Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

  At the other end of the building was a small office built into the space, windows dark, door closed. He stepped toward it. Then froze.

  Coming slowly toward him, almost staggering, was a pit bull.

  Wheezy!

  But Wheezy wasn’t wheezing. His eyes were bloodshot and dilated. His jaw hung open, displaying a great deal of salivation, foam like, around the needle sharp teeth. He was shaking a little as he walked, whether in rage or sickness, it was unclear. His hind legs were dragging a little, suggesting some paralysis. He was focused on the Judge. A low nasty growl rumbled from deep in his chest.

  The Judge was in trouble and he knew it. He might turn and reach the bay door before the animal was upon him, but there was no way to close it. He’d never make it across the yard.

  It was likely rabies. Even if he could fight the dog off, he wouldn’t escape without a bite or a scratch. A course of shots for rabies wasn’t something he wanted. The dog would go for his throat. There was no assurance he would even survive an attack. He needed a solution and he needed it quick.

  He gave his best low bestial growl from deep in his chest, and charged at the animal. Startled, it stopped in mid-step, then tried to make its rear feet perform to move back a little.

  At the last second the Judge veered to the left, scrambling atop one of the smaller boilers. They eyed each other for a while. The Judge from his perch and the dog from a squatting position, still trying to get better control of its hind legs. Then the dog gave one further nasty growl and dragged itself back, out of sight, into the dark shadows of the big boiler behind the Judge. Between the Judge and the warehouse bay door he entered by.

  The Judge waited five minutes. Then slid quietly down from the boiler, picked up a large monkey wrench lying on a nearby bench for defense, and strode purposefully, but without running, toward the end of the building. Hoping for safety inside the office. If only the door were unlocked. He could hear the animal scrambling out of the shadows behind him. Now beginning a staggering pursuit. Breathing heavily.

  The Judge reached the office door and turned the knob. Thank God the door opened. He stepped through and closed the door firmly into the face of Wheezy, who was gearing up for a final lunge, eyes aflame.

  There was a solid thud as the dog hit the other side of the door, followed by a second and third thud, and then angry scratching. The Judge leaned against the inside wall of the office, trying to get his breath, stilling his heart beat.

  He flipped the light switch by the door, and overhead lights flooded the office with white light. It had been thoroughly searched. File drawers hung open at one end, their contents scattered around the floor. At the other end an old fashioned roll desk stood in disarray, roll top up, drawers open, papers from the desk scattered about.

  He picked up a metal chair on its side on the floor and propped it against the door. He rubbed a clear spot in the dirty shop window and looked out into the warehouse, craning his neck to see down close to the door. The animal was there, hunched down, breathing heavily, focused with angry eyes on the door. Shit!

  He looked again around the office. He doubted there would be anything useful here. Someone had gone through its contents with a fine tooth comb. If there’d been a copy of the missing report here, it’d be long gone now.

  Then he spotted something of interest, tucked partly under the desk where it had been kicked in the effort to search the office. It was an old fashioned rolodex. The kind with two metal rods wrapped around a metal base with 3x5 cards notched to attach and slide around. He went right to the Rs, segregated by a separate card tab. There was only one Roberts, and it was a George Roberts. A dentist with an office in Santa Monica. He copied the contact information into his notebook, then snapped all the used cards off their rings and slid them into his pockets. Hoping they wouldn’t impede his running ability.

  As he stepped away from the desk he heard a crunch as his foot came down on something hard. He’d stepped on a small vial on the floor, smashing it. It created a tiny yellow green puddle on the beige linoleum. A hypodermic needle lay nearby.

  He squatted down and used his pen to turn a portion of the glass over, displaying a small label neatly hand printed in Spanish: virus de la rabia. He sprang up immediately, away from the oozing substance, dropping his pen on the floor, leaving it, putting distance between himself and the puddled material.

