House of Smoke

by JF Freedman

  “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he got somebody angry and he was being taught a lesson,” she ventures cautiously.

  “Somebody?” His voice takes on an immediate edge. “Like one of our people?”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “Maybe that’s how they do things in the big city, Kate, but that’s not Santa Barbara style. We’re clean—as clean as we can get, which is pretty good most of the time. We’re too square not to be. Like the T-shirt says, shit happens.”

  “Did you guys interview the men who were in the tank with Bascomb?”

  “Of course.”

  “What can you tell me about them? Any of them.”

  “Your garden-variety bunch of drunks and crazies.”

  “Did any of them have records?”

  “They all have records. What kind of people do you think go to jail?”

  “For a violent crime. Assault, rape, B&E, attempted murder. Stuff like that.”

  “These pieces of shit? They’re a bunch of sad cases, they can’t get out of the way of their own vomit. I heard secondhand a couple of them might have been petty drug dealers or low-rent pimps, but that’s conjecture.” He shakes his head, sadly. “These poor bastards. You think they should’ve been in there in the first place? Man gets drunk, he goes to jail? What kind of society is that? Most of those people are so screwed up they can barely remember their own names. They ought to be in an institution where they can get treatment, which is where they used to be until they let all the inmates out of the asylum.” He picks up a handful of sand, sifts it through his fingers. “This is my favorite subject. Don’t let me get started. The cops and the schools, we’re supposed to cure all society’s ills. It’s a crock,” he spits out.

  “Were they interrogated about the suicide?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “The same story, more or less. Everything was filtered through a haze of booze, so there’s holes, but the general theme held up. They went to sleep and when they woke up—hello, swinging from the rafters. Enough to cure a man of drinking, at least for a day or two.”

  “Are their names and addresses on file?”

  “For what it’s worth, yes. For what it’s worth, it’s worthless. You think people like these have a real address, or real ID? Like they have valid California driver’s licenses and Visa cards? They sleep on the street and they use whatever name pops into their head at the time. They’re poor, pathetic bastards.”

  “So what?” Kate counters. “Why couldn’t one of them, some, all of them be a suspect? Frank Bascomb died in the same cell they were occupying.”

  “One of them killed Bascomb? You think that’s possible?”

  “It’s possible. Not likely, but why isn’t it possible?”

  Herrera laughs. “Go back to Oakland, Kate. You’ve obviously got a more capable breed of criminal there. Here’s why it’s not logical,” he tells her. “If these sad morons are going to commit great bodily harm they aren’t going to go to the trouble of stringing a man up. That’s hard work. They’re going to stomp him to death is what they’re going to do. Kick his ribs in, his eyes, kick in his teeth, kick him in the balls, wherever.”

  He looks at her to see if he’s getting through.

  “You were a cop. You know this is a futile exercise. Now look—I have no intention of telling you how to conduct your business, but you could raise some hopes that shouldn’t be raised, and you could piss off some people who you don’t want to be unfriendly to you.”

  “Are you one of them?” she asks, beginning to get pissed.

  “I’m a police officer, not a politician,” he answers without answering. “Can I give you a piece of free advice?” he continues. It’s a rhetorical question. “Do a pro forma investigation for your client, and then bail out. For your own good.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you? The Sparks family was highly embarrassed by Frank Bascomb, that’s why. They are not at all unhappy that he met his accidental demise, except for Laura, who’s too young to know better.”

  “That’s pretty cold.”

  “It’s a fact of life.”

  “A cold fact.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They want the lid kept on, so that’s how it’ll be. Nothing illegal, mind you, no sandbagging, but nothing out of the ordinary, either.”

  “I’ve got to respect my client’s wishes,” she insists.

  “If you truly want to do good by your client,” he advises her, “you’ll wrap this up neatly and move on. Look, Kate, if her parents and grandmother find out she’s hired a PI behind their backs, it won’t sit well with them.”

  “What could they be afraid of?” she asks him.

  “Something unpleasant. There are circles within circles, it’s not always clear-cut, these investigations.”

  “I don’t know that?” she bridles.

  “And hey, make sure everything’s by the book.” He pauses. “If by some miracle something floats to the surface—nothing should, but if it does? And it looks like it could be a law-enforcement situation? You keep me informed, hear?”

  “Yeah,” she agrees reluctantly, “okay.”

  She takes out notebook and pencil, a reporter’s notebook, the style that can fit into your back pocket.

  “How do I get in touch with these men?” she asks.

  “You’d have to go into their files for that.”

  “Will you?”

  He turns to her. “You’re really looking to put my ass in a sling, aren’t you?”

  “I thought you were above that petty stuff, that you couldn’t be intimidated,” she taunts Herrera. “That’s okay, Juan,” she says, “I’ll get hold of that information, with or without your help.”

  “Fuck.” He throws up his hands. “Me and my big mouth. I’ll do it, this one time. But then drop it, okay? For your own good.”

  That’s what she loves about men, about cops, especially men cops: hit ’em in their macho and they’ll rise to the bait every time.

  “No promises,” she tells him. “And I’ll be the judge of my own good.”

  He sighs. “As long as I’m not implicated.”

