Hard Count (Burnside Series Book 11) Page 5

  He looked at me for a long second before recognition set in. “Oh yeah,” he said, the hint of a smile forming on his wide, swarthy face. “The master detective.”

  “Private investigator,” I corrected him. “But that’s close enough. You still working with Virgil Hairston?”

  “Oh, sure. But Virgil spends more time covering City Hall these days. The one part of L.A. that’s filthier than street crime. You live in the Palisades now? Or are you just out for a drive along the coast?”

  “Neither,” I said. “Working for a private client. Saw the morning news. The green BMW got my attention.”

  “Got my attention, too. Nothing like seeing some rich bitch get her face blown off.”

  “Still a real sweet guy,” I observed. “Nothing wrong with people having some money.”

  “There is, when half the world is living in poverty. I guess you don’t get to the hood much.”

  “I go there when I need to,” I said, feeling the irritation rising already. “And I spent 13 years with the LAPD, a lot of them patrolling South Central. So yeah, I’ve seen the good and the bad there.”

  “That’s right. You were a cop once.”

  “I was. And if I recall correctly, I also found out who ran you over a few years ago,” I said, not adding that there might be an extended line of people who also wanted to put tire tracks on the back of Adam Lazar.

  He nodded warily. “I guess I never thanked you properly.”

  I looked at him. “You did not. But there’s no time like the present.”

  Lazar glanced past me, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay. Yeah. I appreciate what you did. We good, now?”

  I thought back to five years ago. Adam Lazar was just starting out, a cub reporter working the crime beat for the Times. We were investigating the shooting deaths of a pair of students who had an association with Stone Canyon, an elite private school in Bel-Air. During the investigation, one of the people involved ran Lazar down with a black SUV, and put him in the hospital. Partly due to the mangled front end of the vehicle, I was able to identify it and have the perpetrator arrested, along with the person who committed the homicides. The shooter was given fifteen years in prison. The one who ran over Lazar only got a two-year suspended sentence. Not everything in life turns out to be fair or just.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Tell me. What have you found out about the driver of that green BMW?”

  “Friend of yours?” Lazar asked, his appreciation disappearing and his grating personality beginning to re-emerge.

  “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s owned by the Starr family. Curtis Starr. You heard of him?”

  Adam Lazar nodded slowly. “Sure. Former football player. Owns that crappy restaurant chain. It’ll be out of business soon. Who goes to barbecue places now? Give me Mexican food any day.”

  “Sure,” I repeated absently, while pointing to the BMW. “What do you know about what happened here?”

  Lazar shrugged. “Multiple gunshots to the head. Dead-on. No witnesses. Probably a robbery, cops said she didn’t have anything of value on her, not even a phone. Looks like whoever did this took everything, her purse, her watch, jewelry. Happened last night, but they didn’t notice the dead body in the car until it got light out.”

  “You’re talking about Lauren Starr?”

  “Yeah. Used to go by Lauren Crum before she got married. Blonde hair, nice rack. At least that’s what the coroner’s guy told me” he said. “How do you know about Lauren Starr?”

  “I get around. Funny they didn’t take the car. Has to be worth six figures.”

  Lazar nodded, piecing this together in his mind. “Probably a small-time thief. Grab some cash, some jewelry. Easy to fence, hard to trace. Take a car like that and you need a way to strip it and dump it. And fast.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Cops have any thoughts on this yet?”

  “Nah. Just talked to the uniforms. Detectives are more tight-lipped. You know anyone here?”

  “No one looks familiar,” I admitted. Pacific Palisades was part of Los Angeles, which meant this was LAPD territory. But it had been close to a decade since I had been on the job, and the faces were changing. Officers my age were now making plans to retire, take their pensions after hitting the 20 year mark and move on. New officers were coming on board. They all wore the same uniform, but there were fewer faces I recognized.

  At that moment, a large figure emerged, seemingly out of nowhere, looked both ways across Sunset, and then jogged awkwardly toward us. Big and bulky, he stood at least 6’5” and resembled a human refrigerator. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a few days, and his dark blue golf shirt was untucked. Before yesterday I would not have recognized him, as he had packed on a lot of weight. Curtis Starr had a grim look on his face.

  He ambled over to a uniform, who pointed him toward a female detective with curly brown hair that stopped at her shoulders. She wore a black sleeveless top and she rubbed her arms occasionally for warmth. They huddled and spoke for a few minutes before he walked unsteadily to the green BMW. He poked his head in before quickly jerking it away, wincing noticeably. Adam Lazar began to walk over, and I followed him. I didn’t expect to see Curtis Starr here. But I also didn’t expect to see a dead body in the same green BMW I had been tailing less than 24 hours earlier. Life takes you to some strange places.

  “Mr. Starr?” Lazar called out.

  Starr turned, looked carefully at the brazen reporter for a moment, and then nodded.

  “I’m a journalist. Sorry for your loss. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It won’t take long.”