  Christ, poor Wheezy. Someone had created a trap for the next sucker to walk into the warehouse. Someone had infected Wheezy with rabies and left him here.

  The Judge got out his cell, went on the internet, and located the number for DACC, the Los Angeles Department of Animal Care and Control. He dialed them up and explained the situation, discreetly declining to give his name. Only his location. He explained about the vial he’d accidentally stepped on. They said they‘d have someone there in thirty minutes. He was to leave the premises immediately and wait for them out on the street. Good luck with that.

  He went back to the shop window and peeked into the warehouse. Wheezy was still there, laying down now, tiring, but still focused on the office door. Fortunately there was another door at the other end of the office. The Judge opened it to find himself outside, on the far side of the warehouse.

  Walking slowly and as silently as he could over the gravel, ninja like, he picked his way around the warehouse and back to the front gate. He sucked his air in again and with a rush tried to squeeze his way through the gate and out to the street. As he did so he head a soft tearing sound and realized he was stuck. The open wire on one side had snagged his pants, ripping a sizable hole on his fanny in the process. The pants remained stuck on the wire.

  That’s when he heard rushing paws crossing the gravel. He gave one panicked yank and the pants came free, leaving a large panel of material on the wire. With newfound strength he heaved on the gate, forcing it closed. Wheezy hit the gate a split second later, throwing his whole body against it with a low growl. But the gate held.

  No rabies shots for him after all. Back up the Ferris wheel for one more circle.

  He wasn’t sure what Katy would say about his pants, but he knew he’d be laughed at. Hopefully there’d be no photographers around.

  This would become a part of the rollicking story to trot out periodically along with his nocturnal swim, and enjoyed by all. Damn, damn, damn. It seemed to be his karma.

  Perhaps he should have been a dentist. Like this Doctor George Roberts.

  He drove to his office. He was disappointed to find that Frankie, his law clerk, wasn’t in and researching the law on discovery as he’d assigned on Friday. He looked around his desk in vain, hoping for a memo perhaps prepared on Saturday and left for him. But there was none. What was up with Frankie? It appeared he hadn’t been in all day. Perhaps it wasn’t that urgent now the report was missing and Carl was dead. Carl’s estate would have to produce another copy of the confidential report for his review. Still, Frankie should have been more on the ball. He called Frankie’s number and left a message, trying to give a firm reminder while keeping the annoyance he felt out of his voice.

  CHAPTER 24

  7:00 PM Monday

  The Judge headed back to the Marina and his boat. He was heartened to see Katy’s car in the parking lot. He needed a little R and R. He was feeling old and tired.

  Katy greeted him with all the enthusiasm only a young lover can have. Throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a long sensual kiss. But as he turned around in the salon, he caught her trying to hide a smile. She’d spotted the missing panel in the seat of his pants.

  He’d forgotten about it on the drive home. And unfortunately he was wearing bright red polo underwear which no doubt showed in a large swath across his butt. He couldn’t really see but he must have looked like a flagman from the stern.

  “What’s with you and your pants these days, Judge?” she asked. “You’re either losing them or ripping them up.”

  “Don’t ask,” said the Judge. “I’m going to start wearing
overalls. Next time you see me I’m going to look like a plumber.”

  “Great idea. Come over here, Judge. I’ve got some plumbing needs some attention.”

  They embraced for a long time. Then, still holding each other, maneuvered down the three steps to the Master’s Cabin where Katy discreetly pulled the curtains closed.

  The Judge slept in the next morning, Katy having left early for some meeting at her high school. She’d maliciously opened the aft curtains again, perhaps for air, and eventually the sun shifted around so golden honey rays spilt in over the Judge’s face, making it difficult to sleep. Giving himself a long stretch on the bed like some large cat with a paunch, he roused himself to shower and shave in the tiny head.

  He had legal work to do later, but he decided he’d first pay a visit to George Roberts, Carl’s dentist, and perhaps the financier for Carl’s new technology.

