“Thanks, bro. Please thank Maria for me, will you?” I ache; I’m tired and very pissed off. The doctor told me no work or surfing, so what was I going to do for a week? He didn’t say I couldn’t look into Micky’s death or find out who the hell blew up my house. How strenuous could that be, right?
DJ punches the cigarette lighter, and says, “Can you believe it? It’ll cost five grand to clean and sanitize the jobsite before we’ll be able to go back to work. The city said they’ll remove the red tag when the cleanup company delivers the certificate of completion. What bullshit.” The lighter pops and he lights his cigarette. I roll down the window. “What an asshole Micky was for getting killed on my job,” he says as he blows smoke out the window.
“His throat was cut at the jobsite to make it look like a suicide. That letter you gave me points to someone he called The General for his murder. He also said that John G. and this General guy are doing business together, smuggling ecstasy and blow from a lab in Mexico. The dope is worth millions to them. He wrote John G. knew that they were going to kill Micky. I wonder if he knew that my house was going to be blown up, too? I’ll let you read the letter when we get to the boat.” I can hear myself starting to get agitated, “Who knows how long this shit has been going on? I can tell you that if it’s the last thing I do in this world those assholes are going down for killing our friend and blowing up my house.” Now I’m yelling.
“Hey, Bobby, calm down,” DJ says. “I saw Dr. Gus in the hall and he told me that you have to take it easy. Leave this investigation to Murphy.” We stop for a red light and he turns to look at me. “You best be careful, bro. If you start digging into this mess you could be the next one killed. That was probably what they were trying to do when they blew up your house. It couldn’t have been an accident.”
“I can look after myself.”
DJ lets out a laugh and that brings a smile to my face. “Sure, Bobby”, he says, “Especially in the shape you’re in right now.”
We pull up to the T-Street job. He stops the truck, shuts off the ignition, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll right back. Try not to get into any trouble in the next few minutes, okay? Then I’ll get you down to the boat.” He gets out of the truck and walks up to the jobsite.
I can’t sit anymore. I need to stretch, so I get out of the truck and look down at the ocean. I don’t see the next door neighbor, Don, until he’s right beside me.
“Hello, Bobby. How you feeling? I heard about your house. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thanks, Don, I appreciate that.” Don’s a great guy. I know he won’t press me for details and for that I’m grateful. “What are you working on today?” I ask him.
“I’m building some cabinets for the Casa. A volunteer’s job is never done.”
Casa Romantica was the home of San Clemente’s original founder, Ole Hanson. It’s an historic property now, used for weddings and cultural events, but it requires a ton of maintenance. A dedicated team of volunteers help the staff keep the Casa together. Don’s been volunteering there since he retired from the county government. Woodworking is his hobby and he has an amazing shop set-up in his garage.
We catch up on the neighborhood gossip until DJ walks up. He greets Don and puts his hand on my shoulder. “We’d better get going Bobby; you know what the Doc said about too much activity.” We say our goodbyes and get back into the truck and set out for the harbor.
We find a parking spot close to the boat, grab a few things from the truck and walk down to the locked gate. DJ pulls out his keys and lets us through the gate to the boat. We climb aboard and I stand there still marveling at how beautiful she is, and remember how hard we both worked to get her looking like this.
“Hey, do you want a beer?” DJ calls out from below.
“Hell, yes.” That ought to help the painkillers do their job.
We sit on the deck for a while, not saying anything, just looking out on the harbor. It’s so peaceful here in the middle of the week, all the boats swaying gently in the breeze.
“Permission to come aboard,” brings DJ and me out of our comfortable silence. We both turn to see Murphy standing on the top of the stairs, shoes in hand, waiting to step onto the boat’s deck
DJ gives me a sideways look before answering. “Permission granted,”
“Hey,” I say reluctantly and think: Shit, what does he want now?
He looks over at me and says “You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. Feeling any better?”
