which were legal, and some of which were highly questionable. His former partner was the only one who could provide any relevant testimony, but Cliff Roper didn’t need to worry about him taking the stand, as his former partner was conveniently, and unwaveringly dead. Multiple attempts to convict him ended in mistrials and hung juries, and he managed to outlast any attempt to keep him behind bars.

  “Well, I suppose we should thank you for your support,” I managed.

  “You should. And you know what my only problem is?”

  “I would imagine you have more than one.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t get cute. My only problem is I’m too nice a guy.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “You should definitely do that. I’m generous with my resources. And Sly here will give you what you need. Maybe I’ll call you in a day or two to follow up on the Starrs. Stay close to your phone.”

  “You’re not employing me,” I said. “Or paying me.”

  “I’ve paid you a lot over the years,” he said, before leaving one last rejoinder. “That buys me access with you, too.”

  I watched him walk across the lobby into a waiting elevator, one that looked like it was being magically held just for him. The elevator door closed with Cliff Roper looking down at this phone. Needless to say, he didn’t say a goodbye. I turned back to Sylvester. He shrugged.

  *

  It was just shy of lunchtime, and I impulsively decided to make one more stop before heading back to the office. As any lawbreaker or crime reporter will attest, there is no ideal time to talk with the LAPD, as neither the cops on patrol nor the suits in the division tend to eat on a regular schedule. Depending upon the level and severity of the crimes committed on a given day, police officers can go an entire 8-hour shift without a meal break. I was not altogether surprised to see the remnants of a breakfast burrito sitting on Roberto DeSanto’s desk when I entered his small, minimally furnished office in the West L.A. Division.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” I said, rapping my knuckles on his door as I walked inside.

  “Well,” he said, looking up from a pile of paperwork. “It’s actually lieutenant now. Got a bump up.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, impressed. “You’re moving up fast.”

  “Thanks. I deserve it.”

  I smiled and sat down. I had known Roberto DeSanto for over six years, since the time he had been lead detective on a homicide case I was involved in. He had a thin moustache and looked like he had added a few pounds since we had last met. Unlike a lot of detectives, he didn’t appear threatened by a P.I. like me hovering in the shadows. Rather, he seemed to accept my presence for what it was. I was simply another set of eyes looking at the same set of clues, but through a different lens. Some police detectives found the presence of a private investigator off-putting, and weren’t shy about disclosing this to me, often in ways that could not remotely be called nuanced. The insecure ones were always the nastiest.

  “I thought you might be joining Juan downtown. You two tend to move in concert.”

  “Concert, huh?” he said. �
��No, I’m not up for that type of departmental politics. Commander Saavedra can navigate that stink hole. The pay’s nice over there, but I’d rather do real police work.”

  “Good move. Never take a job just for the money,” I counseled.

  “Oh yeah? If I heard correctly, you were living in a gold mine a few years ago, coaching at USC. They say football coaches make way into six figures now. Even assistants.”

  “True. But it comes with a cost. Not seeing my wife much during that time. Or my son much during his toddler years. That was a steep price for me,” I said. Marcus was now a boy, five-years old, cute as could be, and I got to come home every night to him and Gail. For three years I spent a lot of my time either scouring the country to recruit high school football players, or breaking down film and putting together a game plan for the following week.

  “You’ll be seeing even less of her if she gets elected City Attorney,” he mused.

  I sucked in some air. “Yeah. I know.”

  “So, what brings you over here? Another one of your SC guys in trouble?”

  “Nope. But I’m doing some work on a Curtis Starr. Name sound familiar?”

  Roberto took a sip of coffee from a blue mug with a white Dodger logo across it. He frowned and absently put it back down on the one spot on his desk that was not littered with papers and file folders.

  “Yeah,” he said and turned to his computer, typing a few keystrokes and waiting for the page to load. “He’s becoming one of our better customers. Especially lately. Number of calls for domestic disturbance. No charges filed. At least not yet.”

  “Anything you can tell me? My sources are saying there’s been gunfire. Maybe battery, too.”

  “Maybe indeed,” he said, and sat back, turning toward me and clasping his hands together in his lap.

  “Sounds like there’s more to tell.”

  “I don’t normally repeat gossip,” he deadpanned.

  “How about I listen carefully the first time,” I smiled.