Silicon Beach Page 15

  “Why would I do such a thing?” asked the Judge, determined to ask questions but make no statements.

  “That stumped me for a while too, Judge. Particularly when you said you had no relationship to the victim outside of his brief appearance twice in your patent arbitration. I couldn’t find a motive.”

  “Because I don’t have one.”

  “So you said, Judge. But you lied to me. You out and out lied.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You had a very personal motive for wanting Carl Greene dead.”

  “What are you talking about, Kaminsky?”

  “I know about your mistress.”

  “My mistress?”

  “Being newly married to that child bride and all I can see how you’d want to keep it quiet. But the facts invariably come out Judge.”

  “What facts?” asked the Judge. A sickening suspicion of where this was going settled in his stomach.

  “Carl Greene took your lover away from you, Judge. He wasn’t as successful as you. At least not yet. But he was apparently a better lover. Must have stung. Hurt your pride. Particularly after all the time, money and attention you lavished on the relationship. For years. And the risks you took sneaking around behind your new wife’s back. You must have been very angry.”

  “What are you talking about, Kaminsky?”

  “You couldn’t let her go. Certainly couldn’t lose her to someone like Carl. You had to put a stop to it. And so you did. You killed Carl Greene in a jealous rage after you discovered he was screwing your mistress behind your back!”

  “And who would that be?” asked the Judge.

  “Miss Barbara Thompson.”

  CHAPTER 22

  3:30 PM Monday

  The Judge took a deep breath, steadied himself, and smiled at Kaminsky.

  “You don’t have a case and you know it Kaminsky. I haven’t had a relationship with Barbara in four years. We’re just casual friends. Ask her yourself. I have no motive for killing Carl Greene.”

  “I have talked to Miss Thompson. She says you’re very close, despite your recent marriage.” Kaminsky had his forefinger up now, pointing accusingly at the Judge, trying to bait him.

  “Did she say we’ve had a current affair? ... No.” The Judge answered his own question. “Did she say we’d been physically intimate at any time in the last four years? ... No. Did she say I knew about her relationship to Carl prior to his murder? … No. Aside from a brief contact in Avalon this spring, did she say I’ve had any contact with her at all in the last four years? No. Even the idea I could be involved is ludicrous. You’d want the DA to present a case where a man kills another man with a knife, somehow badly cuts himself as well with the same knife, leaves his pants with his wallet and ID at the scene, and then decides to call attention to himself by taking a pants-less swim at night next to the Santa Monica Pier? Good luck on that.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Kaminsky, but his voice cracked a little. The Judge knew he had the upper hand for the moment.

  “Kaminsky, I’ve got other things to do. I’m walking out of here. I’ve got nothing more to add to my account of what happened Thursday night. If you want to charge me, go ahead. My lawyer will have the charge thrown out on arraignment. That assumes the DA will go along and file a criminal complaint, which I doubt. You need to go fish some other stream.”

  The Judge rose, turned and walked to the door. Kaminsky didn’t move. The Judge could feel Kaminsky’s eyes boring into his back. The Judge opened the door and walked out, letting it close behind him, leaving Kaminsky fuming in his nasty little room.

  The Judge emerged into a bright Santa Monica afternoon from the dark police station, squinting, a little disoriented by the light. And by what he’d just been through. Damn. How’d he get himself pinned to the middle of the target on this one?

  He walked across the street to a coffee shop and settled into a quiet corner where he couldn’t be overheard. He dialed Barbara. She answered on the first ring. She must have been nesting her cell phone.

  “Hi, Judgie. Want to meet for a drink?”

  “No. Barbara, did you talk to the police about Carl?”

  “Of course, Judge. They were the ones who came to my door and told me.” There was a catch in Barbara’s voice.

  “Did you talk to them again? More recently?”

  “Funny you should ask, Judge. When I got back from our date, that nice lieutenant, Minsky or something, called.”

  “Kaminsky,” said the Judge.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “Who Carl’s friends were. Who knew we were engaged. Stuff like that.”

  “Did he ask about me?” asked the Judge.

