Since that day, Kaye had tried to follow Roshi’s instructions almost every day, with limited success. Time to try it again.
He stretched the crown of his head upward and let his gaze drift downward. He’d never tell Roshi, but he’d found his meditation to be more successful with his eyes closed. With shikantaza, though, he had to leave his eyes open to observe his surroundings.
Maybe that’s it, he thought. Maybe if I almost close my eyes and just concentrate on what I can hear, I can build into this.
He allowed his eyelids to droop and focused his mind on the sounds around him. His first realization was that there was a lot more noise than he usually heard, and he let his ears drink it in. He felt himself getting into sync with his environment.
When he walked into the kitchen he was astonished to see that he had been meditating for over an hour, twice the length of his normal sessions.
He showered and ate a small dinner, lingering at the table and putting together his schedule for the next day.
It was good to be back in the groove.
DAY 3
Wednesday Week 1
The Los Angeles Fire Department has a string of stations spread along the length of Mulholland Drive between the 101 freeway and Mulholland’s western terminus in the Santa Monica Mountains. Brush fires are the scourge of California and these stations are the first line of defense.
Kaye rolled his 1961 Harley Duo-Glide into the station parking lot just after the 8:00 a.m. shift change. It was a warm morning and the station’s front and back overhead doors were up, allowing the slight breeze to blow through.
Two firefighters walked out to meet him.
“Nice bike,” one said. “How can we help you?”
Kaye pulled his jacket back to show his badge.
“Ben Kaye. I’m looking for a Mark Edler.”
The second firefighter turned around and shouted, “Edler, the cops are looking for you. Get your ass out here.”
Kaye saw another firefighter look around the back of a pumper truck, wipe his hands on the rag he carried, and head his way.
“This is about that Ferrari, isn’t it?” the shouter asked Kaye.
“It is.”
“Dumb ass kid,” the first guy said. “Just can’t let it go.”
“I’ll see if I can straighten it out,” Kaye said. “Thanks, guys.”
“About time,” Edler said when he stood in front of Kaye.
The kid was tall, thin, red-headed and still had a slight case of acne.
“Excuse me?” Kaye said.
“I said it’s about time. I called you weeks ago.”
“You didn’t call me,” Kaye said. “I just heard about this yesterday, and I’d suggest you stow the attitude if you want me to listen to what you have to say.”
Edler stared at Kaye and gulped.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated because nobody will listen to me about a murder.”
“Are you an arson investigator or accident reconstructionist?”
“No,” Edler said, then stared at Kaye. “Then why did you come?”
“Courtesy, I guess.”
“So this is a jerk off visit? Come talk to me so you can file a report that you did, then do nothing? Thanks, but no thanks.”
Edler turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Kaye said. “That’s not the only reason I’m here.”
Edler turned back around.
“Your lieutenant said something that piqued my curiosity,” Kaye went on. “He said you were a Ferrari freak. Knew everything about them there is to know.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Kaye said. “Truth be told, I’m the same way about Harleys. Have been since my Marine Corps days.”
“So you think I might know what I’m talking about?”
“Exactly,” Kaye said. “If I saw something that I believed contained a faulty conclusion about a Harley, they’d never convince me I was wrong. Because I’d know I wasn’t.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, tell me why you’re convinced it wasn’t an accident.”
“Follow me,” Edler said. “I’ll show you.”
Kaye followed Edler into the station, where Edler showed him to a chair in the dining space and asked him to wait, then disappeared. A minute later he returned with a large pad of paper in his hands and took the seat next to Kaye.
“Okay,” Edler said, opening the pad and extracting several sheets.
To Kaye they first looked like schematics, but then he realized they were technical drawings of a car, and they were good.
“Did you do these?” he asked.
“Yes, and no,” Edler replied. “A couple of them are from the Internet, but I use those for reference to put together what I want.”
“I’m impressed. Now, convince me.”
Edler launched into an explanation of how the Ferrari, like all cars, is really a collection of different systems designed and engineered to perform specific tasks. Each has its own function, but also needs to work in conjunction with the other systems for the car to be a car. The biggest challenge for the engineers was fitting all the necessary systems into the desired shape and size.
He showed Kaye his drawings of the three-segment 488 chassis, the braking system and the engine to bolster his argument.
“The engine,” Edler said, “is really a collection of a huge number of sub-systems, but –”
“Whoa,” Kaye interrupted. “Mark, you’re telling me things I already know. Tell me why you don’t think that crash was an accident.”
“Okay, sorry,” Edler said. “The four eighty-eight is a mid-engine car. The engine is behind the driver and the engine compartment is separated from the passenger compartment by a firewall. And there’s a very good reason they call it a firewall.
“In the four eighty-eight there are only a few systems that function both behind, and in front of, that firewall. Penetrations are small, and few, as you might imagine. The systems I looked at were wiring, ducting and undertrays. I also looked at the tunnel, what you’d probably call the center console if you were in the car. It doesn’t extend behind the firewall, but it runs longitudinally from the firewall almost to the front of the car.”