  He gave a blank look, his eyes vacant. While stunned at his nerve, I suddenly became more impressed with Adam Lazar. I didn’t think I had a large amount of shame, but the sheer gall in approaching a man who had just viewed the dead body of his wife a moment earlier could not be fully calculated. All to get some juicy details for a story, was morbidly fascinating. But I had a few questions myself, and tagging along just might afford me the chance to work those in.

  “Who was your wife going to meet?” Lazar asked.

  Starr shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said, his voice laced with a southern twang.

  “Why did she come here?’

  He opened his hands. “What do you want from me?”

  Lazar ignored the response and pressed on. “Can you tell us the last time you saw her?”

  Starr paused, looked up at us, and then looked down again. “It was sometime last night. I’m not sure when. And I’m not sure why you’re asking me these questions.”

  “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to do this?” Lazar asked, pointing to the BMW.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. He looked behind him, and I got the feeling he was searching for a quick exit from this extremely awkward conversation. The female detective was busy speaking to one of the TV reporters. I also got the feeling the police would take a dim view of our questioning Curtis Starr at this moment. Not out of sympathy, but because, in many cases where a person is shot to death and there is nobody looming nearby with a gun, the first suspect the police consider is the spouse. It is not without good reason.

  “Mr. Starr,” I jumped in, thinking this conversation needed a jump-start before the detective came over and shut it down. “My name is Burnside. I’m a friend of Harold Stevens. I think you know him.”

  “Yes,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “Harold. He works for my insurance company.”

  “Was your wife having an affair?” Lazar broke in, with as little delicacy as I could ever imagine.

  This time Starr’s head snapped up, and he glared at him, his brown eyes narrowing as his mouth curled. Lazar had clearly gotten his attention. Maybe I could learn a few things about gall.

  “What the hell kind of a question is that?!” he demanded.

  It was the type designed to get a reaction, and maybe one that could convey more than words. “It’s the kind of question the po
lice may ask you,” Lazar said. “You might as well be prepared.”

  “What … just what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Why would your wife have come here after midnight?” he asked.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally stammered, trying to piece things together.

  “Couldn’t have been for nothing,” Lazar persisted.

  “I … I don’t understand this.”

  “You know,” I said, as gently as I could, “there’s usually a reason for everything. Did something happen between you and your wife recently?”

  Curtis Starr looked out at the ocean and didn’t speak for a long moment. “My wife isn’t here. Leave me alone.”

  “So,” Lazar continued, “did you stay at home the whole evening?”

  “No, uh, no,” he stammered. “I didn’t. A friend from one of my restaurants came by and took me out for a few drinks. Needed to get my mind off of things. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Look. Why does this matter?” he asked.

  “Because the police will be following up on wherever you went,” Lazar said. “And asking people to confirm your story. If anything isn’t corroborated, that won’t look good for you.”

  “Won’t look good?” he exclaimed, his anger looking like it was about to boil over. “You’re making it sound like I’m a suspect in this! You’re insane!”

  We were indeed making it sound that way. And it finally began to dawn on him what he might be facing here. It also began to dawn on me that Curtis Starr was either a very good actor or he had played no role in his wife’s murder. Even though this was L.A., some of the best actors in town never set foot in front of a camera.

  “Was this your wife’s BMW?”

  Starr threw up his hands. “It’s a family car, we share things.”

  “Okay,” Lazar said. “Has your wife’s done this kind of thing before? Gone off in a huff?”

  “Yes. I mean no. It wasn’t like that,” he managed, before something kicked in. “Again, why are you asking me all this?”

  Lazar shrugged, most likely because he didn’t have a convincing answer. One might be out there, but he didn’t have it yet, and neither did I, so we stayed quiet. There was something peculiar about Curtis Starr’s reaction, I just couldn’t put my finger on it yet.

  At that point, the female detective, now wearing a blue LAPD windbreaker, approached. “Mr. Starr,” she said. “I’m sure the dispatcher told you when they called and asked you to come down here. We need you to answer some questions.”

  “Seems like that’s all I’ve been doing since I got here,” he said, shooting a glance at Lazar and myself.

  She eyeballed me. “They’re done talking with you. We’ll take over now.”

  Curtis Starr nodded and turned away from us without saying anything further. He followed the detective over to one of the patrol cars, and they began to talk. I gave Adam Lazar the once-over.

  “You’ve gotten pretty good at this,” I said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I have.”

  *

  My days don’t have a set schedule; the cases determine my day, and as such, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected. This morning I had planned on having a leisurely cup of coffee at Starbucks, where I’d figure out what to do next on the Curtis Starr case. I did not anticipate visiting a grisly murder scene, nor having an unexpected meeting with the primary figure I was hired to investigate. This was the equivalent of going to Target with the intention of buying some AA batteries, and instead coming home with an 80 inch TV. I was struggling to figure out just how to process what I saw today.

  I parked in the underground lot below my office, and went into the Starbucks around the corner for coffee and a maple scone. As I came out, I walked by a homeless man dressed in Vietnam-era army fatigues. He intermittently screamed racial invectives at random pedestrians, not bothering to pay any attention to their ethnic background, or whether they even noticed. He was about to yell an insult at me when I gave him a stern look, and he stopped. Other passersby walked along without seeming to notice what I’d accomplished.

