The Tilsons Got Killed

Levine put his head down for a moment, and said, "Thank you."

After a moment, "We built this company together, Brad and I. I was his accountant back when he was just a construction guy. I'm of the Jewish faith and he wanted someone like me to be his accountant. 'A Jew accountant.' I am used to the slur. Every Jew is, but there was something so wonderful and appealing about Brad's intelligence, imagination, and drive, I was willing to give him a hall pass. He turned out to be one of the least prejudiced, most committed to diversity CEOs I have ever met. He wanted to learn about humanity and understand everyone's differences. I worshipped the guy."

I was touched. We took a moment out of respect.

"So, Sheldon, may I call you Sheldon?"

"No. Please, God no. Only my mother calls me Sheldon. Shelley."

"First, Courtney Tilson intends to return to finish her father's work. We are going to provide protection. I assume you will assist with that."

"You can count on it," he said.

"Good. Next, Shelley, you spend your day looking at the numbers. What's changed, if anything?"

"The materials. We can't get materials. Anything steel, especially I-beams. Look, supply is messed up now thanks to the pandemic and everything out of Asia is out of whack, but the I-beams don't make a lot of sense. Take a look at this chart."

And he pushed some buttons on his computer to bring up a graph on one of his screens.

"Look at that jump in the graph. It makes no sense. Something is fishy here. I don't know what it is, but I think Bradford was hunting it down and maybe that's what got him killed."

"Is that actually a possibility. People get killed in construction over I-beams?"

Shelley looked at me as if I was as stupid as a dog trying to fly, and said, "Detective Brown, people get killed in construction over a whole lot less than I-beams. Haven't you ever watched 'The Sopranos?'"

Chapter 6

I stepped onto Figueroa Street rather than taking the escalator down to parking to take a stroll around downtown to figure things out.

I prefer to think as I run, but that wasn't going to happen here, so a nice crisp walk was going to have to do it. I headed south towards the Staples Center and the Times Square of Los Angeles, LA Live. I also thought a lot better with a juicy cheeseburger with all the fixings in my hand.

Not that long ago, downtown L.A. was a dump. A deserted town after 5 pm except for the hustlers, bums, bad guys, and gangs. But the City Fathers came up with a plan to revitalize it. We needed our own Times Square so LA Live was created across the street from the legendary Staples Center, home to the Lakers, the Clippers, the hockey team the Kings, and thousands of famous concerts and award shows.

It did the trick. The young folks showed up, the trendy restaurants arrived, the upscale ones came next, then the expensive condos, the millionaires, celebrities, and the hip folk started moving in followed by the artists, the Millennials, and in less than a decade, downtown Los Angeles went from being a ghost town to the hottest, thriving area in the city.

As I strolled south next to the soaring monoliths of buildings, I started going through my checklist.

Tilson was probably killed for something other than the stadium contract, and the family were sadly collateral damage. It was a military-style hit even though everyone kept trying to lead me to the Armenians. Levine was a good guy, but Higgs smelled dirty. And I wasn't going to get into Mary Carlson's sizzling hot pants again.

I think that was about it so far.

I was walking past The Original Pantry restaurant, the famous downtown eatery that never closes and has had customers every hour of the day since 1924 when the four of them showed up in front of me.

They were seemingly chosen for bulk and not beauty. Two of them, I'm guessing the hopeful brains of the outfit, stayed in front of me as the other two slid to either side.

Sort of a public place for this kind of thing, but hey, different strokes for different folks.

"You Brown?"

Loquacious.

Their spokesperson was wearing a Yankees hat, wrong fucking team if you ask me, and a coat that was too long and too warm for a Los Angeles day. He was built like a fireplug. Short, but I'm guessing 280 plus pounds of solid muscle.

"That's my name. Don't wear it out," I smirked.

"You the dick working on the Tilson case?"

"Day and night."

In the background, I saw Ryker glide into view effortlessly. Always on time. He silently slipped out his piece.

"So, you're the guy working on the Tilson case?"

Smart cookie Ol' Fireplug was. I gave him my brightest smile,

"Like I said, dickhead. That dick is me."

"My employers want you to understand that you're going to leave this alone from now on."

"Really? Why would I do that?"

"Because we are going to kill you if you don't."

I laughed a little. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I did enjoy watching Fireplug start to boil a bit.

I guess he took it as an insult.

Ryker clicked the slide on his Sig Sauer behind them.

"Dang. Not really fair at such a close range," he said.

