by Gable, Kate
“So, you reached out to them?" I ask, asking for his name to write down in my notebook.
"I'd rather not share," he says, suddenly becoming standoffish. "Besides it doesn't matter, I never met up with them."
"You didn't?"
"Well, that's not true. I met up with them, but I never saw the boat."
Miles shifts his weight from one foot to another. He could be lying. I try to assess the likelihood of that being the case.
"I answered the ad, they sent me more videos and stuff to look over. I met up with them in Santa Monica and I had plans to go do a walk-through and Deacon said that he’d forgotten his keys back at the apartment so it never happened."
"How long ago was this?"
"About two weeks. I couldn't wait for them to go back and get them so we made plans to meet up some other time but they weren't exactly concrete plans so nothing ever happened."
"Okay."
I write that down, putting a little star in the corner to indicate that there's a possibility that he's lying. I’d developed a little bit of a bullet journal approach to interviewing suspects. There’re ones that I write off and dismiss right off the bat and there are ones that leave me with lingering questions. Others give me with the feeling that they're lying.
Some cops call this listening to their gut. But it’s really just a feeling that we get.
Is someone being honest? Are they telling the truth? You really have to be a student of human nature to decipher all of that and even then you're likely to be wrong. But in this case, Miles gives me a sense that I’m not getting the full story.
I decide to change tactics, get him to talk a little bit more about his life. Someone can have an unusual affect and seem closed off but that could just be their personality, not because they're not coming forward with what you want them to tell you.
“So, how did you end up here?” I ask, trying to be as casual as possible.
“I grew up on a farm, in Illinois, about as far from the ocean as you can imagine. But you know, I read books, magazines, and that's what brought me out to the coast,” Miles says. “I just knew that it was something that I had to do. You get the idea and you let it fester and if you forget about it then maybe this lifestyle is not for you. But if you don't, you might be just the perfect kind of crazy to take it up."
We chat for a little more about the quality of sailing in different parts of the world, something I know nothing about but something that he is enjoying sharing.
“So, tell me about your boat. Where did you go with it?”
"All around. Mexico, the Caribbean, Europe for a while."
“And how do you pay for all of those travels?”
"Well, I live on the boat to save money. I help people with boats, fix them up. You'd be surprised how little help there is for owners at marinas. I know plumbing and you can hardly ever find a plumber on land let alone at sea. The hours are good, meaning I decide when I work. The pay is even better, $100, $200 an hour, you can really charge almost anything."
"Oh, wow."
"Yeah. There's a real shortage so people pay what you ask," he says. "Do you want something to drink? I have some cold iced tea that I just brewed. It's delicious."
"Sure," I say after a quick hesitation and then climb on board.
I didn't tell anyone that I was coming here. Something makes me feel a little bit uneasy but I go ahead anyway. The boat is cramped, the complete opposite of the Islingtons’ boat. It's a sailboat for one, with a narrow doorway going down into a dark hull. There are portholes but they hardly provide enough light.
The inside is weathered wood, dark cherry, and at one point you can tell it looked pretty nice but at this point it looks used up, old and hardly a place you'd want to call home. Miles is also not exactly a homemaker. A single man living on his own in an apartment can get a little sterile and yet messy but this is a whole other thing.
The walls are covered in stickers and postcards from places he has been but everything is rather haphazard. There also boxes and boxes of knickknacks everywhere.
Miles moves a few over to the cabin and through the doorway I see the piles of newspapers reaching practically to the top of the ceiling.
“Sorry, it's so messy. I'm kind of trying to start a business."
"What kind of business?" I ask.
"Selling things on eBay. The problem is, is that you go to those vintage shops, you buy up all the stuff and then you try to sell it at a profit but in the meantime, you've got a store it somewhere. I got all those old National Geographics, newspapers and magazines. Who knows if I'll ever make a cent doing it."
"And what about the plumbing?"
"Well, the thing about that is people will pay whatever, but I got to advertise and with me moving around from port to port, not everyone knows about my skills and what I'm capable of. Besides I want a little bit more passive income. I thought this way I could pop into different thrift stores, pick up stuff, sell it, maybe build up a reputation of having cool antiques."
I want to tell him that you probably have to specialize in one thing or another if you want to do something like that but decide to keep that to myself.
Miles pours me a tall glass of a fresh iced tea from the little fridge in the kitchen, something he refers to as a galley, and I sit down behind the round maple table.
"How long are you planning on staying in this marina?"
"For a while. I like Southern California. I've been here for about a year, getting tired of moving around. Making some friends, hopefully the plumbing business will grow, but living in the slip is pretty nice."
"So, what did you think about the Islingtons?" I ask.
"I thought they were a friendly couple. They said that they went down to Mexico, went fishing, showed me pictures. They lived on that boat for what? Year or two years?”
