by Lee Goldberg
"It looks just like it," Mark said.
She shook her head. "It doesn't look like the ship I see."
He studied her painting more closely. There were no birds, no people, no living things in her portrait of the Cement Ship. Only the ocean seemed alive, but even it seemed to ebb into stillness around the wreck. The Cement Ship on her canvas was a broken hulk, fading into the mist like a lost memory.
"It's sad," Mark said.
"What is?"
"Your Cement Ship," he said. "The history you told me is right there in your brushstrokes. I see the wasting away of a dream, the ruins of hopes that went unfulfilled."
She studied her own painting, as if seeing it for the first time.
"What happened to the sister ship?" Mark asked.
"The Peralta. Amazingly, it's still afloat, up in British Columbia," she said. "It's one of ten rotting old warships anchored together to form a breakwater for a paper mill on the Powell River. I'd like to go up there someday and paint it, too."
"What's stopping you?"
Betsy motioned towards a slim teenage girl in a bikini, lying on her stomach on a beach blanket. The girl was leaning on her elbows, running a yellow highlighter over passages in a textbook, her face a grimace of boredom.
"I know the feeling." Mark nodded. "It's not easy being a single parent."
Betsy set down her paintbrush and turned to give Mark her full attention. "How did you know I'm a single parent?"
Mark offered his hand. "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital in Los Angeles."
She shook his hand but looked at him guardedly. "It's a long way to go for a house call, Doctor."
"You met my son a few years ago," he said. "Lieutenant Steve Sloan."
"The homicide detective who investigated my ex-husband's murder," she said. "Jimmy seems to be a popular topic lately."
"I suppose Nick Stryker came down to see you, too," Mark said.
"So that's what this is about," she said. "You're worried that Stryker might prove that your son put an innocent man on death row."
"Do you think Bert Yankton is innocent?"
"The Bert Yankton I knew was a sweet man who was manipulated and betrayed by those closest to him," she said. "I have a hard time imagining him killing anyone, even with the horrible things that Jimmy did to him. That's probably not what you wanted to hear."
"The evidence against him was pretty compelling," Mark said. "Especially when you look at his motive and his state of mind the night of the murder. His wife was lucky he didn't take a swing at her with that sledgehammer."
"If you're convinced he's guilty, then why are you so worried that Stryker will come up with. something that will set him free?"
"I'm not," Mark said.
"Then what are you doing here?" Betsy said. "It wasn't to learn about the Cement Ship."
"Nick Stryker disappeared a few days ago," Mark said. "I'm trying to find out what happened to him."
"Why?"
"Because he asked me to," Mark said. He told her about the letter he received from Stryker and his visit with Yankton at San Quentin, but he didn't mention the box of blackmail files.
"You think whatever happened to Stryker has something to do with my ex-husband's murder?" Betsy asked.
"I don't know." Mark said. "I'm following Stryker's tracks, hoping I'll figure out what happened along the way."
"If you do that." she said, "whatever happened to him could happen to you."
Mark smiled. "I try not to think about that."
She regarded Mark anew and, apparently, liked what she saw. "How would you like an ice-cold glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade?"
"That would be very nice. Thank you."
Betsy stood up and led Mark into her villa. While she got out the pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and some cookies, Mark took a moment to look around, his hands clasped behind his back.
There were only two bedrooms and one small bathroom in the villa, the narrow kitchen separated from the living room by a high counter. All the furniture was wicker, with hand-sewn seat cushions and throw pillows. The walls were paneled in lacquered pine and decorated with photos of Serena and Betsy's paintings of Capitola's many scenic charms.
It was a small space for two people to live in, but Mark thought the location more than made up for the cramped quarters. When Mark's wife had died, he also had moved to the beach to live with his child.
Betsy invited Mark to join her at the table, which was placed in front of the big picture window that dominated the living room. Wooden storm shutters were latched open out side on either side of the window.
