Post Pattern (Burnside Series Book 1) by David Chill

Author:David Chill [Chill, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cold Spirit Press
Published: 2013-02-07T00:00:00+00:00

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It was almost eight o'clock by the time I set out for Evan Wurman's apartment in Westwood, which meant it would be growing dark in a little while. Traffic was heavy, as everyone seemingly wanted to venture out and play in the warm evening. Like all else in Los Angeles, lingering on the freeway is the price of admission. The normal ten-minute journey wound up taking twice as long, as I battled through the gridlock. I just hoped he was home.

Westwood Village is a pleasant, upscale community just west of Beverly Hills. There were numerous movie theaters, bistros, and trendy shops in the village, and the surrounding community was among the more prestigious addresses in the southland. It was close to LAU and close to the beach.

I parked on a side street that warned of towing if you were not wealthy enough to actually reside in the neighborhood, and could display a special sticker on your car. At one time there was a horrendous parking problem for local residents as the Westwood theatergoers snagged most of the street parking. Now the problem had shifted to the visitors. The merchants weren't too happy as business began to trail off soon after the law was changed, but my guess was the law would not revert back. The residents were among the most elite professionals in the city and had significant clout. In most places that's the name of the game.

The intercom was answered by a male voice that managed to sound obnoxious by uttering a simple "who is it?" in a whiny, impatient tone. I shouted the words "UPS" into the intercom and he buzzed me up without a word.

I reached the fourteenth floor and rang the bell to apartment 14G. A slender, almost effeminate-looking kid in his early twenties opened the door. He had blond hair slicked back with an overload of mousse and a silver stud in his left ear. He wore a pair of dark blue Speedos and nothing more. His chest had no hair to speak of and I would have sworn he shaved his legs.

"Evan Wurman?" I asked.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked pleasantly.

I decided to try politeness for a change. "I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

"Where's my UPS package?" he demanded.

"Kid, there is no package. It was a ruse."

"A what?"

Just then one of his neighbors walked out into the hall. "Can I come in?" I asked. "This is pretty personal stuff."

Evan looked around for a moment and said no. Behind him was an enormous living room featuring a long orange couch and a huge flat-screen TV. From what I could see, there were no pictures on the wall, nor any window coverings. In the corner, a screen door led into a wrap-around balcony.

"Whaddya want?" he asked bluntly.

"I want to talk with you about the murder of Robbie Freeman," I said, loud enough for his neighbor to hear without trying. I thought that might have convinced him to take the conversation inside.

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