by Paul Snyder
After flipping a light switch in the small room behind her walk-in closet, she looked down a long corridor that led to plywood shelves with several metal boxes. How could this be? Why would he leave his toolboxes here? This is evidence. Does he want to get caught? Or does he just not care?
Everyone was downstairs in the garage, assembling the park equipment for the kids' playground. Someone may come into her room. She didn’t have much time. After removing the toolboxes, she put the wall back up, fast. She trembled while snapping open one of the boxes and then sucked in a breath. A handgun and bullets?
She hurried to her laptop computer and then left-clicked on the internet browser to learn about the weapon. After typing the letters on the front of the gun that was in capital letters, M&P 9 SHIELD, her laptop displayed a window with a long list of Web options.
She left-clicked on the Smith & Wesson website, and then as minutes passed, her trembling subsided, and she wove her hands in her hair in frustration. How’s learning about these slim, lightweight, and easy to conceal pistols going to help me find this man? Guns? I’ve never even seen a gun. What do I need a gun for? When will you stop wasting your time? Next, she found dummy rounds, a thigh holster, bear spray, and pink fishing lures.
After reading online articles on bear defense guns, Meghan figured whoever stashed the money behind her walk-in closet fished where there are bears, probably a salmon fisherman. He needs the pistol to shoot a few rounds in the air to scare off bears wanting to steal his catch of salmon. There are no bears or salmon in Seal Beach, and the pistol will hurt me with the police and the FBI. I don’t want the camping equipment or money. I want the man who has made my life a living hell. She put the toolboxes under a brown blanket in her walk-in closet and then heard something small, metallic, banging in a box.
She squealed with delight, feeling vindicated for her effort as she found a short brass key with the words Philip’s Locker, hand-printed in black letters on a little white tag. Whoever he is. He’s mine now.
Heavy surf crashed in the ocean, and she then watched perfect fifteen-foot waves breaking from top to bottom, fifty yards off the shoreline. Hurricane Yolanda was closing in. The waves were big, and without the sustained onshore winds, the water was smooth as glass, glassy. There was an off-shore Santa Ana wind, and it was perfect for surfing.
She could be in the ocean in ten minutes. Ignoring a strong desire to surf, she decided to go downstairs to Philip’s locker in the garage, and then while passing her bed, she found the messy debris of corn husks and red poppy petals atop her blue linen sheets.
After falling asleep last night beside her wicker basket filled with crimson poppies and corn, she dreamed of Northern California and the flower fields and playing in the poppies as a child. As she lay there in the flower fields of her dreams, breathing in their sweet fragrance, she woke up to find Andrew smiling down at her, and then she looked out at the Pacific Ocean. It’s dark outside. I’m half asleep, and Andrew’s wonderful.
She breathed in the fresh fragrance of her wicker basket’s crimson poppies and remembered her love for adventure along the dusty, burro trails in Northern California in Lompoc. She loved the badlands and the valleys of flowers where her family collected flower seeds like gold. For as long as she could remember, her family sent mail-order catalogs to homes across the nation, offering flower seeds, fertilizers, and hand tools. Farming flowers had been good to her. Andrew’s my first and only love. He’s kind and good.
She breathed more naturally, and as she began dozing off, Andrew grasped her body. She started to ask him what he wanted, but his lips caressed her into silence. She parted her lips and then raised her body to meet his. They made love on top of the flowers and corn until morning when some noisy surfers paddled into the shore break waves on the beach outside her balcony.
Andrew’s gaze riveted on the corn. Andrew was starved, and for breakfast, they devoured the corn raw, satisfying an urgent hunger as they’d been panting and heaving, with their bodies squirming for hours. And then, later, they left the mess of corn husks red poppy petals in her bed.
Now she was walking out of her bedroom, but when she was halfway downstairs to the garage, her mind was still wrapped around this confusing concoction of wanting to surf and make love. But, she went straight to Philip’s locker with only one thought in mind. I have the key to all my problems right in the palm of my hand.
