An Open Case of Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  “Reminds me of me,” Sharky said with a chuckle.

  Somebody wearing a knee-length black cape, a pair of filigreed cowboy boots and a ten-gallon Stetson hat, strolled out onto the deck, saw Sharky and me standing next to the railing, and came over. His boots rang out on the wood decking, a sound which made the grumpy golf pro down below us break away from the putt he was about to make and shoot a dark and angry glance up the hill at us.

  “Hack-Man!” said Andre Citrone when he came up, cape aflourish. “Wassup?”

  “Sheriff Dracula, I presume,” Sharky said, under his breath but loud enough for Drey to hear. He turned and looked at Sharky.

  “Hello, Lawrence,” he said. “Are you out of rehab again?”

  The dripping condescension in Drey’s voice was arresting. Until that moment, I never knew Sharky’s real first name. I had never heard anyone use it before. And the shot about rehab was the final low blow. I looked around for a place to stash my beer when the fisticuffs broke out.

  “Citrone,” Sharky said with a sneer, flashing the fakest smile at him I had seen in a while. “I enjoyed your piece last Sunday. Oh, no wait, that was somebody else. I don’t buy your paper. Sorry.”

  “Now, boys,” I said. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  Neither of them answered, which I took as a definitive ‘no.’

  “Have you talked with Jake Strauss?” I asked Andre. “I told him you were looking for a word.”

  He shook his head. “I left word,” he said. “He hasn’t called me back yet.” He looked at Sharky.

  “You haven’t heard anything about the Pebble Beach Company being put up for sale, have you, Lawrence?” he said. He put a little emphasis on the name. “My sources tell me a sale is happening pretty quick.”

  Sharky looked at Citrone. I could hear the wheels spinning in Sharky’s head as he decided just which body part would receive the sudden thrust of the dagger. Almost reflexively, I stepped back a bit.

  “This place is always for sale,” he said. “Meyer and his group would sell it this afternoon if someone came along and offered them the number they’re thinking about. So you should go ahead and write the story. It might not be accurate today, or tomorrow, but one day it will happen, and you’ll have nailed it.”

  Drey glared back at him, but kept silent. He turned and looked at me.

  “I understand you’re interested in the Huckleberry Hill project, Hacker,” he said. “Give me a call sometime. I’ve got loads of material on that abortion.”

  I looked at him over the top of my beer bottle while I took a sip. He was looking at me with a little smirk. Take that, he seemed to be saying.

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me about something I discussed privately with Jake Strauss,” I said. “Which one of us do you have wired?”

  Citrone laughed and turned away a bit to take a glass of red wine from the tray of a waiter passing by.

  “A good reporter never divulges his sources, Hack,” he said. “You should know that.”

  “Yeah, but we’re talking about you, Drey,” Sharky said. “That rules out the good reporter part.”

  Citrone’s face got redder and I began to envision not just fisticuffs, but a full-blown, chair-slinging brawl.

  “Hey,” I said, “Look who just walked in! The man himself. Drey, you can ask him anything you want.”

  I nodded over at the door to the deck, and we all saw Jake Strauss come outside, in the company of three other guys in suits and ties. I waved, Jake saw me, and headed our way.

  “Mr. Strauss,” I said when he walked up. “I think you know Sharky Duvall here…” They nodded at each other. “…And this is Andre Citrone of the Chronicle. He has a question for you.”

  Strauss turned and looked at Andre. I saw him give the man’s ridiculous outfit a head-to-toe scan and gave him credit for not bursting out in laughter. Strauss smiled and cocked his head to the side, waiting.

  “Um, right,” Drey hesitated, then decided to jump right in. “My sources have been telling me that you’re out here brokering the sale of the Pebble Beach Company,” he said. “True?”

  Strauss’ smile widened a bit, and he paused a bit before answering.

  “No, not really,” he said.

  “Not really?” Drey jumped. “What part is true, then?”

