Tampa Two, page 9
part #8 of Burnside Series
“I didn’t murder him, I swear,” she insisted.
“What happened then?” I demanded, knowing I probably was going to be listening to yet another lie.
“We made the swap. I gave this Alaskan guy the recording. He gave me the money. Then we all left.”
“Candy said you stayed with Knapp after she left.”
Judy’s eyes widened. “You talked to Candy?”
“I did. What happened? Better off telling the truth.”
“Okay, look. I stayed behind. I did this guy, Henry, whatever his name was. He worked for some private eye in Santa Monica. The whole thing was quick, I just sucked him off. Then I left.”
“He stayed behind?”
“Yeah.”
“And you let him?”
“Why not? There was another girl there in the back room. It’s not like there’s anything there to steal.”
“What happened to the money this Alaskan guy paid you. His name was Walter Anawak, right?”
“How do you know has name?” she asked, bewilderedly.
“You told me. Or did you forget that, too?”
Judy took a deep breath. “I guess I did forget. And in all the confusion, I left the money behind. I was in a hurry to get out of there.”
“And that’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it.”
“So how did this Henry Knapp end up dead?”
Judy shrugged.
“Did you pay Knapp any money for being there?”
“I gave him three hundred up front. Seemed fair, seeing as I didn’t know anything about him.”
“How’d you hook up with him?” I asked.
“Candy found this private eye on the internet somehow. He directed us to Henry.”
“And you don’t know anything about how Henry Knapp got killed.”
“Nope. Look, can I go now? I don’t know anything else.”
“Your story sounds like complete crap,” I told her. “And because you left my business card lying around, I got roped into this mess. The cops are looking at me now as being part of a homicide. So I’m involved. And you’re going over to the Santa Monica PD to tell them your story.”
“Oh, no. Please. I’ve had it with cops. They won’t believe me.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t.”
“Look, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’ll do whatever you want. Right here. I’ll fuck you, I’ll suck you, whatever, you name it. Anything. I’m really good, too.”
I stared at her in mild disbelief. Whatever innocence I had once seen in Judy was long gone. The waifish teenage girl with the angelic face and the bluest of eyes had morphed into a hardened woman. Even the eyes had deteriorated, rimmed with red, they no longer gave off the innocence of youth, but rather they exuded the desperation that comes from seeing too many bad things over the years. I turned away from her, tossed my .357 into the center console, put the Pathfinder in gear, and pulled back onto the street.
It was mid-morning, and the drive to Santa Monica only took 20 minutes. I parked in the lot outside the remodeled police station complex, which was now shared with the fire department. The new building was made from a gorgeous gray stone, lined with glass, and had long horizontal slats that gave it an art deco tinge. An actual working fountain, which struck me as more of a sculpture, recycled a continuous waterfall into a shallow pool. A variety of green plants seemingly floated along the top of the pool. A lot of real estate money had streamed into Santa Monica over the past few years, and the city had wasted no time using it to modernize their civic structures. And there were plans in place to remodel it once again into something that would be environmentally friendly enough for the 22nd century.
I walked Judy in through the front door, my grip tight around her forearm. She struggled a little as I dragged her to the front desk, where a uniformed officer, middle-aged, balding, and looking like he desperately needed that first cup of coffee, greeted us unpleasantly.
‘What the hell is this?” he exclaimed, his nose wrinkling in annoyance.
“Delivering a package to the deputy chief. Would you mind telling Barney Sack that Burnside is here?”
“Who the hell are you?”
I sighed. “Like I said, I’m Burnside. Do I need to repeat it again for you?”
The officer glared at me for a long moment and then called a female uniform over and ordered her to watch the front desk. He picked up the phone and made a quick call before hanging up, shaking his head, and telling me to follow him. Grasping a metal detector wand, he swiped it across our bodies before being satisfied we were unarmed. After leading us through a maze of hallways, he finally deposited me in a holding room, where he told me not to move. He took Judy by the arm and led her somewhere else. The walls in the room were painted white, the linoleum was white, and there were white ceiling tiles overhead. There were no windows, but the room was plenty bright. About forty-five minutes later, Barney Sack waltzed in.
“Well, just the guy I wanted to see,” Sack said.
I looked at my watch. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
“We got important business here,” Sack said, taking a seat across from me and loosening his already loosened tie. Today he had on a pink and brown striped number that looked as cheap as the one he wore the other day.
“I can only imagine. But you saw the witness I brought in. Maybe she’s something more. She didn’t bother to tell me much.”
“We’ll get it out of her,” Sack said. “Judy Atkin, huh? You should bring me up to speed on your activities over the past few days.”
“I’d be delighted to, chief. I mean deputy chief.”
“Go on. And ease up on cracking wise.”
“All right. I went back to the crime scene yesterday.”
“Wonderful,” Sack groused. “You get your prints all over everything?”
“I didn’t go into the unit. Just spoke with some neighbors. Learned one of the girls who works there also dances at the Pleasure Cove. It’s on Pico. You probably know it.”
“I do, but not for the reasons you’re insinuating. Some of our best clients hang out at that flesh pit.”
