Approaching the marina I experience a Kodak moment. Slowly riding down the small access road where the boats are parked is a sight to behold. Suzi’s electric cart is filled with the kid, Vinnie, the huge dog, and Olive behind the wheel. I see that in addition to running our firm, studying to be a skipper and teaching law, Suzi has also now become a driving instructor.
I park and watch this for a few minutes. When I was a kid in Chicago, my father, like all the other fathers in the city, took me out on Sunday mornings to the empty parking lot at Soldier’s Field. It was tremendously large, having been designed for a stadium that could hold almost one hundred thousand people. When the Chicago Bears weren’t playing, the parking lot was an ideal place to learn how to drive. The traffic in the parking lot was pretty light – but dangerous, because all the other cars were also being driven by kids being shouted at by their fathers.
Olive’s father wasn’t around to give her lessons, so instead of a huge parking lot she wound up with a huge dog. Vinnie’s zombie-like expression tells me that he’s on the verge of being in shock, but he really has nothing to worry about. The kid has everything under control as they zigzag down the road, stopping to back up and park every time they pass an empty space. If they’ve been doing this for the past hour or so I’m sure the driving lesson will end soon, because that cart of hers will need recharging – and I need something to eat.
Once the driving lesson is over, Vinnie tells me that next will be a real car, one of Stuart’s cars - as long as no customer is coming to inspect it. Olive then surprises me. “Mister Sharp, I want to thank you very much. Suzi tells me that when I can do okay with Stuart’s Town Car, you’ll let me try your Hummer, because it’s the closest thing we can find to the size of the armored truck.”
Is she kidding? Does she think she’s going to drive my beautiful yellow Hummer? No way. She’ll never get behind the wheel of it. I sense something warm on the side of my face. It’s the kid glaring at me. I get the message. “Okay, Olive, but first, let’s see how you do with the Camry.”
Olive reminds me about the upcoming Presidential parade next month and says that I should really try to get a good place to watch it from, because they’ve got a car in it just like mine that is painted red, white and blue. I really don’t think she can tell one car from another, because she mentioned using Stuart’s Town Car, and to the best of my knowledge he doesn’t own one. When I call her aside to ask her about it, she tells me it’s hush-hush, and that Vinnie does some work on it once in a while – that’s when she’ll try to drive it.
There’s a knock on the hull. It’s Jack B. asking to come aboard. We leave the Nascar team and go onto the aft deck to watch the sunset and discuss whatever’s on his mind.
“What’s up, Jack?”
“I’ve got some troubling information. I know you didn’t authorize me to do this, but I had a strong feeling that if anyone knows how those cars exploded, it would have to be the Warranty Service Manager, Joe Morgan – so I tailed him for the past two days.”
“That’s pretty ambitious, Jack. Did you come up with anything?”
He looks down at the deck and hesitates for a minute. I can tell that he’s bothered about something. “Come on, Jack, spit it out. What did you find out?”
He hesitates. “Well, it probably doesn’t mean anything. I mean, I hate to get into this stuff, because there’s enough prejudice going around. I mean…”
“Jack, either you’re going to tell me, or you’re not. Please make up you mind.”
“Okay Pete, Joe Morgan went to a mosque. He goes there quite often to pray. His Muslim name is Yousef Mohammed.”
This certainly is interesting, but I don’t know what it could possibly have to do with this case.
“Jack, are you trying to tell me that you think this should mean something to us?”
“That’s why I was hesitating to tell you. Just because the guy’s a Muslim doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything. I don’t like this sort of stuff. Can we just go on with the investigation like I never learned about his religion?”
“You’re right, Jack. He is just another guy until we find out otherwise… but I’m glad you told me about this. I’ll just file it away in case anything else comes up. Do you know anything more about him?”
“Yeah, I was going to tell you. He’s a former Navy Seal, with an extensive background in explosives.”
“How did you find this out, Jack?”
“I noticed a clean spot on the wall of his service bay at the dealership. When I asked around to find out what was hanging there, one of the janitors told me that it was a picture of him with some of his Seal buddies.”
This is no good. It doesn’t make sense or answer any questions, but it’s still no good. I check over the three cars that exploded, but don’t see a name anywhere that sounds Jewish. I feel bad even looking for something like this, but it’s too big an item to overlook, especially now that I know he removed the picture that identifies him as a former Seal.
Without even thinking about it, I’m looking for motive. If the vehicle drivers weren’t Jewish, would a radical Islamic militant try to hurt three women just because they didn’t wear black shawls or because they drive expensive big American cars? I don’t think so. If he’s any kind of terrorist, he’s not likely to be working at the ‘retail’ level by trying to take out one infidel at a time. Their usual tactic is to go for large amounts of casualties in a crowded place. The combination of his religion and military background is just too much for me to put out of my mind. I tell Jack to poke around and see if he can find out when Joe took his last vacation and if he has a passport. I’m secretly hoping that he hasn’t been out of the country for the past couple of years. That way, I can at least be sure that he hasn’t been to one of Osama bin Laden’s Mid East summer camps.
