Danger Point
By Douglas J. Bourg
Copyright © 2019 by Douglas J. Bourg
This book, whole or in part, must not be reproduced, copied or distributed without written
permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
2:30 a.m., South Central Los Angeles, 2004.
It is late, dark and raining. We are chasing some dickhead who had just fired shots into a crowd of people leaving a concert, only two blocks away. We were cruising in our patrol car, having just barely cleared back on duty from dinner when we see a car fitting the description of the suspected shooter’s. We light up the car and the asshole takes off up the street, weaving in and out of traffic. This homeboy takes the light up ahead, running the red and smacks into a car coming from the other direction. He skids to a stop, jumps out of his car and runs down an alley, into the night. I leap out of the car and draw my weapon as I yell at my partner to try to head this clown off before he actually kills someone.
The rain is coming down in sheets. The alley is dark - the city being slow to replace broken streetlights – and all I can make out is the shadow of my guy up ahead. To my right, out of the corner of my eye, I see a second figure step out of a doorway. He has a gun in his right hand and raises it toward me. Instinctively I turn, aim and fire my weapon. The figure hits the ground with a soft thud. I look around the alley but the first shooter is nowhere to be seen. I run over to the doorway to see if this guy is still alive and if I should be calling the paramedics, or the coroner. He is lying on his side, his breathing labored, but he’s still alive. My stomach drops as I realize he’s just a kid – no more than twelve or thirteen years old – holding a pellet gun. His breathing
becomes more labored and then, it just stops.
I sit bolt upright in my bed, my heart racing, bathed in a cold sweat, alone in my room with my guilt.
Chapter 1
San Clemente, CA, Summer 2013
It is dawn and the sunlight that peaks over the mountains is a light orange, the water is inky black and slick as glass. The first wave set of the day is six-foot and clean. I paddle hard, jump to my feet, make the drop, then crank a sweeping turn off the bottom, drive up off the lip, make a slashing cutback and duck into a clean A-frame, the tube, for three or four seconds. Once again I feel whole, cleansed of my guilt. The Doc says I’m making progress but some days it sure doesn’t feel like it.
My name is Robert Paladin, but my friends call me Bobby and fuck everybody else. I’m an ex-pro surfer, ex-cop, and now I work construction full time for my best friend. I still love to surf when the waves are good. I catch a couple more waves and realize that I’m going to be late for work again. Shit.
I head in. Standing beside my restored ’67 VW van, I pull my wetsuit down to my waist. I see a pair of middle-aged women on their morning walk staring at me. I wrap a towel around my waist before I peel the wetsuit off all the way. I pull on my jeans, put on my shirt and shoes, hop into the van, and haul ass to work. Lucky for me the jobsite is only ten minutes away.
As I pull up in front of the job I can see the boss, DJ, waving his clipboard in the air as he makes some point with the crew. He’s on a roll already, tearing everyone a new one, and I’m late again, great.
“Where the hell have you been?” DJ says as he turns to look at me. “It’s eight fifteen and work starts at eight a.m., Bobby, not eight ten and not eight fifteen. Eight a.m. Got it?”
“Good morning, DJ.” I say with a smile, hoping my natural charm will save my ass. “I’ll work through my lunch to make up the time, okay?”
DJ looks over at me and finally gives me the grin I first saw as he was beating me at a game of marbles when I was five years old and he was six.
“Your hair’s still wet. How was the surf at Cotton’s? I heard that you were on fire this morning. I would have liked to have gone surfing with you, but some of us have to work.”
“It was killer.” I reply with a smile. I don’t want to push my luck, so I hustle over to my tool box, get my gear and go to work.
DJ’s construction company is building a house right across the street from T-Street Beach, where he and I started surfing when we were kids. Once we started, we surfed seven days a week, rain or shine. Then we joined the Shorecliff’s Middle School Surf Team, San Clemente High School Surf Team, the NSSA National Team, and finally we both tried to go pro. I made it but DJ didn’t. At the time, I was worried it would mess up our friendship, but DJ went to work for his dad’s company and learned the craft of building fine custom homes. He took over the family business when his dad died of a heart attack at fifty-six years old and has never looked back.