As she poured the lemonade, Mark complimented her on her cozy abode.
"This is why I will always do whatever I can to help Bert," she said, settling into her seat across from Mark. "I owe him for giving us this wonderful life."
"What did he have to do with it?"
"The only decent, unselfish thing Jimmy ever did was put Bert in charge of our finances. Bert made sure that our assets were protected, that Serena and I would always be secure."
Betsy looked protectively at her daughter on the beach. Serena felt her mother's custodial gaze. The teenager put her highlighter down and cocked her head quizzically, as if to say, Is everything okay? Her mother smiled reassuringly and turned back to Mark.
"After Jimmy was killed, investigators discovered that he'd been looting from his clients for years and stashing the cash in secret accounts. Bert had no idea either."
"It's hard to believe that he didn't know," Mark said. "It was his business, too. The police believe it was the one-two punch of finding out that Jimmy was stealing from the company and sleeping with his wife that provoked Bert's murderous rage."
"If Bert had known about the looting, he would have reimbursed the clients himself. That's the kind of man he is," she said. "But he ended up paying for it anyway. The pack of wolves cleaned him out and then they came after me."
"Why you?"
"Because Jimmy willed everything to me." Betsy said. "The army of lawyers and accountants hired by Jimmy's clients found only a small fraction of what he stole. So they pillaged our accounts and made us sell off everything. The house. The furniture. The art. The cars. And the thing he loved most of all—his money."
"His money?" Mark said. "You mean you had to liquidate his investments?"
"No." she said. "I mean I sold his collection of cash. Jimmy loved money the way that James Bond bad guy Goldfinger loved gold. He liked the look of it, the feel of it, the smell of it, and, of course, what he could get from it. He enjoyed looking at the cash in his money clip almost as much his collection of paper currency."
"He was a numismatist?"
"Not many people know that word," she said. "Even fewer can pronounce it, including me. So I called him a money collector. It fit his hobby and his profession. He had one of the finest U.S. currency collections in the world. He was particularly fond of large-denomination National Bank Notes, gold certificates, and silver certificates."
Mark knew a little about numismatics. As a kid he collected coins, but after a couple years of intense devotion to the hobby, his interest waned. Along the way, though, he learned some things about currency.
For instance, he knew that National Bank Notes were paper money issued by individual banks across the country under a charter from the Treasury Department, a practice that began after the Civil War and continued until the early thirties. What made the currency collectible was its scarcity and its regional character. The bills were emblazoned with the names of their issuing banks. Some of the institutions were obscure and produced only a small number of notes.
While the physical condition of the bills played a large part in determining value, Mark knew there were other important factors that collectors considered, including the denomination, the color and type of the U.S. Treasury seal, the signatures on the note, and the actual size of the bill itself.
Mark shared his limited numismatic b
ackground with Betsy, who admitted that her knowledge of the field wasn't much better than his. She was, however, able to describe to him some of the highlights of Jimmy Cale's multimillion dollar collection.
"The least valuable notes in Jimmy's collection were worth from thirty-five thousand to one hundred thousand dollars," she said. "But his most prized possessions were crisp, uncirculated currency worth nearly three hundred thousand dollars each."
Those bills included a hundred-dollar gold certificate from 1882 with a portrait of Senator Thomas Hart Benton on the face, a five-hundred-dollar legal tender note from 1880 with a red seal and a portrait of Major General Joseph King Mansfield on the face, and an 1882 fifty-dollar gold certificate with a brown seal and a portrait of New York governor Silas Wright on the face.
"Not that I really know what any of that means," she said. "I couldn't tell you why a red seal was any more valuable than a brown one, or vice versa. It seems strange to me that a bill worth fifty dollars at the time it was printed could be worth six thousand times as much now."
She told Mark that it took her ex-husband years to accumulate his remarkable collection through brokers, dealers, auctions, and private transactions between other well-heeled numismatists. But it took her only a single day to auction it all off to keep the slavering lawyers, accountants, and creditors at bay.