Fireplug turned around along with the others to look at Ryker. He smiled at them. By the time they turned back to me, my Glock was out down by my leg so as not to alert the public. I cocked it as they looked.

"Gosh darn it, guys. When you were planning this, did you have a Plan B?"

"A Plan B?" asked Fireplug. "What the fuck is that, asshole?

"Sorry for being obtuse, let me explain. Did you consider the possibility that you wouldn't scare the shit out of us?"

"They said to warn you this time and not to kill you."

"Well," I said. "That killing part wasn't going to happen anyway."

Fireplug's buddy was also wearing a too long jacket and I noticed some rivulets of sweat starting to run down his shaved head onto the tattoos on his neck.

I pointed to the ink. "You know, LAPD files your mugshot by tattoos nowadays. I look forward to seeing that one in the book."

I turned back to Fireplug. "Who is your employer?"

"You wouldn't know him."

"Oh, I might know him. Try me."

I took the chance and raised the Glock, covering it with my jacket and sighted in on Fireplug's forehead.

"I don't think you'll do it in front of all of these people," and he lunged for me with a big, under-hand right. I moved left and he stumbled past me.

"You motherfucker!" and he came back for another. So, I nailed him with a round-house kick right on the kisser knocking Ol' Fireplug onto his ass.

He sat on the sidewalk rubbing his jaw.

"Do you need I hand?" I asked offering one.

"Fuck you, asshole." He stood up trying to look menacing. "Remember, you've been warned," and turned around and left with the rest of his posse.

"Scared now?" asked Ryker.

"Shaking in my boots."

"You know if you had shot him in the head, the others would have told you everything you wanted to know," he said.

"Yeah, couldn't do it. Too easy and not right."

"Right? Good thing I'm here to keep your pussy ass out of having to enroll in some girl's yoga class."

"Yeah, the teacher is such a bitch!"

Chapter 7

The Hollywood Hills stretched out languidly like the long legs of a natural blonde as I drove over to The Parker Center in the Brown Bomber.

My phone rang. It had taken a while to retrofit Bluetooth into the old bucket's dashboard, but voilà it worked. It was Nancy, my girl. Not my girl, Nancy, but Nancy my girl. Not my girl assistant... Oh never mind.

Well, not really my girl. My friend. We were friends. Friends. We liked each other. We understood each other. We were good companions in a cold world where that is a valuable thing. And when she got cold, she treated me like a down comforter and called me up.

Okay. We were fuck buddies.

"Hi Nance."

"Anthony, where have you been? I've called all over. Was your phone off?"

"Sorry, the Tilson murders."

"Aww, shit. I'm sorry. I should have known. Horrible business. Are you going to catch those fuckers?"

"Don't I always?"

"That's my guy. Dinner tonight? I'll make your favorite linguine with my homemade meatballs and broccoli in a light garlic and olive oil dressing."

"That's not fair. I might have to work this one late."

"Yeah, I know. It comes with the territory. But try not to make it too late. I'll keep your supper and my engines warm as long as I can. I need you tonight."

"Wait a minute! That's really not fair!"

And she hung up.

Shit. Linguine with salad and a roll in the hay on the side sounded awfully nice tonight, but I was on a case, and Courtney Tilson's needs for justice and closure were beginning to become more important than my primal ones.

I pulled out one of my illegal handicapped, blue windshield plaques and grabbed one of the few empty spots by the door. I'll pay for it later in confession.

I entered the new Police Administration Building. It will always be the Parker Center to me, but political correctness and Chief Parker's bad deeds made that disappear. I strolled up to the glass armored desk, looked at the policewoman sitting behind it, smiled, and said, "Anthony Brown for Detective Ragan, HHS. He's expecting me," and I flashed her my PI badge. It didn't seem to impress her.

She called up, and said, "He says you should come on up. But don't expect shit from him," and she smiled.

She buzzed me in. I went to the metal detectors. I knew Clancy working the station today. "Hi, Matt."

"Hi, Brown."

I showed him my badge, he scanned it, I took out my two guns, handed them to him, he inspected them, slipped them around the sensors as I was walking through, and handed them back to me.

"Don't shoot anybody. It will make me look bad."

I gave him a snappy salute and headed on over to the Homicide Special Section where Detective Daniel Ragan and his buddies shared their workstations.

After hellos and male bonding rituals, I rolled over an empty chair and we started to catch up. His latest, my latest, and finally we made it to the Tilson case.

