Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  The sky was clear as the sun drifted down towards the horizon, glinting off the glassy smooth water. A man on a jet ski headed in from his last run of the day. Rolly barely noticed, caught up in his thoughts.

  He was in over his head. That was for damn sure. Anytime there was a dead genius showing up somewhere other than where he had died, a Chief Visionary Officer taking you out for surfboard lessons, and some mysterious rich guy inviting you to dinner in his hotel suite, something was up. Something bigger than Rolly wanted to handle. It was dangerous.

  He popped off the freeway at La Jolla Village Drive, negotiated through the rush hour minivans and Ford Expeditions, and pulled up to the valet parking stand at the Hyatt Aventine. The valet gave his Volvo an impolite look while marking a ticket that he handed to Rolly. Eight bucks. Rolly reminded himself he needed to get a receipt before he left, start an expense account.

  The Hyatt was ten stories high, wide and flat, salmon colored, with an arched topping of sea-foam green concrete. He walked into the lobby, across the marble floor, stopped at the reception desk.

  “I'm here to see a guest. His name is Gibson, King Gibson.”

  The young woman at the desk picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. She looked smart. She looked sharp. She was probably a student across the street, at the university, studying molecular biochemistry or something. That’s what they studied at UCSD. As far as he knew, Rolly had never slept with a woman who knew anything about molecular biochemistry. As he watched her on the phone, he wondered if women biochemists were any different in bed than women he’d slept with. It was unlikely he’d ever find out. The young woman hung up the phone, smiled at him.

  “Mr. King will see you sir. Room 1001. The elevator is around the desk to the right.”

  “Thank you,” Rolly said and headed to the elevator, banning lascivious thoughts of female biochemists, priming himself for his encounter with King.

  The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. There was a small sign etched on the wall in light silver arrows. Room 1000 to the left, 1001 to the right. Only two rooms on the floor. He took a right. The door to the room was open. He knocked anyway.

  “Come in, Mr. Waters,” a voice responded.

  Rolly pushed open the door, stepped into the room. Across a fifty-foot expanse of deep turquoise carpeting, King Gibson sat in a wicker-backed easy chair, facing away from the door, looking out a large picture window towards the setting sun. The bright light of day that poured into the room had started to dim.

  “Mr. Gibson?” Rolly said.

  “Come on in. Have a seat. I'm reviewing the menu.”

  Rolly took a seat across the table, glanced at Gibson, who hid his face in a large leather-bound menu.

  “Would you like something? I'm thinking of the Tournedos of Beef, myself. My wife says it will kill me, all that fat and cholesterol,” Gibson said, tapping his shirt over his heart.

  Rolly watched the immaculate fingernails, wondering how much it cost to keep them that way. Gibson wore a banker’s blue dress shirt, boxer shorts, and thin black socks pulled up to his calves. He had scrawny white legs, old-man legs. His eyes were dark gray, revealing nothing but limitless shallows. His bald head was as white as his legs.

  “No, thanks, I’ve got another date,” Rolly lied. It was hard for him to refuse a free meal. He was a musician, after all. But he’d already decided he wouldn’t have dinner with King. Eating would divert his focus, distract him.

  “Very well. Anything to drink? Beer, wine, bourbon? You look like a bourbon man.”

  “Just a club soda, thanks. I don't drink,” Rolly said, trying to remember what tournedos of beef were, if there was any raw meat or liver involved.

  “Good for you,” Gibson said as he picked up the phone, “although, I would have pegged you as a bourbon man.” Rolly tried to imagine what a bourbon man looked like, wondering if he really looked like one.

  Gibson ordered his meal, his voice on the phone a well-practiced mixture of politeness and power, a man who expected his orders to be followed precisely. He didn't overstate things.

  Gibson hung up the phone, looked back out the window. Rolly had decided he wasn’t going to talk until he heard what Gibson had to say. He could wait. He could stay quiet for as long as anyone. He’d stayed quiet for almost a whole year once. A few high clouds floated by, hinting shades of pink at their edges. Gibson spoke.

