Moratorium

by Chuck Sampson

  “He’s getting away!”

  Cyrus raised his hand and said, “Stop Max, don’t turn on the siren and turn off the cherry top.”

  “Oh come on, Cyrus,” Max whined, “He’s getting away.”

  “Good, I changed my mind. We can’t risk it; he’s got four hundred plus horsepower under the hood of that Camaro. If he sees us he might panic, floor it, and wreck his car.”

  Max slowed down the Dodge and let Grigoryan’s car disappear into the darkness. “You sure know how to take the fun out police work,” he said as he picked up the VHF receiver, pushed in the encryption key, and then said, “Bailey, I need an address.”

  Cyrus punched in the street number Bailey gave them for Peter Grigoryan’s home into the GPS. “Thanks,” he said and then to Max, “He’s about five miles from home. Do you think you can take this alternate route and get us there before he does?”

  “I’ll give it all I got,” Max said and then he pressed the gas pedal flat as he could against the car floor.

  They made the next off ramp and headed toward the Half Moon Bay golf course. It was after 10pm and light traffic, so Max was able to keep the tach needle near the redline for most of the way. With the tires screeching from fishtailing around every corner and peeling out after every stop, they soon found Grigoryan’s house located next to the Half Moon Bay golf course green. It was hard for Cyrus to make it out at night, but it looked like a simple dwelling, two-car, garage and a slab front porch. From what he could see, the neighborhood was an old one and the houses sat on spacious lots.

  “His car’s not here. Either we beat him home or he isn’t coming home.”

  “We should have chased him down and pulled him over.”

  “We couldn’t risk it, Max. What if he’d wrecked and it got out to the news. Rudy would kill us both.”

  They waited another five minutes.

  “He’s probably in Santa Barbara sipping on a Long Island ice tea at the Bombay.” Cyrus said as he gripped the door handle of the car.

  Five more minutes passed before he saw the lights coming from a car. When it passed under a streetlamp, Cyrus could see it was the Camaro.

  “He’s driving pretty slowly and he’s having a hard time keeping his car going straight.”

  “He must have wrecked.”

  As the Camaro neared the edge of the driveway, Cyrus heard the garage door to Grigoryan’s house open up. Max tooted the siren and flashed the lights for a second, just to get his attention. The Camaro stopped in the driveway and the driver got out of the car. Max pulled the cruiser to block him in and they both got out holding up their badges for him to see. Grigoryan froze, “What’s wrong?”

  “We clocked you doing over a hundred miles an hour on Highway 1, that’s what wrong,” Cyrus said as he walked gingerly up the cold sidewalk in his bare feet. Grigoryan’s size made Cyrus a little wary. If he thought he might get deported or sent to jail he might try to escape. He couldn’t imagine trying to take down a man his size to be much fun. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket carefully so his suspect could not see them in the light coming from inside the garage.

  Instead of the handcuffs, Grigoryan spotted Cyrus’s feet, smiled, and then said, “Where are your shoes?”

  “That’s not your concern,” Cyrus said.

  Grigoryan ducked back into the driver’s seat of his car. Max pulled his revolver from his holster and yelled out, “Get back out of the car with your hands up!”

  The big Russian froze, and then with his right hand he quickly reached down to pick up something from the passenger side floorboard. When he emerged from the car, Cyrus heard Max pull back the hammer on his pistol.

  “Don’t shoot Max, it’s not a gun!”

  Grigoryan let out a laugh, and pointed the two, black, objects toward Cyrus, “No, it’s shoes. Did you lose your shoes? I found these in our trash barrel back at the research oil rig.”

  “No, actually I just bought a pair. They were rubbing against my heel.” Cyrus put away the handcuffs and Max holstered his piece. They walked up to the big Russian and stood on either side of him, looking like two small children accompanying their father.

  Extending his hand holding the shoes toward Cyrus, the he said, “Well, try them on anyway. They are too small for me. Someone about your size was in our research center this evening without our permission.”

