Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “And now you want something else from me, right?”

  “Okay, yes. I need some traffic cam footage, if it’s still available.”

  “Where and when?”

  Kaye gave her the location and date. “I know it’s been awhile, and I don’t know how long you archive this stuff, but I’m interested in the time between twelve forty-five and two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “What’s this about?” Ross asked.

  “Just trying to clear up a traffic thing that turned into a fatality, make sure all the ducks are in a row. You know how it is.”

  Ross, her lips tight and her head nodding slowly, stared at him.

  “This is about the guy in the new Ferrari, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask?’

  “Cut the bullshit, Ben. Is it, or isn’t it?”

  “Okay,” Kaye said, “it’s about the guy in the new Ferrari. You know about this?”

  “Hell, yes, I know about it,” Ross said. “The people at Ferrari drove me crazy trying to get me to open an investigation. They don’t have local cops in Italy, just national, and it took me forever to get the concept of jurisdiction across to them, and that I had none. A concept, I might add, that even some people standing in my office right now have a hard time grasping.”

  “I said I was sorry. Can I make it up to you?”

  “No,” Ross said flatly. “Let’s just move on, okay? Back to your traffic cam footage. I’m sorry, but we don’t archive that far back.”

  “Hey, it was worth a try,” Kaye said. “Sarah, I really am sorry I caused you grief. Call me if you ever need anything, even if it’s just a drink, okay?”

  She opened the door. “See ya.”

  He’d gone about fifteen feet when he heard Ross’s voice.

  “Kaye. Get back in here.”

  He turned and walked back into Ross’s office. She closed the door behind him again.

  “You get a freebie on this one because of your father,” she said. “I didn’t know. I thought you just left me hanging.”

  “Never.”

  “Okay,” Ross said, finally sitting down at her desk. “Let’s talk about the Ferrari thing. Why are you looking at it? I thought it was a closed issue. Death caused by trauma and burns resulting from a single vehicle traffic accident.”

  Kaye ran it down for her, including his talk with Mark Edler and visit to the dealer.

  “You’re buying what this Edler guy is selling?” Ross asked, clearly skeptical.

  “I don’t know,” Kaye said. “But I do know that if I don’t check it out, I’ll lose sleep over it.”

  “You’re looking for a white…what did you call it? Hayabusa?”

  “That was the plan, but without the video it’s a dead end.”

  There was a brief silence before Ross spoke again.

  “I have the traffic cam video.”

  “You do?” Kaye asked. “Where?”

  “On my computer,” Ross replied.

  “Why?”

  “Ferrari was being such a pain in the ass I got it to cover mine,” Ross said. “I tracked the car all the way from the dealer to the city limits. Howell left my city alive, going northeast on Santa Monica Boulevard.”

  “I don’t supposed you got the license number and registered owner’s name for the white Hayabusa I think was following him?”

  Ross laughed. “Ben, I know shit about motorcycles. Plus, I wasn’t looking for anything but the Ferrari.”

  “Send me the video, will you?” Kaye asked.

  “I can’t,” Ross said. “If my boss found out I’d be lucky to get a job working parking lot security at Dodger Stadium. But I can let you look at it here. Besides, it’ll be faster. I’ve already gone through it and created a location and time stamp log.”

  While Ross brought the video file up on her computer, Kaye mentally ran through the geography. He’d ridden the Mulholland crest too many times to count. There were occasional cross streets from residential areas, and several of the ‘Canyon’ roads created major intersections, but he discounted most of those as being too far west.

  A guy with a new Ferrari wants to be seen.

  If Howell had been eastbound on Santa Monica and ended up at the crash site, where scuffs indicated he’d been westbound, there were multiple ways to get up the hill. But he most likely would have passed the intersection of Sunset and Crescent Heights. Even if he’d gone farther east, he’d have gone through Laurel Canyon and Mulholland coming back west.

  He knew there had to be cameras.

  “Okay, ready,” Ross said.

  Kaye dragged a chair around the desk and sat down next to Ross. She started the video. It wasn’t more than a few seconds before she paused it.

  “There’s your guy,” she said, pointing at the red Ferrari on the screen, “northbound on the east end of the block from the dealership.”

  The time stamp read 13:11:53, in line with what Anthony had related to Kaye on his visit to the dealership.

  Ross started the video again. Just before the light cycled, a white motorcycle, the rider in full leathers and a tinted, full-face helmet, accelerated across Wilshire and continued north, behind the Ferrari. She hit pause again.

  “Is that a Hayabusa?”

  “It is,” Kaye said, leaning in to get a closer view. “Based on this I’d say the rider is no more than about five-seven or five-eight.”

  “Could it be a woman?” Ross asked.

  “Could be, I guess. I have no reason to think male or female one way or the other yet. Keep going.”

  Ross started the video again. This time she just let it run and they watched the recorded camera intervals she’d saved for each intersection. At every one within the Beverly Hills city limits the Ferrari would appear first, then the Hayabusa. On one occasion the bike had run a red light to keep up. Several cameras captured clear images of the bike’s license plate.