  George Roberts practiced his craft out of a dental office with several assistants in the Water Garden Office Complex at Cloverfield and Colorado in Santa Monica. It was a new swank office. The dental chair bays, defined by high modern cubical separators with sculpted sides, looked out on a large lily pond, dry now because of a California drought. Mauve carpet and upholstered furniture contrasted with stark white walls hung with posters of smiling teeth and pink gums. It was a very odd feeling to walk in and be surrounded by teeth. Almost like in a shark tank.

  The Judge explained to the young girl manning the front desk, all whited up in uniform with a small white cap and looking about fourteen, that he was a friend of Carl Greene’s, who was a friend of George Roberts, and he needed to speak to Dr. Roberts briefly.

  The girl looked doubtful. Until the Judge switched to his gravelly judicial voice and bulled a little. She buckled quickly, scurrying off to find the good dentist.

  The man that came out to shake his hand, also all whited up, was not what the Judge expected in this fancy dental office on the flats below Brentwood. He was tall, perhaps 60, slender and sinewy, with white hair, bristly white mustache, and narrow tanned face and features. He could have been an old cowboy poking along on a broken down horse across some pass in Montana. He had the look.

  His large pale blue eyes now examined the Judge minutely, but not in an unfriendly way. They were intelligent and calculating. The Judge suspected Dr. Roberts missed little.

  The Judge explained he was investigating the death of Carl Greene. The pale blue eyes didn’t blink. Just watched the Judge.

  “You knew Carl I understand,” said the Judge.

  “Who says that?” Roberts asked.

  “Your name keeps cropping up. I heard Carl might have owed you money,” said the Judge.

  For a second suspicion and perhaps a touch of anger flashed across Roberts’ face. But gone in an instant as his poker face returned. Looking relaxed again, comfortable, and smiley.

  “Are you working with the police?” asked Roberts. “You’re not a policeman yourself since you showed no badge. Do you have any legal authority to be asking me these questions? Any right to compel me to answer?”

  “I understood you and Carl were friends,” said the Judge. “I thought you’d want to help find his killer.”

  “Mr. Greene and I weren’t exactly friends, Judge. In fact our relationship, such as it was, had soured of late. I don’t feel any compulsion to help catch his killer, if that’s truly what this is about.”

  “What else could it be about, Doctor?” asked the Judge.

  “Perhaps a scam to cheat me out of the money I’ve loaned Mr. Greene. If you represent Carl’s estate, you should know I have a security interest against the technology Carl developed. I’m in the process of foreclosing.”

  “I trust the interest you charged didn’t exceed the California interest limits and was not usurious,” said the Judge. “Unless of course you’re licensed as a personal property broker in California.”

  Roberts flashed a scowl that was again quickly covered.

  “Can you explain your relation with Greene, and about the loan you’d made him and the delinquent payments?” asked the Judge.

  The pale blue eyes just stared at the Judge for a while. Considering. Assessing. When Roberts spoke it was with finality.

  “No, Judge. I won’t explain anything. Come back with a police officer in tow if you like, and give me a chance to arrange for my lawyer to be here too, but I doubt I’ll have much more to say even than Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a chaired patient waiting nervously for my return with a shot.”

  Roberts turned his back and walked away, not bothering to shake the Judge’s extended hand. The Judge stood for a moment looking after him. Puzzled. Both by Roberts’ attitude and by the hostility in his eyes at the mention of Carl’s debt. Something was off here. The Judge couldn’t figure what. But he was damn well going to get to the bottom of it.

  The Judge left the Water Garden and drove back to his office. He was expecting to find Frankie there, working up the legal research. But his office was locked. Empty. Where was Frankie? He hadn’t made it in on Saturday as he’d committed to do. He’d missed Monday without a call or an email. Hadn’t returned the Judge’s call. And it seemed he was a no-show today as well. It wasn’t like him. Had he gotten pissed off and quit? The Judge knew he wasn’t the easiest boss to work for. He supposed he might have to find a new law clerk. What a headache.

