While walking to my bus, I turn my phone back on and it chimes. There’s a text message from DJ that reads: ‘CALL ME ASAP. IT IS IMPORTANT.’ Uh oh, all caps. This can’t be good. I’ll call him back later. I’ve done enough talking for right now and I just want to go home, pour myself a glass of wine and watch the sunset.
How was I supposed to know that by not calling DJ right back, it would almost be the death of me?
Chapter 9
Detective Murphy was getting ready to call it a day when his phone rings. Looking down at the number he sees that it’s the Coroner’s Office. Connie Martin is his favorite Medical Examiner. Even though she’s young, pretty and new at it, nothing gets by her. Blonde and petite, Murphy often wonders why she chose this career.
“Murphy,” he answers.
“Detective, could you come by my office? I found something in the Webber case that shouldn’t be there. You need to see it.”
He tells her he can be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.
After turning into the Coroner’s office parking lot, he finds a parking space in front of the office, gets out of his car, locks it and heads into the building. At the front desk, he flashes his badge, and tells the deputy on duty that Medical Examiner Martin is expecting him.
“Weapons, please,” the deputy asks as he picks up the phone to notify the M.E. she has a visitor.
Murphy signs in and hands over his Glock 9 mm. The deputy puts it in a lock box before asking, “No back-up weapon, Detective?”
“No. I only carry one. I only need one,” Murphy says with a smirk.
“Well, go on back. You can pick up your weapon when you’re finished,” he says, passing him a receipt for his gun.
Murphy heads down the hall and walks into the autopsy room, where the Coroner standing by the autopsy table. She waves him over.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” Dr. Martin says. “I have something I thought you’d want to see.” She’s short so she has to step up on a stool in order to reach up and carefully uncover the body. Pointing to the slashed throat, she begins. “On the surface, it does look like your victim cut his own throat. The blood-splatter on his hand where the knife was found and how he bled out all points to a self-inflected wound. But, since you asked me to take a closer look, I noticed something on the back side of the carotid artery. I removed the slashed part of the artery and, under a microscope, found this.” She steps down and walks over to a counter at the side of the room. Pointing to the microscope, she says, “Have a look.”
Murphy closes one eye and looks down into the microscope and asks. “What am I looking for?”
“Do you see the puncture right behind the slashed part of the artery? That was done with a needle. I think he was murdered when something was injected into the jugular. Then, someone took the time to make it look like suicide. We’re running a toxicology screen right now. I’ll know more after the test results, but I wanted you to see this. Mr. Webber most likely did not kill himself. I’m not one hundred percent sure but I’ll call your boss and inform him of my findings. When I get tox the screen back, I’ll have the answer.”
With that, the Coroner steps off the stool, turns on her heel and heads back toward her office, leaving Murphy looking down into the microscope.
Chapter 10
Damn it, DJ thinks to himself, why hasn’t Bobby called me back? His appointment was over two hours ago. DJ grabs his phone and hits speed dial. The call goes straight to voicemail, again.
“Bobby, it’s DJ. Please call me as soon as you get this message. I need to see you right away. I have some news about Micky. We can meet at my house.” His cell beeps in his ear; he has call waiting, but he didn’t look to see who was calling. “What the hell took you so long, Bobby!?” DJ yells into the phone.
“No, DJ, it’s not Bobby; it’s Murphy. Have you been trying to get in touch with him too? I’ve been trying to reach him for the last couple of hours. I just left the coroner’s office and I need to talk to him.”
“He hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts. His doctor’s appointment was over two hours ago.”
“What doctor’s appointment? Is he sick?” Murphy asks.
“No, no, not like that. It’s nothing you need to worry yourself about. He’ll tell you about it someday, if he feels like it.”
“Just a heads up,” Murph says, “Micky Webber was murdered; he didn’t kill himself. Tell Bobby to call me if you talk to him first.”
“You’re sure he was murdered? I thought you said it was an obvious suicide.”
“Just have him call me, and tell him not to go off halfcocked. I’ll put his ass in jail and yours too if I catch you guys looking into this on your own. Got that?
“That’s heavy. I’ll have him call you if he calls me back or I see him first. Thanks, Murph. And you don’t have to worry about me.” DJ says. But Murphy had hung up already.
Great, DJ thinks, I need to give this letter to Bobby before Murph finds out about it and arrests both of our asses for withholding evidence.
◆◆◆
I pull up to the front of my house and sit for a moment just looking at it. It’s a nice house, stucco and tile, built in the late 1950’s by a local builder, who paid close attention to detail. It has a large yard, especially for Southern California, where most houses have postage stamp lots. The house is set back from the street. My roses in front of the house are in full bloom; they’ve been a labor of love.
After a few minutes, I get out of the van. I walk up to the front door and pull out my key as the door swings inward, just slightly. The front door isn’t locked. I always lock the door, always. I gradually inch the door open and peak inside. My old cop training kicks in and I’m on full alert. I think about calling out, but if someone is in here, I want to catch the bastard. At first glance everything looks okay and I don’t see any intruders or anything out of place. I slowly walk over to the cabinet in my living room where I keep my 9 mm handgun hidden inside a hollowed-out book sitting on the shelf. There’s a swipe through the dust. I either have to read more or clean more. I reach in the cabinet, pull out the book and open it. With a sigh of relief, I find the gun is still there. I pull it out and I check the clip.
