“I do,” Kaye said. “I guess my first question is more of a procedural thing. I talked to a friend about how eminent domain works. I honestly had no idea a local government could take private property from one person and give it to someone else, just based on the second person’s promises. I always thought it was for things like roads, bridges, dams, public buildings, stuff like that.”
“It used to be,” Valdez said. “But that changed in our business with what’s called a Kelo Taking. Let me assure you, we strictly adhered to the law in every eminent domain proceeding we initiated during the Valle delle Viti process. It was all legal and above board.”
“Just not very popular with the people who lost their property.”
“I think that’s to be expected. But the court decides on reasonable compensation.”
“My friend explained all that to me,” Kaye said. “I’m not questioning the process.”
“Then what’s your question?”
“Does your office use eminent domain routinely?” Kaye asked.
Valdez stared at Kaye intently before answering.
“Not routinely, no. We have used it a few times during my time here for things such as you mentioned a moment ago, plus, especially here, projects like wildlife and marine habitat preservation. But only as a last resort. We try very hard to reach a satisfactory agreement with property owners, including easements and such, before entering into good faith negotiations to buy their property at fair market value.”
“What happened when those negotiations didn’t lead to a mutual understanding?”
“We accept the court ruling whatever it is,” Valdez said. “But we almost always reached amicable settlements before Valle delle Viti came along.”
“Really?” Kaye said, genuinely surprised. “How many Kelo actions were court-ordered during the Valle delle Viti project?”
“I think it was seventeen total,” Valdez said. “Somewhere right in there, anyway. But those were not all ours, not even close. After the Village of Chumash Oaks was incorporated the actions were initiated by their legal staff, and the number climbed dramatically.”
“Wow,” Kaye said, “that seems like a lot. Do you know how many sellers reached agreements with the developers and sold voluntarily?”
“Four.”
Kaye was stunned.
“What was your professional take on that?” he asked.
“My input was not solicited.”
“We’re not in court, Ms. Valdez,” Kaye said. “I’m not taking notes, and I’m not recording this. I’m not writing this up in a report or going to the press. We’re just two people talking about a project that’s already completed and how it might be connected to the murders of at least two people in Los Angeles. I’m just asking what you think.”
She looked around to see who was sitting within earshot. The place was busy, but everyone looked absorbed in their own conversations or screens.
“I thought it sucked,” she said, leaning forward and keeping her voice low. “I think Valle delle Viti was low-balling people, possibly falsifying appraisals, then using the courts to get what they wanted.”
“Whose idea was that? Your boss’s? Because obviously your County Executive and Supervisors endorsed it.”
“The Valle delle Viti lawyers pitched it to the Board early on, when it became obvious people up there didn’t want to sell. They presented some very optimistic revenue projections.”
“And the Board bought them.”
“No,” Valdez said. “The weasels punted and brought in a hired gun.”
“Hired gun?” Kaye asked. “You need to explain. I don’t think that means the same thing in your business that it does in mine.”
“Probably not,” Valdez said, smirking. “What I mean is that the Board didn’t vote directly on the project. They voted to outsource the decision and hired an economic development consultant to provide guidance.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Politics,” Valdez said. “They all have to run for re-election at some point. If the whole thing went to hell, they had somebody to point the finger at.”
“Funny how that works.”
“Unless you get the short, brown end of the stick, like the people in northwest County who lost their homes and land.”
“The consultant gave it the thumbs up, right,” Kaye asked.
“Yes,” Valdez said. “Dr. Collum’s firm evaluated the project proposal and endorsed it unconditionally.”
Kaye hesitated, then asked, “Dr. Collum? Clifford Collum?”
“Yes, that’s him. Do you know him?” she asked. “He’s a very well respected economist and economic development consultant. The firm’s offices are in Los Angeles.”
Kaye said nothing about the parking garage murder, but it had to be the same guy.
“Did Collum work for Valle delle Viti or the County?” Kaye asked.
“Both, actually,” Valdez replied. “The County and developers agreed to split the fee and signed a binding agreement ahead of time to proceed according to Dr. Collum’s recommendations.”
“He recommended the project move forward.”
“He did.”
“Who got what they wanted?”
“Valle delle Viti,” Valdez said instantly. “It’s just my opinion, but I think we gave away the building to buy the inventory, if you know what I mean.”
“How so?”
“The deal had so many tax breaks and deferments, job creation incentives and other freebies for what became the Village of Chumash Oaks that it’s costing the County and other municipalities more than a billion dollars in potential revenue over the next twenty years.”
“A billion?” Kaye asked.
Valdez nodded, raised her eyebrows and said, “With a ‘B’.”
“Wow,” Kaye said. “What a perfect scam.”
Valdez remained silent this time, her expression neutral.
“I remember you making some comments about their lawyers,” Kaye went on, “and I loved the whole ‘lion in the room’ thing. Do you by chance remember their names? Or the firm’s name?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Valdez replied. “My interactions with them were really pretty limited. They dealt mostly with the County Attorney. But I can find out, if you like.”
“I would,” Kaye said.