“Sure. I went over there and talked to the girl.”
“Name?”
“Candy Pence.”
“Cute. You verify it with a driver’s license?”
“We didn’t get that intimate. It was hard enough to pull anything substantive out of her. I did, however, find the owner of the condo. Lucas Jerikoff.”
“Uh-huh. You get anything else?”
“I got Owen Magid’s address in Hollywood. Lucas Jerikoff gave it up.”
Sack’s eyes widened. “How’d you manage that. We got nothing from Jerikoff.”
“Let’s just say the private sector can be a bit more, er, agile than the police.”
Sack gave the hint of a smile. This was clearly his reasoning for bringing me in on this. The police normally have a strict protocol. I don’t.
“Write it down,” he said, handing me a notepad. I jotted the address from memory and handed it back to him. He looked at it. “Okay. Keep going.”
“So I get to Magid’s apartment, he’s not around, his name may actually be Tommy, who knows. But I found four girls there, and Judy was one of them.”
“The rest of them were pros, too?”
“They were attractive young ladies,” I replied. “We didn’t get into where they were in their career paths.”
“How’d Judy get that black eye? The private sector at work again? Or you just let your emotions get the best of you.”
“Take another look at it, Sack. It’s not fresh. It’s a few days old, it’s become discolored. If she got hit in the last hour, her face would just be red.”
“The great medical expert. Thanks for the lesson. And who were the other girls?”
“I didn’t spend a lot of time talking. Once I saw Judy, I cuffed her and got her out of there,” I said. One of the problems with being a lone wolf is when you encounter more than one possible assailant. I knew nothing about these girls, and young people can sometimes throw caution to the wind. If they all attacked at once, things could get dicey, even if it’s just four girls barely out of their teens. I didn’t know if they were on drugs, and one-on-four situations are never good, even if I was the one holding the gun. The last thing I wanted to do was shoot anyone today.
“Judy say anything to you?” Sack continued. “I mean something I might want to hear?”
“Aside from propositioning me, no, not a lot. Henry Knapp was hired because Judy wanted a guy who looked tough. She paid him a few hundred, and apparently fellated him as part of their agreement. How he got his head bashed in is still a mystery.”
“She tell you anything about the Alaskan guy?”
“Just that he paid the blackmail money and left. The money itself seems to have disappeared.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Judy thought he was a pro football player, but there’s a hole in that story.”
“How’s that?”
“If he were an NFL football player, he wouldn’t be available on a Saturday night. Even for a home game. The Rams are like every other team, they take all the players to a local hotel for the night. The coaches do a bed check, make sure the guys get a decent night’s sleep and don’t go out clubbing. Also means they don’t have to worry about a player oversleeping his alarm clock on Sunday morning and showing up late for the game. Everyone is right there on Saturday night, and the coaches keep them relatively sober as well.”
Sack nodded. “Okay. You know your stuff. I’ll give you that, Burnside.”
I got the feeling there was something more coming, so I kept quiet. Sack’s style was not to shower people with compliments. I waited, as Sack looked down at the white linoleum.
“We haven’t released this to the media yet, but it’ll be out soon enough. There was another murder last night. In the alley behind the King’s Head. Body was found early this morning. A couple of joggers thought it was just a homeless guy sleeping there until they saw the pool of blood.”
I frowned. “The King’s Head? That British pub off of 2nd street?” I asked. This was not the type of place that ever encountered much trouble. My main recollection was they offered a wide range of beers and served a pretty good plate of fish and chips.
“Yup. We found a body in that alley between 2nd and Ocean. Big Alaskan guy. Shot twice in the back of the head. Looked like execution style. We have video evidence, but somebody popped the flood light in the alley, so everything’s grainy. We picked up a few things but we just can’t make their faces out.”
“Sounds like a certain someone was planning this ahead of time.”
“You figure, huh?”
“And let me make another guess. The big Alaskan guy wasn’t a football player.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Then it wasn’t Walter Anawak of the Rams,” I said, deciding there was no longer any need to keep his name from the police. When things spiral into double murder, it’s best to keep the local cops informed.
Sack’s mouth opened ever so slightly and he gave me a long, curious look. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. The victim was his cousin, Rolf Anawak. Lives with him, but you’re right. Big Alaskan guy, although not the one who plays football.”
Chapter 8
I spent a few more dispirited hours at the Santa Monica police station, much more than I had anticipated. Barney Sack spent a solid hour grilling me, before giving way to a young detective who fumbled over similar questions. Still, he did manage to provide some insight into what happened behind the King’s Head pub. Rolf Anawak was said to have left the bar soon after he arrived, departing with a man who apparently walked him into the alley. The big guy acquired two bullets in the back of his head when an unidentifiable accomplice snuck up from behind and shot him from point blank range. The video only revealed that the shooter wore a dark baseball cap and had long hair, most likely blonde, streaming halfway down their back.
The young detective allowed me to leave at 2:00 p.m., which was hours after my stomach first began grumbling that a maple scone was insufficient nourishment for the day. I drove north on 4th street, thinking of taking the freeway home, when I suddenly decided to hatch a different plan. The King’s Head was only a few blocks away, and it was worth a detour, even if only to confirm they still serve a pretty good plate of fish and chips.
