Grubb leaned back in his chair, paused a moment and then said, “A couple of months ago I was downtown in a bar with Ol ‘Handsome Jack. It was a Friday afternoon happy hour with all kinds of sweet young poontang looking to start the weekend off with a bang. So we’re at the bar, and he’s eyeing the local talent looking to get himself a fresh new hen in his pen. Now, like I say, we all got a hole in our bucket, and the hole is his bucket is poontang. Yeah, Handsome Jack does like his poontang, and them sweet young things like Handsome Jack. So as we’re sitting there, a guy comes up to him and says, ‘Hi, Jackie. You’re Jackie Polo! You in Portland now? Haven’t seen you in LA for years.’ ”
“Jackie Polo? You sure that’s what he called him?”
“I’m sure. I’m sure ’cause this guy was real insistent, said the name several times. Also, knowing something about aliases, it hit me how close Jack Polozola is to Jackie Polo. Anyway, Jack got really uptight, denied that he was that person, and ran the guy off. Then he told me that it was a case of mistaken identity, but he was talking with his tongue out of his shoe. Oh yeah, I knew he was lying. Lying like a dog with no legs. So I say, ‘Jack, is there something I don’t know about you?’ But he didn’t say anything. He just sat there looking like someone had licked all the red off his candy. Even lost his interest in the available poontang there, ’cause he got up without a word and was gone. Gone faster than green grass through a goose.”
Grubb leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Now what was very interesting to me about all this was the guy who recognized him.”
“And who was he?” I asked.
“Not a matter of who, but what. The guy was a limp-wrister.”
“He was gay?”
“Liberace was gay. The guy -that recognized Handsome Jack as Jackie Polo was a swishy, twinkled-toed queer-as-the-proverbial-three-dollar-bill flamer.”
“Are you telling me that Polozola plays for the other team?”
“If he’s queer, he damn sure had me fooled,” Grubb said, standing.
On our way out, Grubb gave a light pat to the ample derrière of Tessie. In mock anger she shook her finger at him and said, “Mr. Jefferson, you are a bad man. A very bad man.”
The very bad man gave a long, cackling laugh.
Chapter Ten
When asked why my taste in women runs toward the dark-skinned types, I reply that gentlemen do prefer blondes, until they marry one. Grace Lowell reminded me why I had married one. Tall, with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, she greeted me at the door of her houseboat wearing a plain black T-shirt, a pair of faded Levis, some well-worn canvas deck shoes, and a pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Even in that outfit she looked elegant and glamorous enough to take to the opening night of a Broadway play.
I had followed Grace’s directions and driven up NE Marine Drive almost to the town of Troutdale. At about 190th I found her marina. She was accurate when she said it would be the only landing that had a Rolls Royce parked in it. I pulled down into a dirt lot and found a vintage white Rolls Corniche convertible in mint condition. It was parked between an ancient Dodge pickup truck and a banged-up ten-year-old green Toyota with a flat tire. I walked down a long ramp to a marina with five slips and five modest houseboats.
“Thank you for coming all the way to Portland,” she said in a throaty voice that sounded like Scotch and smoke and was surprisingly clear even though her tone was just above a whisper. “And thanks for coming all the way out here. It is much better than my office. This is my sanctuary. There’s no TV, computer, fax machine, or land-line phone. I keep my cell turned off.”
She ushered me into her houseboat. The interior was one large, rectangular room of maybe 700 square feet. The furniture was minimalist with leather, glass, and chrome. A king-sized brass bed sat in one corner across from a Bang & Olufsen receiver, CD player, and two tower speakers. The system sounded as expensive as it looked. A Stanley Turrentine recording from his Blue Note years played soft and smooth.
She motioned for me to sit on the leather divan. “I am having a very dry Bombay martini. May I offer you one?”
“I’ll have a beer, if you have one handy.”
She gave me a once over. “You don’t dress like a beer drinker,” she said. “Your suit is Armani and your shoes are either Gucci or Santoni.” She brought me a Henri Weinhard’s and a glass.
“Forgive me,” Grace said, taking a seat next to mine, “but I used to be a model. I label people by the labels they wear.”
“I got it,” I said. “I knew you looked familiar. You were the Jantzen girl. The swimsuit model.”
She smiled. “Yes, one of them. Long ago. Today I am just another woman who is forty, fading, and falling apart.”
She seemed to be falling apart gracefully, but I didn’t make mention of it. I just sipped my beer and asked, “Shall we get to it? Do you want to tell me how I can make your big problems into little problems?”
“Have you talked to Jonas Wiesel?”
“No. But I got some background from Lieutenant Mickey Mahoney of the Portland Police. And I just met with Jefferson Davis Grubb. Lt. Mahoney is family—or a reasonable facsimile thereof—and Grubb is a former colleague.”
“I’ve met Mr. Grubb. You don’t strike me as colleagues.”
“Business makes strange bedfellows.”
She laughed softly and said, “Tell me about it! Jonas speaks very highly of you. Says you’re bright and resourceful, and he thinks you are well qualified to help me with my situation.”
