Justice at Risk (19 page)

Rancho Park Golf Course was part of a spacious municipal park situated south of Twentieth Century Fox Studios along Pico Boulevard, which had once served as the boundary of a Mexican land grant rancho that had been carved up as a subdivision in 1922. By day, the park was a lushly green playground of baseball and soccer fields, basketball courts, slides, and merry-go-rounds, fringed and shaded with more than three dozen varieties of trees. By night, it could be a deadly place, especially if rival gang members happened to show up at the same time, or a drug deal going down in the shadows went down the wrong way.

I’d covered a double murder at the park in the mid-eighties and knew something about the area, including where to find a parking space—even on a balmy Saturday afternoon when a hundred sports and entertainment stars were showing up to play eighteen rounds of golf and hand out free autographs to a couple of thousand fans. The golf course had originally been private, but had gone belly up during World War II; in 1946, it had been purchased by the city of Los Angeles for slightly less than a quarter of a million dollars, which wouldn’t buy a house in the surrounding neighborhood today. Hilly and rolling, with very few flat spots, it was famous for its picturesque foliage, small greens, tough approach shots, and a par-four eighteenth hole where the legendary Arnold Palmer had once taken twelve shots before finally getting his ball into the cup. Greens fees were in the bargain range of twenty bucks—cheaper on weekdays, more on weekends—and with four hundred golfers playing through on an average day, Rancho was reportedly the busiest course in the continental United States.

I arrived at half past one, thinking about the questions I might put to Taylor Fairchild if I got the chance. Parents and kids streamed into the park ahead of me, clutching footballs, baseballs, mitts, and autograph books, along with Sharpies for gathering celebrity signatures. I paid my admission, was handed a souvenir book, and stepped through the gates to a placard that announced the Los Angeles Police–Celebrity Golf Tournament, “The Largest Celebrity-Supported Sports Charity Event in the World,” in benefit of the Los Angeles Police Memorial Foundation.

Uniformed cops were all about, some with trained police dogs, while clusters of kids petted the pooches. There were also lots of LAPD displays: motorcycles, a black-and-white patrol car, a chopper, a bomb squad robot, special SWAT team equipment, a mobile museum devoted to LAPD history, and several mounted officers, where more kids were gathered, stroking the necks of the big horses. I peeked into the museum, noticed that the Rodney King incident was not among the displays, then cut past the clubhouse and headed for the sloping greens.

What seemed like miles of ropes lined both sides of the eighteen fairways, which were fitted snugly into one hundred thirty-seven acres like long, narrow pieces of a very green crossword puzzle. Hundreds of spectators were gathered behind the ropes; from time to time, a gasp or groan erupted from the gallery, or a smattering of applause. Otherwise the crowd was orderly and respectful. Volunteers scurried about or stood at their appointed positions, recording the length of drives on certain holes and the shots closest to the pin on a chosen par-three hole, or acting as marshals to keep the more exuberant fans from pestering the celebrities or interfering with the play. Some were armed with player rosters, and helped fans locate where a favorite celebrity might be playing, based on his or her starting time, calculated at roughly twenty minutes per hole.

With the assistance of one such volunteer, I found Taylor Fairchild between the third green and the fourth tee. He stood next to his motorized cart, placing a putter into his bag and pulling out a driver, looking every inch the contented weekend golfer. His outfit was comprised of fresh-looking tan chinos and a spotless powder blue polo shirt, with dark glasses and an LAPD cap for sun protection; his white, cleated golf shoes looked freshly cleaned and polished. He was trim as a rail, of average height, slightly bookish-looking, and as neatly clipped and groomed for the golf course as he had been for his official police department photograph.

Judging from his jocular manner, his game was going quite well. Two uniformed officers, both burlier than Fairchild by a good forty pounds, most of it in the chest and arms, stopped to slap him on the back and shake his hand. As I got closer, I heard him being congratulated on his two-under-par score by his partner, a Hercules-style television star whose name escaped me, if I’d ever known it at all. Fairchild seemed to revel in the male camaraderie, almost too eagerly, like a grade school mama’s boy who’d finally gotten on a sports team without being picked last.

I called out his name. He bid the two burly cops goodbye, laughing at a joke I couldn’t hear, and glanced over.

“Winston Tsao-Ping sends his best wishes, Mr. Fairchild.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Winston Tsao-Ping. I’m sure you’ll remember that name, if you think about it.”

A trim, attractive woman with silver hair and a volunteer’s badge that identified her as Betty Lou Dean held up a Quiet Please sign and put a finger to her lips. Fairchild stood stiffly by his golf cart, staring at me as if I were an apparition. The actor with the Hercules muscles stepped into the tee box and drove his ball, a strong, straight shot that carried nearly two hundred yards down the fairway. The gallery applauded with enthusiasm, but Fairchild hadn’t even bothered to watch his partner tee off.

“I believe you’re up, Fairchild.”

Only then did he come out of his trance and turn away. He strode to the tee box, placed his tee in the area behind two white markers, set his ball atop the tee, and took his stance.

Instead of swinging the club, he stepped back, pulled out a white handkerchief, and patted his brow, while glancing back in my direction. He tucked the hankie away, resumed his stance, took two practice swings, then made his drive. He struck the ball hard but sliced it badly, sending it off to his right, into the tall trees. The crowd groaned.

Fairchild studied me again as he returned to his cart, his jaw set more tightly now, before he drove away in search of his errant ball. Across the fairway, I watched him select a pitching iron, step in among the trees, and chip the ball toward the fairway, trying to find a clear line through the trunks and branches. His ball dropped feebly in the deep rough, well off the green, and he slammed his club to the ground. Things got worse from there, until he’d expended so many useless shots that he picked up his ball, taking himself out of play until the next tee.

