Wild Card

by Michael Brandman

  “Security cameras?”

  “Nonexistent where she was shot.”

  “What was she doing at the bank?”

  “Signing a mortgage refinance agreement.”

  “They had financial difficulties?”

  “On the contrary. They were reducing the size of their mortgage. Seems they were doing quite well.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Buddy,” Farmer said with the authority of someone who had been down this road many times before.

  “We’ll need to investigate further, but all things considered, this one’s a bitch.”

  “What about the husband?”

  “Not a likely candidate. He’s a tech nerd and, from what we’re learning, a successful one. And a devoted husband and father.”

  “You’ll keep digging.”

  “For sure.”

  “I’m sensing a but in there somewhere.”

  Farmer glanced briefly at Striar, then back at me. “I don’t like it.”

  “Because?”

  “It defies logic.”

  “And?”

  “As we learned in Afghanistan, things that defy logic tend to be worse than they first appear.”

  “Which means?”

  “Just that, Buddy. Just that.”

  FIVE

  The California Coastal Commission was established by voter initiative in 1972. Among its myriad responsibilities is the supervision of public access to the state shoreline, which can be problematic due to the entitlement that many of the smug and self-serving coastline homeowners exhibit when it comes to strangers sniffing around on what they perceive to be their own private beaches.

  Denied access to beaches is one of the Commission’s most frequent problems. The goal of the Coastal Access Program is to maximize public ingress to and along the coast and to insure public recreational opportunities in the coastal zone.

  I’m a Southern Californian by birth and, aside from four years in New York City studying Criminology at John Jay College, I’ve been here all my life.

  I grew up in the city of Freedom and was more than familiar with the fabled California Coastal Commission and its track record of financial misconduct. Coastal Commissioners were known to be sympathetic to the starry, monied, self-centered celebrities who sought to bend regulations that applied to their properties.

  A noted movie magnate once introduced a Coastal Commissioner as someone who was “living in my pocket.”

  We were sitting in Marsha Russo’s office cubicle, in front of her computer, looking at photos of the Petrov estate that had been taken when the Steins owned the property. There were four access points to the beach, two on the southernmost part and one on the northernmost tip, as well as the main entrance facing the mansion.

  In the photos, all access points are clearly identifiable, each with a large open gate, two with wooden staircases descending from street level to the beach below, thereby easing the ingress. The beach road provided ample parking. No barriers nor obstacles denied access.

  Photos taken more recently, however, reveal no visible access. High wrought iron fencing runs the length of the property. The only access point is the main entrance, which is supervised by armed guards.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what Petrov was up to. It’s one thing to deny beach access to strangers, but quite another to create fortress-like conditions to insure they stayed away.

  “What next?” Johnny Kennerly asked.

  “Search warrant.”

  “They won’t accept service.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Mark my words, Buddy. You’ll be left holding a warrant you can’t serve.”

  “Duly marked.”

  I stopped in to visit my father, the estimable Sheriff, now hampered by the progressive neurodegenerative illness that affects nerve cells in the brain and the spinal cord.

  Although there’s no known cure for ALS, the Sheriff had recently become involved in the medical trial of a so-called miracle drug that claimed to slow its progress. He only recently began this therapy and was cautiously optimistic about its results.

  He was seated on the screened in back porch of the family manse, relishing the warmth of the late spring day, the air ripe with the pungent smell of jasmine. He was sipping lemonade from his favorite glass, the one he had been presented with at Disneyland, the one with Mickey inanely grinning at him. “I’m hearing you have your hands full.”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d rather not have my hands full.”

  “Is this going to be wise guy day around here?”

  The old man had no patience for those he judged to be wise guys. And although I was more than familiar with his means of retribution, at this point in our ongoing saga I couldn’t resist even the slightest chance to bust his chops. If only to ascertain his reaction.

  I shrugged.

  “You think we could serious up, Buddy?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me about this killing.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know a whole lot other than it happened.”

  “Suspects?”

  “None.”

  “Ideas?”

  “None.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “I’ve appointed the new guy, Buzz Farmer, to head the investigation. He’s pretty much at the starting line.”

  “The press is going to want answers.”

  “Me, too.”

  He glared at me. “And the Coastal Commission thing?’

  “Also at the starting line.”

  “You know he’s a litigious bastard. Mean-spirited, too,” the old man offered.

  “Petrov?”

  “Yes. Him. What’s your plan?”

  “Search warrant, for openers.”

  “Dubious. He’s got any number of high-priced lawyers who will be all over it trying to quash it.”

  “I’m shaking like a leaf.”

  “I’m serious, Buddy. You haven’t encountered anyone like him before.”

  “Ditto.”

  The old man took a sip of lemonade and pointed to the pitcher on the side table. “Lemonade?”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Have you asked yourself why the Commission decided to act now?”