  I went up to my office and waited for my coffee to cool. It gave me time to comb through the internet to find more images of Curtis Starr. I discovered some before-and-after photos when he was in peak shape during his playing days, versus today, a good fifty pounds heftier. I hesitated a moment before taking a bite of my frosted maple scone. It was only slightly more healthy than a doughnut, and observing how Curtis Starr’s weight had ballooned gave me pause. Seeing a dead body however, set off what might have been a primal need to have some comfort food, and that outweighed any thoughts of proper nutrition. The scone hit the spot. But just when the coffee reached its ideal temperature, a well-dressed man entered my office. He wore a light gray suit that probably cost more than my mortgage payment. His haircut may have cost more than my office chair. As usual, he came in loud and boisterous, with an elevated sense of entitlement.

  “Boy, you really need to upgrade this place,” Cliff Roper declared as he scanned the room with a caustic expression. “How many years have you been here now? Three? Four?”

  “I’ve lost track,” I said, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember your old office. Hard to believe, but this is actually an improvement.”

  I took the longest sip of coffee I could muster. It was still hot, but now manageable. Roper sat down in a chair across from me, only after sweeping his left hand across the seat in an exaggerated motion, swatting away some imaginary dust.

  “And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” I asked.

  “I told you I’d follow up. I have some other business on the Westside. Your office is on my way. I hope you’re not wasting my time.”

  “Back at you.”

  “Hey, there. My time is more valuable than yours. Believe me, that’s not an insult, it’s a cold, hard fact.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said absently, wondering how best to keep the conversation moving along.

  “You came by my office yesterday,” Roper said. “Without an appointment.”

  “Like you’re doing now,” I sighed.

  “Not quite, señor. I told you I’d get back to you. I also told you to wait by the phone, but I figured you wouldn’t do that. You being the big rebel and all.”

  “Rebel?”

  “I know your history. Anyway, tell me what you know about Brady Starr.”

  I took another sip of coffee. A little longer this time. It hadn’t cooled much. “I have a client whose interests relate to Brady’s father. So I’m talking to anyone who might even tangentially know anything.”

  “Tangentially,” he repeated. “Well, Brady’s my client, so naturally I know his dad. Tangentially, of course. I’ve actually known the family for years. In fact, I introduced Curtis to his new wife. They’re good people. Righteous, in fact.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out. Considering someone had likely fired gunshots into their backyard, and that Curtis Starr’s wife had just been murdered on PCH, I doubted that the family was anywhere near being righteous. But different people have different yardsticks, and Cliff Roper’s gauge was often measured in more practical terms, ones that were almost exclusively financial.

  “Brady’s going to be worth a ton of money soon.” I said. “If that’s what you mean.”

  “I know exactly how much he’ll be worth. If he’s the first one drafted, his contract will be for over $30 million. Even if he’s a few picks later, he’ll still be getting more than you’ll make in four lifetimes.”

  I breathed out a long and audible sigh. “Maybe so. But do you think someone might want to shoot Brady’s father?”

  Roper snapped his head toward me and glowered. “Who says anyone does?”

  “Gunshots fired a few nights ago. Curtis and his wife, Lauren, were in their Jacuzzi out
back. The shots came too close for comfort.”

  “And you think they were shooting at Brady’s dad.”

  I shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “No one, and I repeat, no one has any interest in having Curtis Starr dead.”

  “What was it then?” I asked.

  “How on earth would I know? A big nothing burger, if you ask me. And if you’re done with your questions, I’ve got a few of my own for you.”

  I took a glance out the window. Getting information out of certain people was tough, getting it out of Cliff Roper would be ten times that. And the only thing I dreaded more than asking Roper questions was having him ask me some. If this weren’t my office, I’d be tempted to get up and leave. But here we were.

  “Go ahead,” I said with an air of resignation.

  “What do the police know?”

  “About what?”

  “About what. About that traffic jam on PCH this morning. What do you think I’m talking about? Geez, try and keep up, will you?”

  It should not have come as a surprise that Cliff Roper knew about what happened to Lauren Starr. He did seem to have good sources. Maybe more than I did. In some people’s worlds, information was power, and Cliff Roper would likely be in the top 1% of that group too.

  “I’m not with the LAPD anymore,” I said.

  “And I’m not working in the Rams’ front office, but I still know who they’re going to draft before most anyone else does. You cops are like a brotherhood. I want to know what the LAPD knows.”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t even bothered querying the officers on the scene because they didn’t know me. And as such, I knew they would never say anything to me, other than possibly ordering me to move along.

  “How would I know what the LAPD knows?”

  Roper shook his head and reached inside his suit jacket. He pulled out an oversized golden envelope and tossed it on my desk. It skidded close to my cup of coffee, stopping three inches from it. I looked at it for a long moment before picking it up and glancing inside. It contained a pile of bills, mostly fifties and twenties, none of them new, none of them crisp. I didn’t count them, but after a quick skim, I estimated they totaled about two thousand dollars.