“It’s what he’s paying for.”
Morrison finished his cruller and wiped his hands. He eyed me and lowered his voice. “I never said what I’m about to tell you.”
I nodded.
“There’s a way to force the issue.”
“And that would be?”
“We re-create the old access points.”
“And we would do that how?”
“We would tear down the fences that block the access points. Or, rather, you would.”
“And the aforementioned Leonard, Howard and Blah Blah?”
“They’d take us to court.”
“Us being?”
“The Commission.”
“So the Coastal Commission would be hauled into court for upholding its laws?”
Morrison nodded.
I shook my head, acknowledging that the exploits of the Coastal Commission were often frustratingly obtuse. “Seems a bit loony, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“And they want to go forward with this action, regardless of the consequences?”
“Half of the Commissioners want to take this Russki bastard down a peg.”
“And the other half?”
“Don’t ask.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Commission is known for its checkered history.”
“Corruption?”
He looked away and waved his hand. “I never said that. But for the moment, it’s a good time to take action. In large part because there’s no way of knowing how much longer I’ll be able to hold my seat. And I’m currently it insofar as the majority vote is concerned.”
I sat back and mulled for a while. I watched a gull land on the deck near us, its focus on a section of cruller that Morrison had inadvertently dropped. Sensing his moment, the gull dashed for the cruller, grabbed it, and without even a glance at us, swooped away.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“I’ll do it.”
“So maybe some good will come from our conversation.”
“What conversation?”
NINE
I was strolling along South Freedom Beach in the company of my lifelong friend, the Assistant District Attorney Skip Wilder. Both of us were barefoot, wearing baggy canvas shorts and, although unplanned, Freedom High sweatshirts.
For privacy reasons Wilder had suggested we meet on this remote stretch of undeveloped shoreline, a favorite haunt of our youth. The sun felt warm on our pale winter faces, a harbinger, perhaps, of summer to come.
I picked up a small rock and hurled it into the sea, then turned to face him. “I need an opinion.”
“Find a new line of work.”
“Funny.”
“So, what’s up?”
“The Sheriff’s Department was asked to work with the Coastal Commission to help rectify a problem.”
“The Commission needs help in enforcing the law?”
“Here in San Remo County? Yes.”
“So?”
“It’s more problematic than they had let on.”
“Problematic how?”
“There’s an access violation which the homeowner is refusing to acknowledge.”
“So, warrant the sucker and do what you need to do.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Because?”
“Boris Petrov is because.”
“Boris Petrov?”
“Him.”
“Him and his team of legal pit bulls, you mean.”
“Here’s the conundrum, Skip. Petrov’s attorneys are bringing suit to prevent the Commission from upholding the law.”
“What a nifty concept.”
“So, what do I do?”
“What does your gut tell you to do?”
“Tear down the fences and open the access points.”
“So, do it.”
“And the lawsuit?”
“Not your problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re asking my legal opinion, I’m opining that you’d be defending and upholding the existing laws, and if Mr. Petrov is unhappy about it, tough noogies. Let him take on the Coastal Commission, the State of California, hell, even the Easter Bunny, for all I care. You’re well within your rights.”
“And you’ll stand behind this opinion?”
“I never said that.”
“Come on, Skip. Will you stand behind it?”
“Look, Buddy. You asked me here to render an opinion. I’m not here in any official capacity. Before I could officially render an opinion, I’d have to consult the District Attorney and possibly even the State’s Attorney.”
“So this was a big waste of time.”
“Not in the least. You can trust my opinion. You just can’t reference it as justification for any action you might take.”
“Lawyers,” I muttered. “No wonder you’re reviled.”
“Also revered.”
“Maybe in some quarters.”
“You can fool some of the people some of the time,” Wilder snickered.
TEN
It was a sleepless one. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the thought of the Murphy family out of my head. I was of the same mind as Buzz Farmer. The husband didn’t do it. But that being the case, who did?
Buzz instinctively felt wary about it. Almost as if he were waiting for another shoe to drop. But from the looks of it, that shoe might not drop straight away, if ever, leaving us with an open unsolved that wouldn’t sit well with the County.
I was also priming myself for what would surely be a furball regarding Boris Petrov. Although it wasn’t unusual for the Coastal Commission to enlist local law enforcement to assist with access issues, the threat posed by Team Petrov was.
I could envision time and resources being swallowed by the exigencies of keeping up with the Petrov contingent. The pitfalls of small-town policing…time and money.
