“Yesterday.”
It was Patty’s turn to laugh. “It’s good to have you back, Detective.”
Kaye checked the time, then punched in an outside number.
The call to Howard Feinmann’s office went straight to voice mail.
Hey, he thought, I tried.
He dialed Ziva Geller’s home number. She answered.
“Mrs. Geller, Detective Kaye. I wanted –”
“Howard told you not to call me,” she interrupted.
“No, he didn’t,” Kaye said. “He asked me to work through him, and I tried. Tell him to answer his phone.”
Silence.
“I’m not answering any questions,” she said after a moment.
“That’s fine,” Kaye said. “I didn’t call to ask you any questions. I called to pass along some information.”
More silence.
“I think,” Kaye went on, “the real estate deal your husband was involved in was probably a place called Valle delle Viti. It’s past Santa Barbara up in the wine country, and it opened this past spring.”
“So it was legit?” Ziva asked. “Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s very successful. If your husband was an investor, maybe even a partner, well, with California being a community property state, I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions. I just thought you might appreciate a tip on what to look for in your husband’s financial records.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“Mrs. Geller?”
“Yes?”
“If you find it, I’d appreciate a call.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Good-bye.”
Kaye leaned back and smiled.
The profit motive was such a wonderful thing.
***
Kaye spent another hour brainstorming possible leads on Avi Geller’s murder and Leigh Howell’s fatal crash.
He was frustrated with the delays in getting information, but knew there was nothing he could do about it. It was the nature of the beast.
He was packing it in for the day when an e-mail notification pop-up on his monitor caught his eye.
It was from Arch.
Kaye,
No final transcriptions or toxicology on Geller or Jane Doe until next week, but the posts are done.
Thought you’d like to know the bullets were badly fragmented, so no chance of ballistics. But based on entry wounds and penetration depths 99% probability they were .223 or 5.56x45 like we thought. Can’t tell for sure without the cartridge headstamp. As I’m sure you know, you can fire a .223 from a 5.56 chamber, but not the other way around.
Sorry I can’t nail it down any more than that.
Arch
P.S. Jane Doe had needle marks between her toes. Won’t know what she used until tox comes back. Maybe a pro?
The P.S. got Kaye’s attention.
It lent credence to Ziva Geller’s statement about her husband’s sudden penchant for prostitutes.
He downloaded the crime scene photos from his phone to his computer and found the facial shot of Jane Doe.
She didn’t look like a wholesome country girl, but she didn’t look like a street-corner working girl, either, if one could draw such conclusions from a couple of photos of a corpse. But the high-priced call girls weren’t usually addicts. There were exceptions of course, but the tracks between the toes gave him a starting point.
It took him a few minutes to compose an e-mail to the Vice and Missing Persons units, asking for their help in identifying Jane Doe. He included the few particulars he had, attached the photos, and clicked ‘Send’.
He thought it was a longshot, but it was due diligence.
On the way out he grabbed the Kanji note and stuffed it in his pocket.
DAY 6
Saturday Week 1
Kaye hadn’t anticipated how tough the first weekend would be.
Going back to work had definitely cured the boredom problem, but he wasn’t on the shift schedule, or on call, for Saturday or Sunday.
Hilliard, just back to duty, had drawn that assignment this week, and complained about it.
And while Kaye could work off the clock, Captain Thompson wasn’t a fan of the concept.
By 10:00 a.m. he had practiced for an hour, cleaned up, fed himself and was sitting on the patio with a cup of tea while he watched the sailboats off Marina del Rey.
And chafing at his idleness.
He needed to take a ride. But, to where?
He thought about cruising out to the Rock Shop, a popular weekend destination for local bikers, but on Saturday the place would be mobbed and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with crowds.
Patty’s off-hand comment about visiting Valle delle Viti crossed his mind and inspiration struck. He’d take the new bike. It wouldn’t exactly be working off the clock, but it might be productive. And he wouldn’t put in an expense voucher. He was pretty sure he could swing it.