“Better than what, Murph? Better than being dead?” I manage to force a smile, take a deep breath I hope he doesn’t notice and ask, “What can we do for you?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you already knew Micky was murdered before I told you.” I look down at my beer and he continues, “I’ve been checking around and it appears that Micky was retired and living in a nice house in Cabo. He had money in the bank here, approximately ninety thousand in his checking account, more than double that in his brokerage-account, and he had major money in his retirement account. So, don’t tell me he was broke or even lonely. With all the tourist women coming into Cabo, I’m pretty sure he could find a babe or two to sleep with. So, what the hell was going on with him? Do either one of you guys want to level with me?”
DJ and I look at each other and shrug.
Finally I say,” We don’t know shit, Murph. I told you the night he was killed that I hadn’t had any contact with Micky for years. I don’t know what he was up to.”
“You guys are full of crap. If I catch either of you lying to me or,” looking directly at me, “trying to find his killer, I’ll put both your asses in jail.” He glances down at his watch and smirks. “Aren’t you going to offer me a beer, DJ? I’m officially off-duty.”
“Sure.” DJ gets up, goes down into the cabin and comes back up with three more beers.
I stretch, stand up and say, “I’ve had a rough couple of days. I’m going to go crash.”
Down below in my berth, I lie down and sleep straight through the night. No dreams.
Chapter 14
John G. sits at his bar, watching the sunset and thinking. He had tried to tell The General that killing Bobby was a bad idea. That it would bring undue attention to Micky Webber’s murder, but The General went ahead and tried to do it anyway. But, the information from his contact inside the sheriff’s department had come too late for him to be able to stop the attempt on Bobby’s life.
How much had Bobby discovered? Did he know that cocaine and ecstasy were going to be delivered into Dana Point Harbor by the fishing boats the cartel owned? If Bobby knew anything, had he confided in DJ? More importantly, had either Bobby or DJ said anything to Detective Murphy? If Murphy knew, would John G.’s source inside the sheriff’s department have that information? There were so many questions, with no real answers. He needs to contain the damage as fast and as soon as possible.
“Alexis,” he pushes the button and speaks into the intercom, “would you ask Kawaika to have the Mercedes ready to leave twenty minutes, please?”
He grabs his satellite phone and calls his source at the sheriff’s department. “We need to meet. Yes, today. Right now and I don’t give a shit what you’re doing. Same place as last time, in one hour. Don’t be late.” He hangs up the phone before getting an answer. He knows the guy will be there because John G. owns him.
He walks into the living room of his home where he finds Alexis talking with Kawaika, who turns to John G. and says, “The car’s ready to go, boss.” John G. has known Kawaika from their youth. They grew up in the rough and tumble neighborhood of Makaha on the Wai’anae side of Oahu. Kawaika is big, strong and most of all, fiercely loyal. He would do anything John G. asked of him.
“Alexis,” John G. says, “would you please make dinner reservations at French 75, for nine p.m. tonight? Have them open a bottle of the 1985 Caymas Cabernet ahead of time.” He thinks for a moment, before he continues, “Your company would be greatly appreciated
, Alexis.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll meet you there at nine p.m.” She says, turns and walks out of the room toward her office.
John G. and Kawaika get into the car and drive off. They’ll meet the informant in the parking lot above Irvine Cove. It was always a risky meeting for both of them, but John G. had to find out what the cops knew and then figure out what he needed to do to keep this operation on track.
They drive in silence through Laguna and arrive a few minutes early. His informant is also early, waiting by his car in the parking lot. This part of the lot is deserted with no place to hide, so John G. feels safe doing business here. Kawaika approaches his informant, running a wand around him, checking for any type of electronic listening devices or weapons. His informant does the same to him. They nod, convinced they are both clean. Kawaika returns to the car as they start walking down to the beach. The informant hands him a manila envelope.