“Shit,” I whisper. Whoever has been in the house has taken the time to empty all the bullets from the clip and the round I kept chambered, but left the gun in the book. The house isn’t trashed, but someone had taken their time going through my stuff. They were careful, but I can tell nothing was left untouched. I walk around, opening drawers, and I hear a noise, a kind of hissing sound. This is never a good sound. It’s either snakes or gas. When I reached the kitchen, I smell gas. Whoever was in here has disconnected the gas line from the stove. I turn and sprint for the front door as fasts as I can. Then I hear a sound so loud that I know I will always remember it: the ignition of the gas. I feel my feet leave the ground as I sail through the door. The last thing I feel is the piercing thorns as my body hits the rose bushes.
◆◆◆
Christ, my head hurts. I slowly open my eyes to muted sunlight, white sheets and a bed with a chrome rails. I open, close, and then open my eyes again, trying to focus. Everything is a blur. I must be in the hospital, but I can’t remember how I got here. I look around the room and see a shape sitting in a chair next to my bed. I concentrate and realize, as my eyesight starts to clear, that it’s a person, Murph. Not my first choice for a hospital visitor. I bet he didn’t even bring me flowers.
“How are you feeling?” he says, concern in his voice.
“Not so good, bro. What the hell happened to me? How did I get here?” My throat is dry as I croak the words out. I reach over to the tray on the bedside table for the glass of water that sits there with a bendy straw. Yep, this is the hospital all right. The movement makes me feel like throwing up, but the nausea passes.
Murph says, “The fire department thinks that the gas line to your stove was disconnected on purpose and that the gas was ignited by the water heate
r pilot. Lucky for you, you entered through the front door and not the back door or you would have induced fresh air into the gas mix and been toasted right on the spot. There was a cruiser right around the corner and they heard the explosion and found you lying on your front lawn, with a gun in your hand. We’ve impounded the gun for the time being. What were you doing holding an empty gun, Bobby?”
“I don’t know, Murph, I really don’t. The facts are fuzzy. I remember leaving Dr. Summers’ office, but not much after that. I might remember more once my brain settles down. How much damage was done to my house?” I ask. I love that house. I bought it 1992 with my tour winnings and sponsorship money, before the market started to rebound in San Clemente in 1992.
“Just a pile of burnt rubble, I’m afraid. The fire department wasn’t able to save anything. The only thing left intact is the garage.” Murph reverts to cop-talk to give me the facts with no emotion. He knows how much my house means to me.
“Your bedside manner needs some work, dude. Shit, you mean it’s just gone and there’s nothing left? That house contained everything that I’ve worked for my whole life,” my voice is starting to get louder.
“Sorry to be so blunt, but something is going on and I need to get to the bottom of it. Tell me anything you remember. Why would someone want to try to kill you?”
“Maybe the gas line came loose. I don’t know. I just can’t remember anything right now.”
I need to stall him while I try to figure out what’s going on. I did remember a lot, but I need time to think, and I to decide if I should really trust Murphy. Someone has blown up my house, on purpose, and I need to find out why. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make those assholes pay for destroying my house. But who would want to do this to me, and why?
Murphy focuses his cop eyes directly at me and waits. I can tell I’ve been thinking too much and he’s trying to read my mind, so I close my eyes. I really am tired and my body hurts all over. When I don’t say anything more, he says, “Well, if you can think of anything else, give me a call.”
He gets up from the chair and starts for the door. He stops and turns around, and gives me that icy stare again. “Micky Webber was murdered and dumped on the job site, but I think you figured that out already, didn’t you? Try and not let that happen to you. Get some rest.”
With that he walks out of the door, almost bumping in to DJ.
DJ glances back over his shoulder at Murphy. “What’s his problem?”
Before I can reply, he starts up again. Nobody talks nonstop quite like DJ. “Holy shit, dude. You scared the crap out of me! I thought you were dead when I heard about your house. They almost wouldn’t let me in to see you – family and police only. Fuck that. I told the nurse I was your brother from another mother. Close enough, right? He said you’re a little burned, scratched, bruised and other than a concussion, you were pretty damn lucky. You should be out of here tomorrow or the next day at the latest. I went by your house and it’s toast, bro, completely destroyed except for the garage. As soon as the insurance company takes a look at it, I’ll arrange to have all the debris cleared away.”
“Thanks. Do you know any good contractors?” I laugh with a snort. Damn, that makes my head hurt.
“Good to know we’ve got another job coming.” He says with a little grin. “How come you didn’t call me back after your appointment yesterday? I sent you a text and called, but I never heard back from you.”
“Sorry, bro. I’m always wiped out after I get done seeing the Doc. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to get some rest, watch the sun set and wasn’t up to talking to anyone.”
“We received a message from the other side, Bobby. I got a priority envelope from Micky delivered to me yesterday. Can you believe that? Spooky shit, right? Here, Micky wrote a note to me saying he wanted me to give you this envelope and that you would know what to do with what’s inside it. Now that he’s dead maybe this will explain what’s been going on.”
