Cruel Vintage Read online

  “Who was the other guy?” Kaye asked.

  “I don’t remember. He wasn’t a member.”

  “A guest?”

  “Yeah, but not Mr. Geller’s. He was with someone else, I think, and there was another guest, too, but they all ended up playing together because Mr. Geller’s usual partner had to cancel.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I don’t know,” Burridge said. “But when Mr. Geller and the other guy came out of the clubhouse they were really going at it. Not loud, you understand, but very intense. Mr. Geller was really pressing the guy. I heard him say something about ‘give me a number’ or something like that, a couple of times.”

  “So there was a deal?”

  Burridge just shrugged.

  “What did the other guy do?”

  “That’s just it,” Burridge said. “He just said ‘not for sale’ or something, and when Mr. Geller kept after him I could tell he got pissed, because he grabbed Mr. Geller by the front of the shirt and got in his face.”

  “Did you hear what he said?” Kaye said.

  “I couldn’t make it out, exactly, but I think the other guy threatened Mr. Geller, and I could tell it scared Mr. Geller because he got real quiet and just kind of wilted.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Right then the member the two guests were with came out of the clubhouse and the guy holding Mr. Geller’s shirt noticed me paying attention. He let go and said something like, ‘C’mon Avi, let’s just play golf.’ Must’ve worked, because by the time they finished warming up and teed off, they were laughing and slapping like old war buddies.”

  “That’s all you heard?” Kaye asked.

  “Yeah,” Burridge said. “I don’t even know if it means anything, but, you know, I remembered it after Carol told me what happened.”

  “But you don’t know the other guy, the one who grabbed Geller?”

  “No, never saw him before and haven’t seen him since, and I can’t remember the member’s name, either. I think he was new. Oh, wait… His tee time had to be close to Mr. Geller’s. It should be in the log.”

  Burridge grabbed the log and started flipping back through the pages.

  “Shouldn’t be hard to find,” he said. “Today was only Mr. Geller’s third time back since that day, what with all the problems going on. And we haven’t exactly been over-booked lately.”

  Kaye waited.

  “Aha, here it is,” Burridge said after a few moments. He spun the log around so Kaye could read it and pointed to the line containing the entry. It was dated before Kaye had gone to Aspen.

  Geller’s name was down for the 11:15 a.m. tee time along with another member named Gleason, but there were no guests listed. All the other times between 10:00 a.m. and noon listed members and, if any, guests. Much of what was on the log for guests was just initials. Kaye wrote down all the information.

  “You said that this Gleason didn’t show up to play?” Kaye asked.

  “Right,” Burridge said. “The other guys were early, so I made some spots by making them a foursome.”

  “Can you describe the man Geller argued with?” Kaye asked.

  “Sure,” Burridge said. “White guy, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Maybe five eight or nine, dark hair, and a little heavy.”

  “Thanks, Lon,” Kaye said. “Appreciate the cooperation.”

  “No problem. I always thought Mr. Geller was a nice guy.”

  Kaye’s next stop was the parking valet stand.

  “I need the keys to Avi Geller’s car,” he told the young woman on duty, his tone making it clear he wasn’t making a request.

  “Space seventeen,” she said, handing him the keys.

  It was a Mercedes-Benz key fob, and in space seventeen he found a white, AMG S63 cabriolet. It took only a minute to determine that neither Geller nor Jane Smith had left phones or anything else in the car.

  For Kaye, that definitely moved Jane Smith to the Jane Doe column.

  He next checked the registration for an address, expecting to find the car registered to AZG Productions. Instead, he found the names Aviram and Ziva Geller and an address not far away.

  Instead of returning the keys to the valet he took them into the clubhouse and searched for Carol Soares.

  He found her in her office and gave her the keys.

  “Did Geller have a locker on the premises?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Soares said. “All our members do. Why?”

  “Well, he didn’t have a cell phone on him, and there wasn’t one in the car. I can’t imagine somebody in his business being without one, and thought a locker would be the next best bet.”

  “Come with me.”

  Five minutes later Kaye had Avi Geller’s cell phone in his pocket.

  Fat lot of good it’ll do me, he thought ruefully. Six digit pass code.

  There had been no purse or other cell phone in the locker.

  He checked the time. It was getting late and he still wanted to find the house overlooking the course.

  And he needed to talk to Mrs. Ziva Geller.

  He decided to look for the house first.

  ***

  It wasn’t as easy to find as he’d expected. Between the winding roads, the confusing terrain and the high walls and gates lining the street, it turned into a frustrating guessing game.

  He got lucky when a red Porsche stopped in the road to wait while a gate opened. With a quick roll on the throttle he pulled the big Harley up next to the gate, swung off, and held up his badge for the driver to see.

  She stopped before going through the gate and rolled her window down.

  “I hope you’re not looking for me,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. Detective Kaye. I need some help.”

  Without going into detail Kaye quickly sketched out what he was looking for.

  She laughed.

  “Don’t feel bad. I’ve lived here for two years and sometimes still drive right by my own gate. Got any details?”

  Kaye described the house and back yard, especially the pool and gardens.

  “Sounds like the house three doors, or gates, down,” she said, pointing. “It’s had a for sale sign on it for the last several months. I think it’s empty.”

  Kaye thanked her, made a tight u-turn and went down to the third gate.

  The Porsche driver was right. A For Sale sign, most of it taken up by the smiling face of a forty-ish blonde with glasses and Hollywood smile, was affixed to the elaborate gate, and even at this time of day the ornate lights flanking the gate were on.

  He wanted to make sure, so he jumped up, wrapped his hands over the top of the gate and pulled himself up.

  It was the right house.

  He pulled out his cell phone and called the number on the realty sign.

  “Classic Realty,” a woman answered. “Megan Sullivan. How may I help you?”

  “Ms. Sullivan, my name is Ben Kaye. I’