“This is a copy of the Webber autopsy. Basically, it says he was murdered. It shows there was a puncture wound behind the carotid artery where his throat was slashed. They’ve assigned Dwayne Murphy from homicide to investigate. He’s relentless. If this murder can come back to you in any way, Murphy will find it. We don’t have the results from the tox screen yet but the coroner’s office has a rush on it. I’ll it get to you as soon as possible.”
“If Murphy is as good a detective as you say, I guess I’ll have to keep an eye on him. I never leave loose ends.” He unbuttons his jacket, and his contact tenses before seeing John G. reach into his pocket and pull out an envelope containing five thousand dollars. “Please keep me informed. Call me when you have a copy of the toxicology results.”
They walk back toward their cars in silence. Kawaika is in the driver’s seat, listening to Hawaiian music. John G. smiles at the memories the music creates.
When Kawaika sees John G. approaching, he gets out of the car and holds the rear door open. “Where to now, boss?”
John G. slides into the back seat and says, “French 75. But, take the toll road back to Laguna. I need some time to read. And could you please turn the music up?” They smile at each other in the rear-view mirror.
The car pulls up in front of the restaurant and John G. gives his driver a pat on the shoulder as he steps out of the car. “Thank you, Kawaika. See you in the morning. Alexis will take me home.”
As he enters the restaurant, the hostess greets him. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” The girl was tall and pretty, probably an aspiring actress or model.
“I see my dinner partner sitting right over there.” John G. nods in the direction of Alexis, already sitting at their table, drinking a martini. She gives a little wave.
“Very good, sir,” the hostess replies, but John G. is already halfway to the table. He pulls out his chair and sits down looking over at Alexis, who starts to smile but stops as she notices a look of concern on her employer’s face. “Is everything alright, John?”
John G. pauses for a moment, shakes his head then smiles back at her, “Everything’s fine.”
Alexis is many things to him. She is his personal pilot, bodyguard, companion, but not his confidant. He trusts her with his life but not his personal business.
A waiter in a crisp, white shirt appears at their table with the decanted cabernet and two large round wine glasses. Alexis shakes her head at the waiter.
“No wine for you, Alexis?” John G. asks as he tastes the wine offered and nods his approval to the waiter. The waiter pours John G. a glass and steps away from the table, taking the second wine glass with him.
“I’ve never acquired a taste for wines. But I did acquire a taste for vodka and I do love my martinis.” She smiles.
John G. likes that about Alexis: she tells the truth, no bullshit, no games. She was recommended to him by a client when he made it known that he was looking for a personal assistant. After having her watched for a month and doing an extensive background search, he offered her a full-time job. He paid her extremely well and she was on call 24/7. She had her own home in Laguna and, when they were traveling, he made sure she stayed in first class hotels and dined at the finest restaurants. Despite that, she drank sparingly because she took her job seriously. She worked out five days a week and often went to the firing range. John G. knew she was tough on the inside, even though it didn’t show on the outside. She knew how to take care of herself and was able to fit in places where Kawaika would stick out.
They enjoy a leisurely dinner with light conversation about the new art gallery, and of the other cultural events going on during the summer in the small community of Laguna Beach. Alexis only has one martini but John G. wishes she would have shared the wine with him. Maybe he should make a wine tasting course part of her job requirement.
After dinner, Alexis drives him home where he waits in the foyer as she thoroughly checks the house and grounds. Satisfied, she says goodnight and leaves to drive to her own home.
Before going to bed, John G. makes a few notes about Detective Murphy, Bobby Paladin and DJ Frasier. He must talk to Bobby again and try to find out how much Murphy knows. No one can stumble on this business deal. There was too much to protect.
Chapter 15
I wake up early, my body still aching, but force myself to get out of bed and walk up to the deck of the boat. It’s quiet and there’s no one around, so I start to do some stretches. After about fifteen minutes, I decide that’s enough. I grab a towel, soap and shampoo from the stuff Maria left for me and walk over to the showers in the harbor. I have them all to myself. I enjoy a long, hot, shower then head back to the boat and pull on some clothes.