  “I said.”

  “I’ll drop copies of their booking slips in the mail to you.”

  “You couldn’t fax them this afternoon?” she asks, hoping. She’s double antsy now, she wants to get it on, see what’s hidden under these rocks that everybody’s trying not to show her.

  He hesitates. “I’ll get them to you as quick as I can.”

  “Thank you,” she says. She means it—he really is a nice guy. “Meanwhile, while I’m waiting, can you give me an address for any of them off the top of your head, even if it’s the Rescue Mission?”

  “That’s as good a place to start as any, but I don’t think you’ll have any luck.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they don’t exist,” he explains. “They’re like illegal aliens—they’re here, but they really aren’t. It’s like trying to catch smoke.”

  “They exist,” she insists. “They were there.”

  “They were there all right,” Herrera agrees with her. “But they aren’t anymore.”

  It’s a beautiful day at the beach. Eleven in the morning, the sky is blazing blue without a hint of haze, wisps of cirrus clouds float high above, the temperature is unseasonably mild, there’s a slight breeze coming in off the ocean. In the near distance, so close you feel you can almost touch them, the Channel Islands rise up out of the water, jagged ridges of rock and vegetation, the only land between this coastline and Hawaii, four thousand miles to the west. In the channel, clusters of oil rigs reach their deceptively spindly frames to the sky. They’ve been there so long—going on thirty years now—that nobody much notices them anymore. Closer, to the south, the high-rise buildings of the university tower above the waterline, the windows glittering as they catch and reflect the midday rays.

  A fami
liar dock protrudes out into the water. Frank and Rusty sailed into this dock. Rusty was killed and Frank was arrested. The Sparks family’s dock is no longer the private sanctuary they want it to be.

  Several dozen people are here. Some by invitation; the rest, mostly members of various local environmental groups who devote much of their time and energy towards preserving the local oceanic ecology, have crashed the party. No attempt was made to stop them from coming, even though this is private property. The order to let them in came directly from Miranda Sparks.

  At the center of this crush Miranda and Dorothy stand with their backs to the sea, facing their guests, chatting with friends. They’re both dressed ranch-style, although Miranda’s jeans have been tailored to flatter her ass.

  The principal guest of honor (whom Miranda has situated next to her) is John Wilkerson, a patrician gentleman who bears a pretty good resemblance to the late Eric Sevareid, the famous CBS correspondent. Wilkerson is president of The Friends Of The Sea, which makes him the most important figure in oceanography in the world after Jacques Cousteau. He flew here from his home in New York solely for this presentation, that’s how important it is. Other notables are Dr. George Woolrich, chancellor of UCSB, and Dr. Jan Lovellette, a world-famous oceanographer and marine biologist who is a senior professor at the Scripps Institute in La Jolla.

  Among the local environmentalists on hand, standing near the back, is Marty Pachinko. As he looks at Miranda, she turns to him and smiles. Caught by surprise, he smiles back, then averts his gaze.

  Miranda waits until everyone is in place, especially the television crews. Satisfied that all is in order, she steps forward to the portable podium, which is adorned with the crest of the University of California.

  “On behalf of all the members of the Sparks family, I want to thank you for coming out here today,” Miranda tells her guests, who include over a dozen TV crews, anchorpeople, and news reporters. This is a carefully staged media event.

  “We have an announcement to make,” she continues, making eye contact with her guests, each in turn; as her gaze falls upon Wilkerson she smiles seductively.

  He returns her smile with an almost imperceptible nod, checking out of the corners of his eyes to make sure it was for him alone. Wilkerson is in his early sixties, an attractive man, a powerhouse, CEO of a large Wall St. brokerage firm as well as a renowned conservationist. Women find him attractive, which he makes good use of;

  But this woman: very special. Maybe, if he’s reading the signals correctly, he should plan on staying over; he’ll call his office in New York, rebook his flight to leave tomorrow instead of tonight, as it’s now planned. His secretary can reserve a suite at the San Ysidro Ranch. The suite the Kennedys honeymooned in; he’s found use for it before. First he’ll want to check her intentions out, to make sure it isn’t mere flirting.

  “This piece of property has been held in preserve for several years,” Miranda says to her audience, breaking Wilkerson’s reverie. “It’s never been used for any commercial purposes. The Sparks family has always wanted it to be that way, going back decades.”

  She looks at Dorothy, who nods as if on cue.

  “However,” Miranda continues, “we have recently come to believe that if a proper use of this part of our property could be found that would be beneficial, without violating its integrity, we would be selfish and shortsighted not to grant such a usage.”

  She pauses for a moment. She’s been speaking without notes, standing in front of everyone, completely at ease, hands in jeans pockets like a regular person.

  “We’re happy to say that we’ve found a good use. We have decided—” here she pauses for a moment, glances at Dorothy, who again smiles and nods, “… to set aside fifty acres of our property to establish a comprehensive school of oceanography under the aegis of the University of California, for research into marine life and for the use and education of the public. This project will be jointly controlled by The Friends Of The Sea, whose president, Mr. John Wilkerson, has graciously consented to be with us today, and by what will be the newly established oceanography school of UCSB, to be headed by Dr. Jan Lovellette, one of the world’s leading authorities on marine life, who will be coming to Santa Barbara to assume the chairmanship of this department. To ensure that Dr. Lovellette would leave her present position at Scripps to come up and take over this new department, we are also pledging five hundred thousand dollars to endow a permanent chair of oceanography.”

