I agreed. This was not unusual. Streetwalkers I had arrested told me if a john who pulled over in his car seemed dangerous, they could just walk away. They felt that on the street they had some semblance of control, that they were their own boss. Working in a brothel meant doing what they were told, and if they turned down a client, they’d likely be fired or beaten. People who ran brothels couldn’t afford to let the girls dictate terms.

  “She stay in Houston for long?”

  “Couple of years. Quite a lot of business there, so I understand. Then she had stops in Atlanta, Orlando, Tampa, eventually Miami. Spent a long time in Miami, she didn’t want to come back to a cold-weather climate, and certainly not to a straight-laced city like Des Moines. Although there’s hookers there, too.”

  “Oldest profession,” I said. “Wherever there are men, there’ll be women willing to service them.”

  “Yeah. I suggested she do something else, but the money’s too good. She told me she tried working as a stripper, but she didn’t like it. Felt vulnerable.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, strange, huh? She was okay being with one guy at a time, but having a bunch of guys leer and scream stuff at her wasn’t her thing.”

  I looked at him curiously. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  Pete Atkin considered this for a long moment. “When I went to see Judy, she seemed to know you were still investigating this.”

  “Right,” I said, not bothering to add that I was the one who found Judy and handed her over to the police. Or that Walter Anawak was now paying me to figure out what happened, and find out who was blackmailing him.

  “Judy heard you were still looking into stuff. Talking with girls who worked at that place in Santa Monica. You spoke with one of the guys running the show.”

  “She heard that, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess Candy came by to see her.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering how the Santa Monica police let Candy in to talk to Judy without realizing she had been standing outside at the time Henry Knapp got clobbered.

  “Anyway, Judy appreciates everything you’ve done for her. But she’s going to take the plea bargain and get this part of her life done with.”

  “Take the twenty-five years?” I asked incredulously.

  “She’ll get time off for good behavior. Be out before she’s forty-five. Maybe sooner. Could have something of a life left. That would be nice if it happened. Anyway, that’s her decision. She just wanted me to come over and tell you.”

  I nodded and thanked him. And then Pete Atkin got up and ambled out of my office.

  Chapter 13

  I thought about calling Barney Sack. I was puzzled why Pete Atkin looked familiar. I wondered whether the temperature in Antarctica really dropped to zero degrees during the summer. I stared out the window pondering these issues for a little while, but mostly watched a large white cloud slowly dissipate into small puffs within the backdrop of a bright blue October sky. I waited for something to happen, an endeavor which normally disappoints. Then my phone rang.

  “Burnside,” came the somewhat familiar voice on the other end of the line. “Rocca here. Hey, I’ve got something for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “That cell phone number you asked me to check out? We did a reverse lookup. It’s registered to a Stuart Kolodney. Lives in El Segundo, down by the airport.”

  “Okay, thanks. Much appreciated. And hey, detective?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for sending a car around last night to check on my house.”

  “Not a problem. Looks like everything was copacetic. Give my regards to Gail,” he said and hung up quickly before I could ask him for any more favors.

  I did a search on Stuart Kolodney and found an El Segundo address for him. He was 41 years old and lived with a Melissa Kolodney who was 39, and most likely his spouse. I scanned through LinkedIn and discovered he worked in El Segundo as an engineer with a large defense contractor, Southway. He was even kind enough to post a photo of himself.

  Approaching Kolodney at his home, with his wife, and perhaps even his children in viewing distance did not strike me as a good first step. An option to consider down the road, in the event he was uncooperative. Leverage might not be needed, and if Sadie’s assessment was correct, Mr. Kolodney might crack easily.

  I called the Southway corporate headquarters number and asked the operator for Stuart Kolodney. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, it’s Stuart.”

  “Hello, Stuart, my name is Burnside. I’m an investigator and I’d like a few minutes of your time. Can we meet today?”

  “What is this in regard to?” he asked, a slight hint of suspicion in his voice.

  “It is in regards to that unpleasantness over in Santa Monica on Saturday night. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  There was a long silence before he responded. “Just what do you know?”

  “I know you were there at the time. And without getting into any more detail, I’d rather not do this over the phone. And I don’t think you want me coming over to your house in El Segundo to talk about it, do you?”

  “No, God no,” he said quickly. “All right. Look, there’s a little restaurant a few blocks from my office, called the Yabba Grill. It’s on Kilroy, here in El Segundo. Park in the structure next door. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  El Segundo is Spanish for “the second.” A century ago, the city was named after Standard Oil’s second oil refinery, which I imagined was as good a way to name a city as any. Los Angeles is Spanish for “the angels,” and one could read into that what they will. The drive down to El Segundo only took about twenty minutes, but finding parking in the structure felt like it lasted almost as long. After winding my way up ten levels of parking and finding no spaces, I wound my way down most of the way before squeezing my Pathfinder into a space meant for compacts. I slowly opened the driver’s side door, taking pains not to scratch the Toyota Camry parked little more than eighteen inches to my left. I shuddered at the thought of having to do this every day.