Later in the day, after we finally set the last of the custom wood beams in the living Kegood, but not great, and at least the water isn’t crowded. I paddle out, catch a few then head home to eat. I’ll try to get a good night’s sleep tonight, hopefully without the dream about the kid.
Just like DJ and pro-surfing, I try never to look back either, because what I see scares me. Badly.
Chapter 2
I wake-up to someone ringing my doorbell and banging on my front door. The clock on the bedside table reads 3:30 a.m. This cannot be good. I walk into the front room and push back the side curtain just far enough to see someone in a uniform. An Orange County Sheriff’s uniform and another man I can’t see clearly are standing on my front porch. I can’t imagine why the cops would be here. With a sick feeling, I open the door.
“What’s up, guys?” I ask. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“No sir,” says the uniformed officer standing in front of me. “We just need to ask you some questions. May we please come in?”
“Sure.” I realize I’m in my boxers and say, “Have a seat while I pull on some clothes.” They turn into the living room as I head back to my bedroom. I put on the jeans and t-shirt I left on the floor last night, then return to the living room.
The guy in uniform is in my recliner and the man I did not see clearly at the door is sitting on the edge of my sofa, his hands on his knees. He’s in plain clothes. That probably means he’s a detective. The uniformed officer’s name plate on his chest identifies him simply as Mason, but the man sitting on my couch looks familiar to me. I take a closer look and say, “Murphy, is that you?”
His terse, “Yes,” is not the kind of welcome you would expect from an old friend.
“Don’t you remember me?” I ask. “Bobby Paladin. I was a couple of years behind you at San Clemente High. You worked for my dad at the hardware store.”
“Yeah, I remember you,” he says a little scornfully, “Weren’t you with the LAPD?”
The uniformed sheriff looks over at him. “You know this guy?”
“We’ve met.”
“So I take it you’re not here for a reunion.” I say to Murphy.
He shakes his head, “No, not tonight, Bobby. We found a body on the Frasier Construction jobsite down on T-Street. We went by DJ’s house but no one was home. I remembered that you and DJ were close, so we came by to ask you if you might be able to help us identify the victim. Here’s a picture of the guy.”
“Somebody was killed on the jobsite? How would I know anything, Murph?” I take the picture from him, “I’m just one of the carpenters working on the house. I left the job at four yesterday afternoon and went surfing.” I look down at the picture in my hands. Shock runs through me. The gray face of the body lying flat on the floor is familiar. I look up at Murph.
“It looks like Mick
y Webber.”
Murphy gives a short nod.
“I can’t believe this.” I say. “I didn’t even know Micky was back in town. The last I heard he had retired and was living somewhere in Mexico - Cabo San Lucas, I think. I haven’t seen him in two or three years.”
It’s funny to call someone Micky when they grew up to be six foot six, but Richard just never fit him. He, DJ and I were fixtures on the beach as teenagers. Inseparable for a while, but surfing, girls, jobs and life came along and Micky grew apart from the group.
I look at the picture again. “I need a drink. Is that okay?” I just can’t believe this could be Micky.
They nod as I turn to the bar that I have set up on my grandmother’s antique sideboard. I pour two fingers of Crown Royal into a tumbler. I look at the glass, and then pour in some more. My hands are shaking. I sit down on the other sofa and run my hand through my hair. I pull myself together enough to ask, “Can you tell me what happened to him?”
Officer Mason, the uniformed cop, says, “We got a call around 11:30 last night. A couple of kids were looking for a place to make out and smoke some dope, so they snuck into the job site at T-Street. The sliding glass door was left unlocked and when they were entering the house, one of the girls tripped over a body lying just inside the doorway. The girl is pretty freaked out. I’ll bet she never smokes dope again.” He manages a little smile. “Anyway, the body was fully dressed and there was blood everywhere. It looks like a suicide.”