“Something like that.” I nod. "They knew their way around, but they did seem pretty desperate to sell. So, what happened with your real estate friend? What was his name again?"
“Albert Dillard. He was into seeing it. It seemed like a good fit for him, but then it didn't really work out. I was going to reach out to them again in just a couple more days."
13
I interview about five more people after Miles Cornelius. They all have similar stories. They met through various advertisements that the Islingtons posted online. All were interested in touring or visiting their boat, and only one didn't.
Most were couples of retired age, but none of them actually pulled the cord and put down any money. They felt uncomfortable not going through an official broker, but the Islingtons were trying to save money. When I asked about the cleanliness of the boat, they all said that it was almost showroom clean.
It became clear to me that Terry either hasn't been on the boat since his parents were trying to sell it, or they were taking extra care to keep it very clean in order to actually make the sale.
In addition to talking to people that they connected with online, I also stopped by a local brokerage place in Marina del Rey and interviewed Matthew Cochran, a thirty-something yacht salesman for some background information.
"There’re so many places where a sale can fall through, price, personality, or just being two of them," he says, speaking at an easy confident pace. Eager to tell me about his business, Matthew seems like the kind of guy who could convince anyone that a boat is the answer to all of their problems.
"If one party thinks that the other party is trying to gouge them or being unfair at all in the price, the deal falls through,” he says, adjusting the fit of his open collar shirt and picking lint off his designer pair of jeans. “Of course, both parties want to make as much as possible and pay as little as possible, so problems pop up."
When I show him the Islingtons’ boat, he is quite impressed and says that they have a fair asking price.
“If they were selling without a broker, they were probably expecting people to buy on their first visit or after the trial sea voyage. But it doesn
’t work that way,” Matthew says. “Buyers have to be finessed. They need time. With an expensive purchase like this, there's a lot of handholding that's required and the owner is just not equipped to do that.”
He goes over the details of buying and selling a boat in terms of the financial instructions that are required and I realize that it's almost as complicated as buying a house. There are a lot of forms to fill out, a lot of disclosures and surveys to go through. After getting a little bit of a background on the process, we exchange business cards.
"Feel free to call me with any other questions," he says, in that casual, friendly kind of way. "I'd love to be able to help in any way I can.”
* * *
At the end of the day, just as I'm about to pick up the phone to call Terry with an update, he surprises me by showing up at the precinct. I don't like doing meetings without set appointments, but I make an exception.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask, noticing the paleness of his skin and the fact that he looks like he has lost five pounds since I last saw him.
"I've always been kind of an insomniac," Terry says, running his fingers through his curls, "but I haven't been able to sleep at all recently. Just keep thinking about what could have happened to them, you know?"
I walk over to the vending machine where he grabs a coffee, additional caffeine that he doesn't need, and I buy an iced tea in a bottle. Back at my desk, I fill him in on all the details, everyone I interviewed and what they said.
"I'm sorry, I don't have more for you at this point," I add, "but I'm going to be going through all the names that we have from the laptop and everyone that they met with."
"Do you think it has something to do with the sale of the boat?” Terry asks, tapping his long fingers on the edge of my desk.
"Frankly, I have no idea. It's the only lead I have at this point."
"My wife’s due date is next week.” He nods, trying to hold back tears. "I was just so certain that Dad and Ruth would be here for that. I mean, they are so excited. It is going to be their first grandchild."
"I know, and I'm going to do everything in my power to find them."
"They would never miss that birth," he says, "never. If they aren't here, if something really bad happened and they can't get in touch with us, you know what that means, right?"
I bite the inside of my mouth, but in a way that wouldn't be obvious to him.
I don't want to show him that I'm nervous or having any hesitation about anything at all, but this does make me worry.
I realize now that there's probably a great likelihood that something bad did happen to them. But there’s also a possibility of something else.
What if they were living a secret life?
What if they were doing something illegal, gone missing on purpose but are alive and well?
I decide to keep this to myself. I don’t have any proof and I don’t want to give Terry any false hope. I still have a lot of emails to go through.
"Terry, I need to have a serious conversation with you about something," I say, clearing my throat and moving my chair a little bit closer to him.
He looks up at me, his eyes as big as saucers, his skin sallow. He looks like he hasn't gotten any sun in months.
"So, the thing is that I want to ask you if there's any chance that your parents were involved in anything illegal?” He shakes his head no.
"Please think about it before you answer."
"They were going down to Mexico, they had a boat. What are you trying to say? That they were working for a cartel?"
"No, I'm not saying that at all. I'm just trying to get some information. I know that they were retired and that they were fishing, but retirees need money, too."
"They had money from savings and from their retirement plan."