He drained his cup and headed inside to get ready. On the way out he grabbed the Big Boar jacket and zipped his badge and ID into the inside pocket.
***
Kaye rode Pacific Coast Highway to Oxnard, picked up the 101 North and just before one o’clock took the San Marcos Pass exit and headed into the hills on CA 154; the back way to Santa Ynez.
He was almost to the dam at Lake Cachuma when he passed a sign announcing the City Limits of the Village of Chumash Oaks, population 2,317. Twenty yards beyond that was a sign informing motorists that traffic laws were strictly enforced, and ten yards beyond that the speed limit dropped from 65 mph to 25 mph.
Kaye rolled off the throttle, stayed off the brakes and started working down through the gears to bleed off speed. It took a couple hundred yards to settle in at twenty-five.
A quarter-mile later he saw a police car, a black Dodge Charger with a push bumper and large, round driving lights in the grill, its light bar and grill lights flashing, coming up fast from behind.
“No way,” he muttered under his breath as he drifted the bike to the right shoulder and stopped.
He shut down, and was in the process of removing his helmet when he heard a voice on a loudspeaker.
“Stay on the motorcycle, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Kaye complied. A shadow in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he started to turn to take a look.
“Eyes front, Mr. Big Boar MC,” the cop growled. “Don’t you look at me until I tell you to.”
“Look, officer, I’m –”
“Shut your mouth,” the cop commanded. “You speak when you’re spoken to. Got it?”
Okay, Kaye thought, let’s see how big an asshole you can make of yourself before I tell you I’m a cop.
“Yes, sir,” was all he said.
A minute passed before Kaye saw another patrol unit coming fast from the west
It was a Ford SUV, and slowed as it went by. Kaye saw the ‘K-9’ sticker on the back side window. It stopped on the opposite shoulder and waited for a westbound car to pass before making a u-turn and pulling in behind the Charger.
Kaye heard a door slam and the crunch of gravel as a second officer approached.
“What’ve you got, Reid?” the new arrival asked.
“Flagrant exhibition of speed,” the first officer replied. “Fifty-eight in a twenty-five, and illegal passing.”
“I didn’t pass –” Kaye started to say.
“I told you,” Reid said, stepping into Kaye’s field of vision. “You speak when you’re spoken to.”
Reid was tall and lanky, and Kaye’s first impression was that the man was a bad caricature of a cop in a B-movie, complete with mirrored sunglasses and black leather gloves on a warm day.
His badge said Chumash Oaks Police. Sewn above the Department patches on both shirt sleeves was an unusually shaped rocker reading ‘Special Officer’.
“I’m just trying –” Kaye said before Reid cut him off again.
“Trying what? Trying to talk your way out of jail?”
Kaye turned and stared at Reid’s sunglasses.
“Oh, I’m not going to jail,” he said, his voice low.
In a half-second Reid’s pistol was out of its holster and pointed squarely at Kaye.
“You’ll go to jail if I decide to take you to jail,” the cop snarled. “Hawkins, get Titus.”
Kaye again heard gravel crunch as the second officer walked away. Seconds later he heard a dog panting and whining as Hawkins returned.
“Go over the bike,” Reid said.
Kaye sat quietly as Hawkins coaxed the dog, a large Shepherd breed, to sniff at the bike’s saddlebags. Then the dog sat down and whined.
“Well, look at that, would you?” Reid said. “What’s in the saddlebags, biker boy?”
“Nothing that should interest the dog.”
“Really, now,” Reid said. “Keep him going, Hawk.”
Hawkins tugged the dog away from the saddlebags and in only a few seconds he sniffed Kaye’s left pants pocket, sat down, and whined again.
“How much cash you got in your pocket?” Reid asked.
“None of your business,” Kaye said.
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you, biker boy,” Reid said. “Hawk, search the saddlebags.”
Hawkins led the dog back out of Kaye’s field of vision.
“You have no probable cause to search the saddlebags,” Kaye said. “If you’re going to write me a speeding ticket, do it. I’ve got places to go and you’re wasting my time.”
