Chapter 17
“We’re having a sunset Wine Club in about an hour,” Sally said to me over the phone the next day. “Want me to swing by and pick you up? Peggy and I have some good recon to report on Mr. Slimy Snyder.”
“Great, and I do as well.”
The “sunset” part of this Wine Club meant that we gathered at a specific location at a specific time. We usually did this in the summer when we wanted to change things up, and the general aviation, single runway Santa Monica airport played host. When Sally pulled up to my curb, I saw that she already had a full car. Paula was riding shotgun and Penelope and Peggy were in back. Sally drives a roomy SUV, so it was nothing for me to squeeze in with the girls.
My contribution today was ice-chilled Lillet. This is a French aperitif from Podensac, a small village south of Bordeaux. My introduction to this delicious potent potable came when I lived in NYC and in the summers used to frequent a very authentic Parisian bistro called La Goulue. It is light and aromatic, perfect for heat and humidity and is a blend of selected wines and macerated fruit liqueurs all crafted on site and then sent around the world. I like it just with ice, a wedge of orange, and a few fresh raspberries. But just about any fruit would bring out the best in this wine. Except kiwi, don’t use kiwi. Trust me.
Our chosen watering hole to tie up to was the observation deck outside and above Typhoon Restaurant that sits directly on the side of the Santa Monica airport runway. It is open to the public, and the noise from the planes is mostly not a bother as the small aircrafts give off more putts and hums than rampaging roars. Besides having the privilege to witness the genius of the Wright Brothers over and over, at the western end of the runway is a gorgeous panoramic vista of the Pacific, and in the late afternoon, the setting sun. Hence the specific “place and time” caveat for this sort of Wine Club. There were tables and chairs on the deck, so we daisy chained what we needed and made ourselves at home.
Today the enticing sustenance was expertly prepared by Typhoon. The Pan-Asian appetizers included ahi tuna sliders, curried deviled eggs, Korean fried cauliflower, rice paper shrimp and vegetable rolls, and sweet potato fries with spicy ketchup. The Lillet was a perfect pairing as was the Japanese beer sampler flight courtesy of the restaurant.
We all settled in and let the beautiful environment warmly seep into our pores. As if on cue, a blue-and-white propeller-driven Cessna readied for takeoff at the east end of the airport. We watched as it gracefully accelerated on its three wheels, and when it was just about in front of us, the back end lifted first and then the nose. After a slight wobble, the plane righted itself and headed off into the beautiful, saturated blue sky.
“That never gets old,” Peggy said. “I remember when I’d just started dating Vern, and he took me up in a little puddle jumper like that one. We ate dinner on Catalina Island and ended up staying the night.”
“Peggy, you trollop,” Penelope joked. “I bet it was fantastic.”
“Which part?” Peggy riposted.
“First off, cheers,” I interrupted. “To a fabulous end to a not so wonderful week, although things are looking up!”
The Lillet went down like caviar.
“I want to hear your report,” I said to Peggy and Sally, “and then I’ll add my news. I have a feeling that we are close to tightening the noose on our friends Howard the developer and Slimy Snyder.”
“Well, we haven’t definitively been able to tie the two crooks together, but what we’ve got seems awfully close to ‘probable cause,’ ” Peggy said.
Sally pulled out her iPad and swiped until she found what she was looking for.
“While we were getting what we could online about Howard and his property, Paula went downtown and pulled copies of the records,” Sally said, and Paula nodded. “Paula, why don’t we begin with what you found out?”
Paula removed some official-looking legal-sized papers from what appeared to be a gardening tote because it was decorated on the outside with cartoony smiling flowers and had a series of long pockets for transporting planting tools. She laid the papers on the table and I quickly anchored them with the beer flight. Next she produced oversized folded plans and blueprints.
“Howard submitted these in May of last year and they were approved in September,” Paula explained, pointing to some date stamps on the blueprint. “The start for breaking ground was to be January one of this year.”
“Was there a completion date included?” I asked. We were all looking hard at the blueprint, but if the other girls were like me, they were still trying to figure out if the paper was upside down or right-side up. The confused looks on their faces told me I’d guessed correctly.
“There always is but it’s a joke really, at least that’s what the clerk told me,” Paula continued.
“What was the date for this project?” I had moved to the other side of the table and was finally able to orient myself to what I was studying.
“That’s the thing that struck the clerk as so odd, he said that completion dates range anywhere from eight months to two years. But in this case it was clearly stated that final inspection should be scheduled for the end of March.”
“Just three months. I knew about developers making empty promises, but to build a house from the ground up in that short a period of time? That’s crazy,” Peggy said.
I pulled the blueprint closer to me and took a minute to really take it all in.
“Do you notice what’s missing from this?” I asked.
