Blood Truth

by Matt Coyle

  Me: When they’re done, you take the woman. I’ll take Sophia.

  Moira: Roger.

  My phone pinged again. I opened a text from Moira and saw three pictures of the woman who’d had lunch with Sophia. Late forties, natural blond, attractive, fit, power woman’s business suit. A sugar momma? The suit said she could afford it.

  I sat in my car and eyed Sophia’s Corvette while I ran scenarios through my head.

  Sophia could simply be bisexual and still be having an affair with Parker. Bisexuality was hardly an oddity these days.

  So, what did that leave? Without Stone’s involvement, it wouldn’t have changed the affair scenario too much. She was bi. She liked men and women and was currently involved with both. But Stone couldn’t be ignored. Just like you shouldn’t ignore dark clouds gathering behind you on a sunny day.

  Stone was now a commercial real estate developer. Mostly hotels and some retail. Jeffrey Parker was the biggest residential realtor in La Jolla and one of the biggest in San Diego County. There wasn’t an overlap. Parker facilitated home purchases and sales for private citizens and Stone built hotels for businesses. They both had connections to where people slept, but nothing more.

  Why the phone calls between the two on Parker’s secret phone? If the calls had been on his other phone, it wouldn’t have been a red flag. Parker and Stone were both La Jolla bigwigs and involved in local charities. It wouldn’t be surprising if they knew each other and talked every now and then, even if their businesses didn’t intersect. Same rarified social stratum.

  Could Parker have simply made the calls to Stone on the secret phone for convenience sake? Maybe he’d left his other cell at the office or in another room at home. That could explain outbound calls. I needed to ask Kim if the calls between the two had been outbound or inbound.

  Even if there was an innocent explanation for the phone calls, that still left Sophia Domingo. Why had Parker and Stone both met with her at a hotel in close proximity to each other? Stone had given her a briefcase full of something. Probably money. Certainly not the first briefcase full of money he’d given someone in a back room. But why? What could she do for him? She had no discernible job or income, yet drove an eighty-thousand-dollar sports car. All the signs of a high-priced call girl, not a backroom power broker. Right down to the expensive hotel room and liaison with Jeffrey Parker.

  The call girl and the ex-casino boss. Not an unusual pairing. Especially when it came to Stone. I knew he’d sampled the professional women whom he’d allowed to work his casino before his partner sold him out to a corporate conglomerate. Stone and his partner had owned the last rumored mobbed-up big casino on the strip.

  Now he was clean, his background ignored or polished by those who played the game on the outside edge of the law. A contribution to a lawmaker’s favorite charity. Usually their own. Bundled donations to a candidate’s campaign. A briefcase full of money going to a slush fund. Stone had gone from gangster to crony capitalist. All with the change of a zip code.

  Had he and Sophia somehow hooked Jeffrey Parker into something that not only crossed ethical barriers but broke the law? Maybe the briefcase was a payoff from Stone to Sophia for bringing Parker into whatever game they were playing.

  Moira’s text kept me from pondering questions I didn’t yet have answers to.

  Moira: They’re on the move.

  Twenty seconds later, Sophia exited Fresco and got into her car, then headed back to the freeway. I followed, well back.

  Moira called as I entered the freeway, four cars behind Sophia.

  “Lady who lunches is on foot.” The husky voice. “I’ve trailed her for a block. She’s walking fast like she had to get back to her job.”

  “What was the tone of their lunch, business or pleasure?”

  “Hard to say. Aside from the lip-smack hello, the conversation seemed serious. Kind of intense.”

  “Who was in control?” I spotted a California Highway Patrol cruiser in my rearview mirror and eased back on the gas.

  “Pretty even. I’d give the edge to Sophia.”

  “Did they part civilly?”

  “A bit chilly.” Moira’s breath picked up like she was moving faster. “The woman just went into an office building. I want to see the name of the business she goes into.”

  She hung up.