  “I love this cape,” Jake said, reaching out and tugging at the shoulders. “I don’t know why more men don’t wear capes. They seem so useful.”

  “Most men don’t want to be seen as fashion morons,” Sharky said. “But that’s just one reason for most men. Having an ounce of self respect is another.”

  “Shut up, you fat fuck,” Andre growled. “Who asked you?”

  “Now, now,” Strauss chuckled, holding up his hands. “I said ‘not really’ because I know that Pebble Beach gets offers all the time. Probably two or three a month. Unsolicited. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not in that business anymore, Drey. I’m in the business of growing the game of golf and running our tournaments.”

  He reached out and brushed a bit of pine needle that had fallen onto Drey’s shoulder. “So it sounds like your sources may have jumped the gun a bit,” he said. “Or maybe they just misunderstood. But I’m glad you asked. I appreciate the chance to set the record straight.”

  That was Jake Strauss to a T. Polite, transparent, authoritative. He would have made a good politician, except he wasn’t corrupt. Or, not corrupt enough.

  “Why do I think you wouldn’t tell me even if it was true?” Drey said.

  Strauss chuckled again. “Now, Andre, that sounds rather cynical,” he said. “Have I ever told you something that was untrue?”

  “You told me that writing this goddam book would be easy,” I said. “That’s turned out to be, shall we say, a bunch of bull hockey.”

  Strauss laughed out loud at this. HaHa. He looked at Sharky. “My goodness, Mr. Duvall,” he said. “I am under attack from all sides. Perhaps I’d best find more congenial company.”

  “I’m still working this story,” Drey said, sounding a bit menacing. “My sources are solid.”

  Strauss merely shrugged and stayed silent. Drey exhaled loudly in frustration, turned on his heel and stomped away, boots ringing angrily. We watched him go.

  “How good are his sources?” Strauss asked me when Drey had left the deck. “What does he have?”

  I shrugged. “Sharky says he’s tight with Harold Meyer,” I said. “So he may be getting good information. He seems to know about everything you and I talk about.”

  “Really?” Strauss said. “Duly noted.” He looked at me. “Where the hell is Mike Newell?”

  I shrugged. “The lead I was following proved inconclusive,” I said. I hoped that sounded legitimate. Strauss looked at Sharky. He shrugged. Strauss shook his head.

  “I’m planning on flying back east tonight,” he said. “I’ve got the Gulfstream coming in to the Monterey airport around ten. Would you like to fly back East with me? ”

  “Sure,” I said, “My wife misses me and I should really be working on the book, not hanging out here in the land of fruits and nuts.”

  We made plans on where to rendezvous, shook hands all around and Strauss went off to make the rounds with the NCGA people.

  “Still letting justice simmer, I see,” Sharky said, smiling at me.

  “I’m not gonna throw those kids under the bus until I figure out what’s going on,” I said.

  “And why Jacob Strauss showed you a fake letter.”

  “And why he has been banging on about that letter being some kind of threat to the management arrangement at Pebble Beach,” I said. “Not to mention that he’s leaking to Andre Citrone about everything I’m doing.

  “Lotta questions,” he said.

  “Not many good answers,” I said.

  “Geez,” he said. “I hope I can rent your room out for the rest of the weekend.”

  “Hope y
ou can get at least what I was paying for it,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sharky said. “Forgot about that.”

  A waitress carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres stopped in front of us. I was hungry, but I resisted the urge to just take the whole tray and make her go back to the kitchen and get another one. Instead, I took one toothpick stabbed into a square of cheese, and another holding together a bacon-wrapped barbecued shrimp.

  “The longer we wait, the worse it may be for those kids,” he said. “Not to mention us. Cops generally don’t like not being told about important stuff. Especially in murder cases.”

  “I hear ya,” I said. “But I need to know more. It appears to be a strong case that someone out there shut up Charley Sykes.”

  “He was most definitely shut up,” Sharkey said. “Permanently.”

  “And those two kids, as you call them, would be next in line,” I said. “Wouldn’t be fair to leave them unprotected.”