19
“Why are you opening Philip’s locker,” Dan tilted his head and gave her a wry smile. He smoothed the front of his orange t-shirt, brushing sawdust from his chest. “You’re making a mistake, Meghan.”
“I found the key.” Barefoot in the garage, Meghan rocked her feet back and forth on the smooth, cold concrete. She paused by the locker, key in hand. It was her property. Still, the cabinet was Philip’s private space, and Dan felt she owed Philip that much. “Julie and Andrew are still working on the rock-climbing wall for the children’s park?” She tried to change the subject.
“Answer my question first.” Dan felt skeptical of her loyalty to Philip. “Why are you opening Philip’s locker?” Dan rubbed the back of his neck and glanced over to Philip, who stood beside the workbench, gathering hand tools for Andrew and Julie. “Meghan’s opening your locker, Philip.”
“Don’t go in that locker.” Philip advanced toward Meghan.
“Shut up, Philip.” It was all Julie needed to say, and Meghan nodded. “This is Meghan’s house.”
“I don’t agree, Julie.” Dan basked in defiance. “That’s Philip’s private closet.”
“As vice president of Andrew’s firm, Sun Coast Properties. I designate that locker off-limits.” Philip spoke without hesitation. “Meghan, I empathize with your situation and what you are going through, but I must insist you give me that key, right now.”
“I agree,” Dan persisted. “I second the motion.”
“Sit down and shut up, Dan.” Julie demanded.
“It’s property from a prior owner.” Philip had a single-minded focus and scowled at Meghan while extending his palm for the key. “That locker is big enough for two people to stand inside, and everything in there is off-limits. Put the key in my hand, now, Meghan.”
“We purchased this property three years ago.” Julie claimed. “Meghan has been the legal owner for a few months now. Legally, this locker is Meghan’s property. Why are you talking with us like we’re little girls, again, Philip?”
Dan arched a brow. “Because you are little girls.”
Julie jumped at Dan and threw a plastic cup of soda and ice, hitting Dan in the chest. Andrew ran into the garage as Dan rubbed his eyes, unable to see. Dan blinked Julie into focus. With his orange t-shirt drenched in soda, Dan walked to Julie. “I deserved that.”
Julie made a surprise step and hugged Dan, then looked at Andrew. “You tell Philip to explain the locker and the FBI man and why local and federal law enforcement is getting away with destroying our property, burning down a hundred-year old tree in our front yard, threatening our lives, in front of the children when we tried to build the park.”
Andrew signed at Philip by pointing at Philip and then wiping one hand across his forehead before giving the okay signs with both hands.
“Andrew just signed to me that I forgot family. I am sorry for calling you girls,” Philip’s voice was gentle. “I am thirty years older than you. I live alone, next door. I have spent almost all my life alone, and you girls are my family. I love you. I think of you like my daughters. Years ago, I helped the FBI expose a corrupt politician. My business mentor pleaded with me to stay out of politics. The politician hired Andrew’s father, a police officer, to put brucine in my food. It’s rat poison.”
Andrew signed. “Philip caught my father putting brucine in his food. My father just laughed about it. The police department did nothing to protect Philip. The police are supposed to protect, not kill people.”
“I threw up multiple times while drinking a lot of water to cleanse my body of the brucine
while being rushed to a doctor.” Philip stopped speaking, and they stood and looked at him in sorrow. “The poisonings continued for a week, but I had an antidote from the doctor. Even now, as we speak, I am still suffering physically and mentally from the poisoning some fifteen years ago.”
Andrew signed. “Philip is damaged for life from what the police did to him, openly, without shame, in public.”
Philip turned to Meghan. “You may keep the key and what’s in the locker. We are cooperating with the police and the FBI.” Philip pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and called someone. “Jim Temple, please,” Philip turned to Julie. “The Seal Beach Police Department just put me on hold.” Philip smiled. “I will speak with the FBI. He’ll come here now and explain the burning down of the tree and blowing up of our vehicles in front of all the children who wanted to help us with the building of the park.”
“I am always with you, Philip.” Dan reached out to shake Philip's hand, but Philip grabbed Dan and hugged him as Julie walked to them. “Julie, are you with us?”
