Murder Most Fermented

by Christine E. Blum

  “I think that we can give you some good reasons,” Peggy said, and Sally woke up her iPad screen.

  “It looks like Mr. Howard Platz was leveraged up to his beady eyeballs,” Sally explained, showing us some sort of P&L statement.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked.

  Peggy waved me off and picked up the story. “Howard was running a construction Ponzi scheme. He was constantly borrowing from the next job to cover his overages and inaccurate estimates for the previous one. And the sums he owed have been growing exponentially.”

  “How much is he in the hole?” I asked.

  “About one and a half million,” Sally replied. “And naturally his suppliers and workers are the last to be paid, so he keeps having to find new ones.”

  “And if word got out on the street, then he’d be blacklisted and shut down.” I saw everyone fall deep into thought.

  We watched another small plane land. A couple and their son who looked about seven or eight disembarked once it had taxied to our side of the runway. They climbed the stairs and headed into Typhoon possibly for an early supper. It is amazing to me how inured I’ve become to witnessing these simple acts of shameless luxury.

  “That’s the reason he was building the basement without permits!” Paula was up on her feet and hopping with excitement. “He was and is hoping to strike oil. He needs that money desperately to get out of debt and has no time to lose. He probably knows about the deed. Maybe he’s the one who murdered Abigail to get his hands on it.”

  “And while he was at it, he had to get rid of his workman Carlos. We were told that he would show up on the job drunk, and as you said, Halsey, Howard can’t afford for any of his financial strife to get out.” Penelope adeptly picked up four sweet potato fries in one hand, dipped them into equal amounts of ketchup, and gracefully popped them into her mouth. We know how much the Brits love their “chips.” I was surprised that she hadn’t gone on a search for malt vinegar.

  “Do you think that we have enough to take to Augie?” Sally asked.

  “How much of that can you share?” I asked, pointing to the spreadsheet on her tablet.

  “We’ll need a bit more time to pull together our sources.” Peggy quickly stepped in and took the iPad from Sally.

  I had thought as much. This info had all the earmarks of being accessed surreptitiously from one or more of her contacts in “The Company” aka the CIA.

  “Okay,” I said, “and while you are doing that, I think that I have a way to tie Mr. Slimy Snyder into the fold.”

  “I can’t wait to hear.” Paula was really enjoying all of our detective work, almost as much as she was enjoying the Lillet. When I saw her dipping a piece of Korean fried cauliflower into her glass, I discretely cut her off.

  I recounted the visit that Snyder had paid me and watched them laugh when I described his pathetic attempt to authenticate his oil claims. They were still chuckling when I told them about “nurse Marisol” and her spying, and when I got to the Geiger counter and Bardot, they had escalated back to a full roar. At the end, Peggy and Paula had to excuse themselves to visit the ladies’ room.

  “So since he didn’t get to make a sale with you, then we still don’t have anything to prove he is running a scam?” Penelope summed up after they’d all calmed down and Peggy and Paula had returned.

  “True, but remember I said that I thought that I had something to tie him to Howard? He’d run out of my house so fast to escape Bardot that he didn’t even take the time to retrieve his derby hat. It was when Marisol tried it on for size that I remembered seeing something made of straw hanging on a nail at the construction site. It was under a jacket but I clearly saw it. This was the night that we discovered Carlos’s body. I was so happy to get out of there that I just dismissed what I’d seen.”

  “So you think that it was Snyder’s bowler hanging there?” Penelope asked.

  “One of them. I looked up the brand of the one he left at my house and saw that you could buy these cheap things in packages of four on eBay.”

  “Glad you got something. Sally and I came up empty following him, the slime got into his car and drove off,” Peggy said. “But I’ve made a note to check out Snyder’s financial status very closely.”

  God help him.

  “I’m going to make a quick trip back to the site after it is closed up for the day and see if the hat is still there. If it is, I’ll take a few photos of it in place and then put it in a plastic bag to give to Augie.”

  “Not by yourself, I hope. That place is squirre-lier than a nut factory.” Sally was always watching out for me.

  “I’ll be in and out in a flash, I swear. Easy-peasy.”

  I later realized that saying this was akin to an idiot’s last words which often are: “Hey, watch this!”

  * * *

  I took Bardot on a walk around the block at just about dusk and saw to my relief that Howard’s site was locked up and quiet. We made the loop and then I let Bardot in through my back gate. On this occasion I was flying solo, this was a quick mission and no four-legged protection was going to be needed. I checked the blind slats in Marisol’s windows and thankfully they didn’t budge. Which didn’t mean that she wasn’t spying on me with cameras but this was the time that Extra aired, and Marisol had a little sumpin’ sumpin’ for Mario Lopez.

  I wasn’t expecting the gap in the fence that we got through last time to still be open. I was sure that Howard and his men had discovered it by now and stopped it up. I was prepared to do a little fence climbing, another reason why I had not brought Bardot. On my way I checked my pocket to make sure that I had the plastic bag I was going to use for the hat and the blue surgical gloves that I had swiped from my last doctor’s visit.

  You don’t want me “borrowing” things? Then don’t leave me alone in the examining room for forty minutes with last year’s magazines.

