Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  Having no idea what kind of schedule porn producers worked, when he’d finally settled in he’d called the Pacific Division station to let them know he was in the area doing surveillance so they could avoid him.

  It turned into a long morning. Traffic was thin and sporadic, with no mass exodus of early morning commuters. People whose money worked for them, not people who worked for their money, lived on the canals.

  At 9:15 a.m. he called Marella at SecureLife and asked her to send him a system log for the house dating back to the day the contact information had changed from the homeowners to Megan Sullivan.

  “I can try,” she said. “I know that account was frozen the day Ms. Sullivan was here, because I did it myself. I can get you from that day back to the last purge. Do you need videos?”

  “Not this time,” Kaye replied. “Just the log. I think I’ve got that figured out.”

  She promised to have it to him by the end of the day.

  By 11:00 a.m. Kaye was starting to think he was sitting on a dry hole, but his talk with Hernan the night before convinced him to sit tight.

  Fifteen minutes later he saw the garage door go up, and a few seconds later Bettencourt emerged, carrying a full white plastic garbage bag that he dumped into the outside container before disappearing back into the garage.

  With the description from Rigo’s crew member bolstering his theory, Kaye made the snap decision to change tactics. His original plan had been to see if Bettencourt had a black Explorer tucked into the garage, and maybe tail the man for a bit.

  Instead, he decided it was time to apply a little pressure and see what happened.

  Kaye rolled down the alley and stopped directly in front of the open garage.

  Two vehicles were parked inside. One was a new red Corvette convertible and the other an off-white van. Kaye grabbed his phone and took photos of both license plates.

  Bettencourt was nowhere in sight, so Kaye waited.

  A minute later Bettencourt came out of the house, a small gym bag in one hand. He glanced in Kaye’s direction but showed no sign of recognition. He dropped the gym bag into the Corvette, then headed around toward the driver’s seat.

  When he saw the truck still blocking the driveway he changed direction and came outside.

  “Hey,” he said, “I need to get…”

  He recognized Kaye and stopped short.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Bettencourt demanded. “What do you want now?”

  “Just passing by,” Kaye said, smiling. “Saw the door up and stopped to say hello. Nice car. How long have you had it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I can look it up. I am the cops, you know.”

  “You do that,” Bettencourt said. “Now, get out of the way. I need to get out.”

  “Going to work?” Kaye asked, looking at his watch. “Must be nice. I started at six this morning.”

  Bettencourt scowled, but stayed quiet.

  “Hours are good, I guess,” Kaye went on. “But I bet the work is tough. Or should I say hard?” He smiled. “Better be, at least, or you’re out of business, right?”

  “Fuck you,” Bettencourt growled and took a step toward the truck.

  “I guess I’d better get out of your way,” Kaye said, dropping the truck into gear. “Nice seeing you, Dennis. We’ll talk again soon. Real soon, I think.”

  Bettencourt, fists clenched, watched Kaye drive away.

  Kaye looked in the rear view mirror and half-smiled.

  ***

  On his way out of the canal district Kaye called Patty and asked her to check the State firearms registry on the off chance Dennis Bettencourt was the proud owner of either a .223 or 5.56 caliber assault rifle. He didn’t expect her to find anything, but he needed to check it off the list.

  After stopping for a quick lunch, Kaye headed to AZG Productions.

  The first thing he noticed when he walked in were multiple blank spots on the walls where hit movie posters had been on his previous visits.

  The receptionist recognized him.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said. “If you’re looking for Mr. Baruch again, I’m afraid I can’t help you. He’s no longer with the company.”

  “I heard,” Kaye said. “I was hoping to get a few minutes with the new Mr. Geller.”

  “He’s here,” she said, reaching for her phone. “Let me see if he’s available.”

  Kaye waited while she called and announced his presence.

  “He’ll be right out,” she said as she hung up.

  A moment later a young man Kaye guessed as still in his twenties came around the corner into the lobby. The striking resemblance left no doubt he was Avi Geller’s son.

  “Detective Kaye, isn’t it? I’m Sam Geller,” he said, shaking Kaye’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Sam,” Kaye said. “Sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

  “Me, too. What can I do for you?”

  “Is there someplace private we can talk?”

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  Sam led Kaye to a large, corner office. Both outside walls were floor to ceiling glass and offered spectacular views. Several of the posters that had been on the lobby wall now hung in the office. The furnishings were minimalist, serving to accentuate the movie and television industry awards statuettes lined up on the black marble fireplace mantel.

  “This was Dad’s office,” Sam said, gesturing for Kaye to take a chair in front of the desk. “I’m still getting used to it being mine.”

  “I can only imagine,” Kaye said. “Based on what your mother told me, I take it this all came as quite a surprise.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Sam said. “I guess we all figured Uncle Les would take over if anything ever happened to Dad. That’s why I went to law school after film school.”

  “I didn’t know Les Baruch was your uncle.”

  “Well, technically he’s not. But that’s what I’ve called him since I learned to talk.”

  “I bet he was crushed when your dad left him out of the will.”