  “No kidding,” Cyrus said as he took the shoes from him. Grigoryan started to speak but Cyrus interrupted him, “Why were you speeding?”

  “Oh, I am sorry officers, truly I am. I guess I was having, what do call it, uh…”

  “Middle age craziness,” Max said.

  “No, no, uh… road rage, that’s it. Some crazy man in a black truck wearing a strange monster looking mask drove by me. He threw some hard things at the passenger door of my car. I think they might be coins. I got angry and I tried to chase him down. But believe me; I didn’t go fast for long. I heard something underneath the car pop, so I slowed down. It was very hard for me to steer the car and I just could make it home.”

  While Grigoryan was talking, Cyrus put on the shoes he had given him. “Call Rudy and ask if Bernie can get out here and look at the tie rods,” Cyrus called out after Max as he walked past him heading for the cruiser.

  “Are you going to take me to jail now?” Grigoryan said. Then he leaned against the car and smiled.

  “No, but I do need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, officer.”

  “I am Detective Sergeant Cyrus Fleming and this is my partner, Detective Max Stern.”

  “Good to meet you. The shoes fit pretty good, huh? We can go inside and talk. I can put the car in the garage?”

  “No, leave the car where it is. I need to see your driver’s license.” Cyrus took his license, looked it over, and then handed it back.

  Max walked back up the driveway to where Cyrus and Grigoryan were standing and said, “Bernie can’t come out here-not our jurisdiction. Rudy called the Half Moon station and spoke with Captain Robertson. He’s bringing a couple crime scene investigators over to check out the car and get a statement from Mr. Grigoryan.”.

  “Ok, Mr. Grigoryan-” Cyrus said.

  “Just Grigoryan, please call me Grigoryan.”

  “Ok, Grigoryan, let’s go inside and talk.”

  “Good, I need a drink,” he replied as he walked up the sidewalk lead to the front door of his house. Max and Cyrus followed him in single file. He opened the door to what appeared to Cyrus as a very modest home, especially for a man of Grigoryan’s stature and income. The living room had a plain, long, white-leather couch pushed up against the far wall away from the window. A couple end tables and a coffee table and one very large easy chair all scattered about the room in a haphazard arrangement.

  They gathered by the bar located between the living room and the kitchen. The living room walls were covered with framed plaques which appeared to be awards from some Russian oil company. There was a large picture of a bespectacled, white haired, man in the center. That must be his father Alexander, Cyrus said to himself.

  Grigoryan motioned toward the large open cooler next to the bar filled with sodas and water.

  “Just plain water, if you don’t mind,” Cyrus said.

  “Help yourself,” Grigoryan said as he picked up a long neck bottle of beer from the cooler and then sat down in his black leather easy chair. Cyrus sat across from him on the couch. Max walked back toward the front door and pulled back the curtain window. Red and blue flashing lights lit up his bruised face.

  “Robertson, got here quick,” Cyrus said.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Max said and then left.

  Cyrus turned to Grigoryan and said, “Is that a home brewed beer? I’ve never seen that kind before?”

  “No, it’s a special bottle of Russian stout. From my father.”

  Cyrus took a long draw off his bottle of Dasani and then he said, “Somewhat illegal drilling going on at Tanner’s mansion
wouldn’t you say.”

  “Controversial, yes, illegal, no. We’re not offshore so we don’t violate the moratorium-just zoning laws. Tanner got special permits that cost a lot of money. They call it cap and trade, I think. All the money from the little bit of oil we pull up from the rig we give to the State of California. They bend a lot of rules now that they are broke.”

  “What’s so special about your drilling technique?”

  Grigoryan gulped down a long swig from his beer and set it down on the end table next to his easy chair, “It’s technical and I don’t think you could understand.”

  Cyrus folded his arms “All right, I’ll admit I am no techno whiz, Mr. Einstein, but my partner, Max, went to Cal Tech and graduated with a BSEE. Could you explain it to him?”

