by David Chill
A half dozen LAPD cruisers were parked on the street, along with another half dozen dark, unmarked SUVs that were likely part of the CSI team. I pulled over and took a final gulp of coffee, only to discover it had turned disappointingly lukewarm. I had periodically sipped it on the drive down, mostly when traffic slowed to a crawl, but had only consumed one-quarter of the cup. I exited the Pathfinder and tossed the liquid down a storm drain. After briefly considering tossing the paper cup down there also, I decided to be a good citizen and placed it inside someone’s blue recycle bin up the street.
I walked up to a few uniforms who were standing around drinking their own coffee out of white Styrofoam containers. I asked about Detective Rainey, but no one knew where he was. A few plainclothes officers were standing near the guard rail, clearly identified by their blue windbreakers sporting LAPD on the back, in letters large enough to see from outer space. I approached one of them, who told me to get lost. I looked over near the fence, though, and saw a familiar figure smoking a cigarette and looking down at the rocky beach below. I went over and looked, too. A maroon car was lying in a heap at the bottom of the steep drop, and a few men were examining it as the waves lapped gently against the tires. Joe Hartwick glanced at me and then turned his gaze back down the cliff.
“Pretty nasty, huh?” I said conversationally.
He took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled. “Looks that way.”
“Any indication of foul play?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
I ignored the comment. “Any chance this could have been an accident?”
“Sure,” he said. “Always a chance.”
I looked back up the street, and in particular, I looked at the black asphalt. “No tire marks, no skidding, no brakes applied,” I said. “This couldn’t have been an accident.”
“You never know,” he said. “She could have been drunk as a skunk. Sometimes people don’t know the danger they’re in until it’s too late to do anything about it.”
I walked over to the fence. A faded no-trespassing sign had been posted a long time ago, along with a suicide-prevention hotline number. A red-tailed hawk was now perched atop one of the slats, unperturbed by our presence, looking out at the ocean like it was just another warm, summer day in paradise.
“The wood railings have been cut,” I said. “Take a look. Hard to tell when. But for a car to just go off the road like that, right where the guard rail stops? And there’s a few feet of open space? That can’t happen by accident.”
Hartwick shrugged. “So what. Maybe it was a suicide.”
I looked at him. “Why would anyone saw through wood slats if they wanted to do themselves in? They could just climb the fence and do a header and land on the rocks. But there are easier ways to go. Get a bottle of sleeping pills. More effective and a lot less messy.”
He took a puff on his cigarette. “Anything’s possible.”
I sighed. “Just throwing out ideas. Where’s Rainey?”
He pointed a finger toward the bottom of the cliff. “Down at the bottom. He wants to see you for some reason.”
“I know. Can I drive down there?”
He snorted. “Sure,” he said, pointing to the opening in the fence. “But watch out for where the road ends. The first dip’s a big one.”
“Ah,” I said, thinking everyone was a comedian these days. “Got to climb down there.”
“Yup. Not an easy way to go, but it’s doable. If you’re a wuss, there’s a stairway to the beach, but it’s up Paseo del Mar, probably a half-mile away.”
I walked over to the fence and the red-tailed hawk flew off. I began the long, careful trek down to the shore. There was a well-worn path, steep but fairly easy to navigate, most likely used by locals to access the beach. It curved down and around various rocks. Fortunately, there hadn’t been rain in the past few months, so the footing was dry. It took about ten minutes to reach the shore, and I didn’t look forward to having to hike back up.
Detective Rainey was standing next to the crumpled maroon car, a late-model Audi A5 convertible, and the sneer on his face seemed even more pronounced today. A team of three men were inspecting various aspects of the crushed vehicle and were doing it at a snail’s pace. Then Rainey saw me, and the unappetizing look on his face only worsened.
“Took you long enough to get down here,” he sniffed.
I ignored the snide comment and pretended Rainey was having a bad day. Maybe all of his days were bad days. I heard an odd sound, something akin to a dog barking, and looked down the beach. A pair of seals were flapping around on the sand about fifty yards away.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
Rainey looked at me. “This is a homicide scene.”
I looked around. There was no dead body, and judging by the extreme difficulty in climbing down the slope of the cliff, my guess was the coroner had yet to arrive.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a dearly departed around somewhere?” I asked.
“Our guess is she washed out to sea. Probably got ejected from the vehicle and got carried out to the ocean. She’ll float back, but it may take a few days.”
“Who called it in?”
“Pair of surfers,” he said, pointing out to the ocean where two young men in wet suits were sitting on their boards, waiting for a choice wave to catch. “They got here at daybreak. Started surfing about a quarter mile up the beach, and noticed a car sitting here where it didn’t belong. Paddled over to get a better look.”
“Any sense of when this happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably sometime between when we saw her the night before last and a little after sunrise today. Hey, I’ve got an idea. How’s about I ask some questions and you answer them. That work for you, Slick?”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Before last night, when was the last time you saw her brother, this Cody Groh?”
“Probably three years ago,” I said. “I was finishing my stint at USC, he had another year left on his scholarship.”
“What was your relationship with him? Start from the beginning.”