Valdez picked up the phone and punched in a number. When the call was answered she identified herself, asked the question, then wrote on a napkin while she listened.
“Thanks, Danny,” she said, then hung up and handed the napkin across to Kaye.
He almost wasn’t surprised. Just like on the door.
Armstrong, Nobile, Feinmann and Jenkins.
***
Kaye walked back to the bike and shook his head. Somebody was putting in as many miles as he was, because another note was stuck between the windshield and windshield bag. He didn’t even look at it, just folded it one more time and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
He rode back to Baruch’s house, trying on the way to figure out just how deep Howard Feinmann was into Valle delle Viti, or vice versa, and how that might connect to Avi Geller’s murder.
He rang the doorbell and waited. Thirty seconds later he pushed the button again and, on the off chance a million seven five doorbell had failed in the last three or four hours, knocked loudly.
No answer.
Kaye peered through the beveled glass panes that bracketed the door and saw no signs of activity.
“Well, crap,” he muttered, immediately thinking Baruch had lost his nerve and run. He thought about calling the Santa Barbara PD and asking for a broadcast, then realized he had no clue what Baruch drove. What would he tell them, anyway? That he had a faint-hearted potential witness?
He turned from the door and stepped across to the street-facing side of the porch, grabbing his cell phone.
He’d started to call Patty when he heard the sound of a high-revving motorcycle approaching. Turning, he saw a white Hayabusa
coming fast from the west. The rider wore full black leathers and full-face helmet with a darkly tinted visor. A small, green duffel was strapped to the back of the seat.
The bike slowed quickly as the rider stepped down through the gears to stop at the intersection.
As the bike came even with Kaye, the rider brought the ‘Busa to an abrupt stop short of the stop sign and started directly at him.
Kaye stared back, unable to see anything behind the face shield, but where he stood was close enough that he could tell the rider was a woman.
Twice the rider revved the bike’s engine to an ear-shattering shriek while continuing to stare at Kaye, then dropped the clutch and accelerated hard, running the stop sign and disappearing around the corner.
Kaye listened to the sound fade with distance, then, with a sense of dread, turned back to the door. He tried the knob. It was locked. He pounded on the door again and shouted, “Baruch! Les Baruch! It’s Ben Kaye! Open the door!”
Nothing.
“C’mon,” he muttered, fighting the urge to break down the door. Should he call Baruch’s number? What if the house was empty and nobody was home? It took less than five seconds for him to decide.
The white Hayabusa had been too much of a coincidence.
He grabbed the knob and launched his shoulder against the door. The latch and deadbolt splintered from the frame and the door swung inward.
“Les Baruch!” he shouted as he drew the Kimber, “Ben Kaye, LAPD! I’m coming in!”
Les and Estelle Baruch were both in the living room.
Estelle sat on the couch, her bloody hands in her lap and her head slumped forward. Still-red blood soaked the front of her blouse. Kaye wasn’t about to touch the body, but guessed her throat had been cut.
Les was on the floor. He had been disemboweled and decapitated.
His head was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Kaye said softly. He grabbed his phone again and called 9-1-1, identified himself to the dispatcher and told her what he’d found.
“Please stay at the scene, Detective Kaye,” she said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He headed for the front porch to wait outside, but as he passed the dining room he caught sight of a yellow legal pad on the table, a pen next to it.
It was obvious that multiple pages had been torn off the pad, but he could only guess as to when. The top sheet was blank, but when Kaye looked closely he could see residual impressions from what had been written on the now-gone page.
He wanted that page.
He heard sirens approaching from multiple directions. If he was going to tamper with the crime scene, he needed to do it quickly.
He used his phone to take a picture, then anchored the pad with his elbow and, careful not to touch anything else, peeled back the first four sheets and ripped them from the pad.
He carefully rolled the pages, top sheet in, and headed for the kitchen. He tore several paper towels off a roll hanging beneath a cabinet and wrapped them around the legal pad pages. In the second drawer he opened, he found the plastic bags, put the bundle inside one and carefully slid the package into the over-sized zippered pocket inside his riding jacket.
It was a fifty-fifty shot, at best, but it was all he had time for.
He put the pen and pad in the drawer with the plastic bags just as the first responding unit slid to a stop outside.
***
He was at Baruch’s for the next two hours, mostly staying out of the way, but keeping himself available to the Santa Barbara PD detectives investigating the murders.
When they finally sat down to talk to him, he held nothing back – except the bundle of papers in his pocket.
Estelle Baruch had put up a fight. She had multiple defensive wounds on her hands and forearms.
Les Baruch had no defensive wounds, leading the locals to assume that Baruch may have known his attacker. They also agreed that Les had probably been killed first, and that Estelle had likely walked in on the killer while he, or she as Kaye pointed out, was busy removing Les’s head.
When the Deputy Coroner moved Estelle’s body, it turned out that her throat had not been cut. She had been stabbed once with a fairly wide, double-edged blade.
Why Estelle had been posed was anybody’s guess.
