by Miles Corwin
I stopped off at the hospital that night and questioned Razor, who had suffered a concussion and a fractured jaw. When I asked why he had refused to give up the watch, Razor lifted it off the end table and showed me the engraved back: First Place Huntington Beach Open.
“My first win in a surf contest,” Razor had told me. “Got the watch and fifteen thousand dollars. Sentimental value, brah.”
Razor had been a professional surfer, and when he retired from the circuit more than a decade ago, he had opened a surf shop in Santa Monica. A few weeks after the beating, he stopped by the station with a gift: a custom surfboard he had shaped for me. “You’re wound pretty tight,” Razor had told me. “This’ll mellow you out.”
The board was beautiful: a sleek expanse of foam and fiberglass with a Canadian poplar stringer flanked by two swirling turquoise panels. In the center, Razor had played off my first name and airbrushed a custom insignia: a fiery wave raining smoldering ashes on the pale green water.
Razor had designed a hybrid for me, a board that was long enough, wide enough, and stable enough so a beginner could easily paddle, catch waves, and build up some speed, but streamlined enough so he would be able to maneuver a bit once he knew what he was doing. The tri-fin was eight-feet long with a full nose for flotation, slightly kicked up for steep drops, a rounded pintail, hard rails at the bottom, and softer edges in the middle.
At the time, I was in my mid-twenties, living in a one-room studio a few blocks from Venice Beach. I was still reeling from my army service, still confused and aimless, still unsure I wanted to be a cop, still struggling to occupy my days until it was time to start my four o’clock shift. I figured I might as well try surfing; I had nothing better to do.
I started out in the early mornings near the Venice breakwater riding the bumpy white water straight into shore. The other surfers razzed me, shouting, “Straight off, Adolph.” But I always had pretty good balance, and I soon felt comfortable on the board. I started to paddle farther out and give real waves a try, but for a week I continually misjudged the breaks and pearled, catching the nose of the board during my descent and tumbling into the water. To avoid the other surfers, who cut me off and cursed at me, called me a kook and a barney, I surfed at dawn, beating the crowds. Occasionally, I would judge it just right, catch the wave as it was breaking and angle across the face. The exhilaration was exquisite.
I soon found that surfing in the early morning was the perfect antidote to the insanity at night. I spent my shift lurching from crisis to crisis, breaking up fights between coked-out men and doleful women with Southern Comfort on their breath, jamming street corner junkies, cuffing fractious drunks, speeding to drive-bys, barroom shootings, alley stabbings. Waking at dawn, driving up the coast, slipping on my wet suit, and paddling out into the glassy surf, helped me unwind, washed away the tension of the previous night. Since I returned from Israel, I had trouble sleeping and often awoke during nightmares, sweating and shouting. Knowing I would be surfing the next morning calmed me, helped me fall back asleep as I envisioned gentle swells peeling off a point.
A few months after Razor had dropped the board by the station, I called him at the shop, told him I had been using the board every day, and thanked him. Razor said there was a nice northwest swell and asked me if I wanted to go surfing. The next morning, Razor picked me up and drove up the coast to Silverstrand beach in Oxnard. I had trouble with the hard-breaking waves, which were overhead with paper-thin walls; I continually tumbled off the board and ended up in the surf with my leash tangled around my legs. Razor showed me how I was taking off a fraction too late. “Commit yourself fully to the wave,” Razor had said. “If you hesitate, you’re lost.” I knew he was right. During my next few rides, for the first time that day, I stayed with the waves all the way and finished off with flourishing kick outs. Since then, we surfed together a few times a year. I still had the board with the fiery wave in the center.
During the past year, Razor had called a number of times, but I always put him off. I wasn’t interested in surfing or seeing anyone connected to my days as a cop.
Now, Razor was trying to lure me out again. “A south swell just rolled in. The outer reef by Little Dume is cranking.”
I had surfed the outer reef with Razor in the past. But only in the summer and fall. South swells in the spring were rare. A hurricane from Baja must be blowing up the coast, I figured.
