The Tilsons Got Killed

"Agreed."

"And a car. I'm not wrecking my GTO for no job."

"Agreed."

"And Mary's got to pay some cash up front, not that lazy ass pay bullshit that she usually does. Even though she is a fine piece of ass, I ain't getting none of it." He stopped and looked at me. "I want the cash up front."

"Agreed."

"How are we going to start?"

"The usual way. Let's go knock on some doors, step on some toes, stir up some shit, and see what we can find."

"Sound like fun to me."

And we clinked our smoothies.

We started with Courtney. She was holed up in one of the three or four condos in one of the highrises on Wilshire by Westwood that Mary owned as safe houses to store her clients in need. Busy corridor, upper floors, and armed security at the doors downstairs thanks to the wealthy neighbors populating the building.

I was wearing a snappy, Hugo Boss jacket, khakis, and my old school Reebok Club Cs. Ryker, dressed in black as usual, had on a loose-fitting windbreaker to cover the hardware. He was never going to make the cover of "Esquire Magazine." On the other hand, I had a chance.

Mary had arranged the visit. We buzzed the door, went up to the 11^th floor, knocked, we heard a peephole and locks moving, and Courtney Tilson opened the door to let us in.

This is rude to say about a young client whose entire family has been murdered, who you are detecting for, but she was hotter than a pawn shop Rolex.

25 years old, with a freshly minted MBA, around 5'-8" raven hair, beautiful, a killer body and right now, the saddest blue eyes I had ever seen. It was apparent that our ringing the bell had stopped a round of tears.

We introduced ourselves, she invited us in. I noticed she couldn't help herself; she was a young girl with needs even if grieving, and I caught her check my bod out and I thought, Ryker's ass.

OK. She had good taste in both.

Courtney and I sat on the couch. Ryker stood back on the wall silently observing. I knew he was carrying a Sig Sauer 9mm. with plenty of stopping power under his left arm as he always did while working.

It looked as if he was bored back there, but he was totally and completely observing and ready for action at any time like a coiled rattlesnake asleep in the desert.

Courtney and I worked our way conversationally through the pleasantries of introduction and the condolences of her family's deaths.

"Mary tells me you were some kind of football star."

"Yes, but that was a long time ago."

"Who is he?" pointing at Ryker.

"As we said at the door, that's Ryker."

"Why is he here?"

"He keeps us alive."

Courtney gave a little shocked nod. Maybe too much too soon on my part.

I started the small talk again, and as unpleasurable as it was going to be, I steered the conversation to the night of her family's murder with the understanding that the target was her dad and her family was collateral damage.

She hesitantly described her experience which in relationship to the murders was negligible, having been in the kitchen getting her mom's birthday wine.

She instead walked into the massacre, and at her young age had to see the scene of her entire family's bodies bullet ridden, bleeding profusely, and everyone dead.

In a blink of the eye, she was an orphan.

One night in a long lifetime of nights should not define a lifetime. Yet, this one did. It was a sight that sadly she would see all of her life.

Therapy would help to find the way to put it into its own room in her mind so eventually she could move on to a productive life, but I knew it would take time for her to process from this trauma. Sadly, I had seen it more than once during my career.

It didn't matter how many times I saw it. It always broke my heart and motivated me for vengeance on their behalf.

I was feeling that now. Big time.

"Let's talk about your dad, if that's okay with you?"

"Okay, if we have to."

"Courtney, if you want me to catch the bad guys, we have to. Sorry."

She nodded her head.

"Tell me about your dad."

And she started to talk about him. For Courtney, dad was a mythical figure. Probably more so now. A perfect man who walked on water. As she talked, I marveled at a daughter's love.

He was generous, kind, loving, but when he needed to be was a strong disciplinarian. A man who was a generous provider, and also somehow made the time to attend every soccer, softball, and high school girls' basketball game. He was devoted to her late brother, John's, sports career.

She went on describing Dear Abby's perfect father.

I don't know if Bradford Tilson was, but he most definitely was in his daughter's eye.

"Tell me, what did your dad do for a living?"

I already knew this. The Tilson's owned one of the largest, privately held commercial construction companies in the country. Everything from skyscrapers to national freeway contracts.