I looked at Rainey for a moment. “We recruited Cody out of high school. Mater Dei. He played receiver and cornerback. Johnny Cleary, the head coach at SC, he and I went to a couple of Cody’s high school games and offered him a scholarship. He was living with his grandparents by then, got to meet them too. His parents died in a plane crash a few years before.”
“What were the grandparents like?”
I gave him a curious look. “Like most grandparents. Took lots of pride in him.”
“Uh-huh. You close with him at SC?”
“At first. His freshman year, I was his position coach. He played cornerback. Fastest guy on the team. Then we discovered he couldn’t tackle anyone. So he got switched to wide receiver and kick returner his sophomore year. Worked out better.”
“You have any problems with him?”
I shook my head. “None. He was a good kid. A little rambunctious, maybe, but that comes with being a football player. Why are you asking about Cody?”
He ignored my question. “How about the sister, this Kristy?”
“Hadn’t met her before last night. All I know is he brought her into his company, and she worked there. Where’s all this going?”
Rainey walked over to the mangled convertible. I followed. He looked into the driver’s side of the vehicle and pointed. “You see that?” he asked.
I tried to figure out where he was pointing. “See what?”
“Look at the ignition. The keys are in there but the engine’s not turned on.”
I processed this. “Then the car couldn’t have been running. Rules out an accident, and rules out a suicide.”
Rainey agreed. “You got that right.”
“And that fence up there on Shepard,” I said, pointing upward, “had been tampered with. The car didn’t just bust through it. Not without some help.”
“Yup. Looks like s
omeone pushed it over the cliff. We found Kristy’s purse a few yards away from here, with all her ID, so we’re pretty sure she was the one in the vehicle. All the money and credit cards are there so that rules out a robbery. What we don’t know is why she’d be in San Pedro. She lives in Playa Vista. Could walk to her office.”
I shrugged. “No idea,” I said. I walked closer to look inside the vehicle when I noticed something. “The seat belt hasn’t been engaged,” I said.
“Right. And what does that tell you?” he asked.
“Maybe someone put her body in the driver’s seat and sent it over the ledge. Maybe she was dead before they put her in the car, and they tried to make it look like an accident. Most likely whoever was behind this hadn’t thought all of it through.”
“I think you’re getting warm,” he said.
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about Cody.”
“Figured that out, huh?”
“You actually speak to Cody yet?” I asked, not liking where this was going.
“He’s on our list. As for you, stay close to your phone. I may have a few more questions for you. I still don’t get your role in all this.”
I nodded. “Makes two of us.”
*
I climbed uneasily back up the hill, brushed some soft dirt off of my hands, and tried to figure out what to do next. Driving up Gaffey Street, the main drag in San Pedro, I passed a drive-thru-only Starbucks, but there were already fourteen cars waiting, the line extending far into the street. I sighed and hopped back onto the Harbor Freeway and headed to Playa Vista. Rush hour had ended, so it was a quick drive.
The WAVE office was eerily quiet. I felt it from the moment I stepped out of my Pathfinder. An odd silence, punctuated by the fact that the temperature was starting to rise. It felt like it would be in the eighties today, although L.A., being a desert community, still had low humidity, which made it bearable. A different security guard than the one from the other day ushered me in and led me into Bernadette Green’s office. I sat down on a small chair and looked at her. She reached over and pulled a tissue out of a box sitting nearby.
“I take it you’ve been informed of what happened,” I said.
She sniffled. “Yes.”
“What exactly have you heard?” I asked.
“There was a terrible car accident last night,” she sighed deeply. “The police think that Kristy died in the crash. I don’t know a lot of the details. ”
“How did you learn about this?” I asked.
“Sean Danelo, one of the founders, texted me this morning. He heard it from Cody. And it’s getting picked up by news outlets. We had a company-wide meeting this morning, and I have grief counselors coming in later. We’re a small company, and everyone knew Kristy. This affects all of us.”
“I’m sure this is rough,” I said, thinking the job of grief counselor was not one I envied. Absorbing other people’s tragedies for a living had to be a taxing way to make a living. I wasn’t sure how Dr. Rosenbloom could do similar work all day long.
“Yes,” she said, swiping a finger under her left eye and giving a small sniffle. “It’s bad on a personal level, and bad professionally. It’s bad for WAVE. Kristy’s almost irreplaceable, she had what we call institutional knowledge. She understood the nuts and bolts of the business like no one else around here. She was so bright. No one else knew all the things she knew.”
I took this in. “Look, I’d like to talk with a few people. Maybe in Kristy’s area, tech. And in operations, where this Zander Foley worked. You sure I can’t get Zander’s contact info? It’s pretty routine.”
Bernadette shook her head. “I’m sorry. We have to follow our privacy protocol.”
“All right,” I answered, trying to think how I might get access to it through another source.
“We’ll also need you to fill out some forms, to get you on board and paid. What do you charge?”
“Fifteen hundred a day,” I said, looking carefully at her. She didn’t react at all. I wondered if I should raise my rate.