  “He did, Judge. Such a nice man.”

  “What did you tell him about me?”

  “Well, you know, Judge. I was discrete of course. Told him how we had this mad passionate affair while I was still married. How you couldn’t bear to think of me in my then husband’s arms so you had to break it off. How heartbroken we both were.”

  “What else, Barbara?”

  “Well, gosh, I don’t know. I guess I told him how you had this child bride now, but you still had strong feelings for me. How’d we been on a couple of dates already. Explained how a more experienced woman knows so much better how to please a man. You know what they say, Judge. ‘You don’t teach a grandmother how to suck eggs!’”

  Barbara lapsed into a peel of giggles.

  “Not that I’m a grandmother by any means.” More giggles.

  “Did you tell Kaminsky you’d told me about Carl and your planned engagement?”

  “Oh yes. I explained how you didn’t take it well. I mean, let’s face it Judge. You did sound a mite jealous when you found out.”

  “But Carl was already dead when you called me and told me about your engagement. Remember?”

  “Well… I guess that’s true. But you were probably jealous thinking about the past. All the fun you missed because Carl took your place.”

  “Did you tell Kaminsky I didn’t find out about your engagement to Carl until after he was dead?”

  “Uh… no. Guess I didn’t think about that, Judge. Did I do something wrong?”

  The Judge unclenched his teeth with difficulty.

  “Barbara, Barbara... Barbara. You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m sorry if I screwed up somewhere, Judge. A girl’s got to keep plugging until she finds someone who appreciates her. I’d prefer you always, dear. But if it can’t be you I have to share myself with someone. At least until you tire of Cathy.”

  Words failed the Judge. He muttered a “Goodbye” and hung up, taking a large slug of his coffee. He got up and treated himself to an old fashioned donut, hoping the combination of coffee, fat and sugar would calm him. It didn’t.

  He called a taxi and rode to his office. Everything was there as he’d left it Saturday morning, undisturbed. Including his note he’d left for Frankie about the discovery research needing done. There was no research memo. Frankie hadn’t been in. Well, it had been the weekend. He supposed young attorneys had better things to do on the weekends these days than slave over research in a law office. Times were different when he’d started practicing law. But Frankie should have been in this morning to do the work. He was usually more reliable.

  The Judge settled in at his desk and opened his laptop. He fished in his pocket and produced the jump drive he’d found in Carl’s apartment, plugged it in, and scanned the list of files. There were document files and picture files. He pulled up the picture files first.

  Pictures of Carl, Carl and Barbara, Carl and Yana, Carl and Allan, Carl and Leslie, Carl and a dog, a pit bull. They flew by in a kaleidoscope of color and activities. Sailing, surfing, camping, sports events, parties. Even Monte Carlo, Paris, and London. But some pictures were more telling.

  There were pictures of the front of Carl’s warehouse, giving away its address: Compton. On Santa Fe Av
enue. Definitely beyond the boundaries of Silicon Beach. The Judge decided he would pay a visit across town this afternoon.

  There were selfies of Carl and Barbara in compromising positions. If the Judge tried some of those he’d be limping around with a crimp in his neck for a week. He’d probably have a crimp somewhere else as well. Carl had been a horny old goat.

  Barbara’s new boobs were as abundant as one would expect. She looked like she might blow over in any sort of tail wind.

  Another file contained pictures of Carl cavorting with Yana, likely when they were married. In her younger days she showed well. Well, she still showed well for that matter. All soft and girl next door cuddly on the outside. Tough as nails on the in. The pictures were mostly X-rated. He supposed he was becoming a bit of a voyeur. It was a disturbing thought. He shut that file quickly and moved on.

  The next file held more pictures of a pit bull. As a puppy, a year old, and then perhaps three. The dog looked relaxed around Carl. But one picture showed it baring sharp teeth at another dog. What did Barbara say its name was? Sneezy? Wheezy? Something like that.