“I got a case, Razor. I don’t think I can break away.”
“Dude, I’ve been worried about you. You’ve got to get out of your own head.”
I thought about what Dr. Blau had said: You have to learn when to let go and leave the job behind-”
“Okay, Razor, you’ve worn me down. What time tomorrow morning?”
“Six. And get your stoke on.”
CHAPTER 10
My alarm woke me at four fifteen. I grabbed my wet suit and board and tossed them into the back of my station wagon, which I had bought when I started surfing. Now I was glad I hadn’t sold the Saturn.
By four thirty, I was on the freeway, speeding by the first morning commuters.
When I emerged onto the Pacific Coast Highway from the Santa Monica tunnel it was still dark, but I could see the iridescent spray of the white water crashing against the shore. The moon was full, casting milky shards of light farther out at sea.
I cruised up the serpentine highway, hard by the rocky cliffs, past Sunset, Topanga, and a few other surf spots that caught the swell and were jacking good-sized waves near the shore. After I passed Malibu and Paradise Cove, I dropped down the hill to Zuma, pulled into the lot, drove down a frontage road, and parked next to Razor’s van. I could hear the waves of the Zuma shore break before I saw them: a thunderous roar that pounded the sand.
I banged on the window of the van and Razor emerged, naked, wearing only sheepskin-lined Ugg boots, rubbing sleep from his eyes. From the neck down, Razor looked like a teenager: he had a washboard stomach, wide shoulders, arms and chest corded with muscle from a lifetime of paddling. But his shoulder-length hair was as silver as a chrome pistol, and his bushy mustache and soul chip beneath his lower lip were bleached white from the sun.
“Surf naked, brah,” Razor said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, pulling my wet suit out of my trunk.
“Just kidding. Some of these waves are double overhead. Good way to lose your crank in the drink.”
After we slipped on our wet suits and grabbed our boards, we climbed the steep bluff that separated Point Dume from Zuma. The morning dew raised the pungent smell of sage and sumac. Flowering white yucca as tall as a surfboard-called Our Lord’s Candle-bordered the path. At the top of the bluff, we stopped for a moment. In the smoky early morning light, I could see the entire sweep of the Santa Monica Bay, from Point Dume below me, to the tip of the Palos Verdes Peninsula in the distance.
Little Dume, a short, rocky point, was a half mile down the coast. About six hundred feet from shore, just beyond a kelp bed, I could see the waves breaking off the outer reef. The faces were huge, slowly rising from the deep water, pausing for a moment as they caught the reef, frozen in time, glassy and deep green in the faint light, before crashing and crumbling into a mountain of white water.
We climbed down the bluff and set our boards on the wet sand. Razor lovingly ran his hands along the rail of my board and said, “That’s one sweet stick.”
We dropped to our knees and began waxing our boards, the bubble gum smell filling the air. The presurfing ritual-climb into the wet suit; check out the surf, tide, and wind; wax the board; pick the right spot to paddle out-reminded me of my old prepatrol routine. Clean the Galil. Slip on the flak jacket and helmet. Fill the canteen. Hook on the grenades. Then get going and look for moving shadows.
“Wake up, Ash,” Razor said. “It’s thumping out there.”
I waded out to my waist, board under my arm, the cold water chilling me as it seeped into my wet suit. Then Razor and I hopped on our boards and bega
n paddling out at an angle to avoid the turbulent water. We circled around the outer reef and pulled up just beyond the break. Pale bands of orange and pink streaked the eastern horizon; the sky overhead was neon blue. There was not even a hint of mist or wind, and first wave of the set that rose from the reef was a velvety wall of water. Razor took off and I saw him disappear down the huge face, spotted the top of his head a few seconds later, and then lost him again as he ripped up and down the wave, the lip feathering, catching rainbows of light.
I paddled for the last wave of the set, looked down, and felt as if I was standing atop a skyscraper staring at the street below. I quickly pulled out and swiveled around. When Razor paddled back he said, “Don’t be such a puss.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been out,” I said sheepishly.