  “I assume, Mr. Waters, that you have heard of the recent death in the Eyebitz.com family?”

  “You mean Mr. Vox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. He sounded like a smart guy."

  “He was indeed, and we shall miss him, professionally, at least.”

  Rolly waited. King spoke again.

  “In truth, he was not an easy man to like, more of a boy really. He was a technical genius, but a social invalid, incapable of working with others without insulting them.”

  “I understand he had some odd habits.”

  “Hmm, well, yes. Let’s just say he needed someone to keep an eye on him, keep him focused.”

  Rolly remembered standing outside the office at Capitol Records five years ago, overhearing the A&R rep talking to Matt. Rolly was a big talent, the rep said to Matt, but he needed someone to keep him focused. The rep told Matt he had to take responsibility, keep Rolly in line. Capitol was ready to hand them a check, give them a record deal.

  King continued talking, dropping his tone a full fifth of an interval. “Mr. Vox's death makes it more imperative than ever that we recover the item that was lost.”

  "The Magic Key," Rolly said.

  "Yes, the Key," said King. "Have you had any success?”

  Rolly was sick of answering questions. It was his turn to ask them. He didn’t care how much money King Gibson had.

  “Whose idea was it to have Curtis Vox stay at the mansion in The Farms?”

  “It was mine.”

  “Why?”

  “As I’ve explained, Curtis could be unfocused, difficult. I’ve worked with quite a collection of people in my time, Mr. Waters. I’ve seen some unusual things. It seemed like a plan that might work well for all of us. Curtis claimed to be happy with the arrangement.”

  “Do you know a man named G. Tesch?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s listed as the owner of the house. I assume you know him.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “I fail to see what this has to do with your investigation.”

  “Probably nothing. I just like to get all the information I can. Sometimes you find a connection later.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Mr. Tesch?”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, how do you know him? What does he do?”

  “Mr. Tesch is a business associate of mine. We have a financial relationship.”

  “What kind of financial relationship?”

  “He manages some of my banking and investment accounts.”

  “I see. Why doesn’t he live in his own house?”

  “Mr. Tesch owns several houses, all over the world. He cannot live in all of them at one time.”

  “Do you know a man named Anthony Kaydell?”

  Gibson paused a beat.

  “No, I do not.”

  “He owned the house before Mr. Tesch.”

  “When was this?”

  “About fifteen years ago. Mr. Kaydell was in the computer business.”

  “I appreciate your attention to detail, Mr. Waters, but I fail to see how any of this relates to the loss of the Magic Key.”

  “Like I said, it probably doesn’t. I just like to cast a wide net. You never know what you might catch with it.”

  “I understand.”

  Gibson wasn’t shaken, but he might have stirred just a little. Rolly decided to change the subject.

  “You said on the phone you had some information you thought I should hav
e?”

  “Yes. It’s about Curtis.”

  “What is it?”

  “I feel he was susceptible to certain influences.”

  “Influences?”

  “He was an insecure young man. I think certain people may have influenced him.”

  “Are you saying Curtis didn’t lose the key? That he might have given it to someone?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Why would he do that? Wasn’t Eyebitz.com going to make him wealthy?”

  “There are other things that can influence a young man besides money.”

  “Women, you mean, sex?”

  “I believe Curtis was having an affair with Miss Amati, my secretary.”

  “Alesis?”

  Gibson nodded his head. Rolly processed the new information, wondered if Gibson was the jealous ex-boyfriend type. It seemed unlikely. Alesis had made a joke about marrying a rich geek. Maybe it wasn’t a joke.

  “It’s partly my fault,” Gibson continued. “I asked her to check up on Curtis, stop by his house at the end of each day to have him sign papers and things.”

  “And you think Alesis is connected to the missing key?”