  There were pictures of Carl and Allan Clark on a fishing trip, likely in Mexico by the look of the boat. Smiling, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder, holding bottles of Dos Equis. Best buds. And earlier pictures of dinners together with Yana and another guy who sat close to Clark. Travel pictures of Carl and Clark in the Philippines and in Thailand with young native girls. More X-rated stuff the Judge closed quickly.

  The next file had pictures of Carl in a jock strap, tied to the big circular rack at The Grotto. Shadow was standing over him, one of the mock whips in her hands, pretending to flay him. She wore a skimpy black bodice embroidered with lace and bearing a Nazi symbol across its chest. She looked ridiculous.

  Shadow had lied. She had been into games with Carl. Why did she cover it up? Did she have something to hide?

  The next file contained pictures of Carl and another man in various steamy situations. Carl’s gay lover. The man wore a ball cap and kept his face away from the camera so it didn’t show. He was very shy. You couldn’t say that for Carl. Greene had been an experimental old fart. It made the Judge’s occasional dalliances over the years look tame.

  Perhaps Carl’s murder had been over a lovers quarrel after all? Jealously? Rage? Revenge for being jilted or replaced? Or perhaps unrequited love? The human animal was capable of intense emotions, particularly in sexual relationships. Emotion overwhelmed reason. Heinous acts could be committed by even the most buttoned down people.

  But somehow a switchblade in an alley didn’t conjure up images of an agitated lover. No, the Judge was pretty sure Carl’s death was about his work, and the technology. But how did Carl get into the alley in the first place? What was he doing there? Had someone asked him to meet?

  The Judge turned his attention to the document files. The first file contained emails, apparently carefully selected and preserved here, but with no consistency in their times, senders, dates, or subject lines. The Judge whipped through them quickly, giving each a cursorily scan unless something looked relevant.

  There was an email from Barbara, desperately pressing for a firm date for announcement of their engagement. Apparently things weren’t quite as sealed up as Barbara had said. As though saying it could make it so. Some people never change, mused the Judge.

  There was an email from someone named Roberts, no first name, threatening foreclosure on a loan unless the payments were brought current immediately.

  A second email from Roberts gave a tally of what was due. About $48,000 in delinquent interest payments on the loan. Roberts said he was going to foreclose on Carl’s technology. The tone was angry. Roberts was an angry man. A new name, thought the Judge. Who was Roberts? What sort of relationship did he have with Carl? Important enough apparently to go on to Carl’s secret jump drive. The Judge jotted the name down in the small notebook he carried, and Robert’s email address.

  Another file had a copy of an award. “Award to Carl Greene, Benefactor of the Year, Southern California Homeless Coalition.” It was presented last year. Apparently Carl had heavily supported the homeless cause in L.A. It made sense given his own battle to recover from the streets.

  There was an email from Cindy Kwan, dated four weeks earlier, stating she had an offer in hand to purchase Carl’s new technology and the purchase price by wire transfer would be in the middle eight digits. She wanted to present it in person. Suggested a meeting in Santa Monica, near the Judge’s office, at a local coffee shop.

  Someone wanted Carl’s new technology bad.

  A subsequent email said the exact price offered for exclusive world-wide rights was $40,000,000, with $10,000,000 paid up front and the balance paid on an earn-out basis as the technology was commercialized and produced revenues.

  A later email from Cindy was curt, suggesting Carl was a fool for turning down her group’s offer. Stating Carl’s counter offer of $800,000,000 was ridiculous.

  A follow-up email from Cindy the next day read:

  “Carl, you know you can lose a lot more than money here if you’re not careful. My group is not accustomed to taking no for an answer. You’d better reconsider, and quick. Why don’t you counter at $44,000,000?”

  And there was Carl’s email response:

  “Cindy, tell your group to fuck off.”

  Another email from Cindy Kwan:

  “Either sell or expect to lose your technology in the ensuing legal fight.”

  And a final Cindy Kwan email:

  “There are things one can lose more important than money. Mobility for instance. Health. Even Existence.”

  It sounded like Cindy and her friends were prepared to play rough.