They all pored over the paper, but again, I don’t think that the drawing had become clear in their minds yet.
“The basement, where’s the basement?” Penelope asked.
“Exactly,” I said. “There is no indication here that they planned to dig any deeper than the foundation. We now know that all kinds of geological surveys and tests need to be done before getting a permit to dig.”
“That could have delayed the start by months or even years,” Paula said, turning the plan in her direction. I could tell that she was a little mad with herself for missing this detail.
“So the basement was going to be built under the radar, so to speak. But why?” Penelope squeezed an orange slice and the juice melded with her last two sips of Lillet.
“I think that we can give you some good reasons,” Peggy said, and Sally woke up her iPad screen.
“It looks like Mr. Howard Platz was leveraged up to his beady eyeballs,” Sally explained, showing us some sort of P&L statement.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
Peggy waved me off and picked up the story. “Howard was running a construction Ponzi scheme. He was constantly borrowing from the next job to cover his overages and inaccurate estimates for the previous one. And the sums he owed have been growing exponentially.”
“How much is he in the hole?” I asked.
“About one and a half million,” Sally replied. “And naturally his suppliers and workers are the last to be paid, so he keeps having to find new ones.”
“And if word got out on the street, then he’d be blacklisted and shut down.” I saw everyone fall deep into thought.
We watched another small plane land. A couple and their son who looked about seven or eight disembarked once it had taxied to our side of the runway. They climbed the stairs and headed into Typhoon possibly for an early supper. It is amazing to me how inured I’ve become to witnessing these simple acts of shameless luxury.
“That’s the reason he was building the basement without permits!” Paula was up on her feet and hopping with excitement. “He was and is hoping to strike oil. He needs that money desperately to get out of debt and has no time to lose. He probably knows about the deed. Maybe he’s the one who murdered Abigail to get his hands on it.”
“And while he was at it, he had to get rid of his workman Carlos. We were told that he would show up on the job drunk, and as you said, Halsey, Howard can’t afford for any of his financial strife to get out.” Penelope adeptly picked up four sweet potato fries in one hand, dipped them into equal amounts of ketchup, and gracefully popped them into her mouth. We know how much the Brits love their “chips.” I was surprised that she hadn’t gone on a search for malt vinegar.
“Do you think that we have enough to take to Augie?” Sally asked.
“How much of that can you share?” I asked, pointing to the spreadsheet on her tablet.
“We’ll need a bit more time to pull together our sources.” Peggy quickly stepped in and took the iPad from Sally.
I had thought as much. This info had all the earmarks of being accessed surreptitiously from one or more of her contacts in “The Company” aka the CIA.
“Okay,” I said, “and while you are doing that, I think that I have a way to tie Mr. Slimy Snyder into the fold.”
“I can’t wait to hear.” Paula was really enjoying all of our detective work, almost as much as she was enjoying the Lillet. When I saw her dipping a piece of Korean fried cauliflower into her glass, I discretely cut her off.
I recounted the visit that Snyder had paid me and watched them laugh when I described his pathetic attempt to authenticate his oil claims. They were still chuckling when I told them about “nurse Marisol” and her spying, and when I got to the Geiger counter and Bardot, they had escalated back to a full roar. At the end, Peggy and Paula had to excuse themselves to visit the ladies’ room.
“So since he didn’t get to make a sale with you, then we still don’t have anything to prove he is running a scam?” Penelope summed up after they’d all calmed down and Peggy and Paula had returned.
“True, but remember I said that I thought that I had something to tie him to Howard? He’d run out of my house so fast to escape Bardot that he didn’t even take the time to retrieve his derby hat. It was when Marisol tried it on for size that I remembered seeing something made of straw hanging on a nail at the construction site. It was under a jacket but I clearly saw it. This was the night that we discovered Carlos’s body. I was so happy to get out of there that I just dismissed what I’d seen.”
“So you think that it was Snyder’s bowler hanging there?” Penelope asked.
“One of them. I looked up the brand of the one he left at my house and saw that you could buy these cheap things in packages of four on eBay.”
“Glad you got something. Sally and I came up empty following him, the slime got into his car and drove off,” Peggy said. “But I’ve made a note to check out Snyder’s financial status very closely.”
God help him.
“I’m going to make a quick trip back to the site after it is closed up for the day and see if the hat is still there. If it is, I’ll take a few photos of it in place and then put it in a plastic bag to give to Augie.”
“Not by yourself, I hope. That place is squirre-lier than a nut factory.” Sally was always watching out for me.
“I’ll be in and out in a flash, I swear. Easy-peasy.”
I later realized that saying this was akin to an idiot’s last words which often are: “Hey, watch this!”