When the next set broke, bigger than the last, Razor pointed at me. I paddled for the first wave. When I saw the steep drop, I felt like pulling out again, but I muttered, “Fuck it” to myself and soared down the face as I climbed to my feet, carved a clean turn, and jetted through the silky face, just ahead of the roaring white water. I could see the wave beginning to close out, so I crouched slightly, grabbed the outside rail for balance and powered through the tube; for a moment I was completely engulfed in water, locked in, unable to see anything but a flash of green and a cloud of foam, the hiss of the surf in my ears, then I rocketed out of the wave into the sunlight, and just as the breaker began to peter out, I caught another good-sized wave, skimming along the shallow water until I ended up near the shore and caught my fin on a rock. I couldn’t help grinning as I paddled back out.
As the sky lightened, other surfers joined us, but because the south swell was a surprise in the spring, the outer reef was not as crowded as the usual Southern California surf spot. After another fast rumbling ride, I paddled back out, feeling a world away from the L.A. sprawl. Steep rocky cliffs, studded with thick stands of eucalyptus, banked the shore. Looming in the distance were the Santa Monica Mountains, the escarpment purple in the morning light. A sea lion barked in the distance.
I straddled my board and stared at the sharp horizon line, the water cobalt, the sky the palest blue, with just the single brushstroke of a ragged cloud. A faint wind began to blow in from the west, rocking the red bell buoy off Zuma, the clanging echoing out at sea. The water was so clear I could see the underwater kelp beds and tiny schools of fish swim past my toes.
The sun was rising over the mountains and beams of light dappled the water, still roiling and flecked with foam after the last set. I studied a patch of water for a moment, transfixed: a clean square of foam outside a smooth square of water. The water like the Mexican tiles on Relovich’s kitchen floor. The foam like the grouting.
I whipped around and furiously padded toward shore.
“Too early to book,” Razor called out.
“Just thought of something. Got to go.”
• • •
I snaked back down the Pacific Coast Highway, crossed town on the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour traffic, showered at home, changed, and headed south on the Harbor Freeway. I went straight to Relovich’s kitchen and studied the grouting around a corner tile.
Relovich’s daughter had taken a picture of her father picking up a piece of French toast that he had dropped on the floor by the corner tile. Initially, I had not noticed the tile, but as I sat on my board, studying the play of light on the ocean and the foam, I recalled the photograph and realized in a flash of insight that the floor looked different. The grouting around one of the tiles appeared new in the photograph, whiter than the grouting around the other tiles. Now it was the same beige color as the rest of the grouting. I figured that at the time the picture was taken, Relovich must have just installed a new tile.
Crouching on my hands and knees, I rapped on several tiles with my knuckles. A dull thud. Then I rapped on the new tile. It echoed like a ripe watermelon. I removed a screwdriver and a small hammer from the trunk of my car and carefully chiseled out the grouting until I popped out the tile.
In the hollowed-out space beneath the tile, I pulled out a ragged green towel, wrapped around a metal box. Inside was a wad of dusty cash-$4,800 in hundreds-a. 38-caliber snub-nosed revolver, and a small felt jewelry bag secured with a drawstring. There were two small objects inside the jewelry bag. I emptied them onto my palm. The larger one-about the size of my badge-was an intricately carved ivory figure of a fierce-looking man with a flowing beard, dressed in a billowing robe, clutching a sword. The smaller one-about the size of my thumbnail-was also a carved ivory figure and had horns, yellow fangs, and bulging red eyes. Muscular, clad only in a loincloth, with pointed ears and long claws, it looked like a demon or a monster.
I had no idea what the objects represented. But because they were so beautifully carved and seemed to represent mythological figures of some sort, I figured they were old, from some country in Asia, and valuable.
CHAPTER 11
Driving back to PAB, I considered who might know something about the ivory figures and immediately thought of Dave Papazian, who had been the art cop for the past nine years. He had the reputation of being knowledgeable and having good contacts in the art world. Papazian worked in Commercial Crimes, which was on the same floor as Felony Special. I had chatted with Papazian a few times in the hallway and at retirement parties at the academy, but never talked with him about a case.