  Sam studied Kaye closely for a moment, then said, “He was. But, honestly, I think he kind of expected it.”

  “Do you think something happened between them?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Sam replied. “But I have no idea what. Even Mom doesn’t know. It must’ve been pretty recent.”

  “I know this is a tough question,” Kaye said, “but do you think whatever happened could be tied to your dad’s murder?”

  Sam hesitated again for just a few seconds.

  “An event?” he said. “Sure. I mean, there’s no logical way to disqualify the possibility. But there’s no way I can believe that Uncle Les had anything to do with killing my Dad.”

  “Have you ever heard of Nicole Ingram?”

  “I saw her name in the paper. I know who she is, or was, but nothing else about her.”

  “Did you know she pitched your dad a screenplay earlier this year?”

  “I did not,” Sam said. “How do you know that?”

  “Your Uncle Les found her name in your dad’s notes. On the computer.”

  “Oh, right. I scanned that database, but haven’t really had time yet to get up to speed on it.”

  “Could you look something up for me?” Kaye asked. “A name?”

  “Sure,” Sam said, spinning his chair to face the computer on his desk. “What’s the name?”

  “Dennis Bettencourt,” Kaye said, then spelled it out.

  Sam typed it in and clicked the search button.

  “Sorry,” he said almost instantly. “No returns.”

  “Did your Uncle Les have a spreadsheet like the one your dad kept?”

  “He should have,” Sam said. “But that’s going to be a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “He deleted all his files before he left.”

  “Do you, and by that I mean AZG Productions, back up your files?” Kaye asked.

  “We do,” Sam said. “In
fact, my little brother and I set up the system back when all the studios were getting hacked.”

  “Did your uncle have access to the backups to delete them, too?”

  “No,” Sam said. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Can you check a backup archive from, say, a week or two before your Dad’s death?”

  “Good idea,” Sam said. “Yes, I can, but not from here. We store all our backups off-site so they’re not accessible from our network. I’ll have to go to the storage company and check from their server console.”

  “You don’t use the cloud, or whatever they call it these days?”

  Sam laughed. “Detective, all that cloud and hazy nebula storage stuff is nothing but marketing. You have to have media to store data. It’s all just a giant server farm somewhere. Whoever owns the hard drives has access to your intellectual property anytime they want it. And because it’s all connected to the internet, it can be hacked.”

  “So you guard it like treasure,” Kaye said, remembering his conversation with Ruthie Williams.

  “Indeed we do,” Sam said. “Because to us, that’s what it is. We encrypt our data and store it offsite twice a week with a bonded disaster recovery service.”

  “I get it,” Kaye said. “You need to either go to the media or have it brought to you.”

  “Correct,” Sam said.

  “If you could do that sometime soon I’d appreciate it.”

  “Our service is scheduled to pick up at end of business today,” Sam said. “I’ll call and have them bring what I need. You’re looking for this,” he glanced at his note, “Dennis Bettencourt guy, right?”

  “Right,” Kaye said. He gave Sam his number and stood to leave. “Oh, one more thing. Do you have your Uncle Les’s address in Santa Barbara?”

  Sam grabbed his cell phone, tapped the screen a couple of times and read the address off to Kaye, who felt a little sheepish as he wrote it down in his paper brains.

  “Thanks, Sam. Please call me about Bettencourt, whether you find him or not.”

  “Will do,” Sam said. “And please catch the guy who killed my Dad.”

  “I’m planning on it, Sam. I’m planning on it.”

  ***

  The parking lot at Paloma Canyon Country Club was jammed. Kaye finally found a space big enough along a curb bordering a planter to put the pickup.

  Lon Burridge was hard at work under the starter’s desk umbrella, with a knot of people competing for shade and Burridge’s attention clustered around.

  From what Kaye could hear as he approached, some of the people were not happy. The more he heard, the more obvious it became that there were more people who wanted to play golf than Burridge could get onto the 1st tee, and the starter was trying to accommodate some and assuage those he couldn’t.

  Burridge looked up, saw Kaye, and held up two fingers while he mouthed ‘two minutes’.

  Kaye waited longer than two minutes, but almost everybody went away happy.

  “Sorry about that,” Burridge said when Kaye finally walked over. “I take a few days off and come back to a total shit show. But I’m here now, so what can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I’d like to take another look at the start time log from the day you overheard Avi Geller arguing with the guy we can’t identify, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” Burridge said, leaning down to reach under the desk. He came up with the book in hand, laid it on the counter, opened it to the right day, and spun it around so Kaye could read it.

  “If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help,” Burridge said.

  “A couple of things, really,” Kaye said, scanning the page until he found what he wanted. “Number one, this Adrian G. is listed with a start time thirty minutes after Geller’s group. I found out his last name is Gagnon, and like the log shows, he had two guests that day. All that’s written down are initials.”

  “Yeah,” Burridge said. “Sometimes the members let the guests do that. Believe it or not, the press is always snooping around looking to see who’s talking to who. Like I told you last time, though, I don’t question it. If the member is standing right there, they’re good to go.”

