Murphy remembered that during the 1980s, the three, Bobby Paladin, Micky Webber and DJ Frasier, were joined at the hip. They were the best at everything: surfing, football, and girls, whatever. But then they all went their separate ways. DJ and Bobby were invited to join the qualifying pro surf tour, where they started out competing against the best junior surfers in the world. Bobby won three surf contests in a row their first year on the qualifying tour, and he was invited to join the professional tour. Murphy used to see Bobby’s name in the paper all the time. After almost dying at the Pipeline Masters on the pro tour, Bobby had a brief career as a cop with the L.A.P.D. Murph didn’t know for sure why he quit the police department, but he had heard the rumors. Bobby had been back in town for quite a while now, working construction and surfing; apparently, he was through with being a cop. At least, that is what Murphy hoped.
DJ finally gave up his surfing dream after Bobby qualified, and he didn’t. After that, DJ went into the family construction business. Not that eventually taking over your Dad’s well-established and successful business of building custom homes was considered settling. Murphy knew that Bobby and DJ were still very tight, but it appeared that Micky was not around as much anymore. Murphy’s background information on Micky said that he went to work for a large company that had plenty of interests in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and many other countries. Micky went on to become one of the youngest project managers in the company’s history.
Now these three had all ended up in the same place at the same time again, with one big difference. One of them was dead. Too much of a coincidence and Murphy didn’t believe in coincidence. Just like now, it was no coincidence that Micky Webber died on DJ Frasier’s jobsite.
Murphy’s phone rings. “Murphy,” he says distractedly. He listens for a minute, frowns then shuts his phone. He stuffed the end of his sandwich into his mouth and swallowed the last of his coffee before he jumped into his car and headed back to the office. Who knew when he would get another chance to eat again?
◆◆◆
At dusk I’m sitting on my deck, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, down behind Catalina Island, wondering what the hell is going on. Micky, back in town after all these years, leaving me that note, wanting to meet up with me at the Red Fox Lounge, and then killing himself? It doesn’t make sense. Micky was my lifeline at one time and if he needed help now he knew I would be there for him. So had he tried to reach out to me then just gave up? No, Micky was stronger than that, I think, as I remember all that he’d done for me in the past.
A few months after shooting that child, I left the Los Angeles Police department on a disability pension and found myself slipping into my own personal hell. I know now that I hadn’t come to terms with what had happened, and that I’d lost my edge as a cop. How could I pull a gun on a perp again without second guessing what I was doing? But how would the second guessing protect me, my partner or an innocent person? Thoughts went round and round in my head and kept me distracted at work. That’s when the police shrink stepped in and told my commander I was no longer fit for duty.
Once away from the force, I started drinking nonstop, snorting cocaine, not eating, just trying to keep the voices in my head quiet. Worst of all, I had given up on life. Unknown to me, an old friend, John G., was keeping an eye on me and contacted Micky, who stepped in and saved my life. DJ, Micky and I were at this sponsor’s party house at Pipeline and this slick guy walked over with one of the sponsor’s models on each arm. He introduced himself to us as John Gomez but said to just call him John G. We had been warned about him from the rules committee, he was known for throwing crazy parties where there were booze and drugs flowing freely. The sponsors were trying to clean up the image of pro-surfing, but John G. seemed cool to us.
When Micky found me I was living at The Alagodon Motel, a real dump. I had leased out my house to earn extra drug money and I was sharing the room with cockroaches, ants and my own puke. I was drinking all day and snorting coke all night. I was a mess and I didn’t care. I don’t remember the first few days after he arrived, but Micky got me into a drug and alcohol treatment program. And that was the start.
When I’d been in rehab for a couple of weeks, Micky notified the tenants who were renting my house in San Clemente that the lease would not be renewed. That gave them time to find someplace else while I completed treatment. When they moved out, Micky helped me move back in to my house. But most important of all, Micky convinced me to get help, real help, to heal my mind and help me find peace with myself. When I was strong enough, he called DJ and asked him to hire me and to teach me a trade, and DJ did just that. Micky had helped me further by getting me to go A.A. meetings and learning to stay clean. Then one day he was gone again and I haven’t heard from him in a few years.
Now Micky is back and, unbelievably, dead.
But if he didn’t kill himself, who did? And what can I do about it? Murph told me directly to stay out of whatever is going on and I’m not sure if I’m strong enough yet to face whatever that is. What if I get involved and find things about Micky that I really don’t want to know. What if it causes drinking problems again--recovery is, after all, a one-day-at-a-time thing. What I do know is this: first, I need more information and second, I never had the opportunity to say thank to Micky for saving my life. I roll down the window and with the wind blowing in my face, I shout out “Micky, I owe you. I will find out what happened to you, even if it kills me.” I look toward the heavens. I know he can hear me. But I had no idea that trying to help find Micky’s killer would take more than just shouting in the wind.
And, after thinking it over for a while longer, I pick up the phone and dial a number from the past I have never forgotten.
I’m not sure if the phone number is still in service but after a few rings, a curt voice answers, “Hello, who is this?”
