Don't Turn Your Back on the Ocean

by Janet Dawson

  “They’re highly toxic. We see a lot of solvents in groundwater contamination here in the Silicon Valley.”

  “So how did they wind up in Monterey Bay?”

  “Good question. I asked Ms. Logan when she picked up the report. She didn’t come right out and answer me but I got the impression she had some theories. I thought she was going to turn the information over to the authorities.”

  “She was. But someone killed her first. Do you have any theories?”

  Santiago shrugged. “Someone’s been dumping illegally. There’s a whole network of laws against it. But they’re broken all the time. Illegal disposal often goes undetected.”

  “Say I have half a dozen barrels of toxic waste I want to get rid of. What are my options? The illegal ones.”

  Santiago tugged on his earlobe and shifted in his chair. “If you dispose of the waste on land, sooner or later someone will notice. Maybe you bury those barrels in a landfill. Five years from now some developer decides to build an office park on that landfill, starts grading the site, and a bulldozer hits a barrel. Or you could pay some guy to haul them off and conveniently figure what he does with them afterward is his problem.”

  “What might he do with them?”

  “Pour the stuff down the nearest storm drain,” Santiago said. “It winds up in San Francisco Bay. Which is why I’m not about to eat any shellfish that comes out of the water around here. Or this midnight disposal service might haul those barrels out to the San Joaquin Valley and open ‘em up on some out-of-the way country road, the kind that runs between two farms. The stuff gets poured into a borrow ditch that drains into an irrigation ditch when it rains. Or it just gets dumped onto the dirt road. Once it dries, the wind blows the contaminated dust around. You get the picture?”

  “Yes. It’s not a pleasant one. If I wanted to dispose of my toxic waste in the ocean?”

  “That’s easier. And in many cases legal. People think the ocean is some big cesspool that flushes all our waste and magically makes it disappear. But it doesn’t. It goes into the food chain. Hell, the government dumped a whole bunch of barrels of nuclear waste out by the Farallon Islands. They’ve been sitting on the ocean floor for years, and they’re leaking.”

  “So I haul my barrels of toxic waste far enough out to sea and push them overboard.”

  “Who’s gonna know?” Santiago finished. “Sure, the barrels may corrode and leak, but the chemicals get diluted by the water and the currents move the stuff around. How can anyone be sure how much was dumped? Or where? You deep-six your waste in the ocean, you may never get caught because no one knows it’s there. Unless you see some results, like those sea lions Ms. Logan saw. Having seizures, probably because they absorbed a toxin.”

  “What if someone sees you do it?” Had Ariel Logan seen something else besides those sea lions, something that tied the act to the perpetrator?

  Now I knew why Ariel was so interested in Karl Beckman’s business. If I were going to dump barrels of toxic materials in the ocean I’d need a boat. Where better to find one than a boatyard?

  It wasn’t the everyday runoff of paints, chemicals, and oil from Beckman Boat Works that started Ariel wondering. It was the boats, out of their owners’ custody, away from their normal marina berths, accessible to any one of the yard’s employees. If one of those boats took an unauthorized voyage, or even an authorized one, in Santiago’s words, who’s gonna know?

  “If I were operating a midnight disposal service, as you put it, would I be making a lot of money?”

  Santiago laughed. “Oh, yeah. You’d better believe it.”

  I nodded. “Any ideas who might have some waste to get rid of?”

  “None of the big firms would risk it.”

  “Are you sure about that? They’ve all got deep pockets. Don’t they just pay the fines and go on with business as usual?”

  He moved back a bit, uncomfortable with the question. “I’m sure the local authorities can tell you more about that than I can. I just hear things, around the edges, you know.”

  “I know. And you’ve heard some rumors, haven’t you?” I stared at him across the desk, doing my best immovable object impersonation. “You say the big firms wouldn’t risk getting caught disposing of waste illegally. What about the small firms?”

  “Well,” he said reluctantly. “There are a few companies that have been cited over the past couple of years. They’ve cut corners on regulations—occupational health and safety, wastewater discharge. If you’re planning to stick your nose in, you could start there.”

  “Names?” He gave me four possibilities, all companies he’d heard rumors about.