As I get dressed, I realize I have no wheels. I call DJ and my call goes straight to voicemail. Crap. I leave him a message to come get me, so we can pick up my van. I want to take advantage of this time off to find Micky’s box hidden in T-Street canyon. I also need to figure out what John G.’s interest is and what’s driving him. Could he have murdered a friend?
Since I’m stuck with no way to leave the harbor, I decide to walk over to Proud Mary’s and grab breakfast. I hear a crowd behind me and step aside as a large group of middle-age to elderly people stride past, chattering away and calling out, “Excuse us,” and “Good morning.” I know this group – mostly retired, they call themselves Fast Feet and they’ve been walking the harbor three mornings a week for more than twenty years. I see a few familiar faces and wave hello as they pass. Amazing how this group can lift my spirits this morning. Once they pass, I fall in behind them, walking much more slowly than even the fit eighty year-olds in the group, and make my way to the restaurant. Proud Mary’s has been a fixture in the Dana Point Harbor for more than thirty five years and is back up and running after a bad fire a couple of years ago. I know my server, Susie, from high school.
“Bobby!” she hugs me as I walk into the restaurant, “You look like shit.”
“I love you, too,” I hug her back, turning away slightly to protect my bruises. “Didn’t you hear about my house? How did you think I’d look?”
“I read about it in the Sun Post News. I’m so glad you’re okay.” The restaurant is starting to fill up. She glances around, “Grab that table by the window before anyone else gets it. Let me seat this bunch and I’ll be right over. Coffee?”
I nod and sit where I can watch the Catalina Express taking on today’s group of tourists for their trip across to Catalina Island. I notice a young couple in their early twenties boarding. They’re obviously on some kind of date. She’s wearing short-shorts, very high heeled sandals and a tank top. He’s in jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket. She might look good but she’s going to freeze her ass off out there. He’ll be a gentleman and give her his jacket then freeze his ass off, hoping that will get him laid. As long as she doesn’t topple off her shoes and fall overboard first.
I finish a leisurely breakfast of huevos rancheros and catch up with Susie when she has time between customers. When I’m finished, I stroll back toward the boat. The Fleet Feeters
are done with their walk and have all gathered for coffee on the outside patio of the Coffee Importers café, laughing and joking as I pass by. They burst into a round of Happy Birthday, focusing on a very elderly man sitting on his walker-thingy. He smiles and blows out the single candle on his cupcake to a round of applause. When I get back to the boat, DJ is sitting there, drinking a beer.
“Well, what’s our plan for today?” He grins.
I shake my head and laugh, “Dude, this is early by even your standards. I’ve barely finished a cup of coffee. How come you aren’t at work today?”
“I got your message and decided to play hooky today. I have everything going at the San Juan job, and we’re shut down at T-Street for at least another week. One of the benefits of being the boss.”
“Damn straight, Skippy. I guess I’ll have a beer and explain what I know and you can decide if you want to get involved.”
Over the next forty-five minutes and two beers, I explain everything to DJ; about the note Micky left me, about John G.’s business in Mexico, who was protecting him and all that dope that might already be on its way here. When I’m finished, DJ is looking out toward the harbor, thoughtful. Finally he says, “We have to tell Murph.”
“No.” I say firmly.
“Well at least we should go find the box and give it all to Murph. He’ll know what to do with it. Let’s do the right thing, Bobby. They killed Micky and tried to kill you. Your house blowing up couldn’t have been an accident.” I can tell he’s getting upset.
Did he not even hear what I told him? “Fuck that, bro. I don’t know who to trust. Micky said to trust no one. You’re the only one I can trust. I think maybe John G. killed Micky, or had him killed. If you don’t want in, I understand. I can handle it on my own, but you have to keep your mouth shut. Take me to get my van and I’ll leave you out of it.” I fight to calm down.
Danger Point Page 6
