by Rex Bolt
“Beats me,” Ned said. “Few minutes more, I’ll probably take a right, head back to the house. How about you? You still hit tennis balls with Chandler?” They were in fact crossing the Strand now, which would put Ned right back at the house, and meanwhile some intense 2-man volleyball was happening on the beach in front of them, mixed doubles this time.
“Do they work the woman, typically?” Chris said. “I never thought about that. That’s what they try to do in mixed doubles tennis.”
“Not as simple,” Ned said, “because you only get the three hits. By rule.”
They watched for a while and a couple of the players varied the serves with old-fashioned underhand jobs, except they were hitting moonballs, way up there, and you could tell when they came down they weren’t the easiest things to defend.
Chris said, “So what it is, we’re dancing around the concept . . . Aren’t we?”
Ned took a minute. “Ralph-wise, you mean?”
“That’s part of it. But you know what I mean. Which is why we both keep changing the subject.”
Ned took some more time. He said, “Chrissie, you’re a good man. You’ve proven it. I’d like to tell you I’m not going to forget it . . . Except I mixed you up in this.”
Chris took a second himself. “Not the point, either way. What I’m thinking -- I make a return visit to New York.”
Ned laughed, but it was more of a bad exhale than anything comical. He lowered his voice, even though it wasn’t necessary out here, and his tone was dead serious for the first time today. “And accomplish what, exactly.”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Just like, sweep out the bullshit. So we don’t have to entertain another Ralph.”
Ned smiled, but it was thin. “At least not before July or August, you’re saying?”
“Something like that. More like, keep it simple, let them know two can play the game.”
Ned focused on the volleyball again, turned back to Chris. “You should put this stuff in your book,” he said.
“I thought of it,” Chris said. “No one would believe mine though . . . How about yours?”
“So you’re saying,” Ned said, “the Czech guy, the reader already has to suspend belief? First chapter?”
“I think it’s suspend dis-belief, but no. They’re with you. Up to a point. So long as you don’t go off the deep end.”
“Keep it real, you’re saying, and the cream rises to the top?”
“Who do I see back there?” Chris said.
Chapter 8
Sigma Beach Middle School had a dedicated area in front, a circular patch off the parking lot with a flag pole and some tasteful flowers, and a plaque sitting flush in a manicured bit of grass.
Chris’s first thought, getting out of the car, was oh no, there’d been act of violence here . . . and he prayed first of all they weren’t commemorating a school shooting he hadn’t been aware of -- and that secondly they weren’t honoring a law enforcement officer who lost his life here.
That would be unlikely, but he’d seen a similar designation someplace, he couldn’t remember where, where a fallen officer was being remembered on the unfortunate spot where it happened.
Fortunately he read the plaque and it was neither of those things. The school in 2017 had renamed itself LJ Crank Middle School, after its beloved late-custodian, who on a daily basis exceeded the limits of his job description by leaps and bounds, it said.
It mentioned the guy’s Alabama roots, being the grandson of slaves, and various hardships he endured, including polio as a child, and he recovered enough to play sports but was prohibited from playing on teams because of segregation -- and it was a feel-good story, with LJ honored by one of the wealthiest school districts in the state.
At that would been all good . . . except Chris noticed the lettering on the school itself still read Sigma Beach MS . . . so you sure hoped there was some justified logistical delay in getting the guy’s name up there, and that they weren’t honoring him in ceremony only but not where it counted.
There were two women in the office, one at a high counter and one at a desk, and Chris figured try the simple way first, and he said, “Good morning ladies. I’m here to see principal Haller please?”
The desk one looked younger and more naive and started to pick up the phone to call Haller (Chris had taken the time to look up the idiot’s name) but the counter one was more savvy and asked him if he had an appointment -- and what this was about.
He was tempted to throw out a name and pass himself off as a parent, like “Sure. I’m Bill Wheeler, it’s about my daughter Melissa” and that would have probably worked too with the desk gal, but not with the counter one, whose brow was starting to furrow more -- and it occurred to Chris for a moment, Holy Smokes, could she actually call the police, reporting a suspicious character?
So no, that was a bad plan, and you better adjust pretty quick, and thinking on the fly he said, “I’m the guy from the ACLPF commission? I spoke to Principal Haller in the past. On the issues with the plaque?”
“What about the plaque,” the counter gal said.
“There’s some news on that,” Chris said, “and we’re taking some heat from the media. It’s easier -- and frankly more appropriate -- that I speak to him directly. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then I can report back to the attorney.”
This time the counter gal walked around the corner, no buzzing someone on the phone, and a minute later came back with a fit-looking middle-aged guy in a snazzy blazer, who did look to have a bit of a hair weave, along with perfectly whitened teeth.
The guy extended his hand. “Phil,” he said.
“Bill,” Chris said, and that sounded kind of lame, he should have avoided the rhyming business but too late now.
Chris pointed with his head back to where Haller had come from, and it took a second for the principal to understand, and then he said, sure of course, and after you please.
Chris took a seat in there and the guy closed the door, and Chris said, “Where are we at with this? I’m all about a bottom line, and I’m busy, and I’m more than a little ticked off they sent me out here.”