  “Not a fair fight,” Sharky said, nodding.

  “Let’s wait and see if we can find out more.”

  A burst of cheers from down below interrupted us. One of the pros had made a nice long putt for birdie. He walked across the green, pulled his ball from the hole and waved his acknowledgment for the cheers.

  “Oh, look,” Sharky said. “They just put out the fried calamari. It must be lunchtime.”

  Sharky, Aggie and I had a farewell drink late that afternoon. We met at Steinbeck’s, not for old times sake, but because they sold beer there.

  “Will you miss me?” I asked.

  “Only if you stay gone,” Sharky said. But he smiled.

  Aggie rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a notebook with some notes written on it.

  “I heard back from my friend up in San Francisco,” she said. “She worked in the ICU when that Udall guy was there. She wouldn’t—or couldn’t—send me his files, but she told me what was in them.”

  She riffled through her notebook.

  “Udall had advanced congestive heart failure,” she said. “Four events in five years. They had him stabilized and monitored and his prognosis was guardedly positive.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “They had every expectation that he would recover and be released within a week at the most,” she said. “His life expectancy was not great. But they all felt he had more time left in his ticker.”

  “Guess they were wrong,” I said. “Do they know what actually killed him?”

  “No,” Aggie said, shaking her head. “Again, no post-mortem was performed. Nor was one indicated. Still, their notes indicate that it was a pulmonary edema that killed him.”

  “And that is …?”

  “His lungs filled with fluid,” Agatha said. “His heart was not strong enough to help eliminate the fluid. He basically drowned.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “No,” she said. “Patients with severe heart failure often present with edema. That’s why the usual treatment is to give the patient diuretics. In most cases, they give the patient a water pill every three or four hours and monitor the amount of urine to make sure that fluids are coming out. In severe cases, the patient gets an IV solution with the diuretic flowing directly into the bloodstream. Udall was getting 20 milligrams of furosemide every hour in intravenous saline.”

  She looked up from her notebook.

  “However, Patty noticed something when she was reviewing the records,” she said.

  “What?”

  “There was a notation that said there was a clamp found on the IV tube,” she said. “After Udall died, they were unhooking all the equipment and monitors they had him on, and one of the nurses noted how much saline and other medicines were left. Part of the usual records they keep. But there was a note that there was a clip found on the IV tube. It didn’t say it was blocking the flow of saline, or that anyone put it there deliberately. Just that there was a clip found on the tube. Patty told me that was a bit unusual, and had she been there, she might have asked a question or two about it. But Udall’s death was not deemed unusual, so nobody paid much attention.”

  “If someone did clip off the IV tube and Udall wasn’t getting his diuretic infusion, what would have happened?” I asked.

  “His lungs would have quickly filled with fluid and he would have drowned,” Aggie said.

  “So it’s possible that someone killed him,” I said.

  “Possible, but pretty hard to prove,” Aggie said. “When he goes Code Red, alarms start going off and nurses and doctors rush to his bedside to see what they can do. Then, when he’s declared dead, everyone leaves, and one junior nurse begins cleaning up the room, taking out all his IVs, making notes of the last readings from the machines, that kind of thing. No one is looking for evidence of murder. It’s more like ‘How fast can we clear out this patient and bring another one in?’”

  “I wonder if they have security cameras in that hospital,” I said, thinking out loud. “Maybe we could see who was the last one to visit Udall before he died?”

  “I thought of that,” Aggie said, nodding. “I asked Patty and she said she’d ask someone. He died more than six months ago, so I doubt if they keep security videos around that long if there’s no reason.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Probably a dead end. But thanks for asking.”

  I finished my beer, bid them farewell and then I drove out to the Monterey Regional Airport, dropped off my rental car and had them take me over to the private air terminal. The airport at Monterey handles mostly small puddle-jumper commercial planes working their way up and down the Pacific coastline, but does a big business in private aviation.