*****
Chapter 5
The next couple of days go by with nothing exciting happening. Thank goodness there are no more exploding Suburbans. Jack’s been keeping his eye on Joe Morgan, and reports that he’s still working every day and going to the mosque every evening. I sure hope he’s not involved in this mess, because that would be very bad for Uniman Insurance.
I call a secretary who befriended me during my visits to Indovine’s offices last year and she tells me that the firm purchased a brand new Suburban and had it taken apart, piece-by-piece. They didn’t find anything that would cause an explosion. It probably cost Uniman Insurance about a hundred thousand for the vehicle and the experts to find out that useless information. Could they have really thought that Suburbans explode because of a design defect? Not likely. This was the deliberate work of some person who had the opportunity and the motive. I just can’t figure out how any one person could have a motive to harm all three of those drivers. I call Jack B. and tell him to start concentrating on the owners of those three exploding Suburbans. Maybe there’s a connection between them that could make some sense out of this whole mess.
Our boat is now a center for driving and law studies. Vinnie and Olive are here every day practicing their driving. Stuart also comes by for tutoring on his law curriculum. Suzi is the center of their world. She’s finally gotten Olive trained good enough to let her drive Stuart’s car. They’re all hoping she does a good job, because at this point Stuart still isn’t aware of the fact that she’s just now learning how to drive.
They all decide to have some ice cream, and because the kid says that there’s none on the boat, Vinnie and Olive take Stuart’s keys so that they can drive to the market for us. This must be a plan that the kid cooked up, because I know for a fact that our freezer is full of ice cream. I watch as Vinnie and Olive walk away. When they get to the car Olive gets behind the wheel and they slowly drive off.
It’s been over an hour and they still haven’t come back. Stuart is not taking this very well. Suzi is not talking. That’s not so unusual, because she never talks to me anyway. Jack B. is still on the boat, so he offers Stuart a ride home, offering to a
lso drive by the market. Everyone decides to give them another hour before calling the police. I don’t know what they’d tell the police. I don’t think Stuart would want to report the car stolen because that would only get Olive and Vinnie in trouble… and you’re not supposed to report people missing until they’ve been gone for at least twenty-four hours. There must be some reason why they haven’t returned yet.
In the past they’ve been known to hop in the back of the armored truck for a quickie, but they’re not likely to do that this evening… not with Stuart waiting for his Camry - and some ice cream.
Finally, at just a few minutes to ten, the phone rings. It’s Vinnie. When I say his name into the phone, everyone shouts out at me “Are they okay? Was there an accident?”
I smile as I put the phone down and make the announcement. “Oh no, nothing unusual. They’re both fine. They’re in jail.”
Strange as it sounds, we’re all relieved. There’s a general good feeling going around the room. No accident, no injuries, just jail… and as far as Vinnie is concerned, this is quite normal, because it’s happened so many time in the past.
Stuart suddenly comes out of the ether. “What the hell are they doing in jail?”
“I don’t know Stu, but if you and Jack want to go over to the L.A.P.D.’s Pacific Division on Culver and Centinela, I’m sure either the desk sergeant or Vinnie will explain it to you.”
They get into Jack Bibberman’s old junk and head over to the jail. I make sure to let them know that I’m turning off my phone and going to bed. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. I’m closed for the night – which is too bad, because as usual, anything that Vinnie gets involved in is a tremendously interesting adventure. Some day they’re going to make a movie about his life story. The only problem is that I don’t think anyone will believe it.
The next morning Stuart calls to explain what happened the night before - and to ask a small favor. He tells me it’s partly his fault that Vinnie and Olive got arrested. Stuart wanted to surprise Vinnie and his new wife with a present. He knew they both liked the George C. Scott movie ‘Patton,’ so he bought them each a pearl-handled forty-five caliber automatic Patton-style handgun to wear while driving the armored cars. Stuart hid both guns and holsters in his car’s glove compartment.
When Olive was driving to the market, she mis-judged the distance between the Camry and a Police squad car that was parked in the market’s lot. There were two cops in the car having coffee and donuts, with several other police cars nearby, all on a coffee break.
It was a big surprise when Olive slammed into the L.A.P.D. black-and-white, completely wiping out the front end of Stuart’s Camry and shaking the cops up in their car. Coffee and donuts went flying all over their front seat and dashboard.
All the other cops ran over to both cars to see if everyone was okay. When things calmed down, they got around to asking Olive for her drivers license and registration. While Olive, an as of yet unlicensed driver, was stuttering a feeble excuse, another cop walked around to the passenger side, shined his flashlight into the car, and asked Vinnie to open the glove compartment to get the registration info.
When Vinnie followed the cop’s request, the two shiny new automatics popped out onto his lap.
If there’s anything that cops don’t like to see in run-of-the-mill traffic stops, it’s guns.
In a matter of seconds there were at least a half-dozen guns pointing at both Olive and Vinnie until they each exited their car, hands in the air. They were then handcuffed and taken to the police station to be detained for a number of charges, including suspicion of grand theft auto, unauthorized possession of weapons, and some vehicle code sections relating to reckless driving and endangerment.
