Spyglass

 

Griff woke the next morning rested and contented but alone in an empty bed. He lay on his back with eyes closed and listened. The bungalow was quiet. He contemplated whether to check for Helena poolside or in the restaurant.

He got up to find the receipt for Bungalow 7 on the breakfast bar with a hand-written note from Helena scrawled on it: “Darling—I’ve gone out shopping. I’ll see you at home later. Feel free to send this to Lance for a little bonus. ~H”

Suddenly, Griff was not so contented any more, so he put on his suit and went to the pool to swim laps. After, he showered, dressed and drove the non-descript rental car back to Van Nuys Airport. He checked the weather and saw it was clear up and down the California coast, so he paid his tie down fee and fuel bill, then departed to the northwest, skirting Santa Barbara to the north, then turning west out over the water far enough to stay out of Vandenberg Air Force Base’s airspace. He flew up the coast in the smooth air over the water taking in the sights.

An hour and a half later, Griff landed at Monterey Peninsula Airport. He drove the Avis rental out to the Pebble Beach resort. The Nickolson’s condo had sold quickly, so it was no longer accessible, but that wasn’t why Griff was there. It was still early, so he paid his toll and drove the 17-Mile Drive. After, Griff headed back to the resort and found the Tap Room where he ordered a Kobe burger and draft ale. He ordered a second beer so he could linger ‘til dusk.

Griff walked the grounds until he found the site of the temporary helipad and scanned the surrounding area. On his iPhone, he pulled up the pdf copy of the NTSB accident report and read it again. He walked the short flight path that led to Cliff Nickolson’s doom at the site where the Bell 407 slammed against rising terrain to the northeast. It made little sense if the weather was as marginal as the METARs indicated, no doubt from low stratus blowing in off the bay. A west departure out over the water to gain altitude would have been prudent—and seemed to be the path chosen by the other pilots that evening.

Griff wondered what their intentions were—something the government report did not delve into. The NTSB noted that the Hornet Group Gulfstream was parked at the Monterey airport, which they presumed to be the destination of the doomed flight based on an FAA flight plan filed for the G-5 to fly to Burbank that evening. But Lance’s information showed that Nickolson held a first-class ticket on United Airlines Flight 869 out of San Francisco International to Hong Kong later that night.

No doubt, then, the G-5 was taking Mrs. Nickolson home to Bel Air after a long weekend at the Pebble Beach corporate golf outing for select Silicon Valley investors at Spyglass. Griff made a note to check with Donald Wallace about the ticket to Hong Kong. He would ask Lance more about the meeting of Silicon Valley investors, something Wallace would likely be tight-lipped about since the way Lance’s reports described the outing made it sound like a high-tech Bilderberger-type event.

As Griff scanned about the crash site, he tried to imagine the grief brought down on Helena with the death of her father and the irony of surviving war only to die on a battlefield of high finance.

 

***~~~***

 

Griff drove back to the Red Roof Inn at the airport, checked in and went to bed, scanning the room and involuntarily comparing it—unfavorably—with Bungalow 7 at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

In the morning, he called Lance. “So, tell me about Spyglass.”

“Yeah. Tough course. I hate it—well, not really, but it sure hates me. Evidently it was Cliff Nickolson’s favorite, though.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Sure, ‘cause there’s no gun powder or gasoline or oats involved, right?”

“Eh…chasing a little white ball just doesn’t seem to be a worthy quarry.”

“Yeah, you’re right, since it can’t shoot back. But it can hurt you bad, inside—you know, like women. Speaking of which, how’s Helena?”

“We weren’t. But she’s good. Very good.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So, this golfing group, they do this every year?”

“Since the late nineties. Nickolson was one of the founding fathers. Pretty exclusive club. All the huge technology investors no one has ever heard about conspiring, no doubt, to rule the world while they humped the links.”

“Was Cliff any good at it?”

“What, golf or investing?”

“I know he was good at making money.”

“Scratch golfer. Most all of them were. Rumor has it that the NASDAQ dropped ten points for every stroke he shot over par.”

“Figures.”

“Don’t you just hate guys like that?”

“Aren’t you a Guy Like That?”

“In my dreams.” Lance sighed. “How is this going to help you find any of that stuff?”

“Don’t know yet. Tell me about the Bell 407.”

“Nice. State of the art with Garmin glass and FADEC. Been in a few, but not much stick time.”

“Hmmm.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Something just ain’t sitting right with the crash.”

“Well, I know one thing for sure. If it hadn’t been for Daddy Nickolson’s misfortune, you’d have never met Helena.”

“What was in Hong Kong?”

“Man, you are all business, aren't you? You need to take a lesson or two in maximizing billable hours.”

“Hong Kong?”

“Come on. You know, the gateway to all the tech and finance locked up in China. Just ‘cause they’re Commies doesn’t mean they’re immune from the greed virus, you know.” Lance chuckled at his own observation of human nature. “Those Bilderberger guys play on the world stage. Some of them could buy and sell small countries for fun like they’re just squares on a Monopoly board.”

“Cliff?”

“He’s on the list.”

“Was.”

“Yeah. Was.” Lance cleared his throat. “Anyway, just make sure you don’t land on Boardwalk.”

Griff silently shook his head.

 

***~~~***