The Bay

  Also by Davis MacDonald

  -The Hill (set in Palos Verdes)

  -The Island (set in Avalon)

  -Silicon Beach (set in Santa Monica and the LA West Side)

  -The Bay (set in Newport Beach)

  -Cabo (set in Cabo San Lucas) – Due out in November, 2017

  - Recipes and Wisdom - Notes from the

  Southern California Wine & Food Society Dinners

  THE BAY

  A Mystery Novel

  Set in Newport Beach

  And Orange County

  “Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheepes clothing, but inwardly they are rauening wolues.

  Yee shall knowe them by their fruits: Doe men gather grapes of thornes, or figges of thistles?

  Euen so, euery good tree bringeth forth good fruit: but a corrupt tree bringeth forth euill fruit.

  A good tree cannot bring forth euil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.

  Euery tree that bringeth not forth good fruit, is hewen downe, and cast into the fire.

  Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.”

  Matthew 7:15,

  Original King James Bible,

  1611

  CHAPTER 1

  6:00 AM Monday

  The Judge strode onto the sand, trying to keep up with the golden retriever. She’d bounded ahead, disappearing into the mist when he’d unhooked her leash. It was late October, bleeding into November. Seven in the morning and an early rain storm trying to start. Fog lay heavily on the beach, obscuring all but a few yards ahead. Dogs weren’t supposed to be off their leashes. But the law was overlooked in the early mornings in Balboa, out on Peninsula Point.

  Besides, no one could see Annie the Dog through the mist. No one could see the Judge. The mist hid everything, leaving him feeling alone and…vulnerable. Uncertain of his path forward. Uncertain of where he’d been.

  Like life really. Impossible to pull up all his past memories, too many years gone by, too many memories forgotten…lost. Had he made the best of his fifty plus years? He wondered. He wished he could remember. All he knew for certain was the years were gone.

  And was he taking the best path forward? A quickie marriage to someone twenty years his junior, pregnant with his child. A child herself, really. From the perspective of someone fifty looking at someone just thirty. Someone he loved dearly. Their courtship had been cut short by her…their… pregnancy and the quickie marriage that followed. It had happened all so fast. In many ways he still barely knew Katy.

  But then again did you ever really know anyone. Know them down deep? Know who they really were? Perhaps we were all creatures shrouded in fog, destined to grapple with one another through the mist, trying in good conscience to communicate, trying to touch, trying to understand, but missing more often than not. Understanding so little of ourselves at the outset.

  His thoughts on the beach that morning would later seem prophetic as he found himself plopped down in the middle of a conspiracy so complex that everything seemed shadowy, like the fog. He’d only appreciate later how close it had been to disaster for him, for Katy, and for their unborn child.

  He could hear Annie the Dog making life exciting for seagulls and sandpipers ahead. Likely clustered at the tide’s edge. He could hear the faint squawking now over the thunder of the rollers and the crack of the surf sliding up the beach like a serpent uncaged. The sand was spongy under his feet, small particles clinging to his shoes. The air thick with moisture and mist. He could smell the salt, mixed with the scent of drying seaweed. Almost taste it. No water in sight. The surf still lost somewhere ahead.

  He turned to look back along the narrow access walkway from which he’d come. The line of ocean-front houses was now lost. Only the faint outline of sand dunes and scrubby ice-plant. He felt a chill. Was it only a drop in temperature as the soft breeze stirred the fog into frothy shapes?

  He turned again to look back, the lizard part of his brain sensing a change. And he saw them. Two black, bulky shadows slowly taking shape out of the mist. Two men. Heavy overcoats unbuttoned and open. Hands free, not in their pockets. White shirts, ties. Definitely not neighborhood. Walking together as though in harness. Partners?

  Their coats flapped open as they approached, exposing black leather straps at one shoulder each, the kind used to secure a pistol. The Judge stopped, watched them approach, standing very still, hands in front, easily seen.

  “Are you the Judge?” barked the older man, measured by a touch of grey in his hair and the beginnings of a small tummy. He looked early fifties, like the Judge, but in better shape, except for the bit of rose in his cheeks, high blood pressure perhaps?

  “Who wants to know?” the Judge shouted back.

  “Just answer the question, buddy. We’re kind of in a hurry.” Voice sharp, demanding, used to command.

  “They call me the Judge,” he replied, lowering his voice now they were upon him.

  They reached into their coats together like Bobbsey-twins. The Judge considered his chances for a dash into the mist, in the direction of the dog. But the hands came out again holding leather card cases, flipping them open like a matched pair of dancers in the ballet, Senior snapping, “Agents Frank Jackson and Charlie Thomas….FBI.”

  “I know there’s a law against having a dog with no leash on the beach,” said the Judge, “but it’s not a Federal offense.” Attempting to relieve the tension. In them. In him. He sensed their stiffness, their anxiety, their… almost…What?... Desperation.

  “We need to talk. We don’t have much time,” Jackson said, lowering his voice, leaning in close to the Judge, hands sideways, palms spreading open. Non-threatening. Seeking help.