“Oh, a jail house lawyer, are we?” Reid taunted. “We have a positive indicator from a trained and certified drug detection canine. That’s all I need. So I’ll ask you again, what’s in the saddlebags?”
Kaye stared at Reid and just shook his head.
“They’re locked,” Hawkins announced.
“Are you going to open them,” Reid asked Kaye, “or do I have to break them? Because right now I have enough, based on Titus there, to seize your motorcycle and all the cash on you, and that’s what I’m going to do if you don’t open those saddlebags. It’s called civil asset forfeiture of criminal proceeds.”
Kaye had had enough.
“I’m a cop, you moron. Detective Ben Kaye, Los Angeles Police Department. The only thing in my saddlebags is a change of clothes and an overnight kit. You need a new dog.”
“Sure you’re a cop,” Reid said, his voice not quite as confident. The muzzle of his pistol dropped slightly. “You got your ID on you?”
“My badge and ID are in my inside left jacket pocket,” Kaye said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you while you were busy being Buford T. Justice.”
“Hawk,” Reid said, “check his jacket pocket.” Then he asked Kaye, “Are you armed?”
“Not today.”
Hawkins commanded Titus to stay, then walked to Kaye’s left side.
“Keep your hands on the handlebars,” he ordered Kaye.
“No problem,” Kaye said. “Left side.”
Seconds later, Hawkins held up Kaye’s badge and ID card for Reid to see.
“Shit fire,” Reid muttered, then said to Hawkins, “Keep an eye on him. I’m calling the Lieutenant.”
Reid holstered his pistol and headed for his patrol car.
“What’s his problem?” Kaye asked Hawkins.
“He’s just doing his job.”
“No, he’s not. I do the job, too, but not like that.”
Hawkins handed Kaye back his badge and ID and said, “Probably your jacket. We had our first homicide in the department’s history last week and there was information that some bikers flying colors were involved.”
“Okay,” Kaye said. “That I get. But your speed trap is a joke.”
Hawkins just shrugged and said, “Generates revenue.”
Kaye heard gravel crunch again and turned to see Reid, his face flushed, headed toward them.
“Lieutenant says we should cut him loose,” Reid said, ignoring Kaye and addressing Hawkins. “Guy’s got no balls.”
Kaye resisted the impulse to make a comment about the value of balls versus brains.
“How do I get to the Valle delle Viti resort?” he asked Hawkins instead.
Hawkins gave him directions. It wasn’t far.
“Thanks,” he said, then turned to Reid. “Find another line of work.”
“Fuck you,” Reid said as he turned and walked toward his patrol car.
“Keep your speed down,” was all Hawkins said before he, too, walked away, Titus tight against his left knee.
Kaye waited until both cops cleared before firing up the Harley.
He had no tolerance for police officers like Reid, and briefly considered stopping at the Chumash Oaks PD to talk to the Lieutenant with brains, but no balls. But he dismissed the idea as pointless. Technically, he had been speeding, as he was sure everybody who passed the 25 mph sign was. If Reid had been professional about it and written him a ticket, he would have just written a check and mailed it in.
His mood didn’t improve when, a half-mile down the road, the speed limit went back up to fifty.
***
Kaye followed Hawkins’ directions, turning off the highway some two miles later onto Da Vinci Lane. The road began to trend uphill and in the distance he could see what appeared to be the upper levels of a large structure rising above the hilltops ahead.
The first sign he was in the right place was acres and acres of carefully tended grape vines. Kaye was no wine enthusiast, but to him the vines looked well-established for an operation so recent, and it crossed his mind that for a population of just over two thousand, Chumash Oaks covered a lot of square miles.
After a few miles of rolling countryside covered with vines he rounded the shoulder of a hill and found himself face-to-face with the Village of Chumash Oaks. There had been no outskirts, no ramshackle metal buildings surrounded by dead cars trying to hide in tall weeds. No abandoned, two-pump gas stations, their rusted signs touting brands long gone since the 1950s. No long-neglected, caving in shacks from the post-war era, trees now growing through their leaning chain link fences.