  The Judge moved on to the next email. The same day as Cindy’s last email, but later. Allan Clark had emailed Carl:

  “Carl, Cindy has told me of her group’s offer and your correspondence. She is hoping I can persuade you to accept. We’ve been best friends for years. I have often acted as your confident and financial advisor. Being purely objective on your behalf, which I am, I think we should make a counter offer of $48,000,000 and make this deal happen.”

  It was signed: “Your best friend and the one watching your back… Allan.”

  Carl’s reply back to Allan was terse:

  “Glad to hear how you have no conflict Allan. Only my best interests at heart. Is that why you’re sleeping with my ex-wife? As to having my back…. You’re more likely watching the back of her ass.”

  There was a week-long break in the emails saved. The last was from Allan Clark to Carl Thursday afternoon. The day Carl was murdered.

  “Carl, Yana and I want to make peace. Why don’t you come meet me and Yana at Chaya Venice for a drink tonight? We can work this out. There is more than enough money for everyone. Yana isn’t greedy. She just wants to maintain a reasonable lifestyle. Please, can we three meet and talk this evening? Later you and I can go to the club and have some fun. Just like old times. My treat.”

  The Judge re-read the email. Chaya Venice was a well-known restaurant frequented by locals and tourists alike. One thoroughfare over from where the Judge had walked to the beach on Thursday evening.

  It was just around the corner from Marine Court, the alley where Carl’s body was found.

  There wasn’t much else on the jump drive. No plans or specs on new technology. No copy of the missing report. Just personal information and pictures about the man that once had been.

  Life was so fleeting. And could end so suddenly. A last pass over the Ferris wheel and poof! Ride over.

  CHAPTER 23

  4:30 PM Monday

  Carl’s warehouse was on a small triangular piece of ground sandwiched against an active railroad track and a residential street, cut off at the tip by a major boulevard.

  It was in a rough part of Compton. Broken down homes and apartments leered at the Judge through barred windows from across the dusty street. Tarted up here and there with flamboy
ant graffiti. There was no one on the street this afternoon. But the Judge could feel eyes peering out from behind shaded windows as he got out of his car and walked up to the ten-foot corrugated fence surrounding the property. A roll of barbwire strung along the top further discouraged intruders. The Judge hadn’t the faintest idea how he would get in. Unless someone was there actively working.

  He walked fifty feet along the fence from where he’d parked his car and came to a gate, built out of the same corrugated metal but mounted on wheels so it could roll, permitting vehicle entry. It had a thick steel cord linking the frame of the gate to the fence post, with a heavy padlock on it. A small hole had been cut in the fence metal so you could reach in if you had the key and unlock the lock from the street side.

  The Judge reached in out of curiosity and tried the padlock. Its top slid open on well-oiled pins. The padlock had been twisted around to look closed, but had not been pressed down to lock. He undid the steel cord and tried to slide the gate open. It hardly budged. He brought his weight against it and it opened a tad, exposing sharp wire to either side. He sucked in his damn stomach as much as he could and was just able to squeeze through.

  He was immediately struck by the smell of gas, oil, and old rubber. The place stunk like a toxic dump. Inside was a yard sufficient for a large truck to turn around, and, across the yard, a small warehouse with two large bays covered by sliding metal doors. The parking area was empty of vehicles. But one sliding door of the warehouse was open about eighteen inches, displaying a strip of dark cool within.

  He walked softly across the parking area, crunching on gravel spread over disintegrating asphalt, trying to be quiet. He wasn’t sure why.

  He reached the partially open bay door and pushed to open it further. But it was stuck like the front gate, or locked or blocked. Turning sideways again, he pushed and wiggled his way through, cursing the paunch once more. With age it had become more and more impossible to jettison.

  It was dark inside. The only light came from two large skylights, clouded with dirt and grime. He stood still, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Shapes emerged. Two old boilers, large, reaching almost to the roof two and a half stories above. And strung around them four small, newer boilers, each about the size of Volkswagen Bug. New metal, fresh piping and wiring bristled around the smaller tanks, ornamented with measuring gauges and sensors. They looked like electronic snowmen, in from the cold.