They were one of four companies that dominated the million, sometimes billion-dollar construction bid zone. For example, during the Obama administration Congress passed The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act, and Tilson landed the federal contract to expand the 101 freeway throughout the greater San Fernando Valley, delivering the project on deadline earning the bonus of 15 miles of the I-405 expansion.

That was the bread and butter. The sports stadium was the kind of project that Tilson Construction took on for fun, or more likely for son John's sake. It might have been hard to deny a mid-level position to the son of the man who built your stadium.

Courtney described the family business from her perspective and despite her age, she knew it inside and out. Her dad had been training her to eventually take it over. It was what she had studied in college. Engineering, higher math, architecture, and construction. She held a master's degree in commercial architectural construction. Hell, knew the equations on how The Empire State Building was still standing. Smart young woman.

She knew the biz back and forwards from sites, plans, materials and supply chains, vendors, ordering, trades, subcontractors, contracts, how to negotiate with government dingbats, how to hire crew properly. Hell, the redesign of the company website.

That would all be helpful. A knowledgeable victim is always a more helpful victim.

Think about it. Seriously, take a moment to think about it.

Most detectives in books accept the victims who have no idea what the fuck happened to them or why and solve the mystery.

That is great in fiction. In real life, sadly with victims like that, the case usually ends up a dark alley unless there is a lucky break. That's how the real world works.

However, a knowledgeable victim who can give you something real to run with, that is something you can work with and solve.

That was Courtney Tilson.

"They had fought hard for this stadium project. Dad wanted it because he is, err, was a fan." She had to pause for a moment to gather herself again. I waited.

She looked up at me to see if it was okay. I smiled yes and she continued.

"I guess mostly for John. He spent a lot of time wining and dining ownership, taking them to the club for golfing and dinner. He didn't move in the sports world too much, but built a lot of specialty houses and condos, especially downtown, for celebrities and stars. He enlisted their aid with the hint that they would attend games on the house. You know, it's good for the clubs. Seeing celebs on the sidelines on TV."

I nodded.

"The last few years a different crowd moved into construction. Rougher, from other countries who played by different rules. It occasionally got violent on the sites. A number of serious fights. Dad had to install armed security for the first time in some construction zones, and solicit the help of the CHP who would station Highway Patrol cars at the beginning and end of the active sites. Then a gun came out threatening one of our foremen, and that was a game changer."

I nodded to show I was listening.

"Dad started making sure that his friends in the developers' world and also government would close their doors to certain folks and that was not taken kindly. The senior executives and I warned him to tread lightly, but he kept saying, 'My business is my business. No one is going to tell me how to run my business.'"

"I think it killed him," she continued. "That's the reason why I asked Ms. Carlson for some protection. I want to go back to work at the company. I want to finish the stadium for Dad," and she broke into large, sobbing tears. Her shoulders convulsing in her sorrow.

I wasn't sure what to do, so I moved in and offered a consoling hug. Courtney flung herself into me, I wrapped my arms around her, swallowing her into my chest and arms and she sobbed for a long time within my comforting grasp.

Finally, the sobs started to ebb and she raised her head. "I don't even know you and I've ruined your shirt with my snot. I'm sorry."

I had to smile silently. Grief causes so many different, out of perspective reactions. It comes with the trade.

"No worries. I have a good dry cleaner. Let's get you freshened up."

I did.

"Is there anything else? If there is, please tell me."

She thought for a moment and said, "We had Ring cameras everywhere. Dad was a stickler for that. Maybe the police already have the video. If not, my dad's phone would. Wherever that is. He always had it on him."

"It's probably with the cops. Do you know the password?"

"No prob. The whole family always used the same password. One of Dad's rules. That way in an emergency, we could always have a phone to use."

Another rabbit hole to go down and the tears followed as she fell.

"Courtney," I said reassuringly. "That's the best news I've heard today and could catch the" -- I wanted to say motherfuckers but didn't -- "bastards who did this. I promise. I will and bring them to justice."

And she leaned into me and started crying again.

At least this shirt was already ruined.

Chapter 4

I'm going to be honest; I didn't know how to react or what to do.

For maybe the first time in my career, I was stumped.

I looked at Ryker, "Do you have any friends who can help us here? We need 24-hour security for Courtney.

"Red level?"

"Totally."

"Done."

