Tampa Two, page 1
part #8 of Burnside Series
TAMPA TWO
Book # 8 in the Burnside Mystery Series
by David Chill
Copyright © 2017 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.
For Lynn Balsamo
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
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Curse Of The Afflicted Preview
Chapter 1
There are certain people who are always in trouble. And no matter how hard you try to avoid them, their troubles often extend to you.
When I first met Judy Atkin, she was young and very pretty, but also noticeably frightened and damaged. As far as I could tell, almost ten years later, she was still frightened and damaged. But she was no longer so young and no longer so pretty. Her most striking feature continued to be that pair of big, blue eyes, although back then, they seemed to radiate innocence. Today they struck me as weathered and bloodshot, and her eye makeup was stained with tears.
“I am really, really, really sorry for what happened,” she said, as more pools of liquid formed in those expressive eyes. She wore a tight-fitting tank top and tight-fitting jeans. Both were blue and they accentuated the blue in her eyes.
“Me, too,” I said dryly.
Judy and I first became acquainted when I was working vice out of North Hollywood, and I arrested her for prostitution. There had been an uptick in streetwalkers along Lankershim Boulevard in Sun Valley, and the Chief of Police wanted to show a strong presence. It was a demonstration mostly designed to quiet community outrage, but it was largely whack-a-mole and would have no long-term impact. The hookers simply moved elsewhere to ply their trade, and they would ultimately return to Lankershim when the LAPD focused resources on a different problem.
My arrest of Judy was a run-of-the mill collar. She offered me sex for money, and in turn, I offered her a pair of handcuffs and a reading of her Miranda rights. That she was young and innocent was obvious. She didn’t even ask if I was a cop, one of the standard questions that working girls put to johns before steering the conversation toward fornication. I briefly considered letting her go with a warning, but knew that would not sit well with my partners.
As it turned out, Judy was a minor, just seventeen, a runaway from the Midwest. Hers was a sad tale that I saw repeated again and again. Girl is abused, girl leaves abusive situation, girl falls into a nightmarish trap that becomes worse than the one she left. In most instances, I simply processed them through the system. Judy was the one exception, and I made her the exception because we shared something in common, an unfortunate congruence in our backgrounds.
"I heard you got kicked off the LAPD."
"Yes," I said. "A long time ago."
It was, in fact, eight years ago that Internal Affairs asked for my badge and gun, the final chapter of my checkered police career. Judy’s betrayal had been the tipping point, unleashing a by-the-book cop into an angry, rogue officer who meted out justice whenever he saw fit. The LAPD was like any other large organization, which is to say, aberrant behavior would not be tolerated. The police could not allow officers to continually go against policy. Judy’s actions ultimately led to my dismissal, her accusations against me triggering the chaos that forever changed my world. It was a world that would never change back.
"I made a big mistake," she said, looking down at the floor.
"You did."
She hesitated. "But I need your help. I've got a big problem. I don't know where else to turn."
I looked Judy over before swiveling in my chair and gazing out the window. As much as I despised her behavior, I had trouble despising her as a person. I saw her as the equivalent of a wounded animal that snapped at you, even though you were just trying to help it. The animal was engaging in self-preservation; it did not know any better. Maybe it had never experienced someone in the world who tried to be good to it.
Now I was faced with a quandary, that of whether I should try and help Judy once more, and risk being bitten again. I had paid an enormous price for my mistake, and it had taken years to navigate my way to another path. I had become deliriously happy with my beautiful wife, my wonderful son, and the life I had rebuilt. I did not want to step backward.
But being a former cop and a current private investigator, I am guilty of having a fatal flaw. I have a curious nature. I wonder about things and take pride in being a student of human behavior. I am full of questions about people, and why they do what they do. I poke and I prod until I have an answer. That the infamous Judy Atkin was now sitting in front of me, poisonous as she had been, a nasty toxin that had already left me scarred and altered should have propelled me to turn her away without a second thought. Just like I should have walked away from her many years ago. But we are who we are. And as Oscar Wilde once wrote, the only way to fully get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.
“Tell me about your problem,” I said, turning back toward her, and finally giving in to that natural curiosity that was both a blessing and a curse.
Judy shivered. “First, thank you for agreeing to meet. I know it’s a Saturday morning, and I know about our … history. But I don’t know where else to turn. And my problem can’t wait.”
“Why not?”
“I think someone is going to kill me,” she managed, her eyes still cast downward.
“Have they tried to kill you yet?”
“No. But something’s going down tonight. At my … place of business.”
“Have you considered not being there?” I asked politely.
