Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  The Jasper property went beyond his wildest expectations. Finally, Pacific Shores, a project he’d dreamed about for years but never had the means to develop before the recession, would become a reality.

  The ultimate in luxury living, Pacific Shores would have everything the discriminating buyer could desire. Way beyond your typical luxury condominiums, maid, dry cleaning, and gardening services were the least of what residents could expect. Private Pilates, yoga, martial arts, and weight training were also provided—no large, sweaty gym classes here. All personalized and delivered to your door. Dog walkers, masseuses, personal shoppers—Pacific Shore residents would never have to leave their thoughtfully designed units.

  He just never had the right piece of property until now. And when he did find a suitable piece of land, his money was always tied up in other deals. After the crash, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to turn those dreams into reality. Now, thanks to this unexpected gift from a father he never knew, he had that chance, and he wasn’t about to lose it.

  The first thing he’d done after reading the letter was drive down to see the property with his own eyes—to reassure himself the land really existed and wasn’t covered in suburban sprawl or a strip mall with a gas station and mini-mart. It did exist, and it was gorgeous! The instant he saw it, he could visualize Pacific Shores. Million-dollar view from each unit, cooling ocean breezes, beautiful artsy town nearby, major shopping within thirty minutes up or down the coast. He still couldn’t believe it was his.

  Energized for the first time in years, Scott had immediately returned to Milpitas and spent the rest of December customizing his initial plans. Squeezing the last few dollars out of his already-depleted bank account, he had an architect friend draw up some preliminaries and contacted his favorite investors. The problem was, most of his former investors were no longer in business, at least not the business of giving away money.

  Except Felix Rodriguez. Not only was he still in the game, but his was just about the only game in town. Scott knew him by reputation, and it wasn’t stellar. He would get your job done under budget, but only by cutting corners and greasing a few planning inspectors’ palms. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  He read about Rodriguez recently in a trade magazine. One of the publications that kept coming even though he hadn’t paid the bill in over a year. It was a rags-to-riches “local boy done good” story.

  According to the article, fifty-two-year-old Felix Rodriguez had roots in the Central Valley going back three generations. Although it didn’t come out and say it, the first two were probably undocumented. His grandfather picked fruits and vegetables up and down the West Coast, eventually settling in Gilroy, California, as big agriculture grew. His son, Felix’s dad, worked the garlic fields; Felix’s mom was a maid. Finally scraping enough money together, with the help of relatives, his parents bought an old, flat-roofed, two-bedroom home when Felix’s sister was born. By the look of an old black-and-white picture, it didn’t seem like the walls could even support the flimsy roof, let alone provide room enough for six children.

  Not afraid of hard labor, the writer said, Felix worked construction from the time he was thirteen years old. By the time he was thirty-five, he grew these skills and two years of college into the most successful construction company in Gilroy. Working toward a degree in geology, the young man had to drop out of school to support the family when his father became too ill with lung cancer to work. Probably from the pesticides, but they didn’t mention that in the article, either.

  Scott had to grudgingly admit Felix had earned his rags-to-riches credentials. His construction company employed over two hundred people, and photos of his current residence showed a five-thousand-square-foot California split-level overlooking twenty sprawling acres of rolling ranch land.

  Felix didn’t pound nails anymore.

  When Scott heard through the grapevine Felix was flush and looking for projects, he put aside his distaste for the man’s reputation and called to set up a meeting.

  He needed money. Felix had money. End of story.

  Within a week, they had a handshake deal. Within two, a lengthy contract was off to Felix’s attorney, Gary Schofield, to do with it whatever it is attorneys do with the mountains of paperwork they deal with every day. The terms were pretty simple. In essence, Scott put up the land; Felix put up the money. They’d split the profits fifty-one–forty-nine, with Scott holding the majority.

  A firm down in Southern California would do the actual physical construction. Scott planned to be on-site every day to keep an eye on things. He had no other projects in the Valley and, since his mother had died and his girlfriend had left, no other reason to be there. It was his first project out of the gate after the bankruptcy, and his reputation depended on Pacific Shores living up to the marketing they were about to roll out. He was heading down there this afternoon, meeting with the local architect in the morning. He couldn’t wait to see his property again.

  Waiting impatiently through Corona del Mar traffic, Scott regretted his decision to take PCH instead of going back up to the 405. Now that he had some cash, he’d decided to treat himself to better accommodations last night and enjoy a leisurely drive down the coast this morning. Well, it was certainly leisurely so far. He’d checked out of the Hyatt in Huntington Beach at 6:30 a.m. Jasper was supposed to be forty-five minutes away, but an hour and a half later, according to his GPS, he was only halfway there.

  Idling at a light, Scott noticed the woman in the car next to his, admiring him openly. He was just at the age a man’s boyish charm catches up with his experience. It was a good look. Neatly trimmed dark hair, clean shaven, strong jaw. Aviator shades. The woman seemed to particularly enjoy his sexy forearms.

  He made it all the way to Jasper’s northern city limits before traffic slowed down again. The marine layer was just starting to burn off. His plan was to meet with the architect, then go into town and find a good place to eat. And start scouting for a place to stay. He wanted everything to be perfect.

