Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  I traversed a spit of sand to reach the rock jetty. At the end of the jetty, two fishermen balanced on an uneven rock surface with their poles pointing seaward. An old cracked concrete pipe emerged from the sand and led out toward the water. When waves crashed into the jetty, water shot out of a hole in the side of the pipe.

  I watched as waves splashed up, hitting hard in certain parts of the jetty and sending plumes skyward. A young boy laughed as he enjoyed the free shower from the spray descending from five feet above his head.

  Turning toward the small bay protected by the jetty, I spotted Jennifer as she paddled out, gracefully alternating arms stroking in the water. She joined the clump of surfers and turned her board around to be ready for a wave. Then she began to stroke like mad, and a wave carried her forward, but she missed the break, coming to a standstill. I found a rock to sit on as she turned her board and headed back out. On her second attempt, she caught the wave, steadied herself, stood up and rode almost to shore.

  I clapped my hands. My own offspring out doing that in the water. Life never ceased to amaze me.

  After watching her catch half a dozen waves, my butt started getting numb so I shifted to another rock. I happened to look down and among the broken shells and drift junk saw a briefcase wedged between the rocks. I turned my head toward shore. No one else around. Just the surfers in the water, the two fishermen way at the end with backs to me and some kids playing in the sand several hundred yards away. I grabbed the handle and tugged to remove it from the rocks.

  I examined the smooth leather and tried to unlatch it. Locked. And without the combination or a pry bar, it would stay that way. I hefted it and determined that it contained something heavy. I could have put it back or . . . maybe the police substation served as a lost and found.

  After watching Jennifer catch several more waves, I backtracked along the jetty and crossed the sand to the building I had passed earlier. Two black-and-white police cruisers were parked outside and a long line of people now stood in front of a sliding window.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked a woman in shorts with a police insignia on her shirt and a clipboard in her hand.

  “Permits for street vendors are being renewed.”

  “I’m not seeking permission for anything and don’t want to stand in that long line, but I found a briefcase left out on the jetty that I thought I should turn in here.”

  “We’re pretty busy right now. Leave it inside that doorway.” She pointed to a yellow door ajar to the left side of the line.

  I tucked it away where she had indicated and returned to the beach. Shortly, the rest of my tribe, Denny and Allison, showed up.

  “We need to retrieve Jennifer,” Denny said. “Time to return the rental equipment and head back to Colorado.”

  After Jennifer rode a wave, Denny caught her attention and she paddled in to shore.

  “Pack up,” Denny shouted.

  “Ah, Dad. One more wave?”

  “No. We have a flight to catch.”

  We all headed up to the motel where they were staying just off the plaza. While Jennifer showered, I sat out on the balcony and looked down on the crowd of beach revelers. I could see the panorama of the basketball court, skating area, graffiti wall and the numerous street vendors doing their thing.

  I could have sat there forever and not been bored, but finally Denny tapped me on the shoulder. “Jennifer’s changed, and we’re ready to leave.”

  I helped them lug their suitcases down to the car, parked in the basement of the motel.

  “We can give you a ride back to your house on our way,” Denny said.

  “I’ll take you up on that. I’m pleased I got to see all of you once more before you sail off into the sunset.”

  At my place we exchanged hugs, and Jennifer held on the longest. “I’m so glad you and Marion are married, Grandpa. I’d love to stay here, surf and see you every day. I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. Write to me once in a while.”

  “I’ll also call when I find out something about the names you gave me. I just wish you’d learn to use the Internet, Grandpa.”

  “I’m too old for that, but I know how to use paper and pen and the telephone just fine.”

  Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “I know what I can do. I’ll send e-mail messages to Austin. He can either print them out for you or you can read them on his computer.”

  “Whatever. As long as I don’t have to mess with any of those electronic contraptions.”

  I waved as my offspring drove off. Now I could continue with my new life as a newlywed in the wilds of Venice Beach.

  I climbed the stairs to my honeymoon roost, feeling a touch of sadness because my family was on their way back to Colorado. Marion wasn’t home, so I could indulge myself by saying “woe is me” for a while. In the morning I would remember squat anyway. At least I never had to worry about staying in the same funk for more than a day.

  Being sorry for myself was interrupted an hour later by a knock on the door. A little guy overdressed in a suit and possessing a twitching mustache stood there.

  “I’m not buying any magazines this month,” I said.

  He whipped out a police badge. “We need to speak, Mr. Jacobson.”

  I inspected the name. Sure enough it was my nemesis, Detective Quintana.

  “Come on in and tell me what’s upsetting you this time.”

  He strode inside like he owned the place. From what I had read in my journal, he had been here enough times that maybe it felt to him like a second home.

  Quintana leveled his gaze at me. “Did you leave a briefcase at our Venice Beach substation?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Your people seemed kind of busy renewing vendor permits, and a nice lady officer told me to leave it inside the doorway.”

  He sighed. “It was unfortunate that our personnel were so lax. I had to check fingerprints on the handle which traced it to you. What were you doing with the briefcase?”