“Always,” Julie looked into his eyes. “Philip, I’m sorry for hurting you last night.”
Meghan suddenly realized the influence Philip had had on all their lives and how cruel they had been to him, and she resolved to change her ways, to be kinder. Philip was a nice man, and she really did love him. “The FBI will explain the fire-bombing by the police department,” Meghan still felt as though her life had been irreversibly ripped in half. “Then they’ll go right back to their playbook and do more evil later. We hear about it over and over, in history classes in school, Tammany Hall with the police, and on television about the FISA courts and the FBI.” Meghan spoke to everyone now. “We’re not politicians and media personalities and actors. We do not have to appease the public with some cock and bull story about one percent of the cops being corrupt and ninety-nine percent good, or vice-versa. They’re all so blatantly biased that there isn’t a kernel of truth as their bank accounts get fatter with every word that comes out of their mouths. This is why we work in the private sector. Why do you want us to make Faustian bargains with the police and FBI?”
“Not this time. After Jim Temple explains why the police are getting away with fire-bombing our cars on our street, ruining our lives and property.” Philip added. “Then, believe me, we kick the police and the FBI out of our lives forever.”
20
For twenty minutes, Jim Temple waited at the Seal Beach Police Department while Jennifer Davis organized yellow and pink Post-it notes at her desk. Temple knew she was stalling for time. If I’m not careful, she’ll skip out of the office for lunch before I get my answers.
Police radios squawked through dispatchers' murmur, speaking into headsets when a bottled water delivery man walked into the detective’s office to replace a five-gallon plastic jug on the water cooler. A detective hopped up on the desk opposite of Jennifer’s and started tapping his fingers to a song playing on a radio. Jennifer looked up at him intently, then strode for the door. “I’ve got some fieldwork to do. I’ll be back around two or three o’clock.”
Jim spilled hot coffee on his hand and smothered a cry. “Wait, Jennifer, please, come back to your desk.” Jim poured himself another coffee cup. With a springy step, Jennifer returned to her desk. Jim held a manilla folder, and after he cleaned up the mess around the coffee machine, he walked over to a small chair beside Detective Davis. He sat down and leaned to her. “Just a few questions before you go.”
Jennifer gave him an impatient shrug. “Hurry up, go ahead. I have to fill up my gas, run some errands, and finish my reports. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to help.”
Jim fired away, not stopping to explain. “The Federal Communications Commission violations.”
“You work for them now,” Jennifer threw another pink Post-it note in the trash. “How can I help the FCC today?”
"Unlicensed personal radio use.”
“Sorry I can’t help you there.”
“But you said you could help me.”
“Sorry,” Jennifer swiveled quickly, turning her back to him and facing the window. “What else?”
“Robocalls and prank calls and spoofing for the hundred dollar bill hotline targeting the landline of Meghan Green’s residence.”
“I’d be glad to help you there,” Jennifer faced him with a smile.
“It stopped when the phone line tracers started with the phone company.”
“Let me guess.” Jennifer folded her arms across her stomach and leaned back in her chair. “What you are suggesting is that we were wiretapping Meghan Green’s residence without a warrant when we discovered the phone company would be tracking us, so we discontinued the illegal wiretaps and the obscene and harassing telephone calls which violated the U.S. Section Code 223?”
“Lucky guess.”
"Sorry, I can’t help you with the hypothetical warrantless wiretapping or the U.S. 223 Section Code violations, either.”
“Last night, well over four million dollars in damages to Meghan and the community of Seal Beach were witnessed by the police and fire departments, dozens of citizens, and a television news helicopter,” Jim sat motionless, expecting more open contempt. “Let’s forget about federal crimes and focus on local crime.”
“Good idea to forget about the news helicopter, too,” Jennifer leaned forward in her chair and spoke in a calm voice. “After that hundred-year old, practically sacred tree burned to the ground in Meghan’s front yard, our sympathetic judge had to issue a media gag order in the interest of public safety. Can you imagine the public protesters if the Tree Huggers of America found out? How can I help you with the local crime.”