“It’s not an option,” she said, her breathing escalating.
“Why not?” I asked, my curiosity again getting the better of common sense. “From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”
She nodded and tried to compose herself. “Okay. To start with, I’m back in the life.”
“Were you ever out of the life?”
She shrugged. “On and off.”
I looked past her and shook my head. That she was still turning tricks came as no shock. Judy had arrived in Los Angeles and was immediately scooped up by a pimp trolling the local Greyhound station. She didn’t know he was a pimp, of course. He was friendly, giving, treated her nicely, and offered her a place to stay. Not unlike what I had done. The difference was the pimp put Judy out on the streets to earn; he treated her royally when she made good money, and then he beat her when she didn’t make enough. She could have run from him, but there was no place for her to run to. She had no way out. That is, until I arrested her. And took her in. I wanted to give her another chance. But selling her body was easy money for an attractive 17 year-old, who had no other marketable assets besides her good looks and a surprisingly moral flexibility.
“Tough to get away from that life,” I observed. “Go on.”
“Well, I ran into this guy I knew, his name’s Owen. He owns a condo in Santa Monica. A couple of us girls work out of there. He gets us clients, mostly through the internet. They show up, we do business and that’s that.”
“Except this time.”
“Yeah. The other night I had a client. Really big guy. Turns out he was a football player or something. Everything went good, but I got a call this morning. Owen said he has a video of us together. Said he was going to post it online unless this football player paid him $20,000. He’s supposed to drop the money off tonight.”
“So Owen planted a video camera in your bedroom.”
“Yeah.”
“This football player must be pretty ticked at you.”
“Yeah.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Owen said his name was Walter Anawak. Name didn’t mean anything, I don’t follow football. But he’s really big, said he came from Alaska originally. I think he’s an Eskimo or something.”
I frowned. The name Walter Anawak may have meant nothing to Judy, but it meant something to me. Anawak had been a starting left tackle in college for the Washington Huskies, and he was a good one. During my recent, three-year tenure coaching at USC, our defensive coordinator tried various ways to neutralize him. But he was too big, too quick, and too smart. The best thing to happen to Washington’s opponents came when Anawak left school early for the NFL this year. He was now in L.A., playing for the Rams.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you happen to know if Walter Anawak was married?”
“No. At least I didn’t see a ring on his finger.”
“Then what leverage does this Owen have? ” I asked. A sex video wasn’t great publicity, but it wouldn’t come as a big surprise. A football player getting it on with a girl isn’t news. Even if he paid for it. In fact, some players preferred this type of arrangement. They got their physical needs taken care of, and they normally didn’t have to worry about any entanglements with the girl afterward, and certainly no worries about a pregnancy or lifelong
“It’s a little complicated,” she started.
“It always is.”
“This football player got a little rough with me.”
“In what way?”
“Well,” she said a little haltingly. “Some guys like it rough. They like slapping a girl around before they do it. It’s sick, but I didn’t really mind.”
“Because you get paid extra,” I surmised.
“That. And I don’t care about a little pain. It’s not a big deal to me.”
I stared at her, but I knew this was not totally unusual. Girls who enter prostitution sometimes had been abused as children. The ones who had would often grow used to degradation. They may not have liked it, but it became familiar. And out of familiarity evolved a bizarre sense of comfort, even if it meant getting hurt. A girl who had a normal upbringing would recoil at being beaten. A girl in an abusive situation might become accustomed to it. But oddly enough, the more pliable a call girl was when it comes to violence, the less risk she would have of actually getting injured. By accepting violent behavior, rather than resisting it, her client would be less likely to go overboard and actually inflict a serious injury.
“And Walter Anawak naturally doesn’t want a recording of him beating a girl to go public.”
“He’s pretty angry,” she observed.
I could imagine. For a pro football player, this was a huge risk to his career. The NFL had taken a dim view of any sort of domestic battery, and even the hint of sexual assault could end a career. It was no surprise Anawak would be furious and want to confront Judy. But there was also a hole in her story. I didn’t think this was really Walter Anawak, or, frankly, any other pro football player.
“I have no idea what to do,” she said, and reached over to pick up one of my business cards. She fingered it carefully.
“And you obviously can’t go to the police because your job is, ahem, illegal.”
“Obviously,” she said, looking back up at me.
“And this guy Owen wants to get the money but doesn’t want a big guy to confront him. So he’s sending you in. Brave fella.”
“I know. Owen just wants the cash. He said I had to do it or I’m out on the street. If I get that far.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Owen’s unstable. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t show.”
“Nice friends you’ve got there.”