  “But you’d be better off going to the DA. All the counties have someone who prosecutes environmental violations.”

  But I didn’t have enough to go to the DA. I had a lot of threads that needed tying together. Sergeant Magruder would probably boot me out of the sheriff’s office, unless I gave him more evidence than this.

  According to what Bobby told me, Ariel suspected that Beckman Boat Works had been dumping chemicals into the ocean. But Bobby said she didn’t have any proof. By the time she met my cousin at the Rose and Crown, Ariel had already picked up the report from this testing lab. But she hadn’t shared the details with Bobby. If Ariel was so convinced that Beckman was involved, she must have had another link in the chain, one that I was presently missing.

  “I need help, Norm. And I need it fast.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said in his gravelly voice as he poured me a cup of coffee.

  My friend and colleague Norman Gerrity is a retired Boston cop who got tired of inactivity and hung out his shingle as a private investigator. We help each other out now and again. I sipped the strong black brew and I told Norm what I’d been doing for the past two weeks.

  “You’re up to your eyeballs,” Norm said. “I thought you were going to Monterey for a little downtime.”

  “Life intervened.” I sighed. “I’ll be glad to wrap this up and get back to my normal routine. Maybe then I can get some rest. But I feel like Sergeant Magruder is just waiting to slap Bobby back in jail unless I can come up with more evidence. I think it’s possible both the Beckmans are involved in this. Their firm is in financial difficulty. Karl won’t say where he was that Friday, the evening Ariel was killed. Lacy’s got an alibi but it’s thin. I’m going to run a background check on her.”

  “You’ve still got to draw lines between a lot of dots,” Norm pointed out.

  “That’s where I need your help. Santiago at the lab gave me some names I’d like to check out, firms that have had violations here in Santa Clara County. Could be that would make it more attractive to import the waste to another county and pay someone very well to dispose of it.”

  “How do you figure to get in the door, much less get anyone to talk?”

  I grinned. “It’s always a good idea to call first.”

  Norm played the phone like a virtuoso.

  Whether cajoling information out of his Silicon Valley contacts, or pretending to be a man with something to get rid of, Norm Gerrity could persuade people to tell him things they hadn’t planned to relate. I was good at it myself, but Norm amazed me. Between the two of us, we used both Norm’s extensions to separate wheat from chaff. Daylight darkened to dusk and we consumed most of the pizza I’d had delivered. Finally we connected with a man at a Sunnyvale number who sounded as though he was talking through a handkerchief.

  Not to worry, he said. He would provide the containers, the transport, the disposal. For this he wanted an enormous sum of money. I pretended to be reluctant to spend so much, seeking assurances that our “problem” wouldn’t come back to haunt us.

  “Not to worry,” he said again. “Your problem will be deep-sixed in Davy Jones’s locker.”

  I recognized that term. The same words had been used by Belknap at the water board in San Luis Obispo and Santiago at the testing lab. Hell, I’d heard most of the fishermen in my family use it, from Un
cle Dom to Bobby.

  If you want to dump something in the ocean, you deep-six it.

  Thirty-nine

  IT HAD BEEN NEARLY TWO WEEKS SINCE I’D SPENT A night in my own bed. It felt better than I ever could have imagined. Before getting between the sheets, however, I received a thorough dressing-down from Abigail.

  As I unlocked the front door of my apartment in Oakland’s Adams Point district, my fat and vocal tabby greeted me, questioning my wisdom at having been gone. My friend Cassie had been over every evening to provide food and fresh water and clean out the cat box. But it just wasn’t the same, Abigail informed me in nonstop meows, as having one’s own person about.

  “I hate to tell you this,” I said after I dished up a redolent concoction from a newly opened can, “but I have to go back tomorrow. I’ll be home soon, though.”

  Abigail’s meows subsided into huffy grunts as she inhaled her dinner. I sorted through the mail Cassie had left on the dining-room table, tossing most of it into the waste-basket. Then I checked the messages on my answering machine. Alex Tongco, the Navy lieutenant commander I’d been dating for the past few months, wanted to know if I planned to keep our date this coming weekend. I called and explained the situation. Then I brought Cassie up to speed. As I talked on the phone Abigail settled into my lap, washed herself, and began a rumbling purr.