“Verbal assault charges against Meghan Green.”
Jennifer dropped her hands by her side. “Is Meghan still playing in the flowers?”
“Verbal assault charges come from police reports.”
“Wow,” Jennifer leaned back, her eyes amazed. “You went to school.”
“I’m a stage actor, Georgetown University.”
“You should be acting on Broadway in New York.”
“I should be in front of your judge getting an indictment.”
Jennifer’s gaze narrowed on Temple. “I’ll see the paperwork on you being shot in the line of duty.” Jennifer’s eyes returned to the paperwork on her desk. “Before I see a subpoena.”
A lady, from the front desk, her face pink with eagerness, leaned her head through the door. “Jim, you have a call on line two.” She gave him a curt nod of farewell and disappeared around the corner.
“May I use your phone?” Jim hated asking.
Jennifer nodded and turned back to her Post-it notes.
“Hello.” Jim recognized Philip’s voice, inviting him to a barbeque at Meghan’s firepit on the beach. “Yes, I’ll be at Meghan’s house soon.”
Jim hung up the phone. “Davis, police reports have numbers. Numbers don’t lie. People lie. Get me the police report numbers on Meghan’s most recent verbal and sexual assault charges.” Jim stood up. “You want to get the man who killed Andrew’s father?” Jim paused by her desk. “Go get him, and stop setting Seal Beach on fire.”
Jennifer laughed and then flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her white shirt. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
Jim shook his head in dismay, but not surprise. She suffers less and rejoices more when others are in pain she causes. Another piece of her predictability puzzle is in place.
21
All Meghan could see inside Bob’s Sports was the same “shop within a shop” format her family’s gift shop had in Oak Glen. But with different signage, targeting what she guessed to be aging baby boomers. After managing her family’s franchises for years, she went onto the sales floor as though she were a retail store manager. There were red and green holiday ornaments satisfactorily placed at a chrome fixture with peach and black Adidas sweatshirts.
Carefully carrying a fishing pole, she started her way along
a glass merchandise counter with sunglasses and watches nested in mistletoe and white cotton puffs of snow. There was Christmas music with loud beeps of bar code scanners echoing from the customer service kiosk where cashiers called out shoppers' purchases.
The fishing pole from Philip’s locker was her only lead to who put the money behind her walk-in closet. Philip denied owning it. Like the other hand tools she found in the cabinet, it was all property from the previous owner of the home, and she was filled with a sudden sense of relief that she’d found the fishing pole with the price tag intact. But how would she explain to customer service that she needed the sensitive, private, customer data on who purchased the deep-sea rig?
She ignored the intense perfume wafting in the air. The closest mom, standing at a cash register, tilted her head with a curious stare and shuffled closer to grasp the white tape, spitting out of a debit machine. None of the customers smiled. A few glowered while talking about fishing licenses, but no one looked as though they would come unglued from the lack of customer service.
Specialty retailing, Meghan mused, is serious business during the holidays. Whatever happens, there’s another purchase for the customer, another profit for the store owner. For some, Christmas shopping is fun. They walk through the store in green and red sweaters and smile while waiting in long lines. But others can’t let it go. I’ve seen them in my stores. They’re without joy, without the Christmas spirit. They’re desperate, pleading over quality, with teary eyes. Their lives are a bitter, unending cycle of fierce emotions, even violence. The silver domes in the ceiling are hiding cameras with audio surveillance. Security will hear me bribing the cashier for the name and address of the man who purchased the deep-sea pole.
A cashier tapped the microphone three times and then said over the intercom, “customer service, please.” Meghan looked at the black foam covering the microphone. After I give them the cash in my pocket for a bribe, what do I do when I arrive at this man’s house? Should I just knock on the door and ask for him to please get the money out of my home before I go to prison. I know too much. He won’t let me live. He’ll kill me. This gun strapped to my leg won’t help. I’ve never fired a gun. She fussed with her wet hair and checked her pocket for the bribery money while the pistol strap slipped down her leg, inside her baggy rain-soaked jeans.