  The CHP behind me took an off ramp in Encinitas. Probably to cross over to the other side of the freeway and stalk some prey there. Sophia kept a steady pace at seventy miles an hour.

  Moira called back.

  “The woman went into a business called Dergan Consulting. She’s Dergan. Dina.” A hint of satisfaction in Moira’s voice. “I looked it up online. Their website says they specialize in coastal land use advocacy dealing with the California Coastal Commission.”

  “In other words, she’s a lobbyist.”

  “Right. And by the looks of the company’s office, she’s doing very well. Dergan Consulting takes up the whole third floor of the office building.”

  “Head back to the 5 and drive south. I’ll call you back when Sophia lands.”

  “Roger.”

  “And, Moira, good job.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Having gotten the last word, she hung up.

  Sophia drove past all the Del Mar exits. Next up, La Jolla. I followed by rote and let my mind sift through what I’d just learned.

  Dina Dergan. A lobbyist who had dealings with the Coastal Commission. The all-powerful unelected bureaucracy appointed by the governor. They had first and final say on any development, commercial, residential, or private, along the California coast. Unelected bureaucrats. Lobbyists. Hotel room briefcase exchanges. Things were starting to add up, and their sum was Peter Stone. Buying influence. Cheating to get what he wanted.

  Stone gave a briefcase full of money to Sophia. The next day she meets with a woman who lobbies the California Coastal Commission. There must have been a decision coming up soon by the commission on commercial land use somewhere along the coast.

  I called the one man I knew in San Diego who might know.

  “Scott Buehler.” World-weary, slightly cynical voice.

  “You still working for The Reader?”

  “Cahill. You owe me an interview.”

  The Reader was an anti-establishment independent newspaper. The establishment being whoever was in charge of local government, right or left. Buehler was its sole investigative journalist, which meant he covered everything. I’d promised him an interview last year if he’d do a little digging for the public interest. But mostly, for my interest.

  “I’m old news, Buehler.”

  “You welch on our deal last year and now you’re looking for another favor?”

  I had fully intended to uphold my end of the deal. Until I made another deal with someone else that had much greater significance to my well-being. I never told Buehler, because the only two people who knew about it were me and the person on the other end of the deal.

  “I haven’t asked for a thing.”

  “You called just to say hello?”

  “Well, that and ask for a favor.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  This was tricky. Buehler would happily trade info if it led to getting some dirt on Peter Stone.

  I’d be happy, too. But if some of the dirt ended up burying Jeffrey Parker, then I’d betrayed Kim’s trust in me.

  “You know, you’re right. I haven’t been fair to you. I should probably stop wasting your time. I’ll try the U-T.”

  The Union-Tribune was the major daily in town. I had no connections there and nothing to offer them, but I guessed that Buehler hated the idea of giving up a potential story to competition. Especially one owned by a national media conglomerate.

  “What do you want?”

  Never underestimate the power of insecurity.

  “Any major land use decisions coming up for the California Coastal Commission?”

  “You don’t read our paper, do yo
u, Cahill?”

  “Only when there’s an interview with me in it.”

  “Funny.” Nothing close to a laugh. “UC San Diego is selling off a portion of Scripps Institute of Oceanography’s undeveloped land. The commission is having a hearing today right here in San Diego on whether or not to approve the sale to a developer.”

  “Who’s the developer?” Had to be the Peter Stone Development Company.

  “GBASD.”

  “Who?”

  “Green Builders Alliance of San Diego. They are an organization of builders who claim to be green. If you ask me, they’re more about greenwashing than the environment.”

  “Greenwashing?”

  “Businesses claiming to be environmentally friendly, but aren’t. They may claim to use a few green materials, but the majority of what they use and produce degrades the environment. GBASD has used the green card to get government contracts even though they haven’t been the lowest bidder.”

  “Is Peter Stone Development Company part of GBASD?” Greenwashing would be right down Peter Stone’s alley.

  “How did you know?”

  “Wild guess. If they win the bid, is GBASD going to put up a huge hotel or resort?”