  Sure enough, the peeled back portion of fence to the back of the property was now closed off with builders’ blocks that were too heavy for me to move. They were, however, great for climbing, and I used the hollowed-out sections as toeholds to help me easily climb to the top of the fence. Once there I stopped and listened to confirm that I was alone. Satisfied, I jumped down the six feet on the other side and was so focused on getting the evidence and leaving that I didn’t stop to think about how I was going to get back out.

  I used my phone for light and a quick look around showed me that no new construction had occurred since my last visit. Howard was probably putting all his efforts into finding oil, and I was anxious to see how much deeper the basement trench was now.

  I entered the crude framed structure of the house, the sides still open to the air. To my left of the doorframe, I again saw the jacket hanging off a large nail. I opened my camera app, selected the flash option, and took several photographs. Each time the light went off, I could see the straw section of the hat brim underneath. When I was sure that I’d covered the scene in situ, I donned the gloves and lifted the jacket off the nail. I found another hook to hang it on and then examined the hat. I had photos of the one Snyder had dropped at my house and confirmed that they were similar. I repeated the same process of taking pictures of the evidence and when I was done, I took the hat and placed it in the plastic bag. I heard a car engine outside and froze. I tried to control my breathing while scanning for places that I could hide. After about three minutes all was still quiet and I let out a deep breath. If I was caught in here again, by anyone, I was toast.

  I carefully placed the jacket back on the nail. I knew at this point that I should turn around and get out as fast as possible, but I was dying to take a look at the trench. Mostly I wondered if any more black sludge, possibly oil, had seeped into the hole.

  If I could just get a sample of it, then we could get it analyzed and know for sure if this was a scam. I put the bag with the hat down and ventured into the main section of the house frame. I treaded carefully using the light from my phone on the ground to make sure th
at I didn’t accidentally fall in again.

  When I got to the edge, I planted my feet firmly on the ground and scanned the trench. It was deeper, I’d say maybe four or five feet deeper. I had been thinking about how to get a sample of the sludge and had decided to use one of my surgical gloves as a scoop. The question was how to get down there and back up again. Toward the back, where I’d found Carlos’s body I could see that a ladder had been placed along the muddy wall and was secured up top with sand bags.

  Perfect.

  I made my way to it, again stepping slowly to avoid slipping. Once there I tested the ladder and was relieved to see that it hardly budged from its place. It was now or never. With my back to the trench opening, I climbed down. The floor was even gooier and strongly clinging to my shoes and legs, making moving a labored effort. I decided to get my sample right where I was standing and get the hell out of there.

  I needed to remove my glove carefully and inside out, I didn’t want there to be any contamination from the outside elements that I had touched. This sounded easier than it was because my other hand was also gloved and I seem to have stolen—borrowed—a pair of extra larges. The surplus latex of the fingers kept getting in the way. I was finally successful and bent down to scoop up some of this potential black gold. When I was sure that I had enough, I removed the glove that was on my other hand and used my bare fingers to tie the open wrist portion of the glove with the oil sample.

  Time to go home.

  Before I could extract my feet and step on the bottom rung of the ladder, I heard voices coming from above. Then I saw the beams of flashlights moving in jerky arcs.

  Crap.

  I needed to think fast. I couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but I could discern that they were coming from men. Maybe some of the guys had forgotten their tools, or maybe they were gathering to get high, or for some other random reason. I figured that if I scrunched down on the floor in a far corner against the trench wall no one would notice me and I could just wait them out. I sunk into the viscous, sulfur-infused brew and cringed when I felt it seep through my pants. At least I hadn’t done a face-plant this time. I tried to think of puppies and French Burgundy to pass the time. That’s when the lights came on.

  “What are you doing down there?” I heard a voice say but all I could see was the blinding yellow glow of a work light.

  “Police,” I heard another one say. “Don’t move!”

  As if I could . . .

  Chapter 18

  The short ride to the station did little to calm my nerves. First of all I was sporting new wrist bling courtesy of the LAPD that forced me to sit forward in the back seat of the cop car. I now have even less respect for anyone who has a handcuff fetish. Every time the car took a turn, I had no way of steadying myself and flopped over from side to side. Funny thing was it should be a straight shot from Rose Avenue to Pacific Division.

  When we came to a stop, I looked out and saw a landscape of blue and white. This must be where the police cruisers go to sleep at night. There were sedans, vans, SUVs, and some motorcycles right around where we’d stopped, and in the darkness, my eyes easily tricked me into thinking that cops were hiding in them ready to fire if I made any wrong moves.

  The guys that arrested me left me in the car and went inside through a metal back door. I swear they did this just to mess with me for presumably making their night shift longer. I was cold, wet, and ashamed. I never imagined that things could escalate so quickly. I kept hoping that Augie would open the car door and tell me this was all a misunderstanding and offer to drive me home.

  That didn’t happen.

  When the officers returned, they helped me out of the car and walked me through the same metal door. On the other side was a hallway with concrete walls and floors and overhead fluorescent lights that would make even a beauty queen look like a crack addict.