“Why those?”
“The impact was to the nose of the car. The driver lost control, swerved several times – we know that from the tire scuff marks -- then crossed the oncoming traffic lane and hit the road cut embankment on the south side of Mulholland almost directly head-on.”
“Okay. So?”
“Detective Kaye,” Edler said, “there is absolutely no way that kind of impact should have caused that car to burn, especially where it burned.”
“Was the impact enough to rupture the gas tank?”
“Absolutely not,” Edler said. “There are actually two interconnected tanks on the car, mounted behind the firewall inside the rear quarter panel flares on both sides. Kind of like saddlebags on a motorcycle. There was no evidence of a fuel spill at the scene, and no explosion. Which is important.”
“Back to the systems,” Kaye said. “You picked those because they gave you fore and aft damage comparisons, right?”
Edler smiled and said, “Very good. Yes, that’s exactly right.”
“What did you find?”
“Long story short, I think that fire started in the passenger compartment, somewhere under the dash on the passenger side, and that makes absolutely no sense.”
“Maybe an electrical short, or brake fluid. Brake fluid is flammable.”
“I don’t think so,” Edler said. “There could’ve been a short, but the fire was way too fast and way too hot for it to be brake fluid. Given our response time, the body was really burned. Plus, there were other things.”
“Like what?”
“The undertrays on the passenger side, and the tunnel, were…wrong.”
“Wrong? What does that mean?”
“Out of pl
ace,” replied Edler. “Bent, but not in ways consistent with the impact. Like another force had acted on them prior to the car striking the embankment.”
Kaye leaned back and studied Edler. The kid’s knowledge base was impressive, but, still, what he was saying contradicted the findings of two trained professionals.
“You do know that the official conclusions by both your department and mine were accidental death as a result of a vehicle crash.”
“I do,” Edler said, nodding. “But they’re wrong. The damage to the tunnel beneath the passenger side dash was inconsistent with a frontal impact. The degree of melt of the ducting was much higher in front of the firewall than behind it, which is totally wrong if the fire started in the engine compartment and somehow breached the firewall. Same with the wiring, and the wiring was totally gone near the passenger dash, but still intact at the front of the car and behind the firewall. Typically, where the wiring is most burned up is where the fire started.”
“How long did you spend inspecting the car?” Kaye asked.
“I only had about forty minutes,” Edler said. “We stayed on scene until the car cooled off enough to extract the victim and the tow truck could hook it up.”
“You’ve made all these conclusions based on a forty minute eyeballing of a wreck too hot to touch?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Edler said, staring directly at Kaye.
Kaye pondered what Edler was telling him, then said, “Look, no disrespect, because you obviously know a lot about Ferraris and a lot more about accident reconstruction than I expected, but you’re fixated on the cause of the fire and ignoring the fact that the driver was driving down the road all by himself, and with no help from anybody else managed to crash his car. The fire was an unfortunate by-product of the crash that, sadly, killed him. It’s still an accident.”
“That’s just it,” Edler said. “I think he did have help.”
Here comes the conspiracy theory, Kaye thought. But he said, “Help in what way?”
“I mentioned the undertray and the tunnel, right?”
“You did.”
“It was really the tunnel that convinced me,” Edler said. “As expected, it was crumpled from absorbing the impact. But the right side, under the dash, was totally obliterated. I mean, it was just…gone. Not so on the driver’s side. Put that together with the bowed undertray and all the other indicators, and I think the conclusion is obvious.”
“What would that be?” Kaye asked.
Edler shrugged and said, “A bomb.”
“A bomb?” Kaye asked. “Seriously? The guy just drove the car off the dealer’s lot less than an hour before the crash. How could there be a bomb in the car?”
“I don’t know,” Edler said. “But everything I saw was consistent with an explosion under the passenger side dashboard. Not a big bomb, probably an incendiary device as opposed to high explosives, but believe me, Detective. There was a bomb in that car.”
“Look,” Kaye said. “I haven’t even had a chance to take a really close look at the reports. But I’ll check into this, okay?”
“As a courtesy?” Edler said, and Kaye heard the sarcasm in the firefighter’s voice.
“No,” Kaye said, reaching out and picking up the drawings and looking at them. “You’ve made me just skeptical enough, and you obviously know what you’re talking about. I think there’s a statistically measurable chance this could be more than an accident.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Kaye said. “It could be, in fact probably is, nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, then it’s nothing,” Edler said. “All I want is for somebody with skills and the access I don’t have to take a closer look.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll start by asking you a couple questions.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Was there anything unusual about the call out?” Kaye asked. “Anything you remember as being different?”
Edler was silent for a moment, thinking.
“One thing’s been nagging me,” he said at last. “We had a lookie-loo.”
A lookie-loo was someone who stands and watches a fire from a sense of fascination. Kaye also knew it wasn’t unusual for arsonists to stick around the scene to watch their handiwork, which is why photos of the crowd were always taken. For some it was a source of sexual excitement and gratification.