I turned to Courtney, "Listen to me. We are going to send a few friends over here. They are going to look like really scary, bad men, because they are, but they are friends who will be here risking their lives to protect you. You can trust them. They will not harm you in any way."

She nodded.

"Tell her it is okay to feed them and let them use the bathroom."

"It's okay if you feed them and let them use the bathroom."

"You know I heard him, right?!" Courtney said, looking at us both as if we were a bunch of Dumbos.

"Sorry. Force of habit."

I'm pretty sure I saw Ryker nod a yes.

I nodded towards Ryker. "He'll stay here until reinforcements get here. You can feed him too, but careful of his bite," and I smiled.

I was happy to say Courtney did too. Maybe her first in a while.

Ryker did not.

"What are you going to do?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm going to say hi to the folks over at your dad's company."

I looked over at Ryker, "Meet me later downtown after the reinforcements arrived."

The imperceptible nod said, "Yes."

On my way over to Tilson Construction, I talked with Mary Carlson, filled her in about our meeting, and told her the bill was going up.

Tilson's on Figueroa St. downtown was an impressive building as you might expect. You know, one of those giant black glass and granite phallic symbols worshipping the Gods of Money and Power.

I went up to the enticing blonde at the front desk. I assumed an aspiring actress who someday I'd see on the large screen and say to my date, "You know, she checked my ID one day."

"Anthony Brown to see Mister Higgs."

She looked at my chest and waist, and then down at her iPad screen.

She looked up slowly this time spending a moment at the bulge in my pants. I wonder if she noticed I dressed left. Fortunately, she missed the bulge on my right hip. The pants bulge helps with that one.

"Yes, Mr. Brown, Mr. Higgs is expecting you."

I leaned in giving her the full treatment, hoping to steal a glance down her blouse. The lace bra was red. "Are you sure? I think I'm early. Hanging around here for a bit would be okay with me."

"Oh no! It says he wants to see you right away."

I smiled. "Would that happen to be a universal invitation?"

"Sorry good looking." She lifted her hand to show me the ring. "Married."

"Well, that's a damn shame."

"Today, it might be," she looked up and batted those baby blues.

"We could remedy that with a quick lunch later."

"Doesn't it bother you that I'm married?"

I stopped for a beat and said, "Maybe. But what I want to know is, does it bother you?"

She put her hand over her mouth and giggled as I went to the elevators.

Higgs was on the top floor. I stepped into the express, punched 55, and rode up.

The sign on the door said, "Richard Higgs, Chief Operating Officer." It was next to the one reading "Constance A. Tilson, Vice-President."

I went in without knocking.

Another incredibly enticing blonde was at the desk. She was ripe and promising of more to come. Maybe that was the Tilson way.

Made me think of Fox News and Roger Ailes and his thing about making woman blondes and then abusing them. I hated that. As I said before, I didn't like men who abused women. I hoped that wasn't the case here in Tilson.

"Hi," Sherry Donaldson said brightly, based off of her desk plate.

"Hi there, Sherry. How ya doing today?" I smiled.

"I'm okay," she said half-heartedly.

"Really?"

"Oh, don't you know?"

She looked at me.

"You know Mr. Tilson was killed. It's horrible."

She paused respectively for a moment.

"Yes, I know." I bowed my head, "Requiescat in pace."

"Huh?"

"Rest in peace."

"Oh." She thought about that for a moment.

She was as cute as the Easter Bunny, but not as smart.

She looked back at me. "So, how can I help you handsome?" she asked.

They weren't very subtle here at Tilson. Maybe that's the construction industry way. I looked down at the locked and loaded twin 38s pointing at me and thought, "Shit, maybe I got into the wrong damn business."

"It's okay Sherry. May I call you Sherry? I understand. I'm Anthony Brown. I'm the private detective that is going to find his killer and give everybody the justice and peace they deserve." I flashed her my badge. It was shiny.

She looked up at me. "Oh, Mr. Higgs is waiting for you. Please go in."

I walked towards the inner office.

"And God bless you."

I walked to the inner office and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Ric Higgs was a slight, aging, good looking man with a dyed out-of-fashion Beatles cut in a custom made Savory Row suit by Ozwald Boateng. He stood up, extended his hand, and gave me a polite, business handshake.