My focus as an LAPD homicide detective was sharply defined, whereas that of a County Sheriff is all over the map. My father averred that every small-town day brought with it a new and unusual challenge. Far more intriguing than the narrow focus of big-city policing. As with most things, however, he and I disagreed.
He thinks a career with a big town police force is a dead end. The equivalent of a prison sentence. Serve your time, collect your pension, go home to die. He says I’m far better off in San Remo County.
He believes that one or two big cases in a small force will raise my profile, thereby enhancing my career and elevating my chances for higher office. He’s even mouthed the word Governor. But that’s his vision, not mine.
In fact, as I get deeper into serving as de facto Sheriff, the whole business becomes less and less appealing.
It’s not that I have other choices. It’s that I’m second-guessing the efficacy of my original ones and I’m starting to come up cold.
I have begun to challenge myself as to whether I want to remain on the law enforcement ride, or bail and find something completely different. As of now, I have no answers.
But it’s days like this…days when I wake up and realize that what I’m facing is the kind of mind-numbing tedium that inhibits ingenuity and saps energy.
I continued to rail against myself until the first rays of light seeped through the blinds and I rolled out of bed.
ELEVEN
We moved in at dawn on the southernmost tip of the Petrov property on the beach road, the site of one of the original access points.
A BearCat battering ram operated by Sheriff’s Deputy P.J. Lincoln succeeded in bringing down a section of the wrought iron fence that blocked access to the beach.
After pushing the downed fence and its barbed-wire accoutrements away from th
e site, the battering ram also brought down a fifty-foot section of thick laurel hedging that had been planted inside the fencing to deny any visual access to the beach.
With the fence and the hedging now gone, an access point had been re-created. A team of officers swept the area, removing whatever debris remained. A signpost was planted at the site heralding it as a Beach Access point. A Parking Allowed signpost with access times delineated now stood at the roadside.
Satisfied, I was in the process of sending the BearCat and the team of deputies ahead to the second target when I spotted a pair of SUVs steaming down the beach road in our direction.
After instructing the team to spread out in front of the access site, I stepped up to the road just as the lead vehicle screeched to a stop. A cluster of uniformed Petrov security personnel leapt from the SUVs and moved to confront us. Their leader was Volya Koskoff.
He stormed up and stood chest-to-chest with me, close enough for me to get a face full of his foul-smelling breath. “Private property,” he squawked in his thick accent.
I stared at him cold-eyed. When I didn’t speak, he became agitated.
“This is private beach. You leave. Now.”
I wondered how far Koskoff was prepared to go in defense of Boris Petrov. He had to realize he was rapidly approaching a tipping point and for him, were he here illegally, that tipping point could well portend his future, not only with Petrov, but, more importantly, here in America. I decided to torment him further.
I produced a photocopy of the original search warrant and waved it under his nose. “Perhaps this will refresh your memory.”
I then produced a copy of the Coastal Commission’s order and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Contrary to your opinion, Mr. Koskoff, the beach is no longer private property.”
Flabbergasted, Koskoff stood silently, uncertain of what to do next. He turned to one of his associates, a tough-looking thug with an equally menacing appearance. Whether or not the thug interpreted Koskoff’s glance as a signal to action, he nonetheless approached me and, without warning, shoved me, causing me to stumble and fall backward.
It was then that Johnny Kennerly produced his X26 Taser and fired at him. I watched the electric current dance all over the man’s body, causing him both pain and neuromuscular incapacitation. He flopped to the ground, his body experiencing involuntarily muscular contractions.
When Koskoff made an inadvertent move in my direction, Johnny tasered him, too. In short order, both men were on the ground, which is where Deputy Al Striar cuffed them.
“When they calm down, read them their rights and arrest them. For assaulting an officer of the law. Once they’ve been jailed, check their IDs with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. My money says they’re in the country illegally.”
I gave the remaining security personnel the once-over. “Anyone else?”
One of them signaled for the others to get back into their vehicles. They hightailed it away.
I watched as Striar and Johnny loaded Koskoff and his associate into a Sheriff’s van. After bolting them each to the floor, Striar climbed in and drove off with sirens blaring.
“What’s next?” Johnny asked.
“We open the other access points.”
“You think there’ll be interference?”
“Not likely yet.”
“When?”
“If any of those thugs speak English, I’d be guessing soon. But the threat won’t come from them. Beware the lawyers.”
“Injunctions?”
“Likely.”
“What do we do?”
“For now I’m recommending we turn off our cell phones.”
“Because?”