Murphy interrupts him and says, “Bobby, we found your phone number and address on a scrap of paper in his pocket. He had no wallet, no ID, no money, just your name and phone number. Strange, don’t you think?” He stares directly at me. I just look down at my glass.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Murph. As I said, I haven’t heard from Micky or seen him in, like, two or three years, maybe longer. I know his parents are dead. I have no idea how to reach anyone else in his family. They all moved away a long time ago.”
Officer Mason and Murphy take turns asking me more questions, and I answer in a daze. I just don’t know enough to be able to help them. Finally Murphy hands me his card and says, “Give me a call if you think of anything else that might help. Sorry about waking you up with such bad news.”
I close the door behind them as they step into the warm night. I stand there with my drink untouched, my hand trembling. Subconsciously I put my hand into my pocket and find a card that I don’t remember being there yesterday. I flip it over and read: Bobby, I need to see you ASAP. I am in big trouble. I will catch up with you at the Red Fox Lounge at 7 tomorrow morning. Micky.
Micky must have slid it into my jeans while I was surfing.
I think back to the sunny, summer days, the water glassy, when Micky, DJ and I were surfing and hanging out. Micky left town right after graduation from high school when his dad got him a job as an assistant project manager with the big international construction company that Mr. Webber worked for. From then on, Micky would pop up now and again, always with a big smile, a fist full of hundreds and ready to party. But just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone again, off to work who knows where?
If Micky was close enough to have put this card into my pocket while I was surfing at State Park last night, why didn’t he just hang around and wait to talk to me when I was done?
Chapter 3
After the cops leave, I know I’m not going to get any more sleep tonight. Since I’m already up and dressed, I walk into the bathroom, lift up my t-shirt and rub some deodorant under my arms. I throw some cold water on my face and run a comb through my hair. I should brush my teeth, but instead I make some instant coffee and pour it in my travel cup. I climb into my van and drive over to the job site.
I arrive just as the Crime Scene Investigation van pulls away. I feel like I’m watching a television show, stuck in the middle of it myself. The bath-robed neighbors are huddled in their driveways, coffee cups in hand, wondering how this kind of crime could happen on their street, as though paying a few million dollars for a house should protect them from the dark side of life. As the CSI van pulls away, I see Murphy and a couple of uniforms standing around talking. I catch his eye and he leans toward the sheriff guarding the entrance to the site and says something. The sheriff nods at me and lifts the crime scene tape. I follow Murphy as he walks away from the rest of the sheriffs and we stand alone at the end of the patio, looking down at the pier.
“What an incredible view,” Murph says. “Nothing I could ever afford on a cop’s salary, that’s for sure. You and DJ are lucky you get to work on these rich people’s houses.”
I nod and ask, “What’s your take on all this? I still don’t know anything about what happened to Micky.”
“Well,” he says, turning away from the view and looking at me with those intense blue eyes of his, “There’s no sign of a struggle, just Micky sprawled out near the patio door opening. There was a knife lying on the ground right next to him. His carotid artery had been severed and he bled out. Not a deep cut, but deep enough to do the job, so it looks like he did it himself. He reeked of booze and there was blood all over his right hand, but there was blood everywhere,” He pauses and looks toward the house. “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to confirm suicide.”
I turn around and look toward the patio door opening. There’s a dark brown stain on the concrete and a man and woman in white coveralls are inspecting it. They seem to be assessing what will be needed to clean it up.
“I know it’s hard to hear, but it appears Micky committed suicide by cutting his own throat, then just waited to die.” Murphy says.
We turn toward a commotion over at the job gate, and I see DJ pulling out his wallet and showing the cop his ID. He’s trying to get into the job site. Murphy yells over to the cop, who lets DJ pass through. DJ stalks up to us, red in the face and blustering.