“I’m sorry?” Phil said.
“The NAACP thing. They didn’t notify you?”
“Again I apologize, but no, I’m not following.”
“You let a teacher go, correct? For slinging around the N-word as part of a history lesson?”
“That’s true yes. But we were within our rights. Our district Counsel confirmed as much.”
“I see,” Chris said. “Except, you didn’t consult nationally evidently . . . Now we have a major problem . . . Are you tenured?”
“Am I?” Haller said, admittedly starting to look concerned. “Why of course.”
“Federal, state-wise or regionally?”
“Well certainly California-wise. That’s all that matters.”
“Used to be,” Chris said. “This little stunt you pulled -- not sure what the big deal was, why you needed to go there -- now we got the ACLU for once agreeing with the NAACP and ACLPF . . . I’m afraid we have a trifecta on our hands my friend. I do my best, these matters -- and the one in Kentucky worked out -- but I can only do so much.”
“Sheesh,” Haller said. “I had no idea . . . I mean, something can happen? As a result?”
Chris paused and rolled his eyes, trying for dramatic effect without overdoing it. “Put it this way. We’ve been harnessing the media, up to this point, on the story . . . Where we are -- pardon my language -- is one step away from all freaking hell breaking loose.”
There was a stack of blank paper on a shelf near the window, and Chris went over and got a piece and started taking notes, and drawing a few sweeping arrows as well, similar to how Dr. Moore did it.
“Well . . .” Haller said, and if this was a cartoon, sweat would be flying off his head like a sprinkler. “I’ll certainly need to consult with our Counsel again, ASAP it’s pretty clear.”
Chris held up his hand. “Don’t use any mor
e abbreviations,” he said. “We’re all in enough hot water . . . Especially you, obviously, but I’m feeling your pain as well . . . You ever testified before an HPYOO committee?”
“No . . . I can’t say that I have.”
“You have to take my word for it,” Chris said. “That’s an experience that can rival prison . . . I can think of two or three off the top of my head, who testified and have never recovered.”
“Oh.”
“So you want to end up there -- sure, call your school district lawyer. Let him go to work running his mouth and filing papers like lawyers do. He did such a great job for you the first time . . . It’s not his ass in front of the HPYOO folks -- so who cares?”
Haller opened a desk drawer and there was some rattling around, and Holy Smokes, he had a bottle in there, or at least a flask -- and the son of a gun filled a plastic cup and took a healthy gulp.
The guy looked at Chris, embarrassed, but at the same time Chris wondered if he was going to offer him a drink as well -- which he would rarely seek out in the middle of the day, especially in the administrative office of a public school -- but wouldn’t have minded now either, with enough on his plate that this little stop really was the pain in the butt that he portrayed it to Haller as.
“I apologize,” Haller said, not offering that drink, but taking another good shot himself, draining the cup.
“Not at all,” Chris said. “My investigator and I, we put it together. Can you simply re-employ the teacher in question?”
“Likely not,” Haller said, and he was reaching around under the desk again, going for more beverage. “What I wish, is that I simply told those fucking parents where to go.”
The guy was doing better now, making more sense, and Chris figured why push the issue, them bringing Marlene back here, which could have built-in lingering issues -- just stick her somewhere else.
He said, “Phil, there’s a way out of this. Where we can effectively tell the ACLPF, and the HPYOO . . . and the New York Times and the Washington Post as well -- all of them -- effective where to go.”
“That’d be good,” Haller said. Kind of a giddy emphasis on the good now, but so be it.
“So all’s you do,” Chris said, “and start on this as soon as I’m out the door -- and don’t come out of your office or do anything else until it’s done -- all’s it is, you use your contacts, you work the phone, you get the teacher in question another job. Starting tomorrow morning.”
“Where?” Haller said.
“Anywhere. LA Unified, South Bay, even Long Beach. Just keep her out of the rough districts. No South Central for example . . . You know how to handle it.”
“I’ll get on it then, I will,” Haller said.
“Put her quietly back to work,” Chris said. “And thank God, we’ll be dodging a bullet.”
Chapter 9
Someone in Starbucks a couple days ago told Chris about a medical lab that seemed quick, and it was one of those typical retired MB guys in his 70’s who were always lean and tan and fit, and looked like they could kick your ass in or out of the water in any sport you challenged them to.
The guy was friendly enough, though Chris was trying to get through a lengthy LA Times article on the changing face of Koreatown, which on the surface didn’t sound that exciting but the writer was going a good job, had obviously put mounds of research into it, and the individual sub-stories were compelling.
But the guy wanted to talk so Chris conceded, and pretty soon the guy delved into his medical conditions, kind of surprising given that he’d probably been to Redondo and back already this morning on a workout . . . but the thrust being, he had diabetes now, on top of something else which Chris didn’t want to process, and he sometimes needed to be tested quickly, and he’d tried all the labs, and the most efficient hands-down was in Gardena.