“That way they can’t reach us. If they can’t contact us by phone, they’ll have to send people to serve us personally, who, by the way, will never make it out here before we finish the job.”
“Sweet,” Johnny said.
“Sweet, if no one shows up.”
“And if they do?”
“As my father instructed, Shoot first and ask questions later.”
TWELVE
We had liberated the second access point in the southern part of the property and were just arriving at the main entrance when I spotted one of our Sheriff’s cruisers screaming toward us, sirens blaring. When Captain Marsha Russo reached us, she got out of her cruiser and waved. “Something’s wrong with your phones,” she shouted.
I smiled. “They’re off.”
“Your phones are off?”
I nodded.
“All of them?”
I nodded again.
“What are you, nuts? We’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Petrov and Company have filed an injunction,” I said, almost simultaneously with Marsha’s own pronouncement, “Because Petrov and Company have filed an injunction.”
Again I smiled.
Marsha looked at me. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“The injunction.”
“How could you have known?”
“I’m a Sheriff. I know everything.”
“Very funny, Buddy. Mr. Lytell is desperate to speak with you.”
“Figures.”
“What do you mean, figures?”
“He was unprepared.”
“Unprepared for what?”
“This kind of action.”
“You mean the tearing down fences kind of action?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“Why was he unprepared?”
Marsha nodded.
“Because the Commission wanted to re-open the access points before any lawyers got wise to it.”
“Why?”
“It’s a hot-button issue.”
“The access points?”
I nodded.
“And you knew that when you came here.”
“As I was directed to do by Commissioner Morrison.”
Marsha looked at Johnny Kennerly then back at me. “Do you want to use my phone or will you turn yours back on?”
“Neither.”
“What?”
“I have no business with the District Attorney. He needs to be in touch with the Coastal Commission. Any injunctive relief will have to be settled between him and them. I’m not going to be in the middle of it.”
“So what do you want me to tell him?”
“Lytell?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him you can’t find me.”
“You want me to tell him I can’t find you.”
“I just said that.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Please inform the immigration authorities that I believe there’s a ring of illegals working security at the Petrov mansion.”
“You want ICE officers to investigate Petrov’s employees?”
“I do.”
“And you think he’ll stand for it?”
“Mr. Petrov isn’t here in any kind of official diplomatic role.”
“Meaning?”
“He has no immunity.”
“But he does have lawyers.”
“They won’t do him any good. If I’m right and his goons are here illegally, they’re going to be thrown out of the country. And fast, too.”
“And you really think that’s going to happen?”
“I do.”
“Because?”
“Illegal is illegal. And no fancy-pants lawyers can prove otherwise, regardless of whether or not their client is in cahoots with Vladimir Putin.”
“Do you think you might be playing with fire here, Buddy?”
“Anything’s possible.”
THIRTEEN
“You certainly created a brouhaha,” the Sheriff said.
He was experiencin
g the effects of the experimental ALS drug and feeling better. He was in his office and looked more energized than he had in weeks. “I’ve already heard from the DA and the Leonard, Howard and Arthur firm.”
“Craig Leonard,” I said.
“Yeah. Him. They’re claiming trespassing, illegal search and seizure, and false arrest.”
“Wow. The trifecta.”
“This is serious business, Buddy. Try not to trivialize it.”
“Did Immigration pick up the Russians?”
“If you’re referring to Boris Petrov’s security personnel, yes, they did.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. It should only be a matter of hours before they’re all on a plane to Russia. That should make the job easier.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have two more access points to clear and without those thugs to deter us, we can get it done straightaway.”
“You can’t go back there.”
“Says who?”
“The Leonard, Howard and Arthur law firm.”
“What does the Commission say?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Then we still have a job to do.”
“This is a major megillah, Buddy. I propose you bow out of it for the time being.”
I stood and, in a rare moment of tenderness, walked over to the old man and kissed him on his forehead. He looked dazed, then he smiled.
“You’re the one who said I’m a wild card. And as such, I’ve got my claws into this one big-time. At least until the Commission tells me otherwise.”
“What about the District Attorney?”
“Not his table. At least not according to Commissioner Morrison. I say we carry on with our assignment and abide the events.”
“The events?”
“Yes. And they’ll more than likely prove to be highly entertaining.”
“Ever the cynic,” my father said.
“Ever.”
I jumped into my cruiser, heading for Bernie’s Deli. It was my turn to pick up lunch. Wilma had already phoned in the order.
Bernie’s was a local hot spot in a nearby strip mall. Parking was scarce so I pulled into a No Parking zone and made tracks for the deli.
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