Hard Count (Burnside Series Book 11) Page 4

  “How’s that?”

  “My stepmom thought someone was shooting at them. My dad said he had been laying back and had his ears in the water. Said he hadn’t heard a thing. He was just reacting to what Lauren said she heard.”

  “You think anyone has reason to shoot at them?”

  “Have you been to Dad’s restaurants lately? The food there sucks now.”

  I looked at Brady. He seemed to be everything Johnny Cleary concluded about him when we were recruiting. Cocky, smug, but more of a class clown than a confident leader. We told everyone his grades were what stopped us from offering him a scholarship, but the reality was, his character, or lack thereof, also left a significant impression on us. Johnny said he didn’t think he had enough heart, and heart was critical for a quarterback, especially on the field. When we scouted Brady, we saw him panic and throw the ball too quickly when the pocket started to collapse, rather than hang in there and wait for the receiver to get open. He displayed nervousness when the pressure mounted. We saw him berate his teammates when things didn’t go well, rather than build them up. He had a great arm, but great arms don’t mean much if the quarterback couldn’t lead. Some things could be fixed by good coaching, but you can’t teach heart. And his off-the-field choices weren’t very good, either.

  “Okay, look. Seriously. Putting food aside, why would anyone want to do this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

  “What about that neighbor nearby? The guy with the new house going up.”

  Brady frowned. “You know about Gavin Yunis?”

  “Just what I’ve been told. He and your dad have had some words.”

  “Yeah, they’ve had words all right,” he responded.

  “Something more?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  He held up his hands. “Nothing like that. Although dad threatened to kick his ass a bunch of times. I did, too. That guy’s been building that house for close to a year now and it’s not even half-finished.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “There’s been lawsuits. And he called the police on us, too. He’s mostly a nuisance. Guy gets scared because we called him a few names. What a puss.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, taking this in. “Could they have been shooting at your stepmom?”

  “Lauren?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s kind of a bitch.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she is. Came out of nowhere, some small cow town in Wyoming. Got some rough edges to her. Used to hang around with a bunch of whack jobs. Maybe she thought by marrying my dad, she’d escape her past.”

  “Sounds like she kind of did.”

  Brady shrugged. “She was trying to make it as a singer, but I think now her career is just spending what’s left of my dad’s money. She wanted this green Beemer last year. Cost six figures. Dad said okay and wrote a check. Just like that.”

  “Just like that,” I repeated.

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. I borrow it when I need to get out of that house. My car doesn’t work half the time, Dad’s too cheap to lend me money for a new one. Or maybe he just doesn’t have the cash anymore. Dad likes to spend it on women.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not what you think.”

  “All right,” I said and waited for him to continue. Brady Starr seemed to want to talk.

  “Man, I grew up in that house, but it’s not home any more. Can’t wait to get drafted and get out of there.”

  “Where do you want to play?”

  “Hoping for Miami. Or maybe Vegas. That would be cool.”

  “Interesting,” I said, knowing the Dolphins and the Raiders were a couple of the worst-run franchises in the NFL. The two teams combined had been to one Super Bowl in the last 35 years. They drafted good players, but a lot never fulfilled their potential.

  “You know something about the NFL?” he asked.

  “I was invited to join the staff at Chicago. Johnny Cleary wanted me to coach defensive backs for the Bears.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why didn’t you take it?”

  “Family reasons,” I shrugged. It was a twist on the same reason Brady gave for wanting to leave L.A. A good family makes you want to stay. A not-so-good family makes you want to leave. Sometimes you don’t have a choice though, and I saw firsthand, on the job with the LAPD, that kids and stepparents rarely have a smooth relationship. When a birth parent is effectively replaced, be it by divorce or early passing, the replacement is often viewed with no small degree of suspicion. And the new spouse often creates separation between the stepkids and their biological parent. I had lost track of the number of calls I had made to distressed families having domestic altercations. It seemed as if half of my job was restoring the peace and the other half was playing therapist.

  “Look, I wish I could help you on this case,” he said, with a twinge in his voice that was both bitter and wistful at the same time. “I wish I could tell you my stepmom tried to shoot my dad. I wish Lauren would get thrown in jail or just leave. Then I’d get my dad back. Or what’s left of him. But I can’t. I just can’t. She’s a bitch and a gold digger and everything else that sucks. But the truth is I don’t know who shot off that gun, or what they were aiming at, other than it wasn’t me. If it was me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have missed.”

  *

  We shuffled back inside the deli, but it took a good twenty-five minutes before Brady Starr was able to collect his order of a single godmother sandwich and depart. As long as I was at Bay Cities and in possession of a golden ticket, number 76, now being shouted by one of the workers, I ordered a pan of lasagna with the requisite extra marinara sauce. The oversized platter would be good for at least two dinners. As Gail straggled home late the past few weeks, I was the one who pulled together meals for Marcus. All too often I had to save leftovers for Gail, as her campaign wound its way into the home stretch.