  “No. A massive residential development.”

  Residential? Stone’s expertise was commercial. He must have branched out. Whatever the case, once the homes were built, someone would have to sell them.

  Jeffrey Parker.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STONE AND PARKER were connected. The phone calls. Sophia Domingo. Sophia’s lunchmate, Dina Dergan, a lobbyist to the Coastal Commission. The residential land sale. Parker could have simply been making moves behind the scenes to advance his real estate business. Maybe Sophia was his entree to meeting Stone. A man who, if the Coastal Commission vote went his way, was about to develop some of the most expensive residential real estate in all of California.

  Maybe Parker was using Sophia to get to Stone. Slimy, but not illegal. If sex was involved, laws weren’t broken. Only marital vows and Kim’s heart. I still had some investigating to do.

  Stone’s briefcase, probably full of money, was more nefarious. If it was being used to bribe a public official, that was a felony. If Parker was caught up in Stone’s machinations, he could go to jail and the security of Kim’s budding family was in danger.

  Sophia exited the freeway at La Jolla Village Drive and took Torrey Pines Road down into the village of La Jolla. She headed in the direction of Wall Street and Parker Real Estate. My pulse jumped. What if she went into their office looking for Jeffrey and Kim saw her? If Kim confronted her, the game was over. On second thought, that might be for the best. Kim would finally have the frank discussion she needed to have with her husband.

  But how would Stone react when word got back to him that Kim had blown whatever play he was planning? I knew Stone to be vindictive and dangerous. I changed my mind on what was best.

  The Corvette pulled into the pay parking lot across from the real estate office. Crap. I stopped alongside a car parked next to the curb. Just another idiot in La Jolla waiting for a free parking space to come open. I was really giving Sophia time to park and leave her car before I entered the lot and followed her on foot. I took a couple honks and middle fingers as cars swerved around me, then I parked in the lot.

  I exited on foot just as Sophia passed Parker Real Estate. One possible nasty scene with dangerous repercussions avoided. Sophia walked another block and then went inside a nail salon. No need to follow her in there. I figured I had at least an hour to kill. I called Moira.

  “Sophia just went into La Jolla Nail Design on Wall Street. How far away are you?”

  “Five minutes out.”

  “Okay. Stake out the salon and call me if Sophia leaves before I come back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back in time.”

  * * *

  Windsor Bank and Trust sat on Ivanhoe where Wall Street T’d into it. It took up the ground floor of a cement and glass building featuring New Orleans–style French Quarter balconies. At four stories the building was one of the tallest structures in downtown La Jolla. The building’s architect was the same man who designed the iconic Coronado Bay Bridge.

  I walked inside and went to the customer service cubicle in the lobby. The bank had been modernized since I used to go in with my dad when he’d cash his La Jolla Police Department paychecks. I was so proud when he’d walk me up to a teller’s window dressed in his LJPD blue uniform. Even as an eight-year-old kid, I could tell the respect the tellers, the bank manager, and the bank’s founder, Jules Windsor, had for my dad was genuine. The looks, the smiles, the handshakes.

  Respect.

  It would all be gone within two years. Replaced with contempt after the whispered rumors that swirled around my dad metastasized into hurricane winds. Nine years later he’d be dead. Killed by the bottle and the shame of losing the respect he’d earned during his twenty-two years on the police force.

  Still, before all the wrong that was to come, I wanted to be just like my father when I grew up. The looks, the smiles, the handshakes. The respect. I ended up serving one-tenth as long on the force as my father, and hadn’t earned anywhere near the same respect. But after just two and a half years, our law enforcement careers suffered the same fate. Quietly let go without a pension.

  The difference: I’d never been on the take. And I’d never murdered someone for money or blackmailed someone else who did.

  I asked the young customer service woman who I needed to talk to about opening my late father’s safe deposit box. She called the bank manager. I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t even sure my father had ever had a box there or, even if he did, it probably would have been inactive and its contents sent to the California state treasurer years ago. Our tax dollars aren’t enough. The state even gets to keep the dead’s forgotten assets.