  Strauss hadn’t arrived yet, so while I waited in the comfortable lounge, I called Mary Jane to tell her I’d be home in the morning, probably around eleven. I’d have to make my way from Teterboro in New Jersey, where Strauss’ plane was going to land, over to LaGuardia and catch a shuttle up to Beantown.

  “I’m glad you’re coming home,” she said. “But I’m working tomorrow, so I won’t be able to meet you at the airport.”

  “I’m ready to be home again, too,” I said. “Not to worry. I hear Boston has good public transportation.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that too,” she said. “Be safe. See you tomorrow.”

  Strauss came into the terminal, dragging his suitcase behind, with his big leather briefcase draped over his shoulder. I noticed how people began to jump into action when he came in—they had pretty much ignored me just a few minutes earlier. I guess it’s good to be the King. With a high net worth.

  In short order, we were walked out onto the tarmac, climbed in his Gulfstream, slammed the door shut, taxied out to the end of the runway and blasted off into the night sky.

  “I kinda miss the experience of being groped by some TSA guy,” I said.

  HaHa.

  There was seating for eight on the plane, so we had plenty of room to spread out. And we had Jilly. She swore that was really her name, even after I accused her of stealing it from some Bond girl. She fit the Bond girl stereotype: she was tall, ginger-haired, slender, curvaceous, well-dressed and had a smile that could light up Piccadilly Circus. She brought us each a cocktail, which she made to order, and then began working at a galley at the rear of the plane.

  “We have a nice chicken alfredo and pasta,” she said, “With a green salad. And a very nice pinot noir from Napa. It’ll be ready in a jiff.”

  Strauss pulled a big wad of papers out of his briefcase, but sat there looking at it with an expression of boredom.

  “So what did you learn this week, while I was off chasing after dead ends in the Carmel Valley?” I asked him. And hoped he wouldn’t ask any follow ups.

  “Well,” he said, “Pebble seems to be ready for the Open. Unless they have terrible weather this spring, the course should be in good condition by mid-June. The new greens they renovated are looking like they’ve been there for decades. All the log
istics seem to be well in hand. It’s not their first rodeo, and almost everyone at Pebble Beach knows what their job is. So I’d say they’re as ready as they can be at this point in time.”

  “And if Andre Citrone breaks his story about the sale?”

  “It’s not a sale,” Strauss said. “It’s a partnership realignment. Partial buy-out. But the basic ownership structure stays the same. There’s nothing that needs to be filed in public, at least at this point. And since the Pebble Beach Company is privately held, it’s no business of the SEC or any other regulatory agency. So if they have nothing to declare, they have nothing to deny. He really doesn’t have a story.”

  “What if Will Becker or Jack Webber go public?” I asked. “They could tell Citrone they’ve cashed out. He could use that, couldn’t he?”

  “Dottie van Dyke has been instructed to deny everything,” Strauss said. “Mr. Citrone will get a great big ‘no comment.’”

  “Like that’s ever worked,” I said, mostly under my breath.

  Jilly brought each of us a tray with a linen cloth, real silverware, a china plate and crystal wine glass. Then she wheeled over a serving unit with the food on it. We helped ourselves while she poured us each a glass of wine. It was delicious.

  After dinner, she cleared the dishes away, passed around a basket of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and dimmed the cabin lights. Strauss made another effort at his stack of paperwork, and then fell asleep, snoring softly. I tried to watch a movie—there were several tablets on board, each pre-loaded with about twenty recent features. But I couldn’t concentrate. Too much stray info was buzzing around in my head. I finally turned the movie off.

  Jilly noticed and came over.

  “Sleeping pill?” she inquired.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Absolutely,” she said with a smile. “Our job is to get you to your destination, well rested, alert and ready to rumble.”

  I thought about it. Fine chemicals for better living. I think one of the DuPonts once said that. What the hell. I nodded. She put a little white pill in my hand and gave me a glass of water. I swallowed. And by the time we hit the Rockies, I was dead asleep.