"All that was left were the crumbs that Bert wisely set aside for me and Serena years ago," Betsy said. "It turned out to be enough for us to buy this place and support ourselves. It gave me the freedom to be a stay-at-home mom and look after Serena instead of having to apply for a job at Wal-Mart. I shop there, though. It's about all we can afford."
That was when Serena walked through the door, her towel and textbook under her arm, her feet covered with sand. The breeze from the beach carried the scent of her coconut suntan lotion across the room.
"Serena, how many times do I have to tell you to wash your feet before coming in the house?" Betsy said.
"We live at the beach, Mom," Serena said. "There's sand everywhere. That's life."
"Wash your feet," Betsy said firmly.
Serena groaned at the unendurable oppression, tossed her stuff on the wicker couch, and held her foot under the water faucet next to the front stoop. She looked up at Mark as she washed her feet.
"Who's our guest?" she asked. "Another private eye?"
"Have there been more than one." Mark asked Betsy.
"No, just your friend," Betsy replied, then turned to her daughter. "This is Dr. Sloan. He's helping Mr. Stryker out."
"Nick showed me his ride," Serena said. "A tricked-out Escalade with a DVD entertainment system and chrome spinners on the rims."
"I've seen it," Mark said.
"Do you have a cool car, too." Serena asked.
"I drive a new Mini Cooper," Mark said.
Serena frowned. "Cool, but not private eye cool. More like community college, aspiring actress cool."
"You mean it's more suited to someone like you," Mark said.
"Clever deduction," Serena said mischievously. "Are you sure you're not a detective?"
"I'm not, but my son is a police officer."
"What does he drive?" She dried off her feet by wiping them on the doormat, which made her mother scowl. Mark was sure that was why Serena did it.
"A Ford pickup," Mark said.
"If you don't want him living at home until he's thirty, get him a sports car for his birthday."
It was a little late for that. "What makes you think he still lives at home?" Mark asked.
"He drives a Ford pickup. Unless he's a cop in Mayberry, it doesn't make him much of a babe magnet." She gathered up her things and headed towards the bedroom. "I've got to change for class. Nice meeting you."
"You too," Mark said.
CHAPTER TEN
At the exact moment Lieutenant Steve Sloan walked into the squad room of the West Valley Police Station to address the members of the Major Crime Unit, carefully coordinated simultaneous raids were occurring all across the Southland.
SWAT team members and police officers working under the auspices of the DA's special task force served search warrants at Detective Harley Brule's Chatsworth warehouse, where they arrested Brule's wife, Natalie, and several off-duty MCU detectives and ValTec security officers. Task force officers were also searching their homes, offices, and private vehicles for evidence related to the fencing of stolen goods.
But Harley Brule didn't know that. Nor did the five other members of his unit who were sitting in chairs facing the watch commander's podium, where Steve now stood.
Brule certainly wasn't Jack Webb's vision of an LAPD detective. He'd shaved his head down to the shiny skin on his knobby skull and wore a skintight black T-shirt to show off his prison yard pecs—not that he'd ever been anywhere near a prison yard.
That was going to change, Steve thought. He was surprised nobody had noticed Brule was a crook before. The cop was practically advertising it with his attitude. He slouched in his seat, looking bored, so his crew of MCU cops affected the same disaffected pose.
It was going to be a pleasure taking these arrogant jerks down, Steve thought.
"I'm Lieutenant Steve Sloan. I've moved over from robbery-homicide to lead a joint agency task force working out of the district attorney's office. I'm here because we've uncovered a major crime ring in the West Valley trafficking in stolen goods."
Brule muttered an expletive.
"Did you have something to say, Detective?" Steve asked.
"It's crap, Lieutenant. Nothing happens in the Valley that we don't know about," Brule said. "Usually before it happens."
"I'm sure that's true," Steve said.
"Then why are you here?"
"To clear up the confusion."