  They stopped me about six feet in and had me face a metal-gated window opening that led to another room. Everything that wasn’t made of concrete was made of metal, some of it painted blue as if anyone needed reminding that they were in a police station. Another officer approached the window.

  “We ask everyone who enters here the same three questions, Ms. Hall.” This guy was large, and I could just tell that he gave out much more than he took in an altercation.

  I stood flanked by the two arresting officers, who made sure that I was paying close attention. This was all too real. Here I stood handcuffed, my arms held by cops, in a hallway with nowhere to run. That’s when I noticed the bench. It looked like it could seat four or five, it was metal of course and mounted to the floor in the center of the hallway. The front of the bench included a pipe that ran the length of it and had one part of a set of handcuffs attached to it. The bright, shiny stainless steel of the whole contraption made me think I was about to get a Pap smear in a house of horrors.

  “Question one,” the officer behind the cage began. I looked at his shirt tags and saw that he was something called a “Watch Commander.”

  “Do you understand why you are here?”

  A voice in my head was telling me that these are rhetorical or “yes” or “no” questions, so I controlled my tongue and just nodded.

  “Question two, are you sick, ill, or injured in any way?”

  “I will carry the emotional scarring of my wayward roguery to my grave, Watch Commander.”

  I felt one of the cops jab me in the back and shut my mouth.

  Not knowing what to make of my statement he continued.

  “Question three, do you have any questions?”

  “Just the obvious one, sir. What happens next and how do I atone?”

  It was the middle of the night, and I could tell from the way he looked at me that I’d better change my tone before I had any chance of atoning.

  “I just mean, I have never experienced anything like this, and I feel so sorry for both taking up your valuable time and for trespassing on that almost empty lot.”

  “We will now review the evidence and I will hear the officers’ reports and then we will decide how to proceed, Ms. Hall. I understand that there is some evidence to be booked and secured with the property department?” he said, looking at one of the cops.

  “Yes,” the officer replied and held up an evidence bag. Inside was one of the blue surgical gloves I had used to take a sample of Howard’s sludge. In this light, it looked like one of those blue doggie doo-doo clean-up bags filled with, well, doo-doo.

  The watch commander made a face that told me he thought the same thing. “You can put her in Tank 2 while we review the case.”

  My stomach sank, I wasn’t sure what “Tank 2” meant, but I was pretty sure that I wasn’t about to get an MRI. We walked past the steel bench, thankfully, and then a room with a window and the prerequisite metal door. On it was a sign that said TANK 1. Staring back at me was a guy, more like a kid really, with blank eyes. Whether unconsciously or as a defense mechanism, he had made himself numb to his surroundings. All I could think was that he was too young to have had to learn to do that.

  “In here,” said the officer, less than gently guiding me into Tank 2. True to its secondary nature this one was smaller and the window was no larger than the pillow I wished that my head was laying atop. The same kind of fluorescent light lit the cell and another steel bench ran the length of the back wall. At least I was alone. I hoped.

  Everything changed when the door closed.

  The first thing that I noticed was the absence of sound. In any other situation, I would have welcomed the silence after all the police radios and commotion, but now it was a reminder that I was no longer part of things, interacting with the human race. The second thing I noticed was the inside surface of the door to the tank. Where there should have been a handle, there was instead a metal plate covering the hole from the inside. Predecessors had made attempts to scratch words, drawings, and symbols into the paint of the door. Crude scratches made me think of an insane asylum.

&nb
sp; I had remembered a story I’d been told when I lived in New York City of a reporter who had decided to go undercover and live the life of a homeless person for forty-eight hours. It had been billed as an incredibly raw and brave piece of journalism particularly because the reporter was a woman. I thought so as well until I heard that a camera crew was with her filming the entire time. So she did have a lifeline. When I watched it, I was struck by something she said late at night when she was huddled in a doorway: “I am cold, I am uncomfortable, but I still can’t image what it must feel like to be homeless because I know I have a key in my pocket and I know that in a short time I’ll be able to go home.”

  Tonight I had no such assurances, and I had no idea if or when I’d be able to go home. I sat on the hard bench and leaned against the V-shape that the side and back walls made. My hands were still cuffed.

  About an hour later I heard a key turn in the lock to my door and then it opened. The same arresting officer escorted me out of the cell and walked me back to the caged window where the watch commander was waiting. I let out a breath when I saw that his resting face this time did not appear to resemble someone’s who’d eaten one of those long, thin red peppers that they put in Chinese food that you are supposed to discard.

  “You’re an interesting one, Ms. Hall. I see from various notes in our system that this is not the first time that you have pushed your boundaries and fallen under suspicion for a crime.”

  Don’t talk, Halsey, I mean it!

  “Here’s where we’ve come out on this,” he continued. “The California criminal justice system classifies crimes into three categories: the most series are felonies punishable with prison sentences.”

  I visibly shivered.

  “This is not the case with you,” he quickly told me.

  Was I starting to gain his sympathy?

  “The next down are misdemeanors, these crimes are punishable by a maximum of one year in county jail.”

  My mind immediately went to losing my dog, my house, and Jack. I could taste bile in my mouth and I must have gone very pale.