  The Judge could smell cigarette smoke mixed with sweat. The way his dad used to smell so many years before. Also, the faint whiff of mouthwash. Mint.

  “Your country needs a quick favor. And we need it now,” Jackson said.

  Charlie Thomas walked behind the Judge, scanning the mist, guarded, worried, then stepped back beside his partner. They put their credentials away. Nervously huddling close, as though to keep the fog at bay. Or perhaps something else.

  “Let me see your credentials again,” said the Judge. Their anxiety was infectious.

  They dutifully dug them out, handing them over, one at a time, waiting impatiently while he took a careful look. Jackson handed him a card.

  “Okay, gentleman. You’re who you say you are. And you obviously know who I am. What can I do for you?”

  “You played golf yesterday afternoon at Big Canyon with Bob Mackey, the Orange County DA,” said Jackson.

  The statement came out of the blue. What was this? A test?

  “I did,” the Judge muttered.

  “I understand you’re not much of a golfer.”

  The Judge played along. Like three boys recently met on a street corner, comparing players on the local team to break the ice.

  “That’s why Bob likes to play with me,” said the Judge. “I lose lots of money every time.”

  “He told us you’d say that.” Jackson gave the Judge a tight smile. “And you’re right. He likes to play with me too.”

  Bonding established, thought the Judge. So, let’s get this over with.

  “So why track me down on the beach, gentlemen?”

  “We’re in a bit of a bind, Judge. We’re want you to do something for us.”

  The Judge looked at them closely. It all felt too… pat.

  “Mr. Jackson and Mr. Thomas, right?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “If I call Bob Mackey right now, he’ll know who you two are?”

  “Yes.”

  The Judge got out his cell and dialed. They watched, Thomas clenching and unclenching hands at this side, Jackson standing ten
se, motionless, waiting.

  The Judge spoke briefly to his golfing buddy, nodding as he spoke, then hung up.

  “Okay, Mr. Jackson, I’m listening.”

  “We’re FBI. And we’ve maybe got something going on right here, in Orange County.

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  “Perhaps there are certain internet sources that are generate troubling chatter, suggesting Orange County as a focal point for problems to come.”

  Jackson’s words came out tight, his voice rising an octave, likely tracking his blood pressure.

  “The FBI would be concerned, wouldn’t it Judge? We’d need to identify the people involved quickly, locate their base, see if they were seriously planning something.”

  “Okay,” said the Judge, focused now.

  “Suppose we had a trusted source. He might be highly thought of by a certain closed religious organization which might be giving these fanatics financial support. He’d be extraordinarily important to our surveillance efforts, wouldn’t he? Nationally. Way beyond this specific situation.”

  “It’d be good if you had people like that in place,” admitted the Judge. Non-committal, feeling cautious, not sure why.

  “We couldn’t afford to compromise his position under any circumstances, Judge. If, of course, he existed. He’d be one of a very few primary sources we could actually trust.”

  “Yes, I can understand that.”

  “Suppose the handler in our agency had a meeting scheduled with… Mr. X, let’s call him, this very morning. In an hour. Some important information to be passed. About this potential Orange County problem. It’d be imperative we obtain that information.”

  “Okay,” said the Judge.

  “But suppose the handler has gone missing.

  “You’d have to send somebody else.”

  “That’s right. But do we risk sending another FBI case officer out? Perhaps someone is following us, monitoring the FBI’s actions. We might lead them right to our hidden asset in the organization. And at the same time it would be important we keep Mr. X…calm.... relaxed. Feeling secure. If he got upset, he might inadvertently blow his cover.”

  “So why tell me these state secrets?”

  “This is only ‘what if’, Judge. But under those circumstances, we might need a little help from the outside. From someone like you.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Our handler is gone. AWOL. Can’t be found. We’re worried. Mr. X is going to be very upset when his handler doesn’t show.”

  “What’s going on with the handler?”

  “We’re not sure. It’s troubling. But we’re mostly afraid Mr. X is going to go ballistic.”

  “That could be a mess,” said the Judge.

  “More than a mess, Judge. It’d be a national disaster. In light of the missing handler, the Director has ordered no one with connections to the FBI or the CIA gets near Mr. X for now. No exceptions.”

  “The direction of this conversation is starting to make me nervous.”

  Jackson pressed on, ignoring the comment. “We need someone unconnected with anyone in our agency or the CIA, or any Federal agency for that matter, to show up on Balboa Island in an hour, drive onto the ferry going over to the Balboa Peninsula, and strike up a conversation with Mr. X as the ferry crosses the Bay.

  “Just a conversation?” asked the Judge.

  “We need someone to discreetly collect a jump drive from Mr. X. Then this someone takes his car up the Peninsula and over to Fashion Island and our offices. Delivers us the jump drive. We want that person to be you.”

  “You want me to replace your handler and collect your information?”

  “Yes.”

  The Judge looked back toward the sea, playing for time, surprised, considering. It sounded simple. But was it? Why wasn’t the handler around? What had really happened? Why did they think the Judge would get involved? This wasn’t his sort of thing.

  “There’s several things wrong with your idea, Jackson. First, I’m not the handler for Mr. X, so he will still be upset.