  The Yabba Grill was more of a cafeteria than a restaurant, serving a hodgepodge of questionable looking sandwiches, wraps, soups, and salads, along with the daily special, which happened to be turkey meat loaf today. Photos of the different options were pasted onto a cardboard sign. They also claimed to proudly pour Starbucks coffee, but one sip told me it either wasn’t Starbucks, or maybe they brewed it in a very different way. I sat down on a white plastic chair at a white plastic table and watched the entrance for Kolodney. At exactly one minute past the appointed time, he walked through the doors and looked around.

  Stuart Kolodney was of average height, average weight, and wore a pair of silver-framed glasses. He had thinning brown hair that was combed back with the help of some pomade. He wore a nervous expression as he scanned the room, and I waited a couple of beats before acknowledging him; seeing someone this jittery was a concern. They could be more apt to talk freely, but they were also more apt to do something stupid.

  I stood up and made eye contact with him, smiled, and gave what I hoped was a reassuring nod of my head, signaling that he should feel free to come join me. He walked over purposefully before stopping suddenly and looking around the room once more. Satisfied there was no one nearby who was familiar, and that no uniformed police officers were visible, he approached, introduced himself and shook my hand.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked politely. Burnside, the generous soul.

  “No, no thank you,” he said and sat down across from me. “How did you find me?”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator,” I said, and handed him my card. The poor guy was so nervous I decided not to flash my fake badge and risk sending him into a full-blown panic. “I’m not with the police. But I am doing an investigation and I’d like your cooperation.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quickly.

  “Didn’t say you did.”

  “I was visiting a friend in Santa Monica. I didn’t see what actually happened. I was in another room.”

  “Ah, yes. Visiting a friend,” I said, suddenly thinking I may need a more stern approach if we were to get anywhere here. “Look, I know what you were there for and that you were with Sadie. We don’t need to discuss those sordid details at length. I’m more interested in what went on in the living room. And I’m not going to stop until I find out. Don’t hide anything, trust me, I’ll be able to figure it out if you’re not being truthful. Do you know what it means to be an accessory after the fact?”

  “I … I think so,” Kolodney said as he licked his lips. It was easy to tell he wanted to wrap this up and get out of here.

  “Let me clarify. It means aiding a person who has committed a crime. So by not divulging what you know, you could very well be an accessory after the fact. By not coming forward right away, you have placed yourself in jeopardy. The only way out, and I mean the only way, is to tell me everything you know about what happened on Saturday night. Right now. Again, I’m not the police, and I’m not looking to jam you up. But I will if I have to.”

  Kolodney took a very deep breath, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “Okay. I was with Sadie. I paid her five-hundred dollars for sex. I don’t want this getting out. I’m married with kids.”

  “Go on. Again, I’m more interested in what happened in the other room.”

  “After we finished, there was a commotion in the living room. We walked out and I saw this big guy slap a blonde girl in the face and throw her on the couch. Then he began tearing her clothes off. The girl was struggling, but he was pretty big and he was on top of her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. The guy was huge. I wasn’t going to jump in and break it up and risk getting killed.”

  “Of course you weren’t.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know what the deal was. She was probably working there. Maybe that was part of what he paid for, their arrangement, who knows. Sadie told me there’s a price for everything. I just wanted to get out of there. I was going to have enough problems explaining to my wife why I was late coming home from my poker game. Last thing I needed was to end up in the emergency room.”

  “Wouldn’t want that. What’s this about a poker game?”

  “That’s just the excuse I gave my wife. Anyway, Sadie and I go back in the bedroom and wait it out. We heard some more commotion and then it was quiet for a bit. And so we walked back out again.”

  “And that’s when you found the body.”

  “Yes. Looked like he got hit over the head. There was this bright blue device lying next to him.”

  I frowned. “Device?”

  “Yeah. I think they used to call it the Club. You’d snap it onto your steering wheel to prevent your car from being stolen. Even if a thief broke into your car and started the ignition, they couldn’t drive it because the steering wheel was locked. I don’t think many people use them these days.”

  I remembered how popular the Club once was. For a while, it did reduce auto thefts because it was a visual deterrent for joy riders. Then the more sophisticated thieves discovered that, with a hacksaw blade, they could simply cut through a steering wheel in a matter of seconds. They could then remove the Club and actually use it to break the lock on the steering column without having to carry extra tools to do the job. Thieves found they could actually use the Club to help them steal the car. The only people who still use a Club these days were those without a newer car, because the newer cars have an electronic ignition system.

  “So the Club you saw was bright blue.”

  “Yeah. It was lying on the carpet, a few feet away from him. Looked like it had bloodstains all over it, too. The whole scene looked nasty. My guess is that this wasn’t part of their arrangement.”

  Chapter 14

  I didn’t elicit much more out of Stuart Kolodney, but I had pulled out enough. It was almost lunchtime and I was hungry, but the Yabba Grill wasn’t going to cut it. Instead, I went for a wet burrito at a little hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan Beach called El Tarasco. An old USC buddy had introduced me to this hidden gem many years ago, but I rarely got down to the South Bay enough to revisit it. A wet burrito starts out no different from any other burrito: a flour tortilla stuffed with beef, beans and heaven knows what else. But then it is smothered with a spicy ranchero sauce and cheese, and baked in an oven until everything sizzles. At El Tarasco, they jazzed it up by topping it with sour cream and guacamole, and then naming it the Junior Super Deluxe Burrito. It was a mouthful to say, but a pleasure to eat.