  CHAPTER 25

  1:45 PM Tuesday

  As the Judge settled into a hamburger over his desk, he glanced at the bureau in his office. Something had troubled him about the bureau but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Now he had it.

  On Saturday, he’d opened his locked bureau drawer, and Carl Greene’s confidential report was gone. But the drawer had been locked. He’d had to use his key to unlock it. Sure, there were significant scratches around the drawer at the top near the latch. As though the drawer had been forced. But if the drawer had been forced open, why did he have to unlock it? The lock wasn’t broken. And it wasn’t a spring lock that would snap back into place if the drawer were closed. You needed a key to relock it, once the drawer was opened. Only two people had a key. The Judge. And his law clerk, Frank Wolen.

  The more the Judge thought about it, the more troubled he became. He decided to pay a surprise visit to Frankie at home. Immediately.

  The Judge finished his lunch, used a wet towel in the men’s room to wipe a spill of Russian dressing off his pants where a piece of lettuce had squirted out, and returned to his office to put his work away. Ten minutes later he was maneuvering through early afternoon traffic down Main Street, over to Lincoln, and out past Play del Rey

  Frankie lived in a walkup apartment in Playa Vista, the yuppie wet-lands beside Playa Del Rey, transformed into new luxury condos, apartments and commercial buildings. The cavernous Howard Hughes Airfield hangar remained from the old days, but that was about all. And it was now occupied by Google.

  These large new modern spaces gave L.A. the edge in competing with Santa Monica for the young entrepreneurs of Silicon Beach and their smart new companies. Big outfits like Yahoo and Facebook moved in too, abandoning the garret-like spaces squeezed into old Santa Monica and Venice for the wide open space of Playa Vista buildings.

  Frank's condo was in a Neo-Italianate structure with some 50 apartments built into five floors, all balconies and railings, earthy pastel plaster and dry blue green landscaping reminiscent of Italy.

  The Judge parked in guest parking, caught the security locked entrance door on the fly as someone left, and elevatored up to the third floor. Frank was renting 307. As the Judge approached down a long corridor to its end, something didn't feel right. It was Frank's front door. It was slightly ajar. The Judge knocked and the door just swung open.

  He called, "Frank, Frank… it’s the Judge. Can I come in?"

  No answer.

  The Judge pushed the door all the way open and stepped into a small flat with white washed walls and soft caramel carpet in a berber pattern. Prints of seascapes dec
orated the walls. Beige upholstered furniture clustered around a small space that served as the living room, opening on to a tiny balcony. White blinds were firmly shut, but light bled in around the edges, softly illuminating the space. A small bookcase to the left supported a few law books, the California Civil Code, Code of Civil Procedure, Corporations Code, and a directory of graduates from Southeastern University Law School.

  To the right was a porter's kitchen, separated by a dining bar, with dirty dishes in the sink looking to have been there awhile. Spaghetti, the Judge guessed. The meal of choice for a young man on a budget. Beside the kitchen a small hall led off with a closed door at the end, likely the bathroom. A door midway down on the right would be the bedroom.

  The Judge called again. "Frankie? Frankie, are you here?"

  He felt a little uncomfortable invading Frank's privacy. On the other hand he was concerned. What was it? Why was the hair raising on the back of his neck? Everything looked in order, if a little untidy. The door had been left unlatched, but that could easily happen. Dashing to meet a friend or whatever.

  Why was the Judge's alarm going off? There. There it was again. The slight whiff of something. Something you never forgot once you'd had it in your nostrils.

  The Judge strode quickly down the hallway and looked in the bedroom through the open door. The covers on the bed were askew, suggesting a toss and turn night. But that was all. The bedroom was empty.

  The Judge turned to the bathroom and tried its door. The door was firmly locked from the inside. But the smell was stronger now. This wasn’t right.