  A woman in a feminine version of banker’s attire approached with a smile and an extended arm. Blue pinstriped suit with an open-collared blouse revealing a tasteful silver necklace. No chain pocket watch. Attractive, forties, salon-aided brown hair that fell down to her shoulders.

  “Hello, I’m Gloria Nakamura.” She grabbed my hand in a firm shake. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Rick Cahill. Thanks.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cahill. If you’ll come with me, we’ll just take care of some paperwork so you can access the contents of your father’s safe deposit box.”

  She led me to a desk to the left of the tellers’ windows. She hit a couple keys on a computer keyboard, then looked up at me.

  Pursed lips and raised eyebrows. “What was your father’s full name?”

  “Charles Henry Cahill.”

  No reaction. Neither my name nor my father’s brought up any ugly headlines in her memory. She must not have been a native La Jollan or didn’t keep up on the local news. Or maybe the world didn’t revolve around me anymore.

  “And the box number on the key?”

  “335.”

  She typed some more on the keyboard. “I’ve found it. He’s had the box here since 1990.”

  1990. The year my father was kicked off the La Jolla Police Force. “Is it still active?”

  “Yes.”

  Bingo. After all those years, with the key stashed in a hidden safe, my father’s safe deposit box still had secrets left to reveal. It made sense that he’d rented a box at Windsor Bank and Trust. He was a man of routine. He drank the same whiskey every night, ate the same meal at his favorite restaurant when he went out, and used the same bank when he hid secrets from his family. And the rest of the world.

  “Has anyone else had access to it?”

  “Only if they came in with a key like you have today and they had your father’s death certificate. Then they’d only be able to look at the contents of the box with a bank representative supervising.”

  Gloria talked as she typed. “Do you have a copy of the death certificate?”

&
nbsp; “No. He’s been dead eighteen years.”

  “What?” She stopped and looked up from the computer screen.

  “He died eighteen years ago. He had a will. His limited assets were dispersed back then. I found a safe deposit key in some of his old things and thought I should see what’s inside.”

  “Well, I can certainly understand that.” Her eyebrows stayed up. “But unfortunately, under California Probate Code 331, we’ll need a death certificate to open the safe deposit box. At that time, you can inventory what’s inside, but cannot remove anything without petitioning the court for ownership of the contents. The only caveat is if there is a will and trust instruments inside. In that case, we’ll make a photocopy of all wills and trust instruments removed from the safe deposit box and keep the photocopy in the safe deposit box until the contents of the box are removed by the personal representative of the estate or other legally authorized person. Are there other living heirs who could lay claim to the contents?”

  “My mother and my sister are alive, but they don’t care what’s in the safe deposit box. And I think my father’s sister is still alive.”

  I hadn’t talked to Aunt Lila in eighteen years. She’d tried to keep our familial bond alive, but I let it wither and die. She was a link to my father. To who he’d become, not who he was back when I was an idolizing kid. After he died, I didn’t want to be reminded of either one.

  “Well, the laws still have to be obeyed.” She tried to soften it with a smile. “Where did your father die?”

  “Bakersfield.”

  He used to take a bus up to Aunt Lila’s house every few months to dry out. The last time he made the trip, he never came back. Lila flew his body to San Diego on American Airlines. His body was loaded with cargo into the hold of the plane. Only nine years after he’d been kicked off the police force.

  And a lifetime away from the earned respect.

  “Well, if no one still has a death certificate, you’ll have to contact the Bakersfield County Recorder’s office to get a copy. I’m sure you can look them up online.”

  “Look, Ms. Nakamura. I’ll jump through all the hoops as soon as I can and come back to collect whatever’s in the safe deposit box. But I’m here right now.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her my driver’s license. “Here’s my ID. Broderick Macdonald Cahill. Charlie Cahill’s son. I just want to get a look at what’s in the box. Now. So I can figure out whether all the hoop-jumping is worth it.”