  I relieved our nanny in the late afternoon, and watched Marcus create rainbow art using Sharpie markers on a sheet of construction paper. His near-final product, fifteen minutes later, was a hodgepodge splash of colors that, to me, was not terribly unlike artwork I had seen hanging in office buildings and hotel lobbies. In some cases, Marcus’s creation might well have been better.

  “What do you think, Daddy?”

  I gave it a careful once-over, picking it up, holding it close and then moving it away from me to look at it with outstretched arms.

  “Needs more orange,” I said, offering advice I had no business providing.

  Marcus looked at it for a long time before picking up an orange Sharpie and giving it a few diagonal scribbles.

  “Better,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.

  “How do you know if it’s good or not?” he asked.

  I took this in and didn’t answer right away, my biggest fear being my answer would unmask me as a fraud. Dealing with a bright five-year-old had its share of challenges. While I might know more things in general, I was also convinced that in the IQ department, I ranked third in our three-person household.

  “I guess if you like it, it’s good art. If you don’t like it, it’s bad art,” I said, depleting the bulk of my knowledge of the art world.

  “Okay,” he said, satisfied with that answer. He put the Sharpie on the floor next to his picture, the tip of which was close to, but not quite touching, the beige carpet. I picked the marker up and snapped the cap back on.

  “Everything good at preschool today?”

  “I guess.”

  “Sounds like something’s not so good. What is it?”

  “Jake and I had a fight about something.”

  I frowned. “Anyone get hurt?”

  “No. He wouldn’t let me play with his Legos. He said I’m not invited to his birthday party this Saturday.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to figure out a way to tell him there were worse things in the world. None sprung immediately to mind.

  “It’s at Chuck E. Chee
se,” he pouted. “I love that place.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking that of all the places to go, a video game arcade serving food that was barely akin to pizza, was not high on my list for a return visit. We had taken Marcus there a few times, and their saving grace was an annexed area cordoned off just for parents, with a glass wall allowing us to watch over the kids from a distance. There was also beer and wine, and I observed a few parents stumble out after imbibing more than they should have.

  “Can you talk to Jake’s mom?” he asked. “Maybe I can still go?”

  “Okay,” I agreed, recognizing I’d be the one to accompany Marcus, Gail’s schedule being on a non-stop sprint until the election. “I can’t promise what she’ll say, but I’ll ask.”

  I picked up Marcus’s drawing and put it up on a shelf in a closet in our bedroom. Last year I had come upon a treasure trove of Marcus’s artwork that Gail had been hoarding, a pile of finger paintings, random sketches of what might generously be called deformed animals, and sheets filled with splashes of wildly disparate colors. I asked Gail why she was saving every piece of art, and she didn’t offer much of an answer, other than that’s what moms do. It struck me that it didn’t matter what stage the mom was at in her own life. Their five-year-old had a whole life in front of them, and they were going to cling to these precious moments, even if it meant the closets overflowed with remembrances which the rest of the world might consider mere curiosities.

  We played a game of penny hockey on the dining-room table, and then we started watching a video about reptiles in Central America. Marcus asked if we could get an iguana for a pet, and I changed the subject. The video ended, and we absently kicked a soccer ball softly back and forth in the living room. I was growing short of activity ideas when Gail finally walked through the front door, a weary smile on her beautiful face. The last glints of sunlight were visible behind her.

  “Hello there,” I said, getting up and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Good day on the campaign trail?”

  “I don’t know if any of them are good,” she sighed. “At least I don’t have an event to go to tonight. I’m having a little trouble keeping a smile pasted on my face all day.”

  Marcus ran over and hugged her leg. She swept him up in her arms and swung him around for a moment as his eyes widened and his smile grew. Moments like these I wished I could freeze in time.

  “I have a treat for everyone tonight,” I said. “Lasagna from Bay Cities.”

  “Yay!” Marcus yelled.

  “I’ll second that,” Gail said as she placed Marcus gently back on the carpet. “I was the featured speaker at a luncheon today, and between shaking hands and chit-chatting, plus getting up to talk, I probably ended up having two bites of chicken.”

  “Public service has its share of sacrifices,” I said wryly. We headed into the kitchen. I pulled the lasagna out of the refrigerator, transferred half of it to a Pyrex dish, and began to heat it up in the microwave.

  “And its share of characters,” Gail said. “Paul Bleeker launched his ad campaign a couple of weeks ago. Now he’s spending like crazy to fill up the airwaves.”

  “I saw one of them. Clean up the mess in this city. And start with the City Attorney’s office,” I said disgustedly. As if Gail had anything to do with the previous office holder’s unsavory behavior. Jay Sutker was forced to resign earlier this year after allegations of everything from sexual misconduct to abuse of power. And while Gail had nothing to do with any of that, she did work for Sutker, and was now being painted as a close and trusted ally.

  “I’m getting tied to Sutker’s flaws,” she said, shaking her head. “And it’s ironic. Jay’s poor leadership was the reason I jumped into the race. To fix the things that were wrong with that office. Now I’m the one being held accountable.”

  I reached over and gave her a hug. Partly to make her feel a little better, partly to make me feel a little better. I was always more comfortable when Gail was near me. And I wished I could protect her, but she was playing in an arena where my brass-knuckle skills were neither warranted nor productive.

