Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “Of course. All I got was voice mail. I’ve left, like, five messages.”

  “Okay,” Kaye said. “You know, maybe we got our wires crossed and I screwed up.”

  “Could be,” Cheri said, “Since you’re here, you’re welcome to hang around and see if she comes in.”

  “Thanks,” Kaye said. “I think I will, for a while.”

  The stool around the end of the bar was open. Kaye sat, nursing a glass of wine and looking up expectantly every time the front door opened, running all kinds of nightmare scenarios in his mind. That the van was parked outside and Auggie’s Glide was gone flummoxed him. Obviously, nothing had happened while she was in transit back from Santa Monica and she’d made it home. But she hadn’t seemed to him to be someone who would stand him up.

  Maybe she was angry he hadn’t come yesterday, and decided to avoid him. After all, she hadn’t called him back.

  He’d been sitting, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings for about twenty minutes when he noticed two men threading their way through the tables, heading his way. One was average size, the second was a big guy. They both wore the biker gear that seemed standard at Auggie’s and Kaye could see some generic patches on their vests, but none that identified a club.

  Two tables from Kaye, they split up. The larger man disappeared from Kaye’s field of vision over his left shoulder and the other approached the bar, used his hip to push the last stool sideways to make some room and leaned forward, elbows on the bar and hands clasped.

  He glanced at Kaye. “How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain,” Kaye replied. “You?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Got a question, though.”

  “For me, or just in general?”

  The guy’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “For you, wise ass.”

  Kaye said nothing and took a sip of his wine.

  “Where’s you colors?” the guy asked finally. “We’ve seen you here a couple times lately, always by yourself, like some sort of scout or something. Big Boar MC. Suddenly, you’re plain wrap. What’s up with that?”

  Kaye half-smiled. “Had a little accident. Had to go to a back-up jacket.”

  “Too bad,” the guy said, and Kaye knew he didn’t mean it. “We also noticed that things suddenly changed after you started showing up.”

  “Changed?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re here, and Auggie’s not.”

  Kaye looked at the guy, glanced over his shoulder and saw the big guy leaning against the wall about five feet behind him. He spun on his stool enough to keep an eye on both of them.

  “You think those two things are connected?”

  “We heard you might have seen her in L.A. on Wednesday, and she missed a meeting on Thursday morning that was very important to her.”

  “Who told you that?” Kaye asked.

  “Some mutual friends,” the guy answered, half-smirking.

  “All I can tell you is that you’re making a bad assumption.”

  “So you don’t know where she is?” asked the big guy leaning against the wall.

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Why were you meeting her tonight?” asked the guy at the bar.

  Kaye glanced at him, took another sip of wine, and said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  The guy stood up straight, reached inside his jacket and came out with a wallet. He laid it on the bar and flipped it open. “I’m making it my business.”

  Kaye looked down to see a gold star that identified the guy as a Deputy Sheriff for San Luis Obispo County. “Why is the SLO County Sheriff looking for Auggie?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” the deputy replied mockingly.

  Kaye looked at the deputy for several seconds, trying to read him. “You’re worried about Auggie, aren’t you?”

  Both men just stared at him.

  “That’s good,” Kaye said, “because I’m worried about her, too.”

  “What?” the Deputy asked.

  “I was supposed to meet her here. I did see her in L.A. on Wednesday, but I haven’t been able to reach her since, either.”

  “Can you back that story up?” the big guy asked.

  Kaye looked at the Deputy at the bar. “I’m going to reach into my pocket. Don’t get excited.”

  He reached inside his jacket and came out with his badge wallet, laid it on the bar next to the Deputy’s and flipped it open.

  The Deputy looked down, looked up at Kaye, and said, “Are you kidding me?”

  Kaye shook his head.

  “Brett, he’s a cop. LAPD,” the Deputy said to his friend. Then he held out his hand. “Joey Stangland. My friend, Deputy Brett Adams.”

  “Ben Kaye.”

  They shook hands all around.

  “You were supposed to meet Auggie here?” Stangland asked.

  Kaye told them about his dinner with Auggie on Wednesday, that he’d planned to be in Santa Ynez yesterday, but got hung up and hadn’t been able to reach her.

  “I thought maybe she was just mad at me,” he said, “and since I was in Santa Barbara today I came up to ask forgiveness.”

  “How do you know Auggie?” Adams asked.

  “I stumbled onto this place a couple weeks ago, just riding through, and came in for lunch. Auggie was bartending, and we sort of hit it off. Last Saturday I came –”

  “The tasting dinner,” Stangland interrupted. “I saw you.”

  “Why are you guys looking for her?” Kaye asked.

  “Technically, we’re not,” Stangland replied.

  “We’re just worried about her,” Adams added. “She hasn’t been here all week, and she didn’t tell anybody where she was going. That’s not like her.”

  “She’s one of us,” Stangland said. “Not officially, but we watch out for her.”

  “Because of her dad,” Kaye said.

  “Yeah,” Adams said. “Since he passed, we, uh, well, we’re all kind of like adopted big brothers. Mess with Auggie, you answer to us.”

  “I get it,” Kaye said. “Still, why me?”