"I hear you caught it," I said to Ragan.

"Yeah, what a fucking nightmare. I'll tell you this, it was a clean, pro job like nothing we've seen in a long time around here. The kind of shit that they only make up in movies."

"Mary Carlson and I are thinking it is the NoHo-16."

"Yeah, I heard you were working with her again. Could be. That's one of the areas we are looking at," he said cagily.

"Any luck with the Ring camera's footage?"

"Downtown, you're already on top of that one?"

Ragan is the only one I'm okay with calling me that. "Come on man, the Tilson girl is my client. Are we going to share on this or not?"

"You'll come clean with me too?"

"Shit, when have I not?" and he gave me a look. "Yes, all cards on the table as long as they don't jeopardize my client's personal safety. Deal?"

"Deal."

"The Ring cameras?"

"Nowhere yet. You know how Ring is about client's privacy."

"I have the password. Do you have access to the phone?"

In a short while, the two of us were in Evidence looking at Bradford Tilson's Ring app home base and four cameras showing his murder and the slaughter of his family.

"You guys are going to have to give this over to Artificial Intelligence for the full AI treatment and get all of the finer details."

Ragan agreed.

We went back for a second time, this time for the details that we could see. At 0:17sec when the first shot hit him I said, "Wait. Camera 3."

We punched it into full frame and as Tilson grabbed the assassin's arm, in a split in the body armor there was a glimpse of a tattoo.

A mere glimpse of a section of it, but I knew it in an instant: A snake sword though a death skull in a beret wearing wings wrapped around "DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR."

I looked at Ragan, "That's Special Forces. That's NoHo-16."

Chapter 8

I knocked on Apartment 15's door in The Ravenswood Apartments on Rossmore in Hollywood. I got a kick out of the fact that Nancy lived in the same building where Mae West lived in the penthouse her entire life.

I kept waiting for Nance to say to me, "Is that a gun in your pocket, or you just glad to see me?" so I could say, "Both," but she never does.

Finally, a newly awakened, disheveled, blonde dish opened the door. Hair asunder and wearing only a skimpy white lace bra and matching thong.

"God, I hope you are not some kind of a door-to-door salesman."

I looked her up and down and whistled. "You know, you shouldn't be wearing that when you answer your door."

"What are you talking about, dickhead. I knew it was you."

"You shouldn't be wearing that body."

"Fuck you, Brown."

"If you're lucky, Blondie," and I pulled her to me for a big, sloppy smooch my hand reaching down to her gold medal ass.

"Are you going to feed me or fuck me first?"

"Get in here, wiseass," and she slammed the door.

Dinner was great. The side dish was better.

I'm not sure who was hungrier, but I was the one who dragged her into the bed, and ripped the bra and thong off into shreds -- I made a mental note to stop at Fredrick's of Hollywood to buy replacements sooner rather than later.

Pushing Nancy onto the bed I dove between her milky, white thighs. Yes, she was a natural blonde, but I'm happy to report that she waxed bare. The smoother it's done, the harder the gun.

Nancy stretched out with her blonde curls flowing above her head. So provocative. Her lightly freckled natural breasts were perfection, firm, high on her chest with perky nipples pointing upward, flat tummy leading down to her criminally perfect sex.

My hands slid down her thighs caressing their silkiness. I took a long lick up her slit to her nub and rolled my tongue around it, feeling it become fuller and more present, then shoving my face into her sex drinking her in while inhaling the richness of that pungent odor like no other.

II put my left index finger on her clit to a low groan and gently spread its hood taking her button into my mouth. I licked around making her more and more aroused while slowly putting my finger into her very wet snatch all the way to the bottom, and started to finger fuck her as I got back to licking her delicious clit in long strokes.

It became more excited, growing in width and length. I took her into my mouth, squeezed my lips tightly around it, and started giving Nancy's clit a blow job moving up and down as if it was a small cock.

Her hips started to buck in and out and move in a circle working in perfect harmony with the circles my tongue was making around her clit, and she started to moan in rhythm with her hips.

I moved my mouth tighter down onto her cunt flattening my tongue licking it very, very hard and fast.

I put my finger into her pussy, scooping up as much of her wetness as I could, and shoved it knuckles deep up her ass.

She screamed, grabbed my head with both hands shoving my mouth as hard as humanly possible into her clit, and climaxed, screaming at the top of her lungs as she pulsed and buck harder and harder for what seemed like an eternity until she slowly started to come down, steady her hips and released my head.