  “I found it out on the rock jetty when I was watching my granddaughter surf. No one was around to claim it, so I decided to turn it in.”

  “Do you know what was inside?”

  “I have no clue. It was locked.”

  “Enough plastic explosives to send the substation into orbit.”

  Chapter 9

  I discovered that my mouth had dropped open at the revelation of explosives being in the briefcase I had found. My mind whirled with pictures of rock jetties or police stations going up in smoke.

  “Mr. Jacobson, are you now a terrorist trying to blow up police property?”

  “Hell, no. I just turned in the briefcase because I thought someone had lost it. Geez, I’m glad someone discovered what it was before it went off.”

  “We suspect that a group called Save Our Surfside was preparing to stage an ecoterrorist event. Name of the group ring any bells?”

  I thought back to my diary. “Oh, crap.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Jacobson. We traced your name to a petition circulated by this group.”

  “But I signed in support of height restrictions on buildings near the beach.”

  “We suspect that is a front for a more violent agenda. Very interesting that you signed as a supporter of the group and then left an explosive device at the police station by the beach.”

  “I have no part of that kind of agenda. I’ve never even given them a penny or supported them in any other way. Regarding the briefcase, I was trying to be helpful when I found it. I’m just an old relic doing what I think is right.”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. “In another hour that jetty will be teeming with people. There’s a beach concert later this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “If it was truly imbedded in the jetty as you say and set to go off during the concert, hundreds of people could have been killed and injured. I don’t know if you were trying to blow up the police substation or if you prevented hundreds of innocent people being
killed and injured. I want you to come with me to show me exactly where you claim to have found the briefcase.”

  “I’ll do you one better, Detective. I’ll show you exactly where I did find it.”

  He led me to his unmarked car and locked me in the backseat. Damn police. They never trusted anyone.

  We parked in front of the police substation. All the vendor permits must have been issued because there was no longer a line. The beach was packed with families on blankets settling in for the concert. We wove our way through boxes of burgers and coolers of soft drinks to the jetty. After climbing over several rocks, I oriented myself and pointed to the crevice where I had found the briefcase, aka an improvised explosive device.

  Quintana inspected the rocks and reached down to extract a crumpled ball of paper, which he proceeded to unfold. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Something helpful?”

  “Could be. I need to make some calls from the substation. I’m not convinced of your innocence, but I know where to find you.”

  “And here I was enjoying your company so much, Detective.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You still have some murders to account for.”

  “Thank you for not arresting me, Detective. I’ll take it from here.”

  Quintana shot off like a bat out of Hades.

  I let out a deep breath as I felt a sense of relief. Once again I had stepped in some doo-doo, but had escaped Detective Quintana hauling my butt off to jail. I needed to keep on my toes around Venice Beach. Too much crime was infringing upon my newly married life. I had a lot of pieces to fit together and seemed to have more uncertainty occurring than resolution. I’d have to keep my old eyes open and see what I could figure out.

  I decided to stick around to take in the concert. I had attended outside concerts in amphitheaters and in parks in my younger days but never where crashing breakers would complement the 1812 Overture. I watched as the orchestra, sitting on folding chairs on a large tarp that served as a platform, tuned up. The musicians wore tan shorts and aloha shirts rather than the tuxedos and long black dresses of concert hall performances. One of the trombone players had a yellow flower attached to his slide.

  I thought I’d keep an eye on the spot where I had found the briefcase, so I posted myself on a rock where I could watch the proceedings and any suspicious activity.

  As the orchestra launched into Debussy’s La Mer I noticed a man in worn jeans peeking in the rocks where the briefcase had been left. He shot upright with his long black hair flapping behind him. He looked wildly around then stuck his head back in the rocks.

  I climbed off my rocky perch and approached two uniformed policeman who stood on the edge of the audience.

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “There’s a suspicious character looking in the rocks over there.” I pointed toward the man who was still frantically inspecting the space between rocks. “I think he’s checking to see if his briefcase of explosives is still there, which it isn’t.”

  One of the officers narrowed his gaze at me. “How do you know that? George, go haul in that guy on the rocks.” Then he turned toward me. “You come with me.”

  “I’m the guy who found it earlier. Detective Quintana has already grilled me.”

  “I don’t want to hear any lip.” He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the police substation. I considered shouting, “Police brutality!” but decided that wouldn’t help my situation any, so in my most sincere voice I said, “But I’ll miss the concert.”

  “You’ll be able to return shortly if things check out.”

  I gave a resigned sigh and joined him on the forced march to the police building, which I had passed by enough times for one day.

  I was directed to a chair against the wall where a huge cop watched over me like I was about to steal his grandmother’s dentures. The nervous man I had seen scouring the rock jetty sat in a chair across the room. A policeman with crossed arms guarded him. We made an interesting pair of criminal suspects.

  Oh, well. So much for the concert.