  Finally, he reached Goldenrod and turned right onto the narrow road.

  A large sign confronted him on his left. That was weird. Had that sign been there before? Maybe he had the wrong street. The first time he was here, he’d taken the canyon road into town and turned right to get to Goldenrod.

  He checked the GPS on his car and on his phone, then squinted back at the street sign. Yes, this was Goldenrod, the road that led to his property. Making sure no one was behind him, he backed up a little and twisted his neck around to reread the large wooden sign he’d passed on his way in.

  “Welcome to the Future Home of the Southern Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center”

  What?

  Someone must have posted their sign on the wrong land. But what other land was there? To his left was nothing but a huge pile of black rock that tumbled down into the ocean, where waves crashed uselessly against it. Pretty distinctive feature. Straight ahead, a slim strip of land curved around the top of a bluff that fell two hundred feet down to a small cove, carved out over thousands of years by a patient sea. To the right, the rest of the property—his property—stretched for three magnificent miles north.

  There was only one road to this land, and he was on it.

  There must be some mistake.

  Looking back up the road, he saw three large, heavy-duty equipment trucks of some kind on his right, rumbling toward him across the field, kicking up dust. Turning onto the dirt road he was on, about four hundred feet in front of him, they rolled slowly past, toward the highway.

  Scott leaned out, trying to catch the attention of one of the drivers. The last truck slowed to an idle behind the first two, waiting for the light, but the driver didn’t acknowledge him or roll down his window.

  Foot still on the brake, Scott shouted up at him, “Hey, what are you doing here? This is private property.”

  The driver leaned
out as he drove by. “Lunch break—sorry, man!”

  It didn’t look like they’d hurt anything—nothing had been disturbed that he could see, but still. He wasn’t running a parking garage here.

  He got back to his main concern. The sign.

  Anxiety and anger rising in equal measures, Scott slammed the CLK into park, fumbling for his phone. This was all he needed.

  16

  February 2015

  His first call got dropped. He’d have to find a way to boost cell phone signals out here. He tried again. This time a young girl cheerfully answered.

  “Rodriguez Construction. How may I help you today?”

  “Felix Rodriguez, please.” His knee started pumping up and down.

  “Yes, sir. He’s about to go into a meeting. Who should I say is calling?”

  “Tell him it’s Scott. Scott Dekker.”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Dekker. Hold on, I’ll see if I can catch him before he goes in.”

  While he waited, he backed up to the sign, took a picture, then sent it to himself for backup. Phone and website were included helpfully on the bottom of the sign. If he wanted to donate, he was to contact anyone at Friends of the Sea Otter.

  The girl came back on the line. “He’ll be right with you, Mr. Dekker. He said he’d take your call in his office.”

  Ocean waves provided a soothing soundtrack, but Scott felt anything but relaxed. An aggressive seagull dive-bombed him. Irritated, he pushed a button, and the black cloth top, unfolding itself, began to smoothly rise. When it was up, he flicked the levers shut to secure it. Rolled up the windows. Much better. He couldn’t hear anything anyway, with those damn waves pounding in the background.

  “Scott. What’s up? You there already?” Felix asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here, but there’s a problem. You ever hear of something called the Southern Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center or an organization called Friends of the Sea Otter?”

  “No, why? Did someone hit you up for a donation?”

  Scott allowed himself a cynical smile. “No, no, they didn’t hit me up for a donation, but they’ve put a fence up on my property and are announcing their intention to build on it.”

  Felix was quiet, then said, “Must be some mistake. Are you in the right place? Is there a number on the sign or a website or any contact info?” His voice remained calm.

  Scott forwarded him the information and waited while Felix went to find somebody to take his meeting.

  Up to this point, everything had gone so well. He should have known. Nothing was ever this easy. At least, nothing in his life.

  Felix came back on the line. He asked Scott to go over the details again.

  Scott did, then waited. Whatever the solution was, it would take money. Money was the solution to every problem. Scott didn’t have any, and they both knew it.

  Not wanting to ask, he waited for Felix to offer.

  After a silence a beat longer than it needed to be, he did.

  “Look, let’s not worry about it yet. I’ll have Gary look into it. He’s down in Orange County, working on another deal for me. Hopefully he can get it cleared up in a day or two.”

  “Yeah, OK,” Scott said, relieved.

  Felix should offer to help. When wealthy Californians started claiming their piece of this extremely rare Pacific Shores paradise, Felix was going to make a bundle. It was in his best interest to help.

  “Yeah, cancel the architect . . . tell him something came up, you’ll reschedule. Don’t give him details.” Then he added, in a lighter, more cheerful tone, “How’s the CLK handling? You enjoying it?”

  “It’s great, Felix,” Scott said, wishing he’d brought his own car now. Felix never missed the opportunity to let him know who held the financial reins.

  “Don’t worry, Scott. This’ll turn out to be nothing. See you in the morning. Oh, and bring all your paperwork—Gary’s probably going to need notarized copies of everything,” Felix said, “Cherie can fax them.”