  Grigoryan let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. After a moment he sat up straight and said, “For you I will give the simple-minded explanation.”

  “Thanks,” Cyrus said and then frowning he pulled out his small black notebook and clicked his pen a few times.

  “Old way of drilling for oil is to drive the drill head vertically down into and below the sea floor to find the oil and gas fractures or deposits. Oil rigs costs plenty and very difficult to construct. Vertical drilling is bad. It misses oil deposits close by the initial entry point-”

  “Wait a minute Grigoryan, I think you were right,” Cyrus held up his hand, “You can’t explain it to me, not without making me want to stick a fork in my eye while I am listening. Just tell me why would anyone want what you’re working on.”

  “We can get to the oil out in the ocean from land.”

  “So what? Is this a big deal?”

  Grigoryan’s face flushed red and he pointed his finger at Cyrus as he spoke, “We can drill more than thirty miles from a single borehole. No one ever has come close to a mile before my new advanced technique.”

  “So that’s a good accomplishment technically, but what’s the pay off?”

  “It is a great advantage. When the moratorium on oil rig exploration is lifted we can drill to areas with oil without a offshore oil rig. Much cheaper from land. We won’t disturb the ocean and create an eyesore. Also we won’t have to pay extra for workers having to do dangerous work offshore.”

  “That was all I needed, or wanted, to know about the drilling. How long have you worked for Jack Tanner?”

  “Ten years, he helped my father and me emigrate from Russia. He is a good man.”

  “Did you know his son, Mike Tanner?”

  “Yes I knew him, a little. At least I knew who he was.”

  “What did you think of his politics?”

  Grigoryan smiled, picked up his beer, and then sat up in his chair, “His politics bothered me very much. I am glad that someone killed him. But also I didn’t like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I love Jack Tanner. He helped me and Father escape Russian police and start a new life in America. I don’t like to see him drunk all day and unable to run TANOCO. And something else-”

  “What?”

  “I think Mathers, the one the paper says killed him, is what you call it, set up.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “One week ago Jack told me if we get report from Mathers, we can all retire. He said Kwan Li told him her man Mathers has a report which shows where there is lots of oil. I saw Kwan Li with Mike showing her our new oil rig. The next day, Mathers is in jail for killing Mike.”

  “You think someone who wanted this oil, killed Mike Tanner and then framed, or set up, Mathers?”

  “No I don’t think they wanted the oil. They just don’t want us to have the oil.”

  “Maybe Mike’s friend Jeff Moon?”

  “Maybe…no, I think it was Maverick Duncan.”

  “What about Maverick Duncan? Did you know him?”

  “Everyone who worked at Tanner’s mansion knew him. He almost lived there once he was friends with Mike.”

  “Friends? How close were they? ”

  “Mike was with him every time I see him. He let Duncan take pictures of our operation and he is always taking notes and snooping around. I know he’s the spy who is feeding information to the stockholders.”

  “The ones trying to take control of TANOCO?”

  “Yes, Duncan is smart. If he helps these new people take over, he can get the Union into the company.”

  “How does Mike’s death help the stockholders take over the company?”

  “They frame Mathers and he goes to jail. No one can understand the report good enough to risk cutting a bore hole out in the ocean. If there’s no oil, company will lose millions of dollars. So we don’t find oil and pay the workers the high wages and bonuses we promised them. Our workers get discouraged and join the union.” Grigoryan took another long draw and finished his beer.”

  “But he wouldn’t kill Mike would he? They were friends?

  “Spies make you think they are your friend and then they kill you,” he leaned back in his big chair as he spoke. “I am from Russia. I know a spy when I see one. There are many funny things about this Duncan kid I don’t like.”

  “Like what?”

  “He starts out as a roustabout, only one month ago. Next time, he’s flying a chopper. Only two weeks after. How does that happen? Then after the incident at our Platform Irene, Tanner fires him and he gets job driving for Senator Dunbar.”