  “Got to have confidence voters will see through it. And you need to get your message out there.”

  “I know. But these ads are starting to have an impact in the polling. I spoke with Frank Phelan today. The race is getting close, but we don’t have the kind of campaign funds to counter it. And I’m not about to take out a second mortgage on our house.”

  “Then what’s the strategy?”

  “Keep doing what we’re doing. Do it more. Talk to journalists. Try and get on radio talk shows during drive time. Like you said. Get our message out there,” Gail sighed, taking out a large bowl and putting a salad together. “I’ve gotten the endorsement of the party. And Arthur Woo’s been supportive. But it’s looking like it will be a really tight race, tighter than anyone thought. A few weeks ago, it looked like we had it in the bag.”

  “I’ve heard Bleeker’s name, and not in the best context. He’s supposed to be an ambulance chaser. Files lots of lawsuits, some get settled early, and he gets a percentage of the total?”

  “That’s pretty much it. Personal injury attorney. He built a practice by putting up those Better Call Paul billboards. And running those awful TV commercials all night long. I know you’re sometimes up watching TV at 3:00 am. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

  I knew all about them. In addition to mimicking the Breaking Bad character’s roadside signage, Paul Bleeker ran countless commercials in the dead of night, ones that ripped off every poor ad you could think of. I recalled he had one where he was riding an elephant named Spot, and another showing a quadriplegic saying “Paul Bleeker got me two point two million.” He was challenged about the accuracy of that ad but weaseled out of it by noting his client didn’t say two-point-two million dollars. In the end, it was revealed the victim of the accident won a settlement of twenty-two thousand dollars, which happened to translate to two point two million pennies. As it turned out, the quadriplegic had to cough up almost half of the twenty-two thousand to Paul Bleeker in legal fees. Hopefully he got a stipend for appearing in the ad.

  “We can ask Crystal Fairborn for another donation,” I said as we walked into the kitchen and began pulling plates out of the cabinet, and setting the table.

  “She’s been very generous so far. As you know, I’m not comfortable asking people for money in the first place. Making a request for another donation is even harder.”

  I knew that, but I also knew that asking for donor money was a key part of being a politician today. Gail’s reluctance meant she might not have a long career in politics, but it was also part of why I loved her as a human being. Suggesting she change who she was, just to advance her career, was not a good option.

  “How about if I ask?” I said, knowing my lack of shame could occasionally be an asset.

  Gail pursed her lips. “I suppose. But she might wonder why I’m sending my husband on an errand for me.”

  I reached over and gave her a hug. “She might think it’s because I’d do anything for my lovely wife.”

  Gail smiled for the first time and kissed my cheek. “All right,” she said. “And remember, there’s that fundraiser tomorrow night. It’s mostly for Arthur Woo and Neil Handler, but we’ll get some money from it.”

  “Something is better than nothing,” I shrugged.

  We sat down to dinner. I opened a bottle of cheap Chianti, the kind that came with the bottle encased in straw. The wine was recommended to me by an overly suntanned woman at a Trader Joe’s, and I had a sneaking suspicion she might have been homeless, and she might well have been an alcoholic. It cost me four dollars, but it was surprisingly not bad. The best things in life are not always free, but they don’t have to cost a fortune, either. It’s all about making the right choices and listening to the right people. If you want a good bottle of cheap wine, it made sense to listen to a frequent user.

  Dinner was good, but it was also quick. We all talked more about our d
ays, but we were also very hungry. Gail and I went to sleep early, and as is my custom of late, I woke up at 4:00 am. After tossing and turning for a few minutes, I gave up and dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. As I began to make a pot of French roast, I checked my phone for local news. Traffic was backed up along Pacific Coast Highway, all the way to Malibu. Initial reports indicated there was a shooting near the beach in the Palisades, just north of Santa Monica. A woman had been murdered. I read further. She was driving a late model BMW. A green BMW.

  Chapter 4

  The blue ocean was calm and still, and the slightest hint of light was starting to rise over the hillsides, above the busy intersection where Sunset Boulevard ended at the Pacific Coast Highway. It was cool out, and a good breeze was coming off the ocean. There were half a dozen police cruisers, and just as many news vans lined up in the Vons supermarket parking lot, so I parked there as well, and walked next door to the crime scene. A number of LED light poles had been erected, and I could see a reporter holding a microphone and speaking seriously into the camera. He was standing in front of a gas station convenience store on the east side of PCH. When the bright lights went off, he waited a moment before yawning and taking a bite out of a raspberry Danish.

  I surveyed the scene and tried to come across a familiar face in the gaggle of police. While I didn’t see any among the clusters of uniformed officers, I did recognize someone there from a few years back, a beat reporter who worked for the Times. His name was Adam Lazar, and he was a relentless and annoying journalist. After complaining about him to Gail once, she gently floated a plausible reason why he was such a thorn in my side. He might well have reminded me of myself. I didn’t like her insinuation, but I didn’t entirely disagree. Our partners often know what makes us tick better than we do.

  “Reporter Lazar,” I said, approaching. “It’s been a few years.”