Jet Sweep

by David Chill

  “Okay. Can I get Zander’s contact info?”

  She shook her head no. “I’m sorry. Privacy rules prevent me from disclosing that.”

  I looked at her and tried not to appear weary. “All right. Can you tell me a little about Ryan Concannon and Sean Danelo? I believe they started the company with Cody?”

  She licked her lips. “They’re old friends of Cody. Grew up in Laguna together. When Cody went to Chicago to play football, they went along, the three of them shared a place together and hung out. When Cody got the idea for WAVE, he wanted them in. Sometimes it helps to have old friends around. You know, to watch over things. It can be a blessing at times.”

  This was not uncommon, but I remembered an old saying, that with every blessing comes a curse. “I’d like to talk to them. Are they here today?”

  “No,” said Bernadette, shaking her head. “They messaged us and said they weren’t coming in. Working from home the next few days.”

  “Is that common?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing is very common around here.”

  *

  I had felt my phone vibrate against my thigh about ten minutes into my meeting with Bernadette Green. When I checked messages, I noticed the call came from a familiar place in El Segundo, that being the office of the Los Angeles Times. The message was from a crime reporter I had known for a few years and didn’t like very much. But he was a capable journalist, and I finally came to the understanding that his oafish manners and blunt-speak offended me because of a truism that happens all too frequently. His behavior reminded me of my own.

  In his voice mail, the reporter asked if we could meet. After feeling the grumbling in my stomach, I called back and suggested lunch. His voice became instantly animated and he began to gush about the many great Mexican restaurants in El Segundo, apparently the region’s best-kept secret. I didn’t know if that was good or bad, but after having too many lunches at my local taco truck, I was ready for something else. I told him to surprise me. He did.

  Main Street in El Segundo is a quaint area, frequently used by Hollywood film crews because it does a remarkable job of mimicking small-town America. That stretch of Main Street went on for about six blocks, and none of the buildings was over one story tall. There was a hodgepodge of vintage coffee shops, saloon-like bars, family-owned hardware stores, and homey pharmacies, akin to apothecary shops. There was an old-time movie theater showing classic films from decades ago, and a dusty antique shop that looked like it mostly held sentimental junk, rather than anything of real value. There was a small post office and a sandwich shop, and everything screamed Americana. What wasn’t on Main Street was the hint of any chains. No Burger Kings, no Supercuts, no 7-Elevens. That was seemingly by design. Those chains actually existed in El Segundo, you just had to drive a few blocks to find them. And you didn’t have to look too far to find another side of El Segundo, one that was far less pleasant. The city also was home to an oil refinery and a sewage treatment plant, and the whole town was sometimes referred to as El Stinko.

  The Havana Sandwich Company was a block away from the start of Main Street, and sat on a strip mall next to a yoga studio and a bakery specializing in cupcakes. I glanced at the menu posted on the front window before entering, and I saw that it had a good three-dozen variations of Cuban sandwiches. The classic one was simply ham, roast pork, Swiss cheese, and pickles, smeared with healthy gobs of mayo and mustard, served on grilled flatbread that had been pressed down with a brick. But this shop took the Cuban sandwich to places no one in the real Havana likely ever imagined, from the Tuna Cuban, which substituted tuna salad for pork and ham, the Italian Cuban which used salami and provolone, and the Reuben Cuban, which employed corned beef and coleslaw. Whoever put the menu together must have had way too much fun.

  I arrived first, and waited at the counter, spending a few minutes trying to locate Zander Foley on my people-hunter software. It appeared he did not own any property, and his last known address was up in San Mateo. Before I could try another source, I saw Adam Lazar approach. As was his custom, he did not smile when he saw me, he simply sauntered over. Lazar was short and heavy-set, but not in a well-proportioned way, and his body could best be described as lumpy. I sensed the heaviest thing he had lifted recently was a jumbo burrito.

  “Reporter Lazar,” I said. “Still working the crime beat?”

  “That’s where the action is,” he replied. “Taking down criminals. I’m what’s making L.A. great again.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. What’s good here?” I asked, looking up at a menu board that largely had the same items as the menu plastered onto the window with a few cross-outs. I wondered which one was correct.

  “I always get the Mexican Cuban. They add salsa and jalapeno peppers. It’s the best.”

  We turned toward the rotund man behind the counter who patiently waited for our order. Lazar spoke first, and tried to order Mexican Cubans for both of us. I interrupted and told him I’d have the Classic Cuban and a Coke. Lazar gave me a weary look.

  “You should trust my judgment,” he said.

  “No, I probably shouldn’t.”

  The counter guy told us how much it would cost, and Lazar slapped his pockets a few times. “Looks like I forgot my wallet at the office.”

  I sighed and handed over three ten-dollar bills. In return, I got a few coins and a directive to take a seat. We found a table outside, and while I normally liked al fresco dining on a warm afternoon, the tables were adjacent to the entranceway of the parking lot. In the distance, a small orange flame was visible, shooting high above the local Chevron plant.

  “Quite the ambiance you have down here,” I said.