Judy frowned. “I haven’t always made the best decisions.”
“Clearly.”
“I’m supposed to collect the payoff tonight at the apartment. And I’m scared something bad is going to happen.”
“Don’t blame yourself. You might get killed if you don’t show up. And if this Walter Anawak is really angry, you might get killed if you do.”
“You see the problem,” she said, and glanced back down at my business card.
“Sure. And where do I fit in with all this?,” I responded, asking the burning question for which I was quickly provided the likely answer. “You want me to come along and keep the peace?”
She nodded vigorously. It was the nod of a young child. By my estimation, Judy was now 27, although she looked older. In her line of work, girls age fast. They see too much, and they absorb too much. The money is good, but it never lasts. And it wears a girl down, aging her before her time.
I sat back and thought about her request, although mostly about how best to turn her down. There was no upside in this for me. The man might be armed. He might bring along a friend. And he was clearly angry. In blackmail cases like this, paying up is no guarantee the shakedown will end. Especially when there’s a recording. In a digital world, evidence can take on a life of its own. And there was another oddity to this situation, but I decided to keep that tidbit to myself.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “No. Too many things could go south. I’d be walking into a landmine. As would you. Again, my best advice is to not show up. Maybe you should dump Owen, too. Or better yet, get out of town. Sometimes the only way to rid yourself of a problem is to leave it behind.”
Judy shook her head emphatically. “No. I can’t do that. Other girls will be in the unit.”
“Tell them not to be there either.”
“I don’t know,” she said, lowering her eyes. “This has gotten really complicated. I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s why you came to see me.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you think I’d help you? After ten years. And after … what happened between us.”
“I don’t know. And again, I’m, really, really, really … ”
I waved my hand for her to stop. With over twenty years in law enforcement, I had grown tired of apologies, the overused mea culpas designed to elicit an action. It was employed, not because the person had any regrets, but because they wanted something from you. And in the case of Judy Atkin, there was nothing she could ever say to undo the damage left in her wake. Departing L.A. had been the best action she could have possibly taken ten years ago. Returning now had no benefit. Not for me, anyway.
“If you’re committed to going through with this thing, what you need is muscle,” I told her. ”A big guy, or even better, a couple of big guys. You want to make this Walter Anawak think twice before starting anything. Football players are tough, but they’re also public figures. They don’t want publicity for the wrong reasons. If this guy really is Walter Anawak.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“No. I told you that. That’s not what I do. And I owe you nothing. In fact, you owe me.”
“I can pay you. I make a lot of money. And if I keep this gig with Owen, I can pay you whatever you want. Anything you think is fair. A thousand dollars? It would be just for like, one hour of work.”
“No.”
“Two thousand?”
“Look. I’m not going there with you. It’s not about money and it’s not a negotiation. No discussion on that.”
“Can you at least help me find someone who will?”
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know a lot of other private investigators, I didn’t go to whatever conferences or meetings they attended. I knew a few ex-cops like me who were in this line of work, but I certainly wasn’t going to put them at risk.
“You can go on the internet. I’m sure if you Google private investigators in Santa Monica, you’ll get some names.”
“How will I know if they’re any good?”
“You won’t,” I said. “But for two thousand dollars an hour, somebody will be willing to show up. Interview them. Make sure they’re big and bulky. And make sure you tell them exactly what’s going to go down, so they can be prepared. That’s the best I can do for you. All things considered.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to change your mind?” she asked, leaning forward so I wouldn’t miss any glimpse of cleavage.
“I’m sure,” I said. Never was I more sure of anything in my life. And never would I believe I’d again get sucked into the drama that was Judy Atkin. But life takes you down strange paths.
Chapter 2
After Judy left, I spent a long time staring out of my office window. It faced west, and on a clear day I could see Santa Monica and a trace of the blue Pacific. Today was sunny, but there were some streaky clouds in the distance that were morphing into the shape of a quilt, a long series of puffy white patterns revealing only small patches of blue sky. These honeycombed clouds were a bellwether that rain was coming, probably soon, and probably within the next few days. October was often like this, the start of the rainy season. A meteorology professor once told me the honeycomb was caused by warm air rising at the same time cold air was falling. The result was an impending storm.
I took a sip from my cup of Starbucks, but it had grown cold, and I tossed it into the trash. My mood had grown dark. I did not want to see Judy Atkin again, and I knew the bitter memories would begin to simmer within me. Judy was trouble, she would always be trouble, and the best way to counteract people like that is to avoid them like the plague. But like many plagues, you can only do so much to stay out of their path. Sometimes they infect you, as much as you try and steer clear of them.