  “Your colors,” Stangland said. “We looked up the Big Boar MC and came up empty, like you guys make a special effort to stay under the radar. That worried us.”

  Kaye filled in the blank. “You thought she might be trying to avoid me.”

  “Right,” Stangland said. “Then you show up tonight, no colors, and hang out to wait. And here we are.”

  “And still no Auggie,” Kaye said.

  “And still no Auggie,” Stangland echoed. “We’re worried. She’s important to us.”

  “She’s important to me, too,” Kaye said and saw the two SLO deputies exchange a quick glance. “Think it might be time to call somebody? Make a report?”

  “Might be,” Adams said. “Let’s put it this way: We won’t stop you.”

  “But you haven’t reported her missing, right?”

  “No,” Stangland replied. “We wanted to talk to you first, maybe straighten the whole thing out. Plus, this isn’t our jurisdiction. There’d be some messy politics involved.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Kaye said, picking up his wallet. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The three exchanged handshakes again and Kaye headed for the Harley.

  ***

  The Solvang office of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office was little more than a store front and a patrol unit parking lot. The hour was late enough that Kaye had to push the button outside the front door, announce himself, and wait for a Deputy.

  There was no desk officer. The Watch Commander, a Lieutenant Barker, let him in. Kaye introduced himself and said he was concerned about a possibly missing friend.

  “Her name is Auggie McMaster,” Kaye said. “Nobody’s seen her since Wednesday night.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Barker said. “But this is my Monday. Let me check the syst
em, just in case.”

  Kaye waited in the lobby while Barker went into the back. A few minutes later, he was back, a piece of paper in hand.

  “Auggie McMaster is a friend of yours?” the Lieutenant asked, and Kaye detected a change in the man’s tone.

  “She is.”

  “You have some interesting friends.”

  “What does that mean?” Kaye asked.

  Barker looked at the paper. “One Augustina McMaster, white female, thirty-four, was arrested early Thursday morning on charges of Driving Under the Influence and Possession of Narcotics with Intent to Distribute by the Chumash Oaks Police Department. Transferred to the main County jail in Santa Barbara on Friday morning after failing to make bond in Chumash Oaks within twenty-four hours. Bond was posted late yesterday afternoon and she walked, next court appearance in five weeks.”

  “What?” Kaye asked, incredulous. “That doesn’t sound like the woman I know.”

  Barker shrugged. “I’m only telling you what shows up in our system.”

  Kaye was speechless, and skeptical. The Chumash Oaks PD was, he was certain, corrupt.

  “Who was the arresting officer?” he asked.

  Barker referenced the note again.

  “D. Hawkins.”

  Kaye recognized the name as the K-9 officer from when Reid had stopped him the first time.

  “May I see that?” Kaye asked.

  Barker handed the paper to Kaye.

  “No booking photo,” Kaye pointed out as he scanned the sheet.

  “She never came through our door,” Barker said. “You can get it at the jail in Santa Barbara on Monday.”

  “What was the bond, and who posted it?” Kaye asked.

  “Uh, looks like fifty thousand, and it says here she posted it, cash.”

  “Really?” Kaye asked, surprised. “Who brought her the cash?”

  “I don’t have that information,” the Lieutenant replied. “You’d have to check with the court in Santa Barbara on Monday.”

  As soon as Kaye went outside he tried Auggie’s number again. All he got was a recording that the voice mail box was full.

  He fired up the bike and rode back to Auggie’s restaurant to tell Stangland and Adams what he’d found out, but they were gone.

  He tried Auggie’s number one more time, just in case.

  Mail box still full.

  ***

  It was late when Kaye rolled into the driveway and had to stop because of the new truck parked alongside the house. He spent all of five minutes looking it over, moved it into the garage, put the bike away and headed for bed.

  DAY 21

  Sunday Week 3

  Sleep had been nearly impossible, a series of short catnaps between long periods of anxious wakefulness, staring at the ceiling or out the window at the dark Pacific below, wondering where Auggie was.

  At one point he dreamed of the Paloma Canyon Country Club murder scene. It was strikingly vivid until he went to check the dead woman sprawled next to Avi Geller’s golf cart.

  It wasn’t Nicole Ingram. It was Auggie McMaster. He rolled her over, and as she died she looked deep into his eyes and said, “Oh, Ben, we shouldn’t have crucified Jesus.”

  He recoiled to find that Avi Geller had been replaced by a grinning Father Francis Healey, Order of the Perpetual Guardians.

  In his dream, he said, “It’s okay, Father. They’re not like you. I’m going to nail every damn one of them to a cross.”

  He jolted awake, and didn’t go back to sleep again.

  ***

  Kaye caught up on household chores and spent a grueling ninety minutes practicing. He purposely avoided meditation, then found himself wondering about his conversation with Roshi and if he would ever meditate again.

  That thought disturbed him deeply.

  He had a slew of people and things he needed to deal with, and the one that called loudest for his attention, the one he heard over the official background noise, was the one he didn’t have the time for.

  Trying to pass the time, he immersed himself in the Pan-in-a-Box, putting the frame on the stand and slowly but surely beginning to mock up the bike to see what was there and what wasn’t.