  “Probably not, but as you said, it’s sometimes useful to cast a wide net. I thought you should know.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you. I hope I’m wrong. I have always thought very highly of Miss Amati. I’ve always trusted her.”

  “How long have you known her?

  “A long time, many years.”

  “Well, It’s probably nothing.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  There was a knock at the door. Room service had arrived. Gibson turned and waved the waiter in. The man placed a tray on the table between them, lifted the plate cover, revealing glistening medallions of beef. Rolly felt hungry. He took a sip from his soda.

  “Are you sure you won’t join me?” Gibson asked. Rolly shook his head. Gibson signed the check, tipped the man with a twenty.

  “I need to get going,” Rolly said.

  “You have an appointment?”

  “I’m going to take a look around Black’s Beach before it gets dark.”

  “Black’s Beach?”

  “I just thought I should check out the area where Curtis’ body was found.”

  King Gibson glanced at the fingernails on his right hand, looked back up at Rolly. “Casting a wide net, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  Rolly cursed himself for bringing up his trip to Black’s Beach. King would want to hear all about it, expect a report. So would Ricky.

  “Well, goodnight, Mr. Waters. I do hope you’ll keep this conversation between us.”

  “Of course,” Rolly said. He stood up and walked towards the door, glanced back as he opened it. The clouds outside the window were turning to orange. The room was getting dark. He watched as Gibson tucked a large cloth napkin into his collar so it covered his chest. Then Gibson turned to his dinner, stabbing the meat with his fork, slicing off a gentleman’s portion and placing it into his mouth. Rolly left the room to the low quiet sound of King Gibson’s masticating jaws.

  Black’s Beach

  Rolly drove into The Farms, past the large granite sentinels, and parked at the curb twenty feet from the private access road that led down to Black’s Beach. The road provided the easiest way to get down, but it was gated, off limits to the public. Residents of The Farms all had keys to the gate, so they could drive down, but Rolly would have to walk. Still, it was easier than tramping along the sand all the way up from the Shores.

  Technically, it was private property, but this time of day no one would notice or care. He walked past the driveway to Leslie’s house and turned onto the road. The gate was padlocked, as he expected. It was only a couple of feet high, so he climbed over it, walked down the steep incline towards the parking lot at the end of the road where it opened onto the ocean.

  When he got down, the lot was deserted. In the distance a romantic couple held hands, walking towards Torrey Pines Beach at the other end of the cliffs. A hang glider drifted in the air near the tops of the cliffs, off the glider port next to the Salk Institute. Out on the water sat one lonely surfer, a big guy, looking out at the waves. Rolly couldn’t see too well with the sun directly in his eyes, but the guy looked like he was naked. Surfing while naked. That’s what Black’s was all about. Naked surfing, just being naked. Naked men picking up other naked men. The sun dipped behind a layer of fog that was creeping in a few miles offshore.

  Rolly stepped onto the sand, walked up the beach towards the area below the edge of the cliffs where the mansion, the BFH, stood. From the beach, the angle was too sharp and the cliff face too steep to see the house, but he had an approximate notion of where it was located.

  A flutter of yellow at the base of the cliffs caught his eye. He headed for it, discovered a taped-off area where the police had been. The yellow tape had ripped and one long piece dangled in the salt breeze. The cops had probably seen and taken everything they could have by now. The scene had been compromised. But it was still worth a look. There might be something the police hadn’t noticed. They were working on assumptions Rolly couldn’t pretend to have anymore.

  He glanced around the sand, crisscrossed it a few times in a pattern he thought he remembered from the chapter in his training manuals about assessing the scene. Nothing. He looked back out to the ocean, the big naked surfer out riding the waves. He seemed to have caught a pretty good one. The waves were larger here, better formed, not like the ones at the Shores Beach board meeting the previous morning.