She typed a few things into her keyboard. “Why don’t you get something to drink in the break room,” she said, “and I’ll get a few interviews arranged.”
“One last thing. I imagine Kristy had a corporate life insurance policy here.”
“I’m sure she did, but I’ll need to check.”
“Could you tell me who the beneficiary was? I assume it was Cody. I’d also appreciate learning who Cody’s beneficiary was.”
“I’ll look it up, but I’ll need to see if I can share that with you,” she said and turned away.
Walking into the empty break room, I noticed a lone employee sat there playing Candy Crush on his phone. My eyes gravitated toward a pink box nearby, with a pile of doughnuts in it. Grabbing a glazed buttermilk that still felt wonderfully warm and soft, I briefly wondered why so many doughnut boxes were pink, before quickly changing focus.
I brewed myself a large cup of fair trade-dark roast coffee from Peru, and quickly concluded it wasn’t going to pack as big a punch as Starbucks. I thought of shooting some pool as I waited, but instead grabbed the TV remote, which had been set to some European soccer match, and changed the channel to ESPN. Three talking heads were discussing whether the NFL should expand its regular season from sixteen to eighteen games. The consensus was yes. None of the three appeared to have ever played football before, and they casually dismissed the physical toll it would exact on the players. But they were very polished in their arguments. I was about to change back to the soccer game when I saw the break room door open.
“Mr. Burnside,” said Bernadette, walking into the room with a young man in his early twenties. He was about my height, but weighed a good forty pounds more, and had a thick brown beard, and he looked vaguely like a lumberjack who hadn’t picked up an ax in a while. “This is Rob Kuykendall. Rob is our operations specialist.”
We shook hands. Rob’s was a little moist. His face, what little I could see of it, seemed smooth and unlined. I guessed that he had recently graduated college. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt, over a white t-shirt. The plaid shirt looked new, but the t-shirt appeared to have been worn for a few days. He sat down across from me, clasped his hands, and waited.
“Rob, Mr. Burnside was brought in by Cody to do an assessment of some things. Please be candid with him.”
Rob eyed me warily. It reminded me of when Johnny Cleary told me the owner of the Bears had once hired a consulting company to try and make the organization more efficient. The running joke among the team’s staff was to speak softly and carry a warm resume.
Bernadette turned toward the young man playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Ian,” she said, “would you come to my office for a minute?”
He continued playing on his phone for a few seconds before sighing, getting up, and silently walked out of the room.
“I’ll let you two talk,” Bernadette said as she began to leave. “Please let me know when you’re ready to see someone else.”
“Thank you,” I responded and turned to Rob. “So, you head up operations?”
“I guess so,” he said a little hesitantly. “Since they let go of Zander. I imagine they’ll hire me a new boss soon. But, for now, yeah.”
“What do you do here?”
“Oh, a bit of everything, I guess. It’s a small company, so it’s cool. I get to do a lot of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I manage facilities, make sure there are enough snacks. I work a little on data analytics, figuring out how much usage each scooter gets, and in which locations. I also organize the company dodgeball game each week. But yeah, the main job is to make sure the night shift picks up all the scooters before dark and gets them ready for the next day. When I come in in the morning, I monitor where every unit is.”
“Dodgeball?” I peered at him.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fun. We do it on the back patio every Friday afternoon. Cody thinks it allows everyone to get out their aggr
ession in a positive way. And it’s team-building. Then we all come in here and order pizza.”
“Right,” I said and didn’t verbalize a judgment. “Do you like working here?”
“Sure. But you know, I never worked anywhere else, so I don’t have a point of reference. It seems cool. The last couple of weeks have been pretty weird, though. Some layoffs, they terminated some employees through a Zoom call. That may not have been the best idea, looking back on it. Everyone was ticked, especially the people still working here.”
“How many were let go?”
“I think about twenty, but in a small company like this, you know, that’s a lot.”
“I don’t imagine that was very good for morale, huh?” I asked, hoping to prod him. It seemed to work.
“No, but there were already tensions here. More between the executives and the rank-and-file. That’s the hourly employees, you know, the guys that go around each night and collect the scooters, do the grunt work. The pay difference is pretty big. I’m kind of in the middle, I’m on salary, so I’m good but the hourly guys have been unhappy. The founders had a company-wide meeting a few weeks ago, and there were complaints about some people being paid just minimum wage. And those are the guys under a lot of pressure to get the scooters turned around quick.”
“How’d that meeting go over?”
“Not so great. At first, people began airing grievances, and it started out as a healthy discussion. The founders talked about how everyone gets stock in the company, and once we go public, we’ll all be rich. But not everyone believed them. Finally, Sean Danelo yelled that if anyone didn’t like it here they could get the fuck out now. A couple of guys just walked out of the building right after that meeting, and they never came back.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Tell me something. How did you get your job here?”
“Through Zander. He was in my fraternity a few years ago at UCLA. Delta house. He’s like six years older than me. Met him when we invited some alumni back during a party for homecoming weekend. Most guys just came to relive getting drunk in the house, but Zander and I started talking, and we connected. WAVE took me on for an internship and it turned into a full-time gig.”