  Finally I called Errol in Carmel. After finding the report at the Logans’ late this morning, I’d gone back to the Sevilles’ house for a quick report before driving to San Jose to locate the environmental testing firm.

  “Your mother phoned,” he said. “Maybe you ought to call her.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I had put the quarrel with Mother on the back burner, telling myself I had more critical priorities. Truth was I just didn’t want to deal with it right now.

  I stroked Abigail’s back and she purred even louder. “I’m at home in Oakland. I’ll spend the night here, then call Minna’s sister in San Francisco tomorrow. I should be back in Carmel tomorrow afternoon.”

  “The Logans have called twice, wanting to know what you found out in San Jose,” he said. “What should I tell them?’

  “The water samples Ariel sent to that lab were contaminated with solvents used in making computer chips. Someone’s dumping toxics in the bay. Ariel found out.” I told him how Norm Gerrity and I spent the afternoon. “It’s possible the guy we spoke with is the source. He must be hauling the stuff over the Santa Cruz hills. We know Ariel suspected Beckman Boat Works. Karl, Lacy, or someone who works there. If that’s the case, how is it getting to the boatyard? Norm’s going to see if he can nail down some specifics on the Sunnyvale end.”

  “I’ll do the same down here,” Errol said, before I could ask.

  “Be careful.”

  I got up from the chair and carried Abigail to the bedroom. As soon as I was in bed the cat deposited herself on my stomach as though her bulk would prevent me from leaving again.

  Tuesday morning, fortified by coffee and a bowl of cereal, I went to my office on Franklin Street in downtown Oakland and spent some time playing catch-up. There were bills to be paid and phone calls to return, some of them from people who wanted to hire me. Or they had a week ago. I felt frustrated at the paying customers who wouldn’t or couldn’t wait because I was embroiled in something in Monterey, something I couldn’t walk away from.

  When I called Minna Seville’s sister she suggested tea at the Garden Court. It was past one when I headed across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco and deposited my Toyota in the garage of the Palace Hotel.

  The Garden Court just off the lobby sparkles, whether from sunlight through the domed glass roof or electric light from the many ornate glass chandeliers. The marble surrounding the elegant dining room is a rosy beige, its columns topped with dark gold accents. Large pots of palms and ivy dot the blue-and-purple Oriental carpet. Scattered throughout the room are tables with dark green tops and comfortable chairs with striped upholstery.

  On the phone Celeste Bainbridge told me she looked a lot like her sister. Minna was a good deal more down-to-earth and casual than this slender woman with her impeccably coiffed white hair. Minna had told me Celeste was ten years older than she was, which meant Mrs. Bainbridge was seventy-eight. She wore a stylish dark blue suit, accented by a hat and gloves. In my usual slacks and shirt, I felt underdressed.

  “Minna tells me you want some information on the Born and Raised,” Mrs. Bainbridge said when we were seated at one of the green tables. She removed her gloves, smiling at me. At that moment she looked very much like her younger sister.

  “Just one in particular,” I told her. “Lacy Standish.”

  The Born and Raised she referred to were those who had entered life and spent most of their years in San Francisco. Not just within its city limits, mind you, but a specific territory made up of both geography and society. They lived their lives according to old and well-established patterns, attended certain schools from kindergarten to college, spent their summers at Lake Tahoe, and finally went into certain professions. They married each other and produced offspring who would repeat the patterns. To their credit, they were also the backbone of institutions like the symphony, the opera, and the city’s museums.

  “Lacy Standish. I won’t ask why. Other than to comment that I always thought that girl would come to a bad end.”

  “Why?”

  “Blood will tell, whether people nowadays like to admit it or not.”

  The elegant Mrs. Bainbridge’s eyes now had a wicked twinkle, as though she were looking forward to a good gossip. So was I. Our server loomed at the table. We ordered tea with sandwiches and pastries, which was quickly delivered. I poured myself a cup of Earl Grey.

  “Lacy Standish,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, adding cream and sugar to her Russian Caravan. “Her mother was Margaret Victor. The Victors were related to the Crockers but that was years and several generations ago. Doesn’t count for much now. Of course there aren’t any Victors left. They lost a lot of money in the Crash and never really recovered. Lacy’s grandfather was an executive at Crocker Bank. When there was a Crocker Bank.” Mrs. Bainbridge’s mouth quirked at the passing of that institution.