  “I understand,” Kaye said. “Do you remember if the guy who argued with Avi Geller was R.H. or R.M.?”

  Burridge’s brow furrowed and Kaye could almost see the man’s wheels turning.

  “I think that would have been the R.M. guy,” Burridge said at last.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure,” Burridge said. “Now that I think of it, the other guest, the R.H. guy, was different.”

  “Different how?” Kaye asked.

  “Okay, look,” Burridge said, “I don’t want to stereotype anybody, and everybody is welcome here, but the guy caused a bit of a problem for me.”

  Kaye looked at Burridge and waited for him to go on.

  “Yeah, I remember now,” Burridge continued. “The group behind Mr. Geller was upset that I put those three guys with Mr. Geller because they thought this R.H. guy would slow them down.”

  “Why would he slow down the group behind them?”

  “The guy had an artificial leg. I mean, you couldn’t even tell except he had shorts on, and he was a beast. He was probably close to Mr. Geller’s age, but he not only didn’t slow anybody down, he walked the whole freakin’ course and carried his own clubs.”

  Kaye instantly knew that R.H. had to be Rod Howell.

  “Have you ever seen R.H. again?”

  “Nope, and if I had, I’d remember.”

  Kaye looked again at the date on the log. It was one week before Rod Howell was killed in the car crash.

  “You said Gleason didn’t show that day, right?” Kaye asked.

  “Right.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Gleason’s been around forever. He and Mr. Geller played together a lot.”

  “Do you know what Gleason does?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s retired,” Burridge said. “Word is he made a fortune in the telecommunications business.”

  “How old is he?” Kaye asked.

  “I’d guess sixty-five, plus or minus.”

  Kaye looked at the page again.

  Who was R.M.? And what deal had he and Avi Geller argued about? Valle delle Viti, maybe? But the resort had already opened by then, so it couldn’t have been a construction or timeline issue. Operational? Why would Geller be worried about that?

  It still didn’t make sense to Kaye.

  “Looked like quite a mess when I got here,” Kaye said.

  “Like I said, a real shit show. Too many people booked start times for the available spots.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Not when I’m here,” Burridge said, smiling.

  “That’s the second thing I need to ask about,” Kaye said. “How does this all work? I mean, the process. It looks like you’re still on paper. No computers?”

  Burridge smiled again, reached under the counter and came up with a tablet computer.

  “The members love the old way, you know. Makes them feel like they’re back in the glory days or something, or at least out of the crazy fuckin’ world we live in now. I keep the ledgers front and center when they sign in, but I manage the slots using this.” He laid his hand on the tablet.

  “Would there be guest names in there?”

  “No, sorry,” Burridge replied. “What I do is use the scheduling program to book using the member’s number and how many will be in the group. Then, every afternoon I post printouts for the next three days, going forward one day each day, that show the remaining available slots. People can sign up for the next day until the course closes. I put them in the system first thing in the morning, print the sheets, post them, and then use the printout as reference. That’s how I avoid the mess you saw a while ago. My substitute didn’t keep up on cycling the sign- up sheets, and people assumed they could show up and play.”

  “When you post the ad
vance sheet, does it show member’s names?”

  “Yeah, the system matches the number to a name for the printout, but only displays the name of whoever booked the time and how many are in the group.”

  “Can you put in standing tee times?”

  “Yep, the app takes care of all that.”

  “Did Avi Geller have a standing tee time?”

  “He did,” Burridge said. “He missed a few weeks, like everybody else, when the town went crazy, but I left him in the system. He always booked a foursome. He said he never knew who he was going to have to schmooze next week. That day of the argument, when Mr. Gleason couldn’t make it, he agreed to let the other guys play with him. I mean, it was obvious he knew them.”

  “What about the day Geller was shot?” Kaye asked. “Was Gleason supposed to play with him?”

  “Not that day. Mr. Gleason cancelled several days before that. Mr. Geller asked me to leave his foursome open because he might have a guest, then showed up with the young woman for his regular time and asked me not to put anybody else with them. The schedule was pretty light, and the group behind him was already four, so it was okay with me.”

  “She was a screenwriter, by the way,” Kaye said. “Nicole Ingram. I think she was trying to schmooze him.”

  “That I can understand,” Burridge said. “But why sign her in as Jane Smith?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Kaye said. “So, you normally post the upcoming Tuesday tee time schedule on Saturday, and it would already show standing times, like Geller, booked on Tuesday?”

  “Correct.”

  “Who else has access to the scheduling system?”

  “Let’s see,” Burridge said, thinking again. He started holding up fingers as he named people. “Me, of course, both club professionals so they can schedule lesson rounds, the pro shop manager and his assistant, the head groundskeeper, and the GM and his assistants. Nine. I think that’s it. But anybody who walks by the posted sheets sees who’s playing, and when.”

  Kaye mulled over what Burridge had told him.

  “Okay, that’s all I needed,” he said. “Thanks, Lon.”