* * *
I took Bardot on a walk around the block at just about dusk and saw to my relief that Howard’s site was locked up and quiet. We made the loop and then I let Bardot in through my back gate. On this occasion I was flying solo, this was a quick mission and no four-legged protection was going to be needed. I checked the blind slats in Marisol’s windows and thankfully they didn’t budge. Which didn’t mean that she wasn’t spying on me with cameras but this was the time that Extra aired, and Marisol had a little sumpin’ sumpin’ for Mario Lopez.
I wasn’t expecting the gap in the fence that we got through last time to still be open. I was sure that Howard and his men had discovered it by now and stopped it up. I was prepared to do a little fence climbing, another reason why I had not brought Bardot. On my way I checked my pocket to make sure that I had the plastic bag I was going to use for the hat and the blue surgical gloves that I had swiped from my last doctor’s visit.
You don’t want me “borrowing” things? Then don’t leave me alone in the examining room for forty minutes with last year’s magazines.
Sure enough, the peeled back portion of fence to the back of the property was now closed off with builders’ blocks that were too heavy for me to move. They were, however, great for climbing, and I used the hollowed-out sections as toeholds to help me easily climb to the top of the fence. Once there I stopped and listened to confirm that I was alone. Satisfied, I jumped down the six feet on the other side and was so focused on getting the evidence and leaving that I didn’t stop to think about how I was going to get back out.
I used my phone for light and a quick look around showed me that no new construction had occurred since my last visit. Howard was probably putting all his efforts into finding oil, and I was anxious to see how much deeper the basement trench was now.
I entered the crude framed structure of the house, the sides still open to the air. To my left of the doorframe, I again saw the jacket hanging off a large nail. I opened my camera app, selected the flash option, and took several photographs. Each time the light went off, I could see the straw section of the hat brim underneath. When I was sure that I’d covered the scene in situ, I donned the gloves and lifted the jacket off the nail. I found another hook to hang it on and then examined the hat. I had photos of the one Snyder had dropped at my house and confirmed that they were similar. I repeated the same process of taking pictures of the evidence and when I was done, I took the hat and placed it in the plastic bag. I heard a car engine outside and froze. I tried to control my breathing while scanning for places that I could hide. After about three minutes all was still quiet and I let out a deep breath. If I was caught in here again, by anyone, I was toast.
I carefully placed the jacket back on the nail. I knew at this point that I should turn around and get out as fast as possible, but I was dying to take a look at the trench. Mostly I wondered if any more black sludge, possibly oil, had seeped into the hole.
If I could just get a sample of it, then we could get it analyzed and know for sure if this was a scam. I put the bag with the hat down and ventured into the main section of the house frame. I treaded carefully using the light from my phone on the ground to make sure that I didn’t accidentally fall in again.
When I got to the edge, I planted my feet firmly on the ground and scanned the trench. It was deeper, I’d say maybe four or five feet deeper. I had been thinking about how to get a sample of the sludge and had decided to use one of my surgical gloves as a scoop. The question was how to get down there and back up again. Toward the back, where I’d found Carlos’s body I could see that a ladder had been placed along the muddy wall and was secured up top with sand bags.
Perfect.
I made my way to it, again stepping slowly to avoid slipping. Once there I tested the ladder and was relieved to see that it hardly budged from its place. It was now or never. With my back to the trench opening, I climbed down. The floor was even gooier and strongly clinging to my shoes and legs, making moving a labored effort. I decided to get my sample right where I was standing and get the hell out of there.
I needed to remove my glove carefully and inside out, I didn’t want there to be any contamination from the outside elements that I had touched. This sounded easier than it was because my other hand was also gloved and I seem to have stolen—borrowed—a pair of extra larges. The surplus latex of the fingers kept getting in the way. I was finally successful and bent down to scoop up some of this potential black gold. When I was sure that I had enough, I removed the glove that was on my other hand and used my bare fingers to tie the open wrist portion of the glove with the oil sample.
Time to go home.
Before I could extract my feet and step on the bottom rung of the ladder, I heard voices coming from above. Then I saw the beams of flashlights moving in jerky arcs.
Crap.
I needed to think fast. I couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but I could discern that they were coming from men. Maybe some of the guys had forgotten their tools, or maybe they were gathering to get high, or for some other random reason. I figured that if I scrunched down on the floor in a far corner against the trench wall no one would notice me and I could just wait them out. I sunk into the viscous, sulfur-infused brew and cringed when I felt it seep through my pants. At least I hadn’t done a face-plant this time. I tried to think of puppies and French Burgundy to pass the time. That’s when the lights came on.
“What are you doing down there?” I heard a voice say but all I could see was the blinding yellow glow of a work light.
“Police,” I heard another one say. “Don’t move!”
As if I could . . .