  “I wish we’d kept the office downtown,” he said wistfully. “There’s a Hyperion plant down the road. Waste management. So, between jet exhaust from LAX, the sewage smells, and the belching of an oil refinery, this is not the American dream.”

  “Kind of odd that your LA Times is no longer in L.A.”

  “It’s about money,” he declared. “Root of all evil.”

  “Spare me the lectures,” I said, feeling my eyes rolling again. “And if I’m paying for this meal, let’s talk about why you wanted to meet. Aside from conning me out of a free lunch.”

  Lazar shrugged. “You’ll just expense it. My understanding is WAVE’s paying you, and probably paying you very nicely.”

  I peered at him. “WAVE? And how did you come across that morsel of information?”

  “I have my sources,” he said, “none of which can be revealed. But it’s all good. We’re on the same side. Trying to figure out what happened last night in Playa Vista.”

  “Just what do you know about it?”

  “Shots fired at company executives, lots of police action, and a car chase. Great narrative for the screenplay I’m going to write. All I need to find out is the back story. That’s where you come in.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, noting this all-too-common practice of Angelenos. Everyone is doing one thing but also trying to do something else. Lazar was a proletariat crime reporter who would gladly trade it all for a shot at becoming a wealthy Hollywood insider. “And I’m sure the executives would have it coming to them, right?”

  He rolled that thought around in his head. “Probably. But I’m trying to figure out what role the police had in all this. And what role you had, too.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “What have you come up with so far?”

  “Nothing concrete. Hence, this meeting. But more importantly, I’ve been gathering some background on LAPD corruption. I just don’t know how deep it goes.”

  I frowned. “What have you uncovered?”

  “There’s allegations that a few cops responding to burglary calls sometimes take some souvenirs with them. Happened in a few homes and a few stores. Alarm goes off, the unit responds, they find that the suspects have left, and they help themselves to some pricey jewelry.”

  “How do you know this?
” I peered at him.

  “Had a few citizen complaints, but one of them, he showed me video footage. Officers went into the home, verified it was empty, owners away for the weekend. They turned off the surveillance system and went right to a closet in the bedroom. I guess cops know where people stash valuables.”

  “But if the surveillance system was cut, how do you know it wasn’t the actual burglars who stole things? Or that the owners weren’t putting in a false insurance claim?”

  “Nanny cam,” Lazar said. “They deactivated the main video system, but couldn’t know they were being recorded in the bedroom.”

  “And so how come you haven’t gone public with this?”

  “I want to find out if this is systemic,” he said. “A couple of bad actors, or maybe something deeper. I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Just what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t have any friends in the LAPD.”

  “And you think you have one here?”

  “Look, not a lot of cops are wanting to talk with me,” he sighed.

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I remember you were once with LAPD. You had to have known some corrupt cops on the force.”

  I thought for a moment. The type of incident Lazar had described was similar to a series of incidents from a few decades ago. There had been an unusual number of video stores in mid-city being burglarized, and the same pair of cops took the calls on each one. The department ran a sting, and they found hundreds of videocassettes stashed in a garage that one of the cops owned. They also found some drugs that had gone missing from the evidence locker. Most big-city police forces have had isolated incidents like this. But I hadn’t heard of any LAPD corruption on a grand scale.

  “Maybe there were a few rotten apples,” I said finally, “but that’s what Internal Affairs is for. The department doesn’t wash its dirty laundry in public.”

  “You still work with the police sometimes. Maybe you’ve seen some things.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve seen incompetence, but not outright thievery. And even if I did, and I told you about it, no cop would ever work with me again. I’d be canceled in two seconds. My next career move would be a security guard in a warehouse.”

  “I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Lazar looked annoyed. Our sandwiches arrived, and they also came with rice, beans, and plantains. I took a bite of my sandwich and it was pretty good.

  “All right, listen,” he said. “At least tell me about last night.”

  “First tell me how you even knew I was there.”

  “One of the cops mentioned it. They said you were part of the crew that did this, but I figured there was more to the story.”

  “There always is,” I said, wondering who he talked to.

  “So?” he said, finally picking up his sandwich. “What gives?”

  “You’re aware of who owns WAVE, right?” I asked.

  He slowly smiled. “A football player. One of your old football players.”

  “That’s right. But I was brought in by a very sketchy guy and under false pretenses. He offered me five thousand dollars, and required me to do very little.”

  “Sweet.”

  “I thought otherwise. So I notified LAPD. It seems they were already aware of it, so they folded me into their operation. Not that they planned to do anything to stop a felony from being committed, but that’s another story. When I sensed that something very bad was about to go down, I moved to stop it. Too late, but the only damage turned out to be a few bullet holes in the building’s exterior. The sketchy guy who brought me in took off. Didn’t hear if he’d been caught.”

  “He hasn’t been,” Lazar scoffed. “At least not as of an hour ago. They eyeballed the license plates, but the car had been reported stolen. They ran facial recognition but haven’t had a match yet. So, he’s still at large.”

  I considered this. It probably wasn’t a big surprise that I was finding out more about this case from an intrepid reporter than from the police. Rainey only told me what he wanted to tell me. I took another bite of my warm Cuban. In addition to learning a little more about this case, it was indeed worth the trip here just for the sandwich.