“Is that all Jonas told you about me?”
She sipped her martini, and without looking up said, “I know who you are, Jackson. I know you ran First Multnomah Mortgage Bank, and I know they called you Doc Holiday. I read the papers.”
“You believe what you read in the papers?”
“I used to, until I dated a reporter,” she said with no hint of irony in her voice.
Grace stood up and invited me out on her deck. We stepped through a sliding glass door, and we each took a teak chair on her deck. The river was fast and loud with the summer sounds of speedboats with souped-up engines and screaming water skiers.
Grace stepped back inside to pour herself another martini and offer me another beer, but I had hardly touched the one I had.
“The bottom line is this,” she said as she took her chair again. “Jonas has been very helpful to me in the past. If he says I should hire you, then that’s that. I trust Jonas.”
I pulled a legal pad out of my briefcase and began to take notes. Grace had been a realtor for ten years and started her own brokerage five years ago. The focus of her firm and her associates was mainly investment properties, mostly from small to medium-sized apartment houses. Even though the real estate market was in decline, her company was succeeding, because her clientele had cash and equities. About three years ago, at some business function, she’d met Jack Polozola. He was new to the business, but he had a sales background, was good-looking and well-dressed. Not only did he seem like a good prospect for an agent, but he said that he already had a California doctor with millions in cash to invest in Oregon real estate. Since real estate is a sink or swim business, Grace decided to give Jack a chance.
Grace stood with her empty martini glass in hand. “I am going to switch to water,” she said. “Can I get you another beer?”
I declined the beer and opted for a glass of Perrier. A boat created a wake that made the houseboat roll for a moment.
“Jack did well from the jump,” she said. “While he developed a few local clients, his main focus was with his California client, Dr. John Smith, in San Diego. Jack was good at getting both ends of the deal—you know, the listing and the sale. He seemed to have what we call complete ‘client control.’ He would Fed-ex the papers to California and get the deal closed that way. As far as I know, Dr. Smith never saw or inspected any property that he purchased. Although he closed over three dozen transactions, I never heard of any problems. Then there was last week. A deal was
ready to close and all of a sudden Jack was gone. It wasn’t like him not to be right there when something was closing. Particularly with a sizable commission on the table. When I exhausted every way I had of contacting him, I called the client, who told me he wouldn’t sign anything without talking to Jack. I had never talked to Dr. Smith before, and I found him to be a rude, crusty old SOB. When I told him he could lose his ten thousand dollar deposit, he said something to the effect that if it sounded like he didn’t give a fuck, it was because he didn’t give a fuck. Then he told me to have Jack call him, but that I shouldn’t call again, as he was busy. Then he hung up.”
Grace emptied the rest of the Perrier into my glass and spoke louder than usual to be heard above the sound of water skiers. “That was last Wednesday. A week ago today.”
She sank into her chair and continued, “I didn’t know any friends or girlfriends of Jack, and he didn’t really hang out with anyone at my company. So I called the emergency contact—who he also listed as his next of kin—in his personnel file. The phone number turned out to be a dry cleaners somewhere in Los Angeles. The owner said he had never heard of anyone by the name I had for emergency contact. He said he’d had his number and his business for almost twenty years. I had to figure the name or number, or both, were phony.”
Grace went into the houseboat and came back with a legal-sized manila folder. “I had a copy of his personnel file made for you,” she said as she opened to a page with vital statistics and confidential information. She pointed to the “emergency contact” line. The name Jack Polozola had given for that entry was “Jackie Polo.”
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t mention to Grace my conversation with Grubb regarding Jack being called “Jackie Polo.” I hadn’t taken the case yet, and when I did I would determine what, if any, significance the name, or person with that name, had. When I asked, Grace told me she had never heard it before.
“There seems to be no doubt that Jack has skipped,” Grace said, “but I can’t figure out any reason why. He was making good money at work, and I never knew of any personal problems. You know, like drugs, gambling. I don’t think there is anything like that.”
“Is there any way I can get into his house or apartment?”
She waved a hand, airily. “No problem. He bought a house a while ago, but he rented it out. He’s been renting a houseboat down here for about a year. I have the key.”
“Do you have the keys to all your employees’ residences?”
Grace smiled, but it was a stiff smile. “No. But I own this marina and I’m his landlord. However, I don’t think that was your real question. I think you were asking, ‘Was I sleeping with him?’ No. I don’t sleep with people who work for me.” She gave another stiff smile and a long look.
“That’s sounds like a good policy,” I said. I saw no reason to share with Grace my policy towards blondes.
We walked back into the houseboat and I sat on the leather divan. Grace brought a house key and set it on the table in front of me.
I didn’t reach for it. Instead, I said, “There’s more to this. If I’m going to help you, you’ll have to tell me what’s going on besides Polozola’s disappearance.”
Grace sat in a chair across the room. She bit her lip, stared out at the river and then back at me. “You’re right, of course. There’s more. Jack’s disappearance sort of brought it all to a head. What we say here stays here?”