"Oh, an Ozwald Boateng. Did you know he makes suits for the great Giorgio Armani, for his personal wardrobe, and DiCaprio? But you probably knew that already. I have a few myself," and I smiled.

"I didn't know you were so worldly, Mr. Brown."

"Please call me Anthony."

"Sorry, I thought it was Tony. They said you played football."

It never stopped.

"Anthony."

"How can I help you, Mr. Brown?"

"Well, Ric," and I looked at him square in the face.

"Why don't we start with who was your boss, Bradford Tilson's enemies?"

"He shrunk a bit in his desk and said, "Errr, none that I know."

"Oh, come on. Everybody has enemies of one kind or another, especially a powerful and important man like Mr. Tilson."

"None that I could imagine killing his entire family," he replied. "Oh, poor Courtney. Please take a seat," gesturing to a burgundy leather chair.

"Of course, there are always rivals in this business, but what business doesn't?"

"Yet Courtney told me about a gang backed construction company moving in recently."

"Yes, that was unfortunate, but we thought we had that situation under control."

"Really? Under control. Is that what you thought?"

"Oh," and he slunk a bit in his chair. "Is that what you're thinking happened?"

I looked at Higgs hard. There was something in my Spidey-sense that wasn't right.

"And what are your thoughts, Mr. Higgs?"

He sunk down further for a moment. "I have no idea? Bradford was a god in this business. Everybody loved and admired him. Hell, I loved him like a father. Look what he did for me!" and he swung his arms towards the walls of the office.

"He gave me my fucking life."

And then he got serious, "I don't know why anyone would take his."

Chapter 5

I figured while I was there, I would prowl the executive hallway. I strolled down the plush carpeting until I came to a door that read, "Sheldon Levine, CFO." Now that was someone I wanted to talk to.

I walked in without knocking to another knockout. This one's nameplate read "Kitty Fireside," and this one was a redhead. She was hot and I wanted to sit by the fire.

A flowing red mane of hair, green eyes, and gorgeous in a Rita Hayworth Gilda sort of way. Like me, she was also packing a pair of guns.

She looked up at me and said, "Can I help you?"

"I think you mean, 'May I help you?'"

She looked confused.

"It's simple. Can and may are both 'modal verbs.' They express mood when used with main verbs. 'Can' indicates that someone has the ability to do something. 'May' refers to the possibility of something happening.'

She looked lost.

"When you respond, 'Can I help you?' you are implying you can help me without knowing what I need or desire. Rather than 'May I help you?' which implies that there is a possibility that you could help me or not."

She looked at me confused. I sat down on the front of her desk. I think she was impressed by my arms.

"What if I had replied to your 'Can I help you?' by saying, 'Yes you can. I want to take you over to that couch right now and make love to you."

She blushed and giggled.

"Can I help you implies you will. Are you going to?"

She shook her head no.

"However, 'May I help you?' implies that you could or could not help me. So, when I ask the same question, your response is either sure, or I'm sorry sir."

I didn't think she got it yet.

"So, want to go over to that couch and make love right now?" I asked.

Flustered, Kitty said, "Oh no! I would never do that!"

"See? And that's why it's may and not can."

I flashed my badge. It was still shiny.

"Anthony Brown to see Mr. Levine."

Still flustered and shuffling around papers, Kitty Fireside replied, "Is he expecting you?"

"No, he is not."

"Oh," she said, "Mr. Levine is a very busy man."

"I'm sure he is," and I got up, walked to his door and barged right in.

"Who the fuck are you?!" he said, looking up from his desk.

I flashed him my badge. It can be impressive at times.

"Sorry Mr. Levine, Anthony Brown. I'm the detective who has been hired by Courtney Tilson to find her father's killers. May I have a moment of your time?"

That calmed him down, and he motioned me to the same sort of burgundy, leather chair. I guess it was standard issue in executive furniture at Tilson.

Sheldon Levine looked as if you went to the dictionary and looked up CFO his picture would be there. Short, a round bald head, with one of those baldness patterns that leaves a silly, thin fringe just at the bottom, and his seat pumped up high off the floor with four large computer screens flickering graphs and numbers on the left wing of his desk.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"First, allow me to express my condolences over Mr. Tilson and his family's deaths. The more I get to know about him, the more I realize what a great man he was."