  There were no tables here, just one long counter that seated about a dozen people. I had gotten there early enough to get a seat without waiting; by the time I finished, there were a good two dozen people standing in a line that spilled outside. As I departed, I took a look at the blue Pacific, felt good about the warm sun shining on my face, and decided I had plenty of time to take a stroll by the beach.

  Three blocks down a steep hill was the Strand, nothing more than a concrete walkway used by pedestrians, dog walkers, and an occasional bicyclist refusing to stay on a separate bike path. I thought about the Judy Atkin case and knew I was beginning to scratch through the surface. If Judy had indeed killed Henry Knapp, it could easily have been self-defense. Although it struck me as highly unlikely Judy killed Rolf Anawak. There was no motive, no incentive, and it was out of character, at least from what I had known of the Judy Atkin from my past. I suppose ten years working in a grizzly profession could change anyone. But while a woman could easily monetize her body and sell it for sex, it was a huge step to go from that to committing murder. And as Judy reminded me, she didn’t seem to mind pain.

  Rolf Anawak’s killer had shot him from behind, in a darkened alley, and had executed him for reasons only related to money. It was a planned hit. Rolf had foolishly paid $20,000, a sum he had borrowed to try and protect his cousin from career ruin. Something had gone haywire in the deal, and he had returned to Santa Monica on that fateful night. He might have learned the identity of the blackmailers, the bad guys might have been trying to continue the shakedown, or it was conceivable they just wanted Rolf out of the way to cover their tracks. But nothing about this hit, save for the long blonde hair in that grainy video, pointed to Judy.

  I needed to contact Callaway and Sack again, and I probably should have done so right away to alert them I had learned of the murder weapon that killed Henry Knapp. But I didn’t have the bright blue Club in my possession, nor did I know where to find it, a vexing problem that would guarantee a short conversation. It struck me that Sack and Callaway might not even care, that they just wanted to wipe a homicide off the books and put a community at ease. By alerting the decent citizenry that all was safe, that the killer had been apprehended, everyone could go about their business peacefully. But as much as Judy had wronged me, as much as her actions had spun my career down a devastating path, I didn’t think she deserved a fate that included a long prison term. Even if her stepbrother insisted that this was the road she was intent on going down.

  I wanted to have another word, and perhaps another punch or two, with Lucas Jerikoff. But whatever his role might have been in trying to blow up my house, nothing in that encounter would likely lead me closer to Rolf Anawak’s killer. Jerikoff could be pushed around, but I doubted he’d admit to anything or lead me to whoever was involved in these murders. I needed to let the LAPD handle Jerikoff, and I kept reminding myself of that, even though I kept thinking of going rogue.

  I had an inkling that the path to cracking this case lay in finding Owen Magid, and I didn’t know how to do that. Going back to his Hollywood apartment would probably be to no avail, the girls had undoubtedly told him about my last visit. And after hearing that Judy was dragged away in plastic handcuffs, I assumed Owen would not be returning there anytime soon.

  There was one person I hadn’t talked with yet. He seemed like a bit player in all this, even though both murders emanated from his involvement, coincidental as it may have been. And after lunch and a leisurely walk by the beach, I had little else on my calendar today. I phoned Walter Anawak and, after giving him a brief update on my limited progress, I asked for the number of Felix Montoya, the mover that his cousin Rolf worked for. Surprisingly, Walter had it in his phone, he mentioned that sometimes calling Felix was the only way he could get a hold of Rolf. I called Felix Montoya and asked if I could speak with him this afternoon. He sounded tired and hesitant, but I told him I was investigating Rolf’s murder and he perked right up. Said he was working on a job in Van Nuys, and I could come by this afternoon.

  I drove the twenty-five miles up to Van Nuys, an area of the San Fernando Valley that had established itself lately as more of a hotbed for drugs and crime than for containing exceptionally desirable neighborhoods. I navigated my way to the address Montoya gave me on Wish Avenue, a surprisingly pleasant street, lined with large, well-maintained, two-story homes. Not everything is as you’d expect, even in the Valley. I parked behind what looked like a converted UPS truck that had been painted slate gray. Two heavy-set men were sitting on a curb drinking from bottles of blue Gatorade.

  “Hi there,” I said, approaching them. “One of you must be Felix Montoya.”

  “That’s me,” said a man with an ample gut, wearing a dark blue t-shirt and jeans. He stood up and shook my hand, his grip strong and rather powerful.

  “I’m Burnside. I called earlier,” I told him, handing him my card.

  “Sure,” he replied, and pointed to the curb “Mind if I sit? Been a long day.”

  “Not a problem,” I said, lowering myself down onto the curb to join them. “I’d like to talk to you about Rolf.”

  Montoya took a swig from his Gatorade. “Rolf. Yeah, real shame. Good guy. Had some problems, but don’t we all.”

  I thought for a moment. “Did he have beef with anyone?” I asked.

 

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