  “Can you run the plate number?” Kaye asked.

  “Stand by,” Ross replied, clicking out of the video and running the plate. “Okay, that’s not good. It’s been in the system as stolen for over six months.”

  “The bike, or just the plate?”

  “Just the plate,” she said, peering closer at the screen. “Reported to the Santa Maria P.D.”

  “Thanks, Sarah,” Kaye said, standing. “Again, I’m really sorry I caused you so much grief. I certainly didn’t intend to.”

  “Like I said, free pass because of your dad. My condolences on his passing.”

  Kaye went back to the Road King and pondered his next move, again running the geography through his head.

  His next call was to the city’s Department of Transportation. He’d worked closely with them during his time as a motor officer, but that had been a few years ago.

  Things had changed. After dealing with the confusing voice menu and being transferred three times only to be hung up on, he called the West Traffic Division instead. Five minutes later, armed with a name and extension number, he called LADOT back and navigated the electronic menu until he was asked to enter an extension number.

  “This is Clarence.”

  Kaye identified himself and explained what he was looking for, and Clarence immediately told him they didn’t keep footage that long.

  “But hold on a minute,” Clarence added. “There’s something about Laurel Canyon and Mulholland from right around then that sticks in my mind.”

  Kaye was put on hold before he could say anything, and stayed there for two minutes.

  “It’s your lucky day, Detective,” Clarence said when he finally came back on.

  “How so?”

  “There was a fatality at that intersection two days after the day you’re looking for. Your traffic people were pretty sure there would be some sort of charges, so they asked us to preserve the footage. Your day might be on it, too.”

  “You’re not sure?” Kaye asked.

  “Not a hundred percent,” Clarence said. “The drives are usually rota
ted every seven or eight days, but this one is now out of the rotation. It’ll depend on the timing.”

  “I see,” Kaye said. “What do I need to do to get the drive?”

  Clarence explained that the drive, as potential evidence, was now subject to chain of custody protocols, and he wasn’t responsible for that. Kaye would have to wait for the designated custodian to pull the drive, review it to see if what Kaye wanted was on it, and, if it was, make a copy for Kaye.

  “How long will that take?” Kaye asked.

  “If it’s there, you should have it by the middle of next week, but we’ll let you know either way.”

  “That’ll work,” Kaye said.

  Clarence confirmed the date and time frame Kaye wanted before ending the call.

  ***

  Back in the squad room, Kaye grabbed the phone and called the District Attorney’s office. Two minutes later he was talking to ADA Kayla Okafor, explaining the circumstances of the Geller murder and that he needed access to Geller’s financials related to the possible real estate deal.

  “Sorry, Detective,” Okafor said when Kaye finished. “You’re going to need a lot more than that to compel Feinmann to turn anything over. There’s no evidence of any sort of nexus at this point. If he won’t turn them over voluntarily, you’re out of luck. But can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why not go to Mrs. Geller?”

  “Feinmann made it clear I was supposed to work through him.”

  “Is Mrs. Geller a suspect?”

  “No,” Kaye said. “There’s nothing that points to her.”

  “Then she has no right to presence of counsel or any other shield from the police,” Okafor said. “Feinmann is over stepping by telling you not to talk to her directly. Besides, you’re not looking for actual financials, right? You just want the names of the project and maybe the other parties involved.”

  “Right,” Kaye said. “The problem is that Mrs. Geller claims to have no knowledge of this, so she doesn’t even know what to look for.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “That’s why I called.”

  “Just be your inimitable self, Detective. Call Ziva Geller, or Feinmann, and ask them to examine the financial records and just give you the information so you can catch Avi Geller’s killer. Light a fire and see which way the smoke blows.”

  Kaye laughed and said, “Thanks, Counselor. I’ll take it under advisement.”

  He leaned back again, pondering what Okafor had suggested. It was good advice, but he still struggled with asking Ziva Geller for information she claimed, and he believed, she knew nothing about.

  He needed to sprinkle some bread crumbs on the trail, something to give her as a starting point.

  Fifty million dollars.

  And that was just Avi Geller’s buy in. No telling how big the project – if there was a project – really was.

  Kaye snorted, leaned forward and spun to face his computer monitor.

  Nobody spends that kind of money, at least legally, without causing a splash. Find out where the ground is wet and go from there.

  Ziva Geller had said ‘north of Santa Barbara’ when she’d mentioned the project. The problem was that most people, even most Californians, would assume that meant toward San Francisco, when the coastline between Point Concepcion and Carpinteria actually runs east-west before swinging southeast toward Ventura. ‘North of Santa Barbara’ was mountainous National Forest terrain.

  Kaye went with the best assumption. It took him twenty minutes to compile a list of phone numbers, and he started calling.

  First on the list was the Coastal Commission. He asked about any recent or pending applications for large developments, or any in progress in Ventura, Santa Barbara or San Luis Obispo Counties.

  They assured him there was nothing on the scale he was describing.