  Twice he tried Auggie’s number. No luck.

  He ate a light dinner and decided to take a ride to Paradise Cove. The end of the pier there was a spot where he often went to reflect and sort out problems.

  The sun was about to disappear under the horizon when he arrived, and as he walked to the end of the pier he couldn’t help but consider the irony that the beauty of the falling sun might be something, someone, ominous.

  He stood, staring out to sea and listening to the surf behind him sigh with contentment after finally reaching its destination.

  There were quite a few people on the pier. Some, forever hopeful, fished. Others sat, hunched against the deepening chill as the warmth of the day disappeared with the sun, and stared out at the necklace of brightening light that curved from Santa Monica all the way to the first cliffs of Palos Verdes. One family of four made a game of being the first to spot outbound traffic from LAX, then speculating on where the plane might be headed.

  Kaye lingered, captivated as always by the overwhelming presence of the place, as others gave way to the darkness and made their way toward shore and warmth.

  He, too, finally decided to call it a day. He had to be downtown early, and hoped Okafor’s plan would work.

  He headed in. On the way he saw a young couple, hand in hand, headed in his direction as they passed through the circle of light under one of the standards mounted to the pier railings.

  As the gap narrowed, Kaye could hear that they were engaged in a good-natured debate about something. When they were close enough to make out in the darkness, he saw them go from holding hands at arm’s length to close together and in step, the banter and laughing non-stop.

  When they were about fifteen feet away from Kaye he heard them both laugh heartily and the man exclaimed, “You bitch!”

  The woman laughed as well, pulled on the man’s arm to get closer, wrapped her arms around his waist and matched him step for step.

  “But I’ll always be your bitch,” she said serenely as they walked past Kaye.

  Kaye took two more steps and pulled up short, Reid’s words echoing in his mind.

  On your way to see your bitch?

  Kaye stood, rooted in place, stunned.

  Could it be?

  His conversation with Glynis Mitchell and what Les Baruch had told him about Avi Geller’s relationship with Nicole Ingram rushed through his memory in a millisecond.

  Someone is harvesting young women in the Central California area.

  Reid’s words rang again.

  On your way to see your bitch?

  But Auggie didn’t fit the profile, such as it was. She was beautiful, sure, but she was several years older than the oldest victim on Mitchell’s list. She was local and well-known. She drove not one, but two, very distinctive vehicles. Her cop friends were looking for her already.

  On your way to see your bitch?

  Kaye suddenly got it.

  They knew.

  Whoever had planted the bomb in his truck had been following him, and seen him with Auggie.

  This wasn’t about Auggie. It was about him.

  Reid’s words rang again.

  On your way to see your bitch? Good luck with that, you freak.

  Kaye now knew what Reid hadn’t said.

  Because we’ve got her now.

  DAY 22

  Monday Week 4

  At 8:05 a.m. Kaye walked through the front door of the Forensics Science and Technical Investigations Division and headed straight for the Questioned Documents Unit.

  He opened the door and saw a familiar face behind the counter.

  “Hi, Della,” he said.

  “Why, hello there, Detective Kaye,” Della Robinson, Unit Supervisor, greeted him. “Nice to see you. Last I heard you pulled the pin.”

  �
�Vicious rumor,” Kaye said, smiling.

  “No doubt started and spread by Internal Affairs,” Della said seriously, then laughed. “What brings you to my cave on this fine Monday morning?”

  Kaye held up the plastic bag containing the pages from Baruch’s house.

  “Oh,” Della said, “a new evidence collection technique. Nobody told us. Whatever’s in there, I hope you didn’t get too much discharge.”

  “It was an emergency and I had almost no time. This is all I could come up with.”

  She used a set of large surgical tweezers to take the bag from Kaye’s hand.

  “I don’t see any tags,” she said, glancing at Kaye. “Or a case number. Is this official?”

  “It is,” Kaye assured her. “The Geller murder. I haven’t been back to the station to log it or generate labels yet. If I can use one of your terminals, I’ll do that right now.”

  “First, if you want to cut in line, you need to tell me what it is.”

  Kaye trusted Della and gave her the complete rundown on the events at Les Baruch’s house the day before. Her eyes grew wide as she listened.

  “Without Baruch’s testimony, or even a partial statement,” he said in conclusion, “I’ve got nothing but my notes of his conversation, which are inadmissible without corroboration. I need you to get whatever you can off the legal pad pages in there so I can see if it ties in to what he told me.”

  “Do you have a known source comparator for me?” Della asked.

  “I can get one if we need one,” Kaye said, “but I’m not to that point yet. Right now I just need to know what, if anything, is on those pages.”

  “Okay, I can do that,” Della said. “But I have to log a case number into the system for every examination, so come on around and use that terminal,” she pointed, “to get me some labels and tags.”

  Kaye sat down and e-mailed the pictures he’d taken at Baruch’s from his phone to his department e-mail. Then he logged in, waited briefly for them to show up and downloaded them to the Geller file. He logged the details of discovery, collection and chain of custody since then, let the system assign the proper evidentiary item sequence numbers and printed the labels, which he signed.