  “Any other morsel of information you’d like to share?” I asked.

  “You’re aware that the City of Los Angeles is trying to shut WAVE down, right?”

  I put my sandwich down. “No. Why’s that?”

  “A hundred reasons. You would think it would be related to safety, and that’s what the City Council is going to say for the record. Public health and all that. But the reality is the company doesn’t have a permit to operate in the city. They just moved in and started placing scooters in random neighborhoods, and by the bike path at the beach. Didn’t bother to apply for a permit to do business. A big no-no, and especially when it involves using the city streets. But it also turns out that the city didn’t like seeing someone operate a business within the city limits without giving them a taste. They want a cut of the loot.”

  “Then it sounds like WAVE’s going to need to pay off the city.”

  Lazar agreed. “Absolutely. Money drives everything. The more I looked into this, the weirder it got. The vibe from WAVE was they shouldn’t have to pay the city, the city should be paying them.”

  “Bet that didn’t go over well.”

  “Nope. And WAVE doesn’t know it yet, but in addition to coughing up tens of thousands just for getting a permit, then they’ll have to pay the city a fee for each scooter they deploy here. This is America. You want to play, you got to pay.”

  *

  In addition to not providing me with Zander Foley’s contact information, Bernadette Green had also refused to let me have the home addresses of Ryan Concannon or Sean Danelo, a tiny obstacle that was fairly easy to get past. Using the wide-open rules of the internet, rules where privacy had long ago been shredded, reconfigured, and monetized, it took me all of thirty seconds to get their home addresses and phone numbers. I placed calls to both, and when Ryan answered, I knew at least one of them was home. I hung up and began driving down the 405. Right now it was empty. Coming back would be another story.

  Laguna Beach was home to art galleries, tide pools, and a summer event called the Sawdust Festival. This festival included the Pageant of the Masters, a unique production, unlike anything I had ever come across. A few years ago, my friend Juan Saavedra invited Gail and I down to this show, where historic works of art are recreated on a stage, with an orchestra playing classical music in the background. It does not appear special at first, until you begin to notice that the characters in the paintings are actually real people in costume. Juan’s son participated in a recreation of Washington crossing the Delaware. To this day, I don’t know who the painter was, but I do remember Juan’s son portraying one of the guys rowing the boat across an icy river, and remaining motionless for a good ten minutes. What adds a nice touch is that when the music stops, the actors stop posing, get up, stretch, and wander off the stage.

  Downtown Laguna Beach was not much of a downtown, which I suppose was the intent. It is too elegant to be a beach town, and too laid-back to be very elegant. I did notice a gelato shop there and made a mental note for Marcus. Downtown was only about a five-minute drive from Alta Vista Way, the secluded street where Ryan Concannon lived with his parents, albeit in an ocean-view home. I knew he lived with his parents because the three-million-dollar house was owned by James and Rachel Concannon, who were both fifty-four years old. Their home was stark white, with a wrap-around veranda on the second story, and it had a few palm trees seemingly scattered haphazardly on the property, but in a way that was most likely intentional. The house sat on a quiet street, one home more beautiful than the next. In any nearby driveway, a shiny Mercedes, BMW, or Porsche was parked, and each one looked like it had just been detailed.

  I took a peek through the plate-glass picture window and saw two young men in their mid-twenties pla
ying a video game. I rang the doorbell, waited thirty seconds for nothing to happen, and then leaned on it repeatedly for another minute until the door finally opened. I began to wonder if anyone paid attention to knocks or doorbells anymore; it seemed they had become mundane, as much a part of a cacophonous background as phone calls where you just knew there would be either a recorded message or a perky telemarketer on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, yeah, what is it?” said a bored-looking young man, dressed in a red t-shirt with a Gino’s East Pizza logo on it, and baggy shorts. He had a black cherry White Claw in his hand.

  “Ryan Concannon. You’re looking good.”

  He peered at me, trying to focus. “Coach B?”

  “Good memory,” I said. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Uh, sure,” he agreed, looking a little confused, as if somehow two different worlds had just collided. He stepped back, and I entered the house, walking into a living room that was just as white as the exterior. Across from the flat-screen TV were a glass coffee table and a white leather couch. On the couch sat a rather large human being, with a game controller lodged in between both hands, as he maintained an intense focus on a jungle-warfare scene playing out on the monitor. Behind the couch were sliding glass doors that showcased a magnificent view of the Pacific. I sensed I might be the only one to appreciate the view, or perhaps even to have noticed it.

  “I don’t know if you remember Coach Burnside, Sean. He was Cody’s position coach at SC.”

  Sean tapped a button to pause the game. He looked at me. “Oh yeah, sure. USC. I remember you when I got offered.”

  “Sorry you passed on us,” I said.

  “It worked out,” he shrugged.

  “You ended up playing center at Stanford, right?”

  Sean Danelo hesitated. “Yeah. But I had some bad luck freshman year, messed up my shoulder. Didn’t play much after that. The school honored the scholarship, though.”

  “Can’t complain about a Stanford degree,” I said and sat down in a white recliner next to the couch.