  “I see. But then again, I wouldn’t want to fly anyone after I was accused of causing an accident that killed three people and nearly got killed myself, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t want to even fly in a chopper ever-too dangerous. But that’s what I don’t like. Chopper pilots is like being a doctor. It is for life. Every pilot I meet says he has the best job in the world because they get paid to have fun.”

  “And that wasn’t the case for Duncan.”

  “He was no good at flying. The idiot killed his friends on the helipad.”

  “How do you know they were his friends?”

  “I see them talk to him a lot.”

  “You could be right about that,” Cyrus said, “Spies are quick studies. I learned that as an MP on the Berlin Wall. Spies have to learn things quickly and just enough to get them by. Apparently Mr. Duncan didn’t learn enough about flying a chopper to save those three roustabouts.”

  “Now what, I go to jail?”

  “Only if you want to, or try to explain to me anymore about oil drilling.”

  “Why would I want to be in jail?”

  “For your own protection. We’re pretty sure your vehicle was sabotaged.”

  “The stockholders you mean tried to kill me?”

  “Someone did. Do you want one of our patrolman to check on you?”

  “I am not worried. I have a lot of experience with KGB.”

  “Yes, I noticed the surveillance camera on the corner of-”

  A loud knock on the front door startled Cyrus and caused them both to stand up.

  “Detective Fleming, please come out here, it’s your partner, Detective Stern.”

  “Stay here, Grigoryan,” Cyrus tucked his pen and notebook into his pocket and ran out the front door. Max was sprawled out on the front lawn with Capt. Robertson kneeling beside him.

  “It’s okay,” Robertson said, “He’s breathing and the EMT’s are on the way. He passed out. I guess his injuries are a little worse than he thought.”

  The sound of the ambulance coming down the street halted Cyrus’s reply. He knelt down beside Capt. Robertson and felt Max’s wrist for a pulse. It was weak, put it was there. The EMT’s arrived and brought their special stretcher, or gurney, with them. Capt Robertson and Cyrus moved out of the way as they put the gurney parallel to Max. The two EMT’s fumbled around for a minutes with the gurney’s adjustment until one of them stood up and said, “We’re going to need some help lifting this guy up. He’s pretty big and we can’t get the bed down low enough…”

  “I thought you guys had special techniques for m
oving people onto stretchers?” Captain Robertson said with his hands on his hips.

  “We do. This guy is easy. We checked. No broken bones or injuries. We just need some muscle to hoist him. He’s solid muscle.”

  To Cyrus’s surprise, Grigoryan appeared beside the stretcher. Before anyone could object, he reached down, put his arms under Max and with one quick movement gathered him up and set him on the gurney.

  The EMT shook Grigoryan’s hand and said, “I think you’ve done this before, thanks.”

  “I thought I told you to stay in your house, Grigoryan,” Cyrus said.

  Grigoryan shrugged his shoulders and went back inside.

  The next day at the station, Cyrus sat at his desk and stared at the empty seat next to Max’s desk. The three hours or fours he spent dozing on and off at the hospital the night before left him spaced out and weary. The doctor said Max had a concussion relapse, or a commotio cerebri sequal. They took an MRI and a CAT scan. The doctor said the injury appeared to be mild and the scans showed no signs of permanent damage. He’d be okay in a couple of days.

  The relapse was triggered by the stress of the investigation, Cyrus realized. Working any case for two straight days without more than eight hours rest sprinkled here and there would probably cause any man to pass out, especially when they’d just been in a major auto accident. The ringing of Cyrus’s cell phone brought him back from his thoughts. It was Max.

  “What are you doing?” Cyrus said, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “What did Grigoryan tell you?”

  “You’re crazy. Go back to sleep or I’ll get the doctor to give you drugs.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “I’ll call you back this afternoon, after you’ve had some rest, and give you the details.”

  After he hung up the office phone rang. It was the coroner, Thaddeus Colbert. “Cyrus, I need you to come down to the lab. I found something strange.”

  “What?”

  “Mike Tanner was not killed on the beach, at least not while he was standing up.”