  He looked back at the cliffs where they dropped down to the beach. The area next to the sand fanned out a little. You could climb up on the fanned section before it got steep. He wondered if Curtis’ body had bounced at all, hitting the little hillock first, then sliding down to the sand. It was worth a look, if he could get up there.

  He lifted one foot, stuck it into a small, flat indentation about three feet off the ground. He reached out, grabbed at a slim crevice, tried to pull himself up. His foot slipped out and he fell on his butt. He got back up, wiped the sand off his pants, noticed a shorter level of hardened sand to his right where he might be able to get a foot up more easily. He walked over, found a foothold, grabbed the rock, and pulled himself up, one foot, then two, until he was standing about ten feet above the beach. He looked around, searching for anything unusual. If Curtis had landed here, anything he was carrying would have come down along with him.

  There were several spires of sandstone he couldn’t climb over, but he spotted a skinny path he might squeeze around to get behind them. He inched his way along the path, hoping the earth didn’t crumble under his feet. He cursed his burrito diet, grabbed one of the spires in a full embrace so he could slide around it.

  There was about six feet of space between the spires and the steep face of the cliff. He looked over the area, forcing himself to be methodical, but the dimming light eroded his hopes for any thorough inspection. He saw cracks in the packed earth on the backside of the spires, deep cracks where the soil had eroded away. Looking into the gaps he spotted something white, plastic. He reached out his hand, tried to grab it, but couldn’t quite reach. He leaned over farther, straining to get closer, managed to touch it with one finger. The item was flat, about as big as a playing card. He got a second finger on it, pinched it between both fingers, and pulled it out.

  It was an Eyebitz.com entry key card, like the one he had been issued by the security guard on his visit to the office. It had the number 0001 printed on it and a picture of Curtis Vox, employee number one, now employee number none. Rolly slid the card into his front pocket, looked into the cracks for anything else he could find, saw nothing of interest. He skirted his way back around the spires and jumped onto the beach. The sun had ducked into the fog bank offshore and the light was going quickly. The naked surfer had apparently come into shore. There was no one out on the waves. Rolly started down the beach back towards th
e access road. It would be dark by the time he got back up to his car.

  A shadow of motion to his left caught his eye, a sudden prickle of skin on his back, a rush of shadow and air. Someone knocked him to the ground. A large, heavy weight held him down. A hand grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face into the sand. He gagged, felt the sand mash into his mouth and nostrils, making it painful to breathe. Fear and adrenaline shot through his body as if he were touching an ungrounded microphone. He tried to resist, pull away from the pressure grinding him down. He couldn’t move.

  A moment passed. Then another. Whoever had tackled him wasn’t saying a thing. Whoever had tackled him was an irresistible force. And Rolly was clearly a movable object. What was the guy waiting for? Was Rolly going to be robbed, beaten? Was he going to be raped by some big naked homosexual surfer?

  There was still no sound or movement from the attacker, just a steady, weighted pressure bearing down on Rolly’s back and head. The guy could be up there meditating for all Rolly could tell. Maybe this was some kind of new age gang initiation.

  So Rolly decided to go with it, relaxed his body, breathed into his diaphragm, gave up struggling. He could wait this out, too. Apparently it was the right thing to do.

  “That’s good,” said a low voice above his right ear. “Let your body relax. Release the tension. When you tense up you make an injury more likely to occur.”

  The voice above him was high-pitched and raspy, but at the same time soothing and deep, as if Barry White were singing a lullaby to him, backed by Metallica. Sand filled his nostrils. Perhaps he was being suffocated with some secret Zen technique, the blood slowly cut off from his head by a special Samurai grip. He tried to relax even more.

  “Oh, that’s very good,” said Barry Metallica, or whoever he was. “Now, I have a message I have been requested to deliver to you. Please listen carefully. Are you listening?”

  Rolly tried to open his mouth, but could only blow a little sand out in front of his face.

  “The message is this. Do not do any more than you have been requested to do. Return that which you do not own to those who do. Do not concern yourself with people and events you know nothing about.”