When Kaye related the circumstances of Clifford Collum’s murder and the white Hayabusa with a woman rider, the SBPD guys became skeptical. Taking the head was surely the act of a serial killer collecting a trophy, and women just didn’t do that.
Kaye didn’t argue the point. He gave them the LAPD Robbery-Homicide number and told them to ask for Detective Gannett.
“Are we done?” Kaye finally asked.
“Yeah,” one of the locals replied. “We’re done. We’ll call you if we need you and we’ll call,” he glanced down at his notes, “Gannett on Monday. Thanks for your help.”
Kaye smiled inwardly. He had a different opinion about who was helping whom here. Not unusual, he decided, for a department that had, maybe, a murder a month. They asked the right questions and seemed competent, but he guessed they’d never clear the case, which reaffirmed his decision to take the pages from the legal pad.
He walked back to the ’61. He was anxious to get the pages to the forensics techs, but it was late on a Saturday and he didn’t want to forgo Santa Ynez and the chance to see Auggie.
Les and Estelle Baruch weren’t going to get any deader before Monday.
***
About an hour later he passed the ‘Welcome to the Village of Chumash Oaks’ sign at a sedate twenty-five miles an hour.
A quarter-mile later, a black Charger, lights flashing, was behind him.
He pulled over and waited, watching in the rearview mirror as he unstrapped his helmet.
Sure enough, it was Reid.
The cop walked up, stopped just behind Kaye’s shoulder and said, “Driver’s license, registration and insurance, biker boy,” just as Kaye pulled off his helmet.
“Good evening, Officer Reid,” Kaye said. “Care to explain your probable cause for this stop?”
“Well, well, well,” Reid said, hooking his thumbs in the front of his gun belt. “If it ain’t mister hotshot LAPD.”
“That’s me. Probable cause?”
“You were speeding again.”
“Bullshit,” Kaye snorted. “I’m a fast learner. Try again.”
“I don’t need to explain anything to you,” Reid said.
“Then you’d better be able to explain it to a judge,” Kaye retorted.
“Nice bike,” Reid said, changing the subject. “What’s this beauty worth?”
“Why?” Kaye asked. “You checking the vehicle seizure value threshold? I hear your department picks up a lot of stuff.”
“All perfectly legal,” Reid said drolly, “within the laws of the State of California and the United States of America.”
“I bet.”
Reid glanced at Kaye, but kept his mouth shut.
“Either cite me or let me go,” Kaye said sharply. “I have someplace I need to be.”
“On your way to see your bitch?” Reid sneered. “Good luck with that, you freak.”
“Excuse me?” Kaye asked and started to stand up.
“Ain’t that what you biker boys call your women?” Reid said, taking a step back. “Bitches? I mean, Saturday night and all, there’s gotta be a bitch in your plans somewhere, right?”
“You know, Reid, it would almost be worth it to turn you into a wet spot on the side of the road.”
“Go ahead and try,” Reid taunted, taking another step back and snatching his pistol from its holster. “I’ll put sixteen rounds in your ass before you can get off that motorcycle.”
Kaye stood still, straddling the bike.
Reid laughed. “You have a nice night.” He turned to leave, holstering his pistol.
Kaye again saw the Special Officer rocker above the Chumash Oaks PD patch. This time, though, the odd shape
made sense.
Reid worked for Black Scimitar.
“Hey, Reid,” he called out, “say hello to your boss for me.”
The cop’s pace faltered for a half-step, but he didn’t stop and turn around. “Fuck you,” he shouted back, holding up one hand, middle finger extended.
***
It didn’t take long for Kaye to make it to Auggie’s Wine’N’Diner. Befitting a Saturday night, the parking lot was jammed with motorcycles.
He parked in the far corner of the lot, next to the van Auggie had been driving on Wednesday. When he walked to the door, he stopped and looked around.
No custom blue Glide.
He looked around, trying to pick Auggie’s bike out of the sea of gleaming paint and chrome, but couldn’t see it.
Well, he thought, she’s got to have a car she drives sometimes.
He pushed through the door into the crowded, noisy restaurant. Looking around, he couldn’t see Auggie and figured she was in the back.
“Well, hi there,” the same hostess said when he walked up. Today she wore a name tag. Cheri. “You’re becoming a regular.”
“I am. I’m supposed to meet Auggie.”
“Tonight?” she asked, a puzzled look on her face. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Kaye replied. “I saw her Wednesday in L.A.”
“Yeah, that’s when she goes to town to make deliveries,” Cheri said. “But Auggie’s not here.”
“Not here?” Kaye echoed.
“Yeah,” Cheri said. “I haven’t seen her since Wednesday. We had our regular meeting and laid out everything for the week before she left to make deliveries. The van was back here Thursday morning and her bike was gone, so I know she made it back, but I haven’t seen or heard from her.”
“Is that unusual?” Kaye asked. “I mean, does she sometimes just take off?”
He thought about the Thursday morning meeting Auggie had told him about to present an offer on the plot of land she hoped to plant. Maybe it hadn’t gone well.
“Well, it’s not usual,” Cheri said.
“You’ve tried to call her, right?”
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