  Second, he’ll not have a clue who I am and won’t trust me.

  Third, I’m not trained as a spy or a courier, and I’m a miserable actor.

  Fourth, I’m running a networking meeting in an hour at the Newport Bay Club so my schedule doesn’t permit me to pinch hit for you.

  Fifth, I’ve got a very pregnant wife just over there a block. This isn’t the time for me to be running around playing junior spy.”

  “Look Judge, we’ve come because the DA says we can trust you. Says you’ll keep a cool head. And cause you have no affiliation with the FBI, the CIA, or any other Federal agency.”

  “None of that makes me the right guy for your favor, Jackson. There must be plenty of people you can tap.”

  “We’ve only just found out about this glitch with the handler. We’ve got an hour is all, Judge. We need you. And we need you now.”

  “How important is his information?”

  “Very.”

  “What’s the risk to me?”

  “Nominal.”

  “I don’t know, Jackson. This isn’t my type of gig. I’m just a lawyer. What am I supposed to do? Put my hands behind my back and whistle a happy tune while I skip up beside your Mr. X? I’d be all thumbs trying to look discreet.”

  “You’re our best chance Judge. If you don’t help, people could die, right here, in Orange County.”

  “How would he know who I am?”

  “There’s an emergency password.”

  “How would I know who to approach on the ferry?”

  “We have a picture of Mr. X.”

  “I just don’t think I’m your guy, Jackson.”

  “All we’re asking you to do is drive onto the damn ferry, get your ass out of your car to look at the view on the crossing, say good morning to a fellow passenger, and palm the jump drive he slips to you. That’s it.”

  As he pondered their request, a long body of caramel fur lunged out of the mist, driving sandy paws into Jackson’s stomach, almost knocking him over. All teeth, long moist tongue and smiling pink gums. Annie the Dog had returned.

  She lurched over to the Judge’s other new friend, nudging Thomas’s hand, demanding affection, wagging her tail furiously.

  The distraction gave the Judge more time to think. They were the real McCoy. They were in a jam. With few options and a dwindling time frame. It wasn’t unreasonable of them to ask. It was his country too. He didn’t want to read about bodies piling up a week later in Orange County because he was too lazy to make a stop on his way to his networking event and be the delivery boy for some bloke who was risking his life for the country. It’d probably be okay. If he was careful.

  Katy, his new bride, almost eight months pregnant, would hit the roof if she found out he was playing spy. She was leaning on him heavily for support as the birth date drew closer. And rightly so. He’d have to be sure she didn’t find out. But then again it was really just guy stuff. She needn’t know.

  The Judge looked up at Jackson as he tried to catch his breath from his collision with Annie, and nodded his head. Jackson and Thomas let out sighs of relief together, tension lines lifting a little in their faces.

  The Judge snared Annie with her leash, and the four, three men and the quadruped, walked back through the fog, between the row of beachfront houses to the street, and down the street toward the little interior beach house he and his Katie had borrowed from her parents for the week. It was to be a working vacation for the Judge. Apparently more ‘working’ than he’d anticipated.

  As they walked, Jackson filled the Judge in on the emergency password to use with Mr. X, showed him a picture of Mr. X which he wasn’t allowed to keep, and explained where the FBI field office was hidden in Fashion Island. It all sounded simple. Jackson went over the details three times, emphasizing the Judge had to be on the right ferry, at the right time, re
turning from Balboa Island to the Balboa Peninsula.

  When Jackson finally took a breath, the Judge asked, “What religious group is it?” Is it the free-willed running water Baptists?”

  “No,” Jackson smiled. “I wish.”

  “A Mormon splinter group from Utah?”

  “No.”

  “Neo-Nazis?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, what religious group, gentlemen?” The Judge figured he had a right to know.

  Jackson responded with a single word. A word that lay there flat and heavy between them in the mist, taking on a life of its own.

  “Muslim.”

  CHAPTER 2

  6:45 AM Monday

  As the outlines of the Judge’s vacation cottage loomed in the fog, Jackson thanked him for pitch-hitting and both agents shook his hand. Then they melted away into the mist. Almost as though they’d never been. Leaving the Judge to wonder what the hell he’d just done. What he’d committed to

  Annie the Dog strained at her leash, pulling him through the mist, eager to reach the relative warmth of the bungalow and the female with whom she’d bonded. It’d originally been just him and the dog, a puppy still, before Katy came along. They’d been married four months now. Katy was almost eight months pregnant.

  People did the math. Some looked shocked. He could care less. Yet, after being solitary for so long, it was a substantial adjustment. It’d been his choice to either move forward with the relationship or walk. Marry someone, after what? Five months of dating? Or call it quits forever. In some ways he’d been blued, screwed and tattooed, borrowing language from his old navy chum.

  But to lose her wasn’t an option. So here he was. It was nature’s underhanded trick. Sort of a cosmic joke played on the male. You got involved with a female. Suddenly she’s pregnant. Or nowadays it was considered that the collective ‘you’ was pregnant. Forcing you into a life-changing decision. Herding you into an uncertain relationship with someone you barely knew, assuring the continuance of the race.