"But do you think there's any chance that they were involved in anything illegal?” I press. “I'm not going to bust them for it, this will just help me figure out a way to investigate this crime further. When people are involved in the drug trade or any other illegal activities, those crimes get investigated. If someone hurt them because of that, we're still going to keep them accountable and bring them to justice. I'm not saying that just because your parents weren't saints doesn't mean that we won't find them, or that we won't look for them, or that they'll get in trouble.” I choose my words carefully. I need him to know that I'm on his side.
People whose loved ones are involved in some illegal activity are hesitant to come forward about that. I had previously investigated a case of a sex worker. They're at risk for all sorts of assault and other crimes, including murder. But just because they do sex work doesn't mean that their perpetrators can do anything they want and that they're not victims. In this case, I need Terry to know that even if his parents were involved in drug running or any other illegal activity, that I still care about what happened to them and I'm going to find out the truth.
"You have to talk to my brother, but, no, as far as I know, they weren't involved in anything like that. They just went to Mexico to retire, to live the good life on their boat, to fish, to hang out with other retirees. That's it. You have to believe me."
"I do," I say, nodding. A quick pause passes between us and then another. I can tell that with each meeting, Terry's trusting me more and more. And I also get the sense that he's telling me the truth about them, or as far as he is concerned.
"Do you think there's any particular reason why your brother, John, didn't contact us?"
"No, not really," he says, shaking his head. "I told him that I reached out and what we've talked about."
"Well, if you don't mind, could you give me his number so I can chat with him as well?"
14
I meet with Sydney at the bridal shop. She has always been a bit of a tomboy, so I’m surprised at how much she revels in being attended to and handed a glass of non-alcoholic Champagne while she waits to try on her wedding gown.
She becomes giddy and excited, just like a little kid. I'm the first one of her friends to arrive. Her cousins and sister from east Los Angeles come a little later, complaining about traffic in Koreatown.
I show them around a bit since I've already had the pleasure of sitting here for over forty-five minutes. As I walk, I'm careful with my glass of water to make sure that I don't spill it on any of the thousands of dollars’ worth of dresses. Nevertheless, one of the attendants watches over me carefully, probably quick on her feet to run over in case I do trip. I join Sydney and everyone except me and Sydney are having Champagne. I'm going to work soon after to interview Terry's brother, and I can't drink while on duty.
The bridal boutique is located in west Los Angeles in a nondescript shopping plaza. It actually has a nice collection of dresses at a reasonable rate. There are of course, the high-end shops in Beverly Hills and Santa Monica, but being on a budget, Sydney steers clear of them. I haven't talked to her about the total cost of a wedding yet, but she has been complaining about how expensive everything is.
“If it’s for a wedding, it’s double or triple the price. I actually looked into making my own centerpieces,” she says as we wait for the attendant to pull a couple of mermaid style dresses that she had requested.
"No, you can't do that.” Miranda, her cousin, shakes her head. “That is so tacky.”
She's a tall, plump woman who works as a kindergarten teacher and has already notified me that she has placed a deposit on a church in Pasadena that has a two-year waiting list even though she’s not even dating anyone.
I made the mistake of laughing, which made Miranda toss her jet-black hair to one side and turn demonstratively to Carol, her sister.
To say that her family was less than pleased that she went into law enforcement would be a big understatement. Everyone tried to talk her out of it. They pled and then threatened. Cousins she had never spoken to called her and told her what a terrible mistake she was making. Her mother didn't talk to her for almost two years.
"The bride can’t make the centerpi
eces. I mean, it's just going to look so cheesy."
"No, not necessarily," Sydney insists. “Look at this.”
She pulls out her phone and shows a few saved websites of do-it-yourself brides, who are on a budget.
“I know that some people are just very crafty and will make anything and I'm not really like that, so these look pretty easy.” She shows one with azaleas in round glasses. “I can pair them with natural wood and metallics for a rustic-glam feel. It says here that I can arrange them in a block of wet floral foam just like this.”
"This one looks magnificent," I say. "Wow. Yeah.”
“Ones exactly like this are going for $200 each and there are going to be at least ten tables. So, there's two grand right there.”
“I don't know what you're thinking, Sydney,” Carol, the tall, extremely thin cousin, says. "Miranda is right. If you make your own centerpieces, what are you going to do? Make your own decor? I mean, why don't you just lay out the plates, and bake the cake and have it at a VA hall for $500 bucks? Why don't we just get you a sheet cake and call it a day?"
"I don't think it's an either/or situation," I butt in, after seeing how hurt Sydney looks. "I think you can save some money and have a really nice, elegant, beautiful wedding. And it doesn't have to cost twenty-five grand." "$25,000? What planet are you from? It's going to cost them at least fifty," Carol says. "I mean, do you know how much the hall is?" I look over at Sydney who shrugs and looks completely lost.
"If you have a $30,000 wedding, everyone's going to know. It's not going to look right." Sydney looks like she's on the verge of tears. At work, she's competent, outgoing, completely in control. But here with her family, she just looks lost. Like the cousin who can't get it right.