I took the seat next to hers. “Yes.”
She leaned toward me and rested her arms on her long legs. “For some time I was concerned about Jack’s transactions with Dr. Smith. Something about them seemed too good to be true. Smith never missed a beat when it came to delivering large deposits for earnest money, and never missed a beat on making large down payments. Moreover, he never complained about or questioned anything. Odd for a rookie like Jack to have this type of track record.” She sighed. “I could shrug all that off if it wasn’t for the financing. It’s sometimes hard to get non-owner financing in this marketplace, and Jack always did. But always with that Grubb character. When I asked around, all I heard about Grubb was that he had a checkered past and a somewhat sleazy reputation.”
Grubb should always be considered a red flag, I thought, but what I said was, “If I am hearing you correctly, you need me to find Jack Polozola. Find out why he disappeared. Then find out just how legal, kosher, and/or straight-up his transactions with Smith were. Right?”
She nodded. “Right.”
“To do that I will need to look at the closed files of the Smith transactions.”
“I made you copies of six. I can get you the rest, if you need them.”
“But you’re talking your files. Contracts, addendums, listing agreements, escrow instructions and closing papers.”
“Basically, yes.”
“I need the closed loan files from Grubb. There will be much more information in them. If they’re complete.”
Her eyes were wide behind her glasses. “But how would that be legal?”
“If Dr. Smith gave me a waiver to review them.”
“Do you think you could—?”
“I think I could get my hands on them. One way or the other. And you wouldn’t have to worry about ‘the other.’ I think I need to find out what’s really going on. See if you have anything to worry about. I can probably get them, but they may be expensive.”
“I see,” Grace said, nodding her head.
“Also, I will need to go to San Diego to meet Dr. Smith. Once I have a one-on-one and a face-to-face we can better know just how legitimate he and his deals are.”
Grace nodded again.
I had never had a case of this exact nature, and I had never asked for a ten thousand dollar retainer, but I said, “Whenever I take on a case of this nature, I generally ask for a retainer of ten thousand dollars. Along with the missing person and fraud issues we are talking travel, we—”
“I understand,” Grace broke in. She already had her checkbook out and was writing.
I told her I would be emailing her my standard contract, but that I wanted to get started immediately. She was happy about that.
I went to Polozola’s boat. His place was much more Spartan than Grace’s. He had left in a hurry. I saw no suitcase and hardly any clothes in the closet. I picked up a handful of bills that hadn’t been opened, along with current bank statements, and took them with me.
On my way out of Polozola’s boat, I stopped to tell Grace goodbye, and that I would be in touch as soon as I had something.
I drove as fast as I could back to Rose City and Grubb’s office. It was almost six and the office manager greeted me. When he told me Grubb was gone, I told him I thought I had left my sunglasses in his office.
“He had to leave because of a family emergency down south,” said the office manager. “Said he wasn’t sure how long he would be gone.”
I knew Grubb didn’t have a family emergency, because he didn’t have a family. And when I saw the photos removed from the wall I also knew exactly how long he would be gone.
I told the office manager I must have left my glasses elsewhere, thanked him, and headed for the airport. While waiting for my flight, I began looking for Polozola with a standard mortgage credit report and using all three credit repositories as my guide. Skip-tracing wasn’t my forte, but I knew how to decipher a credit report. I had an agreement with a mortgage broker in Oakland where I was able to tap into an online credit reporting service and get a full report with public records and employment history. Illegal but small time compared to the laws I’d broken in my day.
In the title company database I used I could get virtually every piece of property history I needed: down payment, original mortgage amount, purchase price, owner information, name of lender, and more. Using Grace’s records, I could verify and cross-check what had been bought and when. The only thing I couldn’t do with any of these things was see where the funds were coming from. That’s what I needed Grubb’s files for.
In the past week he hadn’t used any gas cards or charge cards. Tapping into his bank account wasn’t as easy, but I had enough personal information to bluff the call center representative at Wells Fargo. I discovered he had taken just over eighteen thousand dollars out of his bank account the day he disappeared, but he had made no debit purchases or withdrawals since then. Wherever he was, Jack Polozola was in the wind and under the radar.
Chapter Twelve
My plane landed in Oakland at 11:10, and it was just after midnight when I arrived in Berkeley to find two patrol cars blocking my driveway, their bubbles flashing, and all the lights in my house on. Detective Sergeant Manners greeted me at the door, telling me there had been a break-in. I walked in to see several uniformed police wearing latex gloves and searching my house. Hobbs approached me.
“What the hell, Hobbs?”
“I don’t know who’s president of your neighborhood watch, but you might consider getting him impeached,” he sneered. “Two days ago you have a murder and tonight a burglary.”
“Why are you searching my house?’
“We have reason to believe something pertaining to the Cortez murder is hidden here.”
“Of course you have a search warrant?”
“What we have is exigent circumstances,” said Hobbs, sounding professional but with a smirk in his voice.
The Big Bitch Page 5