  “Why do you think?”

  He shifted in his seat, struggling to make himself comfortable.

  “Because of you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You have no skin in this game, Buddy. You’re a wild card. You’re here to support me during my illness. You weren’t elected to the job, like I was. You have no political agenda and you’re answerable only to yourself.

  “The Commissioners know you’re tough-minded and non-conventional. They believe you can stand up to this Russian bastard and to anything he might throw at you.”

  “And they can’t?”

  “They don’t want to be in the front lines of any unpleasantness involving Mr. Petrov.”

  “Because?”

  “He’s got friends in high places.”

  “So?”

  “So, use the authority they provide you and do what it takes. Once you restore the public access, you’ll be a hero.”

  “If I survive, you mean.”

  “You’ll survive. Just keep in mind the old adage.”

  “Which is?”

  “Shoot first and ask questions later.”

  SIX

  “This could stir up the hornet’s nest,” Judge Ezekiel Azenberg said as he signed the warrant.

  “You think?”

  Weathered, craggy-faced, and generally cranky, Judge Azenberg leaned back in his worn, overstuffed lea
ther chair. We were in his chambers, a dreary place adjacent to his courtroom. “A word to the wise?”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “This Petrov bird, he struts around like he’s Russian aristocracy. Has a different attorney for every possibility and isn’t the least bit reluctant to gum up the works with lawsuits. Sometimes they get thrown out. Sometimes he withdraws them. He’s never ready for trial and always seeks delays. He’s unpredictable and vexing. And mean. He won’t take kindly to this.”

  “Sounds like a challenge.”

  “No more so than the Coastal Commission.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware of their checkered reputation. Conflicts of interest. Collusion with big-time developers. Payoffs under the table. More than a few Commissioners have been indicted. Now they’ve handed you a hot potato, Buddy. One they couldn’t suppress any longer. I’m thinking there’s some subtext at play here. Your presence in this game puts unexpected distance between them and Boris Petrov.”

  “Which suggests?”

  “Off the record?”

  I nodded.

  “They could be setting you up. Washing their hands of this matter by handing it off to you. Keep your eyes open, Buddy. Do what you have to do, but don’t trust any of these snakes.”

  “That’s quite a word to the wise.”

  “It is what it is.”

  I arrived before dawn, parked in front of the guardhouse and rang the bell. Then I hid in the shadows by the side of the fenced walkway, invisible in the early morning darkness.

  My intention was less about serving Judge Azenberg’s warrant than it was about sending a message to Boris Petrov. I wanted him to know that two could play his game. And despite his plethora of security personnel, he would never trump American jurisprudence. No pun intended.

  After a while Volya Koskoff arrived in a golf cart. He got off and stood silently for several moments, gazing around. Then he drew the pistol from his kit belt and holding it by his side, slowly approached the gate.

  He glanced into the shadows but didn’t spot me. He did notice the Wrangler, however.

  He opened the gate and stepped through it. He continued to scan the area, but still didn’t see me. He moved stealthily toward the Wrangler.

  I suddenly bolted from the darkness and dashed in his direction, which startled him. I slapped the pistol from his hand and kicked it away.

  Then I stuffed the warrant into his shirt pocket. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a photo of him.

  When he focused on me, recognition slowly dawned. “You’ve been served,” I said.

  I stepped swiftly to the Wrangler and jumped in. I fired up the engine and lowered the passenger-side window. I grinned at him. “Have a nice day.”

  I sped off.

  SEVEN

  Buzz Farmer picked me up at seven. We were each decked out in our finest, headed for Blau’s Mortuary where the Murphy family was receiving friends and relatives.

  I hadn’t before shared any official events with him, but Buzz cleaned up well and looked impressive in a tailored black suit. He seemed a tad nervous but I attributed that to his new surroundings and lack of familiarity with local protocols.

  After evading the handful of reporters who shouted questions at us from behind a hastily erected barrier, we were met at the door and quickly ushered inside by Julian Blau, the son of the mortuary’s proprietor, a longtime friend from our school days. “A terrible tragedy,” Julian volunteered.

  I nodded.

  “It’s a tough room in there, Buddy. I hope you’re not planning to stir the pot.”

  “Why would you say a thing like that?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “We’re here to pay our respects.”

  Julian stared at me. “You’re not going to start grilling the assembled?”

  “You’ve seen too many cop shows, Julian.”

  He led us into the viewing room, decorated with somber-looking drapes of muted colors. A closed walnut casket stood on a catafalque at the far end of the room, adjacent to a sitting area for the family, comprised of half a dozen armchairs, all occupied.

  A thin man with thick glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit sat in the center. A pair of teen-aged boys, also in brown suits, sat on either side of him. Buzz identified them as the deceased’s immediate family.