  The drive back to Milpitas wasn’t nearly as much fun as the drive down.

  #

  Alone in his office, Felix sat in his captain’s chair and stared out a large picture window. Not much of a view. Unless you were into employee parking lots. A large map of California took up most of the other wall to the left of his desk. A water cooler squatted near San Diego. The rest of the room was typical of a contractor’s office. Couple of sturdy visitor chairs. Dark-brown leather chesterfield along the wall, just long enough for thinking naps. His secretary knew not to bother him between one and two.

  No need to panic yet.

  Hopefully, Gary would get everything cleared up quickly. Confusion over landownership happened more often than people thought. Usually, it was just a matter of misfiled paperwork. People were lazy. Sometimes they didn’t register the title.

  If this sea otter place thought they had a claim and it turned into a formal dispute, there were ways of dealing with that. Besides, if those two years of geology were worth anything, he had more than one way of making money off this property. He’d know more when he got the report from the thumper trucks. Bill always paid extra for a positive report.

  Pushing himself up out of his chair, he walked from behind his desk to stand in front of the map. At five ten, he stood eye level with San Francisco. Full head of hair. No gray yet. Hard muscles lurking beneath a few extra pounds, Felix had the solid build of a man who could, but no longer did, haul drywall.

  He ran his hand along the surface of the map, causing his new Rolex to glint briefly in the sun. Large brown eyes contemplated the lines, letters, and colors. This was the original—the one he’d used when he started Rodriguez Construction—a tangible display of his accomplishments. For the most part, Cherie kept it updated. Current projects marked with blue pins, completed projects with green.

  “Green for money,” he told her with a wink.

  Most of the pins clumped together in the middle of the state, demonstrating his domination of the Santa Clara County construction market.

  Recently, a scattering of clear ones had appeared. He placed those himself. Only he knew what they represented. And what they represented was big bucks. Today, he made sure the one located in Jasper, California, was securely pushed in, right next to a blue one.

  One or both of those pins was going to pay for Mia’s tuition at Stanford Law. His niece’s goal was to sit on the Supreme Court someday. Sotomayor was her hero. She’d probably do it, too. If he could keep her in school.

  Somebody always needed something. Helping someone up from Mexico, starter homes for most of the kids. And there were a lot of kids. The Rodriguez brood was always growing—must have been over fifty relatives at Yolanda’s quinceañera last month. His cousin Jared, thirty-two years old, had five kids already. Whenever he objected to having another one, his wife just laughed.

  “Just doing my part, honey. We’re taking California back . . . one baby at a time!” she said.

  Felix remembered his first job in construction. His boss never bothered to learn their names. It was always “Hey, Jose . . .” A man of truly limited vocabulary. “Dirty Mexicans!” or “Damn Mexicans!” is how he referred to them as a whole, even though half of the guys were from Guatemala.

  Idiot.

  Pressing both pins firmly into the wall again with his thumb, he returned to his desk. He had two phone calls to make.

  17

  Saturday, July 4, 2015, 10:00 a.m.

  Since it was a holiday, the place was deserted. Scott had no trouble following the receptionist’s directions to conference room B. It was the only one with lights on.

  Felix remained seated at the small conference table and made introductions. The attorney, Gary Schofield, reached across to shake hands. Scott sat at the only other chair available. Felix refreshed his mug of coffee from the carafe in the center of the table
and nodded for the attorney to begin.

  He had never met Felix’s attorney before. In a suit that hung on a tall but bony frame, the attorney had a long face and droopy eyes that reminded Scott of a morose bloodhound suffering from insomnia. He hoped he had some good news, but the man looked as if he regularly swam in a pool of bad news and was about to deliver some of it to Scott.

  At least he was quick about it.

  For a moment, no one said anything. Finally, Scott spoke.

  “You’re kidding” was all he could manage.

  Gary grimaced a smile and, with one large hand, slid the pertinent documents smoothly over to Scott.

  “See for yourself.”

  “I have a sister?” Scott said.

  “Half sister,” Gary corrected, surprised this was Scott’s first comment.

  “And she says she owns my land?” Scott said.

  Gary nodded.

  “But what about the sea otter sanctuary? It’s already all but built! How can she build on my land!”

  Felix let Gary continue to answer Scott’s questions.

  “She donated the use of the land to a foundation she started. Technically the foundation built it. It’s still hers. It’s complicated.”

  Scott’s mind reeled. Years of working hard and doing the right thing. Inheriting this land was the first good thing that had happened to him in the last eight years. He thought he’d finally caught a break. And now this.

  He abruptly stood up, then sat back down. Raking his fingers through his hair, he leaned in, anger rising to replace shock.

  “She can’t give away my land! What proof does she have? Did you show her the letter? Doesn’t that prove I own it?”

  “Yes, along with the handwriting verification. We sent copies of everything to her attorney. Your father was an artist—fairly well-known in his day. Lots of handwriting samples available. The graphologist was certain. No one’s really contesting that. It’s considered a holographic will—it’s in his handwriting all right, dated and signed. It should stand up in court—in California you don’t need witnesses for a holographic will,” Gary said.