  Then he started with the municipalities in Ventura County. They all told him they had nothing in the pipeline that came close to his description. Ventura County was next, and that, too, was a blank.

  He moved on the Santa Barbara County.

  He came up dry with the City Halls.

  He dialed the County and was connected to the Planning Commission offices.

  A woman answered and identified herself as Alicia Valdez.

  “Ms. Valdez, my name is Ben Kaye. I’m a detective with the LAPD.” He gave her his badge number and a call back number for verification.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m investigating a homicide that occurred here in Los Angeles. One of the unknowns I’m trying to track down involves a big real estate project, maybe a resort, somewhere in the central coast area. I’m trying to determine where the project is and who the principals are.”

  “Not much to go on,” Valdez said.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Kaye said. “All I really know is that it’s a large project and I’m guessing they would have submitted plans and proposals at least a couple years, maybe longer, ago.

  “We haven’t had anything big and new in the recent past,” she said. “Most work around here lately has been rebuilding and updating after the fires and floods, and that’s mostly been inside the cities.”

  “So there’s nothing? Maybe even a little farther back?”

  “Well, there was Valle delle Viti, but that application dates back almost four years. In fact, they opened for business earlier this year.”

  “Valle delle Viti?”

  “In English it’s Valley of the Vines.”

  “Something to do with wine?”

  “Yes, it’s a wine-themed resort and spa, with golf and tennis, stuff like that.”

  “Where is it?” Kaye asked.

  “Southeast of Santa Ynez, on the north end of the Village of Chumash Oaks.”

  “I’ve never heard of Chumash Oaks.”

  “That’s because the town is also brand, spanking new. Incorporated while the resort was under construction.”

  “You said the resort is open for business?”

  “Yes,” Valdez confirmed.

  “Do you remember anything unusual about the project?”

  She laughed. “Detective Kaye, this would be a lot shorter conversation if you asked me what was usual about Valle delle Viti.”

  “There were problems?”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily characterize them as problems,” Valdez said. “I mean, the developers followed all the rules, but a lot of people, including me, didn’t care much their methods. They got whatever they wanted, whenever they asked, and they got it fast. Somebody was obviously very well connected. Rumors swirled around the County economic development consultant, but nothing ever came of them. He was out of it, anyway, after Chumash Oaks was incorporated and their internal planning staff took control of the project.”

  “You didn’t see it through to the end?”

  “No. We surrendered jurisdiction once The Village of Chumash Oaks became a legal entity. We helped them if they called, and answered questions if they asked them, but we had no control.”

  “Have you visited?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, it’s fabulous,” Valdez said. “As an architect and planner I only wish I had the resources and opportunity to do that kind of work. The wine is already gaining an international reputation.”

  “I sense another ‘but’,” Kaye said.

  “I guess it just depends on whether you think the ends always justifies the means.”

  “They were shady?”

  “I wouldn’t call them shady,” Valdez replied, “and I didn’t mean to give you that impression. They met every deadline, complied with all our changes and revisions requests, all the financial disclosure rules, stuff like that. Still, well, I guess the best comparison I can make is that a circus lion may do all the tricks it’s told to do, but, bottom line, he’s still the top of the food chain in that cage, if you know what I mean.”

  “Got it,” Kaye said. “Who
were the developers?”

  “The company was called Valle delle Viti, same as the project name, but I have no idea who the principals were. I never met them. Whenever we had meetings or public hearings it was always architects and engineers that showed up. And lawyers. Always at least two lawyers, even if they just sat and listened.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “The architects and engineers, yes,” Valdez said. “The lawyers? No. I think they were just there to remind us civil servants who the lion in the room was.”

  “Interesting perspective,” Kaye said. “Would it be okay if I called you again if I needed something else?”

  “Sure,” Valdez said. “I’m in the field a lot, so let me give you my cell number, too.”

  ***

  After concluding his call with Alicia Valdez, Kaye did an on-line search for Valle delle Viti.

  The website was impressive, replete with photos of guests enjoying the available accommodations, restaurants and activities. He went to the reservations interface to check availability and was surprised to find the hotel completely booked through the end of the year.

  If Avi Geller had put fifty million into Valle delle Viti, it might have been a wise investment.

  Kaye had run many investigations rooted in fraud and bad investments, but good investments usually led to clinking glasses and bonhomie all the way around, not murder.

  Unless something had gone wrong.

  Then again, Avi Geller might not have a single dollar invested in Valle delle Viti. He needed more.

  He called Patty Phillips.

  “What’s up, detective?”

  “Can you track down everything you can for me on a place called Valle delle Viti? It’s a new resort not far from Santa Barbara, in a place called Village of Chumash Oaks. I specifically need as much as you can get on the legal aspects of the place; who owns it, where the money came from, contractors, stuff like that.”

  “Gee, sounds like it might take a visit up there on the Department expense account to gather all that.”

  Kaye laughed and said, “Nice try.”

  “Hey, if you don’t ask, you don’t receive, right?” she said, chuckling. “But, yeah, I can do that. The State should have those records. It might take a while, though. When do you need it?”