  Then Detective Quintana showed up. He strolled right over to me with his mustache twitching in double time. “I leave you alone for a few minutes and you get in trouble again, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “All I did was call attention to that suspicious guy.” I pointed across the room to the man huddled in his chair.

  “And what raised your suspicion?”

  “He was nosing around the rocks where I found the briefcase earlier. Like he was checking to make sure it was still there.”

  “Trying to deflect attention away from yourself again, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “Right. As if I enjoy encounters of the police kind. Check that guy out and then you’ll know if there is anything to my hunch.”

  Quintana went over and questioned the suspect and then fingerprinted him. Maybe the fingerprints would match something on the briefcase other than my prints deposited on the handle when I picked it up.

  After a while Quintana sauntered back over to me.

  “May I return to the concert now?” I asked.

  Quintana’s mustache twitched once and he stared at me.

  “We’re done with you for the time being.”

  “Can you share what you learned from that guy?”

  “No.”

  “Mighty talkative today, Detective.”

  “Get out of here.” He pointed toward the door.

  Only too happy to oblige, I scampered away as fast as my old legs would carry me.

  Outside I let out a sigh of relief having once more escaped the clutches of Detective Quintana. After the cramped police building, I reveled in the afternoon sun and open space of the beach.

  Returning to the concert, I heard the grand finale which wasn’t the 1812 Overture with briefcase-bomb accompaniment but instead was Dvorak’s New World Symphony. How appropriate. My whole life was a new world every day.

  I sat on a rock pondering what the briefcase bomb was intended for. An ecoterrorist plot from the folks whose petition I had signed? A disgruntled concertgoer? Someone who didn’t like rock jetties? And why had the guy returned to check it out? Did he think something had gone wrong with it? Did he get cold feet? Did he realize he had left his favorite briefcase?

  I had no clue. I’d have to wait until Detective Quintana was in a more loquacious mood. I meandered back toward the boardwalk, watching the families packing up their baskets and blankets. The graffiti artists, roller skaters and basketball players were still at it. I stopped at Muscle Beach to watch a group of men and women flash their well-oiled biceps. Man, some of those broads looked like they could wrestle a horse to the mat. What had happened to dainty female beauty?

  I continued my journey and stopped at the paddle-tennis courts to watch a game in progress. Climbing onto the bleachers, I sat next to a scruffy guy who sported a long gray beard. One of the players hit a solid passing shot, and my companion shouted, “Nice shot, Louie.”

  I turned toward him. “Sounds like you know the players here.”

  He smiled. “Yes, indeed. I hang around here all the time. This is one of my favorite forms of entertainment.” He looked more carefully at me. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t recognize you, but I have short-term memory loss so we might have met before.”

  He squinted at me. “I’ve seen you somewhere.” Then he snapped his fingers. “That’s it. At Saint Andrew’s Church.”

  The name clicked. “I’ve been to that church.”

  “Yeah, I remember. You were there after the Sunday service. You came up and introduced yourself to me.”

  I thought back to my journal. “I remember reading a name—Harley Marcraft.”

  “That’s me.” He thumped his chest and held out a large paw.

  I shook his hand. “Paul Jacobson.”

  “That’s right. But I haven’t seen you here at the paddle-tennis courts before.”

  “First time I’ve stopped by. Tell me, how is this game played?”


  “It’s like tennis except you have only one serve, and the service area extends to the double line near the baseline.”

  I watched as the players whapped the tennis ball with their paddles. “How come the ball makes that flat sound when they hit it?”

  Harley laughed. “They puncture regular tennis balls with a nail to deflate them.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yup. That’s the way this game works.”

  “Seems like you’ve got this all cased out.”

  “Yeah. I know these guys pretty well. Look at Louie’s partner, Ned. He hits the ball well, but is too inconsistent. He’ll wind up and smack this next return of serve, and odds are he’ll miss it long.”

  I watched and sure enough Ned walloped the ball two feet outside the baseline.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I’ve been watching these guys for years. Know ’em like the back of my hand.”

  “You live around here?” I asked.

  “I sure do. I have the largest suite along this whole beach.”

  I looked at him carefully. His clothes were crumpled and old. “You putting me on?”

  Harley laughed. “I sleep on the beach. My bedroom stretches for miles.”

  “I used to like camping out, but I can’t imagine sleeping on the beach every night.”

  Harley shrugged. “Don’t have any family and felt too cooped up in an apartment. I can pick a different spot every night, snuggle down with a blanket in the soft sand, look at the stars, listen to the waves. There’s nothing better.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “I know everyone around here. Sure, I been beat up once, but I didn’t have anything worth taking. Not any more risk than driving on one of those damn freeways.”

  “What happens when it rains?”

  “We don’t have much bad weather here. For a light shower, I wrap up in my blanket. If a storm comes in, I head to Saint Andrew’s Church. They have a room where we can sleep.”

  “My wife and I tied the knot there last Saturday.”

  “That’s right. You told me you had given up your independence.”

  “Yeah. I moved here and am now a happily hitched old geezer.”