So on the way back from Sigma Beach Chris gave the place a call, on the off chance they did DNA, and the person said they didn’t used to but they’ve added it . . . so Chris decided why not, and on Wilshire Boulevard he passed his favorite Thai place, hard not to stop, not being in Santa Monica all that often, and he regretted it when he got up around UCLA, but there was an Irish pub he knew, had been there forever, sandwiched between a dumb Blimpie’s and a phone store . . . and man that draft Guinness hit the spot, especially after watching the principal get semi-blitzed . . . and Chris felt a lot better and headed over there.
This time he was more organized too, than with the Hawthorne lab and resulting ultimate fiasco -- meaning now he was a carrying around his fake ID, for situations like this, where even though you pay cash they still may need ID to release your sample to you -- which is of course what happened in Hawthorne, catching him totally off guard, though he got lucky, that part.
The fake driver’s license had him as Jeff Masters. He’d grabbed it in the scramble out the door on the way to Bingham, and the license had never been required out there, a casino town where cash really did say it all, but he went by that name when people occasionally asked him, such as that nice group at the blackjack tables -- and frankly the name wasn’t bad, he was starting to like it better than Chris Seely.
Then when he got back home after Bingham, he stupidly locked the fake license in his box at the bank, and he learned his lesson, you never know when you might require the thing -- and currently at the Gardena lab they were swabbing the inside of his cheek, and then someone tended to his paperwork and asked if tomorrow afternoon was okay, or did he want the expedited time frame, which would cost more.
Chris said tomorrow afternoon was fine, and Jeeminy Christmas, the Starbucks guy with the medical conditions was right, this seemed like a world record -- meaning you might as well get you rear end in gear, no point keeping the Mark hacker guy waiting any longer -- much less continue tempting fate.
That was another thing. Even though it killed him to do it, Chris felt an obligation to keep up on the latest in DNA solving old cases. Typically you could google Cold Case DNA, and every week there’d be at least a few developments, for example some 42-year-old case that everyone had given up on gets resurrected and solved on account of advances in testing -- but especially in familial matching -- and that’s what the retired northern California LE guy Paul Holes did with DeAngelo, the notorious Golden State Killer out of the 1970’s.
Holes didn’t figure it out himself, the method, it was done first in New Hampshire, but Holes was the first to make national headlines using it -- and since then the floodgates opened on jurisdictions re-working old cases.
The bottom line, Chris had relaxed to an extent, his stuff, because the time and resources were going into the oldest cases, not the current ones -- except last week in the paper he read this quote, and it unnerved him enough to save it.
"I think the agencies across the board are looking at cold case files and seeing where this might apply," he said. "There's now a trend toward active investigations. Why wait for a case to go cold? If you have an active offender, why wait for him to have another opportunity to offend?"
Chris wasn’t sure who he was, that was speaking, or which case it pertained to, but the details didn’t matter, did they . . . a highly unpleasant development -- a trend toward active investigations -- and you better get on this quick, once and for all.
So that was good, the lab part . . . you’ll have your little thingamajig tomorrow, and you might as well leave this week, for up north, deliver it to Mark, let him go to town -- in fact you know what, might as well leave right from the lab, he was thinking -- especially now that he just re-read the damn quote.
Wow, there was always something to sweat out, wasn’t there . . . and typically it had to do with timing.
What could you do?
It was 5:30 by the time he got back to the Cheater Five. He knew going in that it was going to take forever to nurse your way home from Gardena -- that going south and having to reverse yourself at rush hour was one thing, bad enough, but going south and inland and having to reverse yourself
was something else again.
Meaning the whole day’d been kind of shot, one or two tasks, but the pool looked inviting and the temperature was just right -- you had to give them credit, they never overheated the thing . . . though that simply could have been Sharif trying to save money . . . but floating around in there did give you a tad bit of much-needed perspective.
Things could be worse. They always could, that was a given by now. One thing that bothered him, you’d be missing Finch’s Friday night session -- which he fought himself to attend in the first place, but now was admittedly looking forward to . . . but even that maybe you could catch up with online.
One reason was to see what Holly came up with this time. You didn’t want to say anything, but man, hers really was the weakest of the lot so far, wasn’t it. She’s this big journalist, supposedly, working on her own novel for years, she made it sound, talking MFA programs . . . and Chris was pretty sure Ned, and Rosie, and even Finch if he was honest -- and even Ralph too -- were shaking their head on that one, when the first session concluded.
Around 8 there was a knock on the door, and Marlene was standing there looking upset about something, and Chris welcomed her in.
He said, “I don’t know if you realize it, but when you knock, it’s always three times, with like a little staccato hesitation before the third one. You have a signature pattern.”
“Oh well,” she said.
“Tonight though, three right in a row, solid -- so I’m thinking something’s off. Is it?”
“Do you still have that blender?” she said. “And any of that interesting booze?”
Ah, the blender, that had been from way back, the night he and Emma went to Big Wok and Ken was there too, at another table, and after dinner Emma re-directed things to Target for that blender and then to Ralphs for the liquor. Chris had rarely used it since the Emma thing fizzled out last fall.
Chris said, “That I do, yes. The rums and so forth, I’m not sure. One thing, the person who helped me pick ‘em out, sure took forever.” Which was true, Chris figuring he’d never tell the difference between brands but Emma pouring over each ingredient of about 20 labels, driving you a little crazy, honestly.