The police were finishing up at the crime scene, and had just allowed the pub to open for the day. The King’s Head was divided into three parts: a bar, a restaurant, and a gift shop, together taking up half a city block. The restaurant had grown into the largest of the three, but it was the bar where Rolf Anawak had apparently met the man who led him to the alley and helped seal his fate.
I walked in to the darkened bar area, a relatively small space with a black linoleum floor augmented by dark pine paneling on the walls. Dart boards were set up across the room. Three large TV monitors hung from the ceiling, each one tuned to a different soccer match. I sat down on a stool next to a lean man in his thirties who was nursing a beer and looking up at one of the screens. I asked the barmaid for a menu, glanced through the offerings of Cornish Pasty, Bangers and Mash, and various Meat Pies, before reverting back to the original plan. Icelandic cod and chips.
“Would you like a pint with that, love?” the barmaid asked casually, her soft London accent providing a nice touch to the surroundings.
“Why not?” I said, figuring I had put in a full day’s work already. “How about a Bass ale.”
“Coming right up,” she said, and thirty seconds later, a frosty glass of amber ale was placed neatly in front of me. I turned to the guy on the next barstool.
“Quite a commotion here today,” I started.
“You got that right, mate,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to get off to such a late start to me day.”
I smiled. “This how you normally begin things?”
“Mostly. Except when I have a meeting or two. But, bloody hell, who’d’ve ever thought a murder would happen here? Place like this?”
I nodded in agreement. “You come here a lot?”
“Most days. Some nights.”
“Were you here last night?”
“I was. And you know what? I didn’t see a bloody thing, mate. Didn’t hear no gunfire, nothing. Just another day at the office.”
“You recall the big guy who got killed?”
He rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t miss him! I swear, what do you all put in the water here? This joker looked like a bloated whale. But fair’s fair, I wasn’t paying too much attention to him. Just another Joe Bloggs. Like I told the five-ohs a little while ago. Seen him hanging around, he didn’t order anything, but I didn’t think much of it. Some people just stand at the bar until their table is ready. Apparently he was waiting for someone.”
“They call police five-ohs in England?”
“This ain’t England, mate. Gotta learn some of the local jargon if you want to chat up a girl and not sound stupid.”
“Okay. He was waiting for someone. Apparently he found them.”
“Yeah, right? Waiting for someone to come down and blow his head off? Ha! Might have given that one a second look if he could do it again.”
“You didn’t see any arguing or anything?”
“Nah. And you don’t see much fighting in this place. Nice pub, nice people. Mostly regulars, but you always get a few lowlifes coming through. Every once in a great while two guys might get pissed about something, so they step into the alley and sort out their differences.”
“This time it went a little further.”
“Sure did. Can’t say as it surprises me though. You Americans love your bloody guns. Seems like everybody has one.” He took a swallow of beer and looked at me. “You carrying, mate?”
“No comment,” I said, remembering I had left my .357 in the Pathfinder.
“Figures. Bunch of sissies over here. Back in the East End, if some bloke pisses you off, you take ’em outside and rough ‘em up a bit. Over here, you call someone a name and next thing you know they’re waving a nine in your face, threatening to spatter your brains all over the wall. Americans are a bunch of cowards. Anyone can be tough if they’re holding a gun.”
I mulled this over, taking a long swig of my Bass ale. I began wondering if I needed to set the record straight and defend my country’s honor by inviting my new friend into the alley and demonstrating our prowess with fisticuffs. Then I began to hear Gail’s voice, reminding me of my need to set an example for Marcus, not to mention keeping her from the dreary process of bailing me out of jail. Angel on one shoulder, devil on the other. Story of my life.
My fish and chips arrived, and after giving the plate a quick douse of malt vinegar, I dug in. I had never been to England, but I couldn’t envision that they had better fish and chips than what I was eating right now. I took another swig of ale and ignored my new companion until I finished and paid the bill. I tried to get the barmaid talking about last night, but she just shrugged and said she hadn’t seen a thing. I asked a few others at the bar and got much the same answer. Finally, I pulled myself up before I got sucked in to having another pint or two and re-litigating the revolutionary war.
“Nice talking with you,” I said to my new acquaintance.
“Cheers, mate. You sure do ask a lot of questions. I had you pegged as a five-oh. Am I wrong?”
“You’re off by about eight years. I used to be LAPD. A lifetime ago.”
“Guess some things never leave you. Bet you’ve got a lot of stories.”
“More than I care to tell.”
“Too bad, I could use a guy like you.”
“Oh? What do you do?” I asked cautiously, knowing the city in which we lived.
“I just signed a two-picture deal with Paramount. I’m writing a screenplay about life and death in L.A. I might even put last night’s scene in the film.”
“So you write in the morning and drink in the afternoon?”
“Normally the other way around,” he said, taking another swallow. “But when that big bloke got done in, it kept the pub closed for a while. Messed up my routine.”