"I'm not confused." Brule turned to another member of his team. "Are you confused, Rob?"
"No, sir," Rollo said.
"See?" Brule looked back at Steve. "No confusion here."
"Then maybe you can tell me why you're clearing thirty thousand dollars a month selling stolen goods online through auction sites," Steve said.
Brule sat up slowly in his seat. He looked over his shoulder at his men, and that was when he noticed the uniformed police officers filing into the room.
"We thought you understood that the Major Crime Unit was supposed to prevent major crimes, not commit them," Steve said. "That's the confusion."
"You're making a big mistake' Brule said.
"There's something else I don't want you or your crew to be confused about," Steve said. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
As he read the men their rights from the podium, the uniformed officers moved in, handcuffed the detectives, and took their weapons.
Brule glared at Steve the whole time. Suddenly the room was alive with the sound of beepers chirping and cell phones trilling.
"You can ignore those pages and calls. I can tell you who's calling," Steve said. "It's your frantic wives and children warning you that cops are tearing your homes and cars and boats apart, that your Chatsworth warehouse has been taken down, and you should ditch anything incriminating that's on you. I'm afraid it's too late for that."
Steve stepped out from behind the podium, walked up close to Brule, and got right in his face.
"We have Stryker's flies, Harley," Steve whispered.
Brule flinched as if slapped.
"Your wife is in a cell. Your son is being picked up at school by child protective services. Think about that," Steve said. "Think about your wife in prison and your son in the foster care system. Think about what you can tell me to make life easier for them."
Before Brule could reply, Steve walked away to let the dirty cop marinate in his guilt, torture himself with the horrible fates that would await his loved ones if he did nothing.
After Serena went off to attend her afternoon classes at Cabrillo College, Betsy invited Mark to take a stroll with h
er on the beach. Mark rolled up his pants legs and went barefoot, letting the surf wash around his ankles as they walked.
"What sorts of things did Stryker want to know about?" Mark asked.
"You never call him Nick," she said. "The way you talk about him, he doesn't sound like much of a friend."
"He wasn't," Mark said. "To be honest, I don't even like him much."
He doubted she would either if she knew that Stryker made his living as a blackmailer.
"You're going to a lot of effort for someone you don't like."
"If I don't look for him," Mark said, "I'm not sure any body else will."
"There's probably a good reason nobody wants to bother," she said. "But I guess you already know what that is. And you're looking anyway."
"You think I'm a fool?"
She smiled at him warmly. "It's better to be a man who cares too much than one who doesn't care at all."
"You ever know anybody like that?"
"I married one," she said. "Jimmy was all about Jimmy. For a while, he was the center of my universe, too, so it worked out. But then Serena was born, and that changed my priorities. It didn't change his."
"What were his?"
"That's basically what Nick Stryker wanted to know, what was Jimmy into? He liked to party, smoke fine cigars, and gamble. He'd go to Las Vegas every chance he got. That's where we got married, that's where we had our honeymoon, and that's where he wanted us to go on vacation," Betsy said. "I begged him to go to Europe, but he wouldn't go anywhere he couldn't speak the language. Not understanding what people were saying made him feel horribly paranoid and insecure. The one time we went down to Cabo, we had to come back alter only two days because he couldn't sleep. He worked himself up into a panic, convinced that everyone speaking Spanish was ridiculing him, laughing about how they'd ripped him off."
"Kind of ironic, considering he was busy ripping off his unknowing clients."
"I'd say it was his own guilt bubbling up to the surface, but Jimmy didn't have any guilt," Betsy said. "He never even tried to hide his sleeping around."
"When did the womanizing start?"
"After Serena was born," she said. "I think he wanted to make me leave him. I wouldn't do it. Part of it was out of spite. I didn't want to give him what he wanted. Mostly I stayed with him for Serena. I felt she needed her father in her life. But he never was. I finally realized that divorcing him wouldn't change her life that much after all."