“It’s Bobby Paladin,” I say. “Look, is there a chance I can talk to you tonight, in person? It’s important.”
John G. pauses before he answers, “What can I do for you Bobby?”
I tell him about Micky and he says that we can meet at his house in Laguna Beach at nine this evening. He gives me the address then hangs up the phone.
I met John G. in Hawaii, where he started out dealing drugs to tourists on the North Shore of Oahu. When he became one of the biggest drug dealers in Hawaii, he expanded into Southern California. Over the years he had turned his empire into a multi-million dollar a year business, both legal and illegal. Whether it is weed, coke, heroin or prescription pills, you can bet John G. is getting his cut off the top. If you don’t pay John G. his tribute, you end up just disappearing, never to be seen or heard from again. John G. has never been arrested and as far as I know has never been on the wrong end on a business deal. If anybody might know what Micky was up to, it will be John G.
I hop into the shower, get dressed and head out for a quick bite to eat before driving up the coast to Laguna Beach.
◆◆◆
DJ sits in his home office, thinking about Micky. He hadn’t seen Micky in years, but at one time the three of them were really close. Crap, they were blood. He wonders what the owners, will say when they get back from the south of France. Nice way to end a vacation: have someone kill themselves in your brand-new, custom built-home. Custom built by Frasier Construction. Right. That ought to be good for business. Shit. The cops said there would be no access to the job for at least four or five more days. After that, DJ needs to hire that hazardous material team to clean up the jobsite before the city would allow any of the subcontractors back on the job.
He turns to look at the picture on the wall of himself, Micky, and Bobby at seventeen. There they stood, dripping wet, with their arms wrapped around each other’s necks. That was the year San Clemente took the U.S. National Surfing Championship as the top high school in the county. Were they ever really that young and happy?
Chapter 5
I cruise up the Coast Highway in my van, trying to figure out why Micky
could have killed himself. Before I left the house, I’d made a few calls, trying to find out what Micky had been doing all these years. As far as I knew, he was working overseas, at least until a few years ago. After that it seems he just fell off the map. Micky had been one of the best project managers in the construction of oil refineries. No job was too big for him, too scary or for that matter, too dangerous. He worked hard and, having never married, had partied even harder. But no matter what, Micky was always there when I really needed him.
◆◆◆
I pull up at John G.’s house in Laguna Beach. In front of me is a beautiful, stainless steel and etched glass gate. I give a low whistle, roll down my window and reach for the call-button to the house. A female voice crackles over the speaker, “May I help you?” she asks.
“My name is Bobby Paladin. John G. is expecting me.” I tell her.
Within seconds, the gate begins to slide open and disappears behind the wall. I pull into the drive and into one of the guest parking spots, off to the side. I get out of the van and start to lock it as it dawns on me how ridiculous that; this place is like a gorgeous fortress, and no one will mess with my sad little surfer’s van.
I walk up to the front of the house. The front doors are black walnut, ten feet tall. Before I can even ring the bell, a beautiful woman opens the door and extends her hand. When she smiles, she becomes even more striking. She’s tall; about five foot ten, with strawberry blonde hair and eyes the color of emeralds. I must be staring, so I give myself a little shake, stand up taller and shake her hand. “I’m Bobby Paladin,” I introduce myself.
“Mr. Paladin, I’m Alexis, John G.’s personal assistant,” she says. Her voice is sultry yet all business. This woman appears to be the whole package and I wonder what’s under that conservative navy sheath dress. Does she shop at Victoria Secret? My mind starts to wander to her wearing VS but I pull myself together and follow her into the house.
I step into the foyer and am speechless. Marble floors extend beyond the rich black walnut doors. I recognize some of the art as the work of local Laguna Beach artists. In the center of the foyer are an original Wayland sculpture of two dolphins swimming upward and a Ruth Meyer painting on one wall. There are also a couple of original paintings from the early days of the California Impressionist Plein Air art movement that made Laguna Beach a haven for artistic creativity. I recognize a Guy Rose and a Granville Redmond. The artwork must have cost John G. a fortune.
As I follow Alexis through the house I can see no expense has been spared. Alexis is watching me, and smiles, “Beautiful isn’t it?” She asks, then continues, “John G. designed the house and hand-picked everything from the flooring to the furnishings, the rugs and the art, including the interior and exterior paint colors and all of the plants and trees for landscaping.”
Alexis leads me through the back sliding glass door and I step onto the patio. The view is breathtaking. The house sits on a cliff with a view of the surf breaking on the sand. I can see Catalina Island, where the Wrigley family once used the island for their own personal retreat. In front of the island stand a couple of the offshore oil platforms, that helps feed our country’s thirst for oil. The lights on them actually make the platforms look pretty in the fading sunlight.
John G. is sitting at the bar, talking on his cell phone. He looks older and has less hair than the last time I saw him, but he still looks sharp and in great shape. I bet he does laps in the ocean or the infinity pool that runs along the patio. The pool looks as though it flows off
the end of the patio and into the ocean.
I think back to the last time that I saw John and realize that it was while I was recovering from that horrible wipeout I suffered at the 1995 Pipeline Masters. I spent a lot of time as a guest at his house on the North Shore. He waves me over, still talking on the phone, and I notice that his end of the conversation sounds serious. He snaps his phone closed as I approach. Alexis excuses herself, walking back towards the house, leaving us alone.
“Bobby.” He stands to greet me, “Long time no see, bruddah.” he says with a slight Hawaiian accent. We greet each other with a handshake that turns into a half hug. “Long way from the North Shore, eh cuz?” he says, speaking a little bit of Hawaiian pidgin. He stands over six feet tall, with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that never betrays what he is really thinking or feeling.
“This place is insane, John G. Do you know this is the kind of custom home that DJ’s company builds?” I ask.
“I remember. I know he does first class work, but I used a company out of San Francisco. I never mix business and friendship,” John G. says, and puts his hand on my shoulder and directs me to the bar. “Please, take a seat and we can catch up.”
Alexis reappears, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. Once we’re seated, she pours us each a glass, and then returns to the house. I take a sip. I may not be the most sophisticated guy in the world, but I like good wine, and this is very good wine. It is floral with hints of vanilla and a buttery finish. I read that in a book somewhere.
“This is a very good wine,” I say, just to show I know. “Barrel aged chardonnay, correct? It has a great bouquet.” I think I read that in the same book.
John G. looks into his glass, gives it a little swirl and smiles. “This is a 2005 Brewer-Clifton Chardonnay. Well balanced and quite good,” he says.
We talk a little more about wine, but I can tell he’s getting a little impatient with the niceties. Finally he says, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Bobby?” I can hear a little edge in his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Micky Webber being found dead?” I ask and get right to the point.
He nods, but says nothing.
“You guys were very close.” I continue. “At least you were at one time. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Micky. What he’d been up to lately.”
He looks down at his glass for a moment before answering. “I know very little; we weren’t that close anymore. I do know that Micky was living in Cabo San Lucas for the last few years: Surfing, drinking, doing drugs and chasing women. You know Micky; those were his favorite things to do after he retired. That’s all he did, Bobby. That’s all I know.”
“So he wasn’t involved with you or doing any business for you?” I ask.
He looks at me a little ominously. “Bobby, you and I have known each other for a very long time. You must know better than to doubt my word. No, Micky and I weren’t in any sort of business together. My business interests are much different today than they were many years ago. From what I hear, he was still partying and being irresponsible. I am now a legitimate businessman, and am no longer involved in anything illicit. I pay my taxes just like everyone else.”
“Okay John,” I say, raising both hands, palm forward, but still unconvinced. His look lets me know that this line of questioning is unacceptable.
He studies me for a moment, then smiles and says, “Enough about Micky and my business.” He pulls the bottle from the silver ice bucket and refills my glass. “Tell me all about how you and DJ. How are you both doing?”
We talk for a while longer. I avoid talking about myself too much, focusing on DJ and his family. We finish the bottle of wine, and a second bottle does not appear. I’m starting to get the hint that it’s time to leave when Alexis steps out onto the patio and catches
John G.’s eye. They must have some sort of telepathy or secret code or something between them.
“Bobby, I must say good night,” he says. “It has been fantastic seeing you again and getting caught up. Please give my regards to DJ and let me know if you find out anything more about Micky.” He stands, extends his hand and shakes mine. He turns, “Alexis, will you please show our guest out?” And with that, he disappears into the house.
Alexis walks me to the door. On the way out I try talking to her. Maybe she’ll spill a little about John G.’s business dealings. Or, she just might think I’m cute and succumb to the old Pa
ladin charm.
“Alexis, do you enjoy your job here? It must be quite a bit of work keeping up with all of John G.’s business dealings.” I say.
“John G. is a very private man. I’m sure you must realize it would be a huge violation of trust if I were to talk to you about anything he has confided in me, Mr. Paladin.” she says, a little sternly then softens it with a small smile.
“Please, call me Bobby. John and I go back a long way. Maybe sometime you and I could grab a drink and I can tell you all about it.” Go for broke, I always say. All she can do is say no.
“No thank you, Bobby.” Crap, she said no. She answers me with what I perceive to be a slight annoyance in her voice. I take the hint and head out the door.
In the van, I can’t help thinking John G. isn’t telling me the whole truth. After years as a street cop, you know when you’re being fed bullshit. As I drive down Pacific Coast Highway I think about our conversation and feel that John G. is hiding something from me, but what? And why?
Chapter 6
Detective Murphy looks up at the line of pelicans in flight as he runs down the beach. He runs every day that he can. The running helps him clear his head, and gives him time to think about his on-going cases. What’s bothering him today is the Webber case. It just doesn’t make any sense. Murphy had known Micky some when they were kids and he just didn’t think Micky fit the personality trait of person who would kill himself. Murphy had called the Coroner’s office late yesterday afternoon and asked that a rush be put on the Webber autopsy. Still thinking about the case, he runs to the bottom of the pier and starts to walk out to the end to catch his breath before heading back. Maybe he’ll get lucky and see a pod of dolphins. Walking down the pier, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Shit, he thinks as he recognizes the number.
Danger Point Page 2