I climbed up and kissed her. Shoving my tongue deep into her mouth, smearing her juices all over her face as I did.

She panted as she came down from her climax, "Did you learn that at Acme Detecting School?"

"Nope, the school of the streets."

"Good school," and she rolled on top of me, grabbed my cock, and positioned it upon the lips of her dripping pussy.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in after that, mister, on a 6-1-2," and she plunged balls deep burying all of me into her intoxicating depths.

"A 6-1-2?"

"Yeah packing 6 and 1/2 inches of a loaded weapon."

"Oh yes," she moaned. "So fucking thick. I do like you inside me."

I grabbed both of her arms, put them over her head, held them there firmly, threw her onto her back, and started to hammer her.

I rode her hard until I was pounding her cervix and had her grunting with each stroke, plunging all the way in, and started to grind against her clit. She started masturbating her body against my hard cock buried all the way up her, my cockhead hitting her cervix once more as she ground deeper and deeper.

I looked into her cat-green eyes, "Cum!"

I pulled out to my tip and plunged back into her again and again until Nancy started to cum hard and fast for the second time that night.

And I was right behind her unloading eight long shots deep inside until the magazine was spent.

I collapsed on her and said, "You've always been a great lay."

"You too," as she patted my ass. "Why do you think you're my fuck buddy?" and she smiled.

We laid there for a bit until I said, "Need a drink?"

Nance nodded, I pulled out from inside her with a sad pop, her juices pouring all over the sheets, stood up and brought us back our drinks. She took a long draw.

"Damn, girl!"

"Arresting a perp always makes me thirsty," and she winked as she slammed it back.

Chapter 9

Ryker and I were in the Brown Bomber riding out to Tilson Construction's primary construction yard for the I-405 project, or as we say in LA, "The 405."

Courtney was bouncing along in the passenger's seat. Ryker in the back. Looking bored.

"This piece of shit tin-can is really your car?" she half-shouted over the street noise.

"Yeah, isn't she a beaut?!"

Courtney leaned into the space between the front seats "Fuck no! Haven't you ever heard of a Bentley, an Audi, a Tesla? Hell, a fucking Lexus??!!"

"Oh, are those cars?"

"Hey! Ryker? Did you hear me?" Courtney shouted. "Do you respond? Don't you think this car is a piece of shit?!"

"Seems like a fine car to me," He looked around in his way. Thought about it. "Yeah, seems like a fine car."

I looked at her and saw her shaking her head in disgust.

"Courtney, this is a thing of beauty. Take a moment, if you will, to appreciate its greatness. The '66 Ford Bronco is the first sports utility vehicle. The grandpappy of them all. A direct descendant of the WWII Ford General Purpose Vehicle -- everyone calls it a jeep, like Kleenex for tissue, but it wasn't. It was a Ford -- which was the choice of Generals like Patton. Come on, it helped win the Big One, WWII! And it was designed by McKinley Thompson, Jr. the first black auto designer in the industry. It's a fucking classic, for Christ's sake."

"It's loud. It's uncomfortable, and it sucks."

"But Ryker and I are in it," and I gave her the killer grin. She smiled.

"And remind me why are we driving in this piece of shit?"

"You are going to introduce me to the foreman of your dad's 405 job and I'm going to make nice to him."

Ryker snickered behind me.

"Okay. His name is Bill."

"Bill?"

"Bill Richmond. He's my Godfather."

Bill Richmond was a big man. He looked like he could kick start a 747. About 6'-6" tall, I'd say 275lbs, a college football player gone south. Maybe a middle linebacker, or a defensive end. Anyway, the guy's chest had its own Zipcode.

"Courtney!" he screamed and rushed to her to put his large paws around her.

They stayed in the bearhug for a long time. Obviously, there was deep affection going down there. She didn't seem to want to leave the hug, and he didn't seem to want to give it up.

Finally, they broke.

He kept his hands on her shoulder.

"I haven't seen you since the funeral. Are you doing alright, considering?"

"Yes, thank you. These are my friends. They want to talk to you about Dad."

Bill Richmond looked us over.

"Bill, this is my protector Anthony Brown and his friend Ryker."

He looked at me. "Anthony Brown, I know you. Are you Tony Brown? Downtown Tony Brown? Wow! Thanks, dude! I made a lot of money on you on that game! What a fucking throw. Shit. I don't believe it! Downtown Tony Brown. Cool! What can I do for you?"