  “Lacy’s father was a man named Lawrence Standish. He was what used to be called a remittance man. Do you know what that is, Miss Howard?”

  “Someone whose family pays him an allowance to get out of town and stay out.” I helped myself to a bit of bread decorated with a sliver of smoked salmon.

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Bainbridge nodded and nibbled on a cucumber sandwich. “In this case the family was British. Lawrence was from Southampton and he came over to the States after the war. Dined out for years on his plummy accent and his Royal Navy record, which I’m sure he embellished. He loved to sail, ride, and shoot, and he taught Lacy all three. In those days he was a fixture down at the St. Francis Yacht Club and at the Meadow Club up in Marin. He attached himself to Peggy Victor, who could have done better, God knows. She wasn’t bad-looking. The family had some status, and a little money, as well as a house in Pacific Heights.”

  “Is that why Lawrence was interested?” I asked.

  “I think so.” Mrs. Bainbridge nodded sagely and sipped her tea. “Peggy was the sole heir. Her brother was killed at Guadalcanal. So she married Lawrence. They had a big wedding at St. Mary the Virgin on Union Street. The reception was right here at the Garden Court.” She looked at the opulent surroundings and smiled. “So was mine. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Where did Peggy and Lawrence live after they married?” I asked, reaching for another sandwich.

  “With Peggy’s father, in the Victor house on Divisadero. Peggy’s mother died during the war, so Mr. Victor was alone except for his staff. Peggy played hostess and Lawrence went to work for his father-in-law down at the bank. They even made him a vice-president. Things went on that way for about fifteen years before the scandal.”

  “What scandal?” I leaned forward, caught up in the t
ale.

  Mrs. Bainbridge freshened her tea and chose another sandwich before continuing. “He embezzled,” she said, her voice tart. “Quite a sum, I understand, over a period of years. Old Mr. Victor kept Lawrence out of jail but fired him. He even gave Peggy an ultimatum, telling her to leave Lawrence or he’d cut her off.” She sighed and shook her head.

  “Peggy wouldn’t, of course. She genuinely loved the man. Lacy was about twelve or thirteen at the time. Spoiled rotten, she was. Daddy’s little girl, and she had no use for her mother.”

  Why should these last words make me uncomfortable? I wasn’t Lacy Standish.

  “What happened to Lawrence and Peggy? Did Mr. Victor make good on his threat?”

  “Yes, he did. Peggy, Lawrence, and Lacy moved out of the Victor house and into an apartment near Union Street. Still Pacific Heights, of course.”

  “So Lacy was barely into her teens when this happened. It must have hit her hard.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Bainbridge nodded sagely. “Lacy had been going to Katherine Burke’s school but her parents could no longer afford the tuition. So she transferred to Grant. Public school but very good. I believe she went on to Lowell High. All her friends were taking dancing lessons at Frank Kitchen’s school. But Lacy couldn’t get in. He was very particular about who he took. She didn’t have access to the sailing and horseback riding, except as someone’s guest.”

  “What happened to her parents?”

  “Mr. Victor left most of his money to a foundation,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “Peggy had some money from her grandmother’s estate but she and Lawrence went through it fairly fast. Lawrence drank himself to death. Peggy used the last of her trust fund to send Lacy off to school at Lone Mountain.”

  I knew of the school, a Catholic college in San Francisco.

  Mrs. Bainbridge narrowed her eyes. “There’s something about Lacy’s last year in high school.” She paused. “Goodness, I can’t quite recall the details. I must be getting old.” She smiled ruefully.

  “Anyway, Lacy graduated from Lone Mountain and promptly got married, to someone she met up at Tahoe. He was from Eureka or some such place, up north on the coast. That didn’t last. I heard he drank, too, just like Lawrence. They were married four or five years. Then Lacy divorced him and came back to San Francisco. That was right about the time Peggy died. She was living with one of her cousins on Jackson Street. Sort of a paid companion.” She paused and reached for her teacup. “Sounds like one of those soap operas, doesn’t it?”