“That’s not all that unusual.”
“I know,” Edler said. “But this was…different.”
“How so?”
“I was riding in the engine cab. I first noticed the guy pulled over on the westbound shoulder, you know, being a good citizen and getting out of the way.”
“He watched from there?”
“No, that’s just it,” Edler said. “We passed the guy when we were only about a third of the way to the call. But not long after we arrived on scene, there he is again, watching from the eastbound shoulder, as close as he could get without getting inside your guys’ traffic perimeter. It didn’t take us long to knock down the fire, and when I looked, the bike was gone.”
“Bike?” Kaye asked. “Bicycle or motorcycle?”
“Moto,” Edler said. “White Hayabusa. Looked almost new.”
Kaye did some quick calculations in his head.
Edler must have read his mind, because he said, “You’re trying to reconcile timing, right? Trust me, it doesn’t fit.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kaye said. “How could the biker be eastbound and not make it past the station by the time you got the call, saddled up, rolled out and covered only a third of the distance?”
“I haven’t been able to figure that out, either, unless…”
“Unless,” Kaye said, “he was behind the Ferrari and passed it after it happened.”
“Or caused it,” Edler added.
“Did you identify the reporting party?”
“Yeah. It was the guy whose back fence was about thirty feet uphill from the Ferrari. His place would’ve been the first to burn if the fire had gotten into the brush.”
“Did you tell your arson investigator everything you just told me?” Kaye asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“She didn’t seem impressed, or interested.”
“What else do you remember about the rider?”
“Gosh,” Edler said. “Not much. Full leathers and helmet. Tinted face shield. I really couldn’t even swear it was a guy.”
“Not too many women ride ‘Busas,” Kaye said. “Okay, one last question, kind of off topic.”
“Ask away.”
“I don’t want to offend you, but what the hell are you doing working in a fire station?”
Edler laughed heartily. “No offense taken. My Grandfather and my Dad were firefighters. I never wanted to be anything else.”
“You’ve got other talents,” Kaye said, pointing at the drawings.
“Oh, I’m using them,” Edler said. “I’ve been LAFD for about six months and I’ve already seen ways I can improve the equipment. I’m working on three patent applications now.”
“Then what? Get rich and retire?”
Edler’s expression changed.
“I’m a firefighter, Detective Kaye. That’s what I do.”
Kaye looked at Edler and recognized a kindred spirit.
“Okay,” he said, standing. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
Right then, the station alarm sounded.
***
Kaye stayed out of the way until the responding equipment had cleared the station.
He checked the time. It was only just past 9:00 a.m. and he figured the morning commute had likely run it’s clogged course. He’d be able to make the Bureau before 10:00 a.m.
He traced the Ferrari’s likely route back down into the Basin. On the way he plotted his next moves on the Ferrari wreck and Avi Geller’s murder.
It was good to be back in the saddle, in more ways than one.
***
/> Traffic cooperated and Kaye rolled into the Bureau parking lot just after 9:40 a.m.
He found a note from Captain Thompson to see him ASAP, but the office door was closed and the room was dark behind the blinds.
The message light on his desk phone was lit.
“Detective Kaye, my name is Howard Feinmann. I represent Ziva Geller. She asked me to call you and apologize on her behalf for her being rude yesterday. She would also like to talk to you about her husband’s death. I have an opening in my schedule for four o’clock this afternoon, and we will come to you. Please call me and let me know if that works for you.” Feinmann recited a number, said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
The call could mean one of two things: Either Mrs. Geller had a clear conscience and just wanted to get past her husband’s death, or she was hiding something and wanted to get ahead of the curve.
Kaye much preferred meeting people connected to a case, particularly homicides, face-to-face with no advance warning. He’d long ago learned that catching people flat-footed got better results. Lies took time to construct, and the quicker they were constructed, the faster they were to tear down.
But sometimes you had to take what you were given.
He punched in the number.
“Howard Feinmann,” a gruff voice answered.
“Counselor, Detective Ben Kaye, LAPD.”
“Thanks for calling back, Detective.”
“No problem. Four o’clock would be fine. Have you been here before?”
“Actually, no,” Feinmann replied. “My practice hasn’t included criminal defense for quite some time.”
Kaye gave the lawyer the address and some landmarks, and Feinmann assured him he’d be able to find it.
“Just ask for me at the front desk,” Kaye said.
“Thank you, Detective. We’ll see you this afternoon.”
He needed to make paper on the Geller case, but no sooner had he swung around to his desk to get started when Captain Thompson pushed through the squad room doors.
Thompson was a large, ponderous man. His time riding a Captain’s desk had not been kind to his weight or general physical condition. The irony was that his dedication to being possibly one of the best Captain’s in the department would likely keep him from ever getting promoted. He was topped out, he knew it, and Kaye knew that knowledge sometimes rankled the man.
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