The Village of Chumash Oaks was suddenly just there.
And it was stunningly beautiful, instantly giving Kaye the feeling he’d ridden into a 17th Century Tuscan village.
Except the patina of fake age had been applied a little too liberally.
Da Vinci Lane was surfaced with asphalt. It snaked through the hills, the cobble-stone paved cross streets coming in when topography allowed. They also all bore Italian names, were all one-way, and all wide enough for only one car to pass through. Preference was clearly given to pedestrians. There was a total absence of traffic signs and pavement markings, forcing drivers to proceed slowly and cautiously, and twice Kaye saw small signs pointing to parking.
Many of the Da Vinci Lane crossings opened into narrow, pedestrian-only walkways, and arched stone bridges over the roadway were also plentiful. Everywhere, buildings pressed close to the streets and pathways, and flags and banners advertising many of the same retailers Kaye knew from Rodeo Drive were rampant.
The town center was a large traffic circle surrounding a decent-sized park, its center occupied by a large fountain that resembled the work of Michelangelo.
Kaye kept going, toward the large structure he’d seen from a distance, idly wondering why he’d never heard of this place.
A few minutes later Da Vinci Lane curved under the canopy of the native oak forest and climbed steeply. When Kaye emerged from the trees he found himself at another roundabout.
Across the circle, stone ramparts reminiscent of medieval times loomed over the landscape. On the left side of the road, the words Valle delle Viti were carved into the stone, and on the right was carved L’Abergo. The Hotel. Beneath and between the carvings a tunnel, blocked by a heavy metal gate operated by a keypad and monitored by video cameras, disappeared into the earth.
Kaye’s eyes naturally followed the imposing stone ramparts toward the sky and he saw the hotel, de
signed to resemble a medieval castle, perched atop them. The only giveaways of its modern construction were lots of glass and a multitude of balconies.
He noticed discreet wooden signs; one pointing left to ‘CA 154’, and one pointing right that read ‘Hotel Guests.’
Kaye went right. The road gradually curved away from the ramparts and went downhill, back into the oak forest.
When he again emerged from the trees he saw a stone gatehouse ahead. A single barrier wooden gate barred the way. Beyond the gate he could see another tunnel, this one obviously the entrance to an underground parking structure.
He rolled up to the gate and stopped.
“Name, please,” the uniformed guard said politely.
“Ben Kaye.”
The guard turned to a computer terminal and studied it momentarily.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kaye, you’re not on the list.”
“The list?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said. “Only hotel guests and their accompanied visitors are allowed inside the ramparts.”
“Seriously?” Kaye asked. “I can’t just go in and look around?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry. Not on a Saturday.”
“Pretty mysterious.”
“It’s not meant to be,” the guard said. “The first couple of months we were open there were so many visitors that hotel guests could barely get in and out, or find a table for a meal. Access restriction became an unanticipated necessity to preserve the guest experience.”
“Not to mention the exclusivity factor.”
The guard smiled and said, “There is that, too.”
“I tried to book a room. You were full.”
“Yes, sir. We’re booked solid through the grape harvest and the holidays.”
“Must be nice,” Kaye said. “How do I get out of here?”
“You can turn around here and go back up the hill to the traffic circle,” the guard said. “If you take Da Vinci it takes you back to town, where there are plenty of things to do and places to eat. If you go straight across it’ll take you around town to the west and back to the highway.”
Kaye thanked the guard and turned around. At the roundabout he stopped and watched a tram packed with people emerge from the tunnel under the hotel and head into town. He opted to go straight. The road did bypass the town center, and Kaye soon saw the reason why. It was clearly the access for commercial vehicles and deliveries to the stores and restaurants in the town center, and probably the hotel. But the design was pure genius. The designers had built artificial hills between the road and the town, then built short tunnels penetrating those barriers so only smaller trucks and vans could get through. No oversized trucks could get into town.
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