  Everyone breaks into applause, accompanied by whoops and shouting. TV cameramen rush towards Miranda, trying to get a good closeup.

  Miranda looks over at Marty Pachinko. He’s looking at her with a stunned expression on his face, like she had pole-axed him with a two-by-four.

  She turns away from him. “John Wilkerson, president of The Friends Of The Sea, would like to say a few words.” She steps aside for Wilkerson.

  “On behalf of The Friends Of The Sea,” Wilkerson begins—he has one of those Boston Brahmin accents that comes only after generations of schooling at Choate and Harvard—“we wish to thank you. This is indeed a wonderful donation, one of the largest and most important ever received anywhere in the United States. We are thrilled to be a part of it, along with the university.”

  He smiles at Miranda, checking out her ass at the same time, casually but so that there’s no mistaking his look.

  Miranda doesn’t miss the look. Men have been checking her out like that since she was twelve.

  “The Sparks Foundation is happy to do this,” Miranda says, taking charge again. “It’s the right thing to do, the right time to do it, and, most importantly, the right place. This is the only place,” she informs the gathered group, “that would work for this project.” She turns to the oceanographer. “Dr. Lovellette will say a few words about the project specifics.”

  Jan Lovellette, as plain and unadorned as Miranda is beautiful and put-together, and clearly uncomfortable in the limelight, smiles tentatively. “This will be a world-class research and teaching facility,” she says. “Upon its completion we’ll be able to study, observe, and protect all the sea life of this part of the coast, which has certain unique characteristics found nowhere else in the world, and also this will make possible a wonderful educational experience, not only for the people of Santa Barbara County but for everyone.”

  “How much will the total cost be?” a reporter calls out from the crowd.

  “That’s a good question,” Miranda answers. “We don’t have all the specifics yet, but we estimate the total cost will be about one hundred and fifty million dollars.”

  “Where is that money going to come from?” another reporter asks.

  “Another good question. Did you bring your checkbook?” Miranda asks with a smile. “Seriously, that is the multi-million-dollar question. I can give you an answer, but only in part. The Sparks Foundation, as I have announced, will donate all the land, which is worth several million dollars, as well as endowing the chair—” she pauses—“providing that private groups and citizens raise the money to build the physical facility.”

  “Are there groups out there that you know of that will do that?” comes yet another question.

  Wilkerson steps forward again. “Our organization will make a contribution, as will many other environmental groups from all over the world. It’s going to be a huge task, but this is too good an opportunity to waste. If we don’t pull this off we’ll never get another chance like it. We have been in close contact with a major corporation that has indicated they might cover the entire cost of the project, but it would be premature at this point to identify them.”

  Miranda smiles again for the cameras. “Thank you all for attending. We’ll be keeping you posted as to our progress.”

  The party’s over. The newspeople rush to file and air their stories. The attendees cluster in groups, talking excitedly.

  Marty Pachinko approaches Miranda.

  “Congratulations,” he offers with chagrin.

 
“Thank you,” Miranda answers with a smile.

  “I feel like a jerk, after the way I carried on back at the county. But you blindsided me, when you didn’t have to.”

  “Well, Marty, you are a jerk,” she states, still smiling. “You should have known better. The truth is, you blindsided yourself, you didn’t need any help from me. Anyway, I like to tweak you,” she adds teasingly. “It’s so easy.”

  He flinches. “You could have said something then,” he replies doggedly.

  “I wasn’t sure we could pull this off. I’m still not; we have a lot of money to raise, and I’m sure you and your friends will find something in this to oppose. You always do.”

  Wilkerson holds back until the others have moved ahead of Miranda and him.

  “Your generosity is extraordinary,” he tells her.

  “That’s very nice of you to say that.”

  He pauses a moment, diplomatically. “I would like to thank you … a bit more formally,” he says.

  “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” she laughs. Quickly, she puts a hand on his forearm, lets it linger a brief moment, then withdraws it. “Being of assistance in an undertaking so important and so compelling is plenty of reward for me—for all of us.” Again, a light touch, this time on the back of his hand.

  “Perhaps …” He hesitates. Is he going to look foolish? The hell with it; he has to go with it.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m staying in town tonight. The San Ysidro Ranch.” Betty Sue, his secretary for over twenty years, will get him in there tonight. She’s done this countless times. “If you’re not busy, perhaps you … you and your husband … could join me in a celebratory dinner.”

  She smiles; a thousand-watter. “Unfortunately, my husband is in San Francisco, on other family business. But I’m free, and I’d love to join you.”

  He walks her to her car as they make arrangements for the evening. She’ll meet him at his hotel, it’s easier than making him drive to her house.

  “Seven o’clock, then,” he says. His heart is beating like a tom-tom, he feels like an adolescent, for chrissake.

  “I can hardly wait,” she says as they part.