I caught up with him again at the narrow opening in the ropes between the fourth and fifth holes.

“Charlie Gitt also sends his best.”

Fairchild whirled, searching the spectators until he found my face. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who wants some answers about the murders of Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman.”

I could sense the eyes of the closest spectators moving from me to Fairchild, and had no doubt he was just as aware of them. All those eyes, all those ears, along with a couple of dozen media cameras and tape recorders not too far away.

“I’m golfing for charity, sir. You can call me at the office regarding police matters. I’ll be happy to speak with you.”

“Alex Templeton has tried calling you, Fairchild. You’re stonewalling her. And now it’s looking like you’ve got her new boss, Roger Lawson, in your hip pocket.”

I heard a few curious murmurs from the spectators around me. A volunteer marshal stepped forward uneasily and asked me to move behind the ropes. I did. Fairchild glared at me, trying to look stalwart, but the look was as shaky as his last chip shot.

He moved to his place on the fifth tee, took a few practice swings trying to get his stroke back, then stepped up to the ball and gave it a whack. This time he pulled it badly to his left, out of bounds and into the crowd, which was too busy ducking and dodging to do much groaning. Fairchild went charging angrily to the vicinity of the renegade ball, removing his dark glasses and scanning the area with quiet fury.

“I think this is what you’re looking for, Fairchild.”

He looked over to see me standing next to his ball, pointing down at it nestled in deep grass. He pulled himself up and regarded me with small gray eyes as he approached.

“I know who you are, Justice. I didn’t recognize you at first behind the beard.” His narrow mustache stretched as he smiled. “Unfortunately, it came to me a moment ago just as I was about to tee off.”

“It’s nice to see you have a sense of humor about the game, Fairchild. Some golfers would have beaten me to death with their nine iron.”

“I’m not a violent man.”

“You work in a violent profession.”

“Violence is a small part of it, to be avoided if at all possible.”

“Winston Tsao-Ping might have a different perspective on that.”

Fairchild’s smile disappeared faster than a bad tan.

“Sergeant Montego has briefed me on your interest in certain matters that were put to rest many years ago.”

“Put to rest, or buried alive?”

He had no answer for that, so I tried another question.

“Why did you sign that report fifteen years ago, Fairchild?”

Again, silence.

“If the Tsao-Ping case was put to rest, why were Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman murdered fifteen years later?”

“You’re referring to something I’m not familiar with.”

“As the assistant chief, I believe you have the authority to make special assignments within the department, certainly to influence those kinds of decisions.”

“I suppose I do, under certain circumstances.”

“If one checked, I have a feeling he’d learn that it was you who had Sergeant Montego assigned to take over the investigation of the Callahan and Mittelman murders.”

He cleared his throat, swallowing with some difficulty.

“I might have, for administrative purposes.”

“Why, Fairchild? If the two cases are unrelated.”

The muscles of his face became taut, and his speech cool and clipped.

“Oh, yes, I remember now. My understanding is that those were both homosexual killings, with some kind of perversion involved. Unconnected to any past cases that we know of, but sensitive enough because of the sexual aspects that I wanted an experienced detective like Sergeant Montego in charge.”

“You’re going to try to pass those two murders off as sex crimes?”

“Sergeant Montego’s heading the investigation. I have nothing to do with it.”

“You’re a practicing Christian, aren’t you, Fairchild?”

“I’m a churchgoing man, yes.”

“Devout, from what I’ve heard.”

“I try my best.”

“Yet you’ve just reeled off a string of bald-faced lies. Not very Christian, is it?”

He locked on my eyes, working hard to mask his emotions and hold back what he really wanted to say.

“What will you do with all that blood money your grandfather siphoned off the third world through his corporate connections? Use it to finance your trip to the statehouse, maybe the White House?”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Or maybe you’ll serve out your term as chief, retire quietly, and use some of your millions to build a church and buy your way into heaven. Is that how it works, Fairchild? Or is that a decision your mother will make for you? She’s the one who pulls the strings in the Fairchild family, isn’t she?”

“A wild man.” He shook his head, trying to smile. “You’re talking like a wild man.”

“I’m talking like a reporter asking questions that deserve answers.”

“But you’re not a reporter, Justice. You’re a fraud who got found out years ago and was drummed out of the trade. In your case, all we need do is consider the source.”

“You’ve got me there, Fairchild.”

He smiled a little more, and added a slight nod.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Justice. I’m holding up play.”

He bent to pick up his ball.

“You seem to enjoy the game.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Finally feeling like one of the boys, after all these years? After what your uncle did to you when you were a kid, and how troubling that must have been for you.”

Fairchild’s smile crinkled awkwardly, and his eyes did a nervous dance just before they disappeared behind his dark glasses. He strode briskly back to his cart, climbed in, and made a beeline back to the tee to repeat his drive. I didn’t stay around to watch, but another groan from the crowd suggested that he hadn’t quite regained his concentration.

I was on my way out of the park when Felix Montego fell into step beside me, talking as we walked.

“I tried to warn you, Justice. You just wouldn’t listen, would you?”

“I have a serious hearing problem, especially when I’m getting the runaround.”

“You just upped the ante. Way, way up.”

“I want a few answers, that’s all.”

“And I’m asking you one more time—leave it alone.”

“Fairchild was scared back there, Montego.”

A few seconds passed before he responded; he wasn’t looking at me.

“Maybe.”

“I think you’re scared too.”