When Stuart arrived at the station he convinced the police that the car wasn’t stolen. He also was able to explain away the gun charges by having them check their computers and verify that he operated an armored truck service.
Vinnie and Olive were finally released from police custody, but the car was placed in the official automobile impound lot – and that’s the favor Stuart is asking. He wants me to please go to the lot and have the car towed over to his warehouse so it can be checked out to see if repairs are possible.
Stuart’s done a lot for me in the past, so if it’s at all possible, I always try to help him out.
The Police Impound lot is in a terrible neighborhood populated by auto junkyards, car repair places, a plating factory and several other poorly maintained industrial buildings made out of sheet metal. To make matters worse, the street has potholes big enough to swim in, and this Hummer was not designed to give a soft luxury ride.
Before entering the lot you must get past a surly gate attendant sitting behind a one-inch thick plate glass window near the front door. I guess there are plenty of irate people who come to get their car returned after it’s been towed away because it was left alone ‘for just a minute’ in some unauthorized place – like a handicapped only parking space, in front of a fire hydrant, or other spot where people who don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves decide to leave a vehicle.
This particular attendant looks familiar, like I’ve seen him on television somewhere. He’s got long scraggly hair, a rough complexion, bad teeth, a tattoo on his neck, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. If I’ve seen him somewhere before it was probably on a reality show like Cops, as one of the many skinny drunk guys without shirts on, who always seem to be getting arrested for beating their wives.
After identifying myself to this Cops star, he grants me permission to see Stuart’s vehicle if I’ll pay for the charges to date. After charging my credit card for the tow plus two days’ storage, he tells me that the keys are in the glove compartment and directs me to where it’s parked. The tow truck backed it up against the lot’s concrete retaining wall, where it now sits waiting for me. I delicately walk past the growling German shepherd chained to the wall and enter the outdoor part of the yard. Following some advice another dog owner once told me, I don’t smile at the guard dog. They consider the showing of teeth as an aggressive act.
The Camry doesn’t look like it’s in a drivable condition, so I call a friend of mine who operates a tow truck in the Marina and tell him to meet me at the impound lot. Not surprisingly, he knows exactly where the place is. I go into the glove box to retrieve the keys, because you must turn the ignition on in order to remove the vehicle from the ‘park’ gear position. When reaching into the glove box, my hand inadvertently brushes against the remote trunk lid release and I hear the trunk pop open. No problem. I slam the glove box shut, and walking around to the rear of the car, to close the trunk, I see that something large in the there, like a great big sack of laundry. Upon closer inspection I see that it’s really a bed sheet wrapped around something. When I push it over to see what’s inside, a hand flops out. It’s a dead body.
*****
Chapter 6
This is not an accessory that automobile manufacturers usually include with a vehicle, so I assume it’s a special New Jersey dealer-installed option.
At this point, I think the worst thing to do is bring the police into it, because the body was probably delivered from back east with the car, so it’s not a California case. I’ve helped out the local authorities on past occasions, so I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t help out the New Jersey cops with a case.
Fortunately, my friend Victor Gutierrez has what they call a ‘vanity’ phone number that’s so easy to remember, I don’t have to write it down. I pick up my cell phone and call him at ‘1800AUTOPSY.’
When the tow truck arrives, I tell him that the delivery point has been changed. Instead of Stuart’s place in Van Nuys, this car is going to Victor’s place, out near Pasadena. I then call Stuart and tell him to meet me at Victor’s.
Stuart and I both arrive at Victor’s before the tow truck, so I’ve got a few minutes to explain to him what I found in the trunk of his car. There’s no need for him to claim that he had n
othing to do with the body being put in the trunk because I have no doubt that he’s not connected with it in any way.
When the tow truck arrives, Victor comes outside to take a look at his latest client. After the tow truck leaves, Victor opens the trunk and spends less than a minute looking at the merchandise.
“Peter, I’m going to save you a couple of thousand dollars on an autopsy. Your passenger here has a bullet hole in the center of his head.”
I thank Victor for the quick diagnosis, and assign him the task of a partial exam to determine the estimated time of death and anything else we can use to identify the body, like fingerprints, dental records, or whatever he can learn. I tell him to prepare a sheet on the corpse, with a photo, and enough info to send to Philly’s missing persons department.
It only took Victor a day to finish his assignment and he mailed me the bullet, photo, and other descriptive information. He didn’t do an autopsy, but if the body was brought out to California by truck, he estimates the probable time of death to be at least ten days prior to Stuart’s accepting delivery of the car. That’s the information I really wanted to have, in case some idiot cop thinks Stuart might be involved in the murder. I tell Victor to leave the car in his garage – the police will probably be coming for it later this week.
Now it’s time for a hypothetical telephone conversation, so I bravely call my ex-wife Myra, our County’s newly elected District Attorney. The people in her office all know who I am and how I helped her get elected, so my call gets put through.
“Hello Peter. Listen, I’ve got a lot of things to do today, so I hope this isn’t a social call.”
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