  We stood at the back of the room, watching the goings on. Numbers of mourners, many of them in tears, were doing their best to comfort the grieving family and each other.

  After a while, we approached the brown-suited man who stood and looked at me questioningly when I offered my hand.

  “Hal Murphy,” he murmured.

  “Buddy Steel. I wanted to offer our condolences and assure you the Sheriff’s Department is putting all of its resources into the investigation of this heinous crime.”

  “You came here to tell us that?”

  “We came to pay our respects.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sheriff.”

  I handed him one of my cards. “All of my numbers are on it. Please feel free to call at any time. We’ll schedule a more formal interview later.”

  We shook hands once again and I also shook hands with each of the boys, both of whom looked at me through red-rimmed eyes.

  We were watched by several mourners, many of whom nodded to us as we made our way out of the mortuary.

  When we reached the lobby, we encountered Her Honor, Freedom Mayor Regina Goodnow, my stepmother, making a grand entrance, accompanied by two of her legislative assistants and several City Councilpersons.

  There was nothing understated about Regina. She was meticulously coiffed, elegantly dressed in various degrees of black, and wearing only those few pieces of her vast jewelry collection she deemed appropriate for the occasion.

  As usual, she regarded me warily. We have a tenuous relationship, Regina and I. In many ways we’re like sparring partners, nimbly dancing around each other in search of vulnerabilities.

  “Buddy,” she erupted when she spotted me. “What a surprise.”

  “Likewise.”

  She kissed me on both cheeks. “You’re here because?”

  “To pay our respects to the bereaved family.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “You find that strange?” I asked.

  “Not in the least. It’s what your father would have done.”

  Ever the political animal, her eyes darted here and there in search of anyone present whom she might want to acknowledge or impress.

  Her attentions returned to me. She waved her hand. “I’ll be in touch. We need to schedule a dinner.”

  After kissing me on both cheeks again, and shaking Buzz’s hand, she motioned to her acolytes and together they moved off.

  As I watched her go, I was once again struck by her imperiousness. And by how different she was from my mother. I wondered how I would have turned out had I weighed my life choices in concert with my mother’s counsel, as opposed to Regina’s.

  “Is it what your father would have done?” Buzz asked.

  “It is, if she says it is.”

  EIGHT

  I agreed to meet Coastal Commissioner James Morrison in Malibu. He had driven up from his base in Long Beach. We were sipping coffee and nibbling donuts at the Malibu Pier Cafe, overlooking the Pacific and within sight of the legendary Colony, home to a glut of Hollywood celebrities and eccentrics.

  The drive on Highway 101 from Freedom filled me with renewed sadness as I witnessed the devastation wrought by the Woolsey fires late last year. Vast sections of the once verdant mountainside lay charred, the burnt skeletons of homes and businesses dotting the roadside as symbols of the fragile nature of life and property.

  The sky was pockmarked with clouds and the sun revealed itself only sporadical
ly. A chill wind carried with it the faint smell of rancid smoke. Both of us had on pea coats. Morrison wore a Dodgers cap, I a Russian sailor’s.

  “You certainly caught his attention,” the Commissioner said between bites of a glazed cruller. “His lawyers are headed to court.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To quash the warrant.”

  “Doesn’t the Commission hold the upper hand here?”

  “You’d think. The law couldn’t be clearer. But the estimable Craig Leonard of the firm Leonard, Howard and Arthur, Attorneys at Law, is screaming desecration of a wildlife preserve. He claims that unwarranted access to the property will destroy the ecological balance his client has been striving so hard to protect. A crock of shit, if you ask me.”

  Morrison was a slight man with a gentle demeanor. He had been appointed to the Commission after the fall of two of his predecessors for alleged conflicts of interest.

  They had chummed up with a well-known rock musician who sought to build five oversized mansions on a heretofore undeveloped hilltop overlooking the ocean. On property that wasn’t permitted for such development. The whole deal stunk to the high heavens. Rumors of payoffs were rampant. When the plans reached the Governor’s desk, he denied the permits and fired the two Commissioners.

  He then appointed Morrison as a replacement, allegedly to right the corrupted ship. But there was already dissension in the ranks of the elected Commissioners, a number of whom sounded keen to defy the Governor and arrange a special election to fill the seats.

  A practicalist, Morrison shrugged off any possible ill feelings regarding the uncertainty of his position. He knew full well that over the years, numbers of Coastal Commissioners had been rumored to have lived largely in the pockets of affluent landowners and voracious developers. He was anathema to that ethic, and as a result, more than likely a short-timer. But he took his position seriously and soldiered on nonetheless.

  I pressed him. “So what happens next?”

  “Delays followed by even more delays.”

  “And Petrov can get away with it?”