I double-parked near the back entrance, took the elevator to the fifth floor, walked over to the west wing of the building, and past the Cold Case Unit. I was relieved to see Papazian at his desk. He was a man in his forties who had a narrow face composed of mismatched angles-sharp cheekbones, high forehead, long, spindly nose, razor lips, jutting jaw. I always thought he looked like one of those angular, abstract Picasso portraits-all slashes and sharp corners. A perfect look for an art cop.
Papazian was talking on the phone, but when he spotted me lingering in the doorway, he covered the receiver and whispered, “I’ll be off in a minute.”
I remained standing and surveyed the office. One wall was lined with posters from recent shows at Los Angeles’s Museum of Contemporary Art. Another featured an abstract painting by Laddie Dill-a series of intersecting trapezoids-and one by Ed Moses, which resembled a Navajo weaving.
When Papazian hung up the phone, he said, “What do you think?”
“Contemporary art doesn’t really appeal to me. I heard it once described as imagination without skill. But I got to like Dill, Moses, and a bunch of other Venice artists. I used to check out the galleries there on slow afternoons when I worked Pacific Division.”
“I was fortunate enough to begin collecting their works while they were still affordable.” Papazian smiled and nodded. “It’s nice to talk to that rare cop who knows the L.A. art scene.”
“A lot of artists live in my building.”
“Don’t you live downtown?” Papazian asked.
“Yeah. I can walk to MOCA and the Geffen.”
“My wife’s a patron at both museums.”
Years ago I had heard that she was a high-powered real estate agent and had made such a killing selling high-end properties on the westside that Papazian could afford to start his own collection.
In a department where many cops’ passions were limited to their motorcycles, their NRA memberships, and their hunting trips, it was not easy to be different. Papazian was an aesthete, passionate about art and California cabernets, which he collected and stored in a temperature-controlled storage unit. He never tried to fit in. I respected that.
Papazian waved me to a chair next to his desk. “So what’s up? You probably didn’t come here to talk about art.”
I sat down and said, “Actually I did.” I briefly told him about the murder, and explained how I found the objects underneath a tile at Relovich’s. “I thought maybe you could help me out and tell me what they are.”
I emptied the jewelry bag into my palm and placed the figures on the desk. Papazian picked
them up and studied them. He tapped the larger figure and said, “This is a netsuke. Japanese. It’s a decorative piece used to attach a pouch to the sash of the kimono. It’s very collectible.” He rolled the smaller object between his thumb and forefinger. “This little one I’ve never seen before. I can’t tell you what it is.”
“How old is the netsuke?”
“Could be a few hundred years. I learned about them a few years ago when a collector who lived up on Laurel Canyon had a bunch of them stolen. I arrested his gardener when he tried to pawn them.”
“I don’t even know if these figures mean anything,” I said. “They might have no connection whatsoever to Relovich’s murder. But the way they were hidden interests me. And I don’t have a hell of a lot at this stage of the investigation. So I might as well track them. Any way to find out where they came from? Any way to see if they were stolen?”
Papazian swiveled around, hunched over his computer for a few minutes-typing with two fingers-printed out a half dozen pages and handed them to me. “I’ve listed a few databases for stolen art and some netsuke associations I worked with on my case. You can search their Web sites and see if there’s any record of them.”
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Before you go, let me mention something to you. Since you live around a lot of painters, let me know if you come across any promising ones who’re still flying under the radar. I’m always looking to pick up pieces by artists before they’re discovered by those westside collectors who drive the prices out of sight.”
“Will do. And thanks again.”
I cut through the squad room to Felony Special. There was a note on my desk from Duffy: “Wegland called. He wants you to stop by his office.”
I took the elevator to the sixth floor and stood in the doorway of the anteroom adjacent to Wegland’s office. The commander’s adjutant, Conrad Patowski, was staring at his computer screen.