“What the hell is going on?” He asks me. “Why are the cops here and why the hell are you here so early for a change? What the hell is that over there? Is that blood!? Holy shit, is that blood?”
I know better than to try to placate DJ when he’s like this, and he has every reason to be upset. “DJ, it’s Micky’s blood,” I say quietly.
DJ stops talking and stares at me in shock. “Micky? Micky Webber?”
Murphy tells DJ what he knows about what happened last night, but it isn’t much. I sip my coffee. Instant coffee is bad enough but cold instant coffee makes me want to chain myself to a Starbucks like it was a redwood scheduled for destruction.
Finally Murphy has answered all of DJ’s questions. He’s not sure about a lot of things – like when we’ll be able to get back to work and who’s going to contact the homeowners and when - but he promises to get us answers today. Murphy gives us both his most direct stare before he says, “This stays between the three of us, okay? I don’t want to hear anything about this from anyone else, including a newspaper, especially a newspaper.” He points his finger at me and says, “Stay out of this, Bobby. I don’t need an ex-cop looking over my shoulder, trying to second guess me or the department’s investigation, comprendé?” That must be the only word he remembers from our high-school Spanish class.
With that, Murphy climbs into his car and drives away. DJ and I turn to look at each other. “Shit, closing down the job is going to put us way behind schedule.” DJ says, “I hope that Murphy gets back to me soon so I can notify the clients about the delay. I hope the cops call them and I don’t have to do it. Shit. This is bad, really bad.”
“There’s nothing more that we can do here now, DJ. Do you want to get wet? It might take some pressure off.” I say.
Looking out at the set waves, stacking up one behind another, DJ says, “No time. I have to stay here and explain to the sub-contractors that the job has been shut down.” I can see DJ’s wheels are turning, “I can use you over at the remodel job in San Juan Capistrano. I have a lot of pick-up work that needs to be done. What do you think?”
I think abou
t Micky’s card in my pocket and ask him, “Can I have a couple of days off DJ? I need to take some time to think about what happened to Micky, and why. I can use the work, that’s for sure, but I won’t be able to concentrate right now.” He nods and I get in my van and drive away as the first news truck pulls up. It is definitely time for me to get the hell out of here. DJ can deal with the press.
As I drive back to my house, I think about the possibility of Micky killing himself. The shock is starting to wear off and I’m thinking a little more clearly. I knew Micky, and knew he was too much of a coward to kill himself. He hated needles. I remember the day we got drunk in Venice Beach and wanted to get tattoos. When Micky saw the blood poking up from a guy getting a tattoo, all two hundred and twenty pounds of him hit the floor of the tattoo parlor. He had fainted from watching someone get a Tweety Bird tattoo. He just wasn’t the kind of person who would kill himself, especially with a knife.
Chapter 4
Detective Dwayne Murphy is grabbing lunch at Café Calypso in downtown San Clemente. He hasn’t eaten since dinner last night. The death of Micky Webber made him think back to his youth and despite the seriousness of the investigation, he can’t help smiling at the memories he had of San Clemente in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He wasn’t in the same year as DJ, Micky and Bobby, but he knew them from around town, the beach and from school. He lost track of them while he got on with his own life.
Murphy left San Clemente after High School to join the San Francisco Police Department, where he finished first in his class at the police academy. After the academy, he was assigned to a patrol car with a long time veteran who showed him the ropes and taught him how to stay alive on the seedy streets of San Francisco. After a few years on patrol, he was recruited to join the S.W.A.T. Team. He rose to the position of S.W.A.T. Team Leader, where he was awarded the Medal of Valor for saving the lives of thirty people who had been taken hostage during a bank robbery gone bad. He got married and he and his wife wanted kids. But Murphy wanted them to have the same kind of childhood that he had growing up. So, after talking it over with his wife, Debbie, they decided to come back to his home town, to San Clemente, where he applied and was accepted by the Orange County Sherriff’s Department as a Homicide Detective.
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