He hands me the envelope and I stare at it in disbelief. What the hell? I know DJ is dying for me to open it while he’s here, but right now it’s a little too much for me to deal with. I lay it, unopened, on the bed beside me. He gets the message.
“Okay. I’d better let you get some rest. Before I split, do you need anything?”
“Yes, you asshole, a new house.”
“Do you have your set of keys to the boat? You’re going to need a place to stay and you’re traveling pretty light,” he smiles. “Call me if I can get you anything. Later, ‘gator,” he says as he heads out the door.
Chapter 11
Around 8 a.m. the nurse wakes me up, explaining that the doctor is doing his rounds and will be here soon. Her hands are as cold as ice as she checks my blood pressure and takes my temperature. She’s very business-like and efficient, but not unpleasant. Some of the nurses here are so grouchy it makes me wonder why they didn’t choose another profession – like executioner – or something more suited to their personalities. This one is nice enough, though, and she looks down at me and says, “You are one lucky guy, Mr. Paladin.” She gives my arm a final pat and bustles out of the room.
I don’t feel so lucky. That house, besides my van, is all I own. I paid cash for the house in a down-market. Everything I have ever owned, inherited, been given or awarded was now destroyed. I sure have to be grateful to Robert at Three Counties Insurance. It’s good to have a relationship with your insurance guy, someone who will look out for you and your interests. He’d advised me to up my replacement value because the house was worth considerably more now than when I’d bought it in 1992. I’ll have to buy him a beer when I get out of here.
One lucky guy, the nurse called me. Well, at least she’s partly right. As a kid, I’d started traveling the world on the NSSA National Team, then the Junior Pro Surf Tour and finally the World Pro Surf Tour. After a ton of hard work and some luck I had made it as far as ranking number two in the world, after only my third year on the tour, but I could never win that number one ranking that I had worked so hard for. I really felt I was on my way to number one when disaster hit at the 1995 Pipeline Masters. I’ll never forget that wave or the wipeout that followed. It was on the third reef at Pipeline, in the finals, with the number one spot in the world up for grabs. I wanted to win that contest so badly that I became reckless. Taking off late on a monster wave, with the drop at least thirty feet, I dug a rail as I started to make my bottom turn.
Suddenly, I found myself launched from my board, falling onto the face of the wave and then being sucked back up and thrown over the falls. I remember being slammed into the coral reef, then being spun around on the coral. It was like being in a washing machine. By the time I was spotted in the soup, I had taken on three more twenty-foot plus waves in a row in the impact zone. I was busted up and badly cut by the coral. I don’t remember being pulled out of the water or being air-lifted to Queens Hospital in Honolulu. I suffered a fractured skull, four broken ribs and numerous coral cuts. I needed over one hundred and fifty stitches to close all the damage that the coral reef had done to me. The doctors told me the only reason I was still alive was because of the great shape I was in.
After I was released from the hospital, John G. asked me to stay at his guest house at Sunset Beach for a few weeks, until I was well enough to decide what I wanted to do next. Micky and DJ flew over to hang out for a few days to try and cheer me up, but there wasn’t much they could do to help me. That wipeout had really scared me, causing me to doubt my surfing ability, and to doubt myself. In surfing, if you can’t take off and make the drop into a wave, any wave, any size, then you shouldn’t be in the water, much less on the world tour. So, when a reporter from the Honolulu Advertiser, the local newspaper in Hawaii, came to interview me, I announced my retirement from the World Pro Surf Tour. I was scared but instead of facing my fear, I ran away from it. Less than year later I joined the L.A.P.D. to try to help people. Did I ever screw that up. Yep, one lucky guy, that’s me.
I’m ju
st about to reach for the phone to call Dr. Summers when Dr. Augustus Miller walks in the room. I know Doctor Gus from surfing with him at Cotton’s Point.
He smiles at me, “What are we going to do with you, Bobby?” He says. He taps a few keys and reads the computer screen in my room.
“So how am I doing, Doc?” I ask.
“You are one lucky guy.” He says.
“So I hear.”
“No broken bones, a concussion, some cuts and bruising, some singed hair, and that’s about it. If you don’t have any major medical issues tonight, I’ll release you sometime tomorrow, after morning rounds. You should be out of here by noon or maybe a little later. I don’t want you to drive for a couple of days and a full recovery will take a while, but you’ll soon be as good as new.” He pauses, “I’m sorry about your house, Bobby, I know that you loved that place. Did the police…” His pager goes off before he can finish his sentence. He gives me a distracted wave as he leaves the room looking down, frowning.
I spend the rest of the day watching talk shows on the tiny television mounted on the wall across from my bed, getting my blood pressure checked, leafing through old magazines and sleeping when I can. After a surprisingly good dinner of roast chicken, salad – with green Jell-O for dessert, of course – the night nurse comes in and hands me two pain pills in a paper cup. I ask him if he thinks green is a flavor. He gives me a patient half-smile as he watches me wash down the pills. I pray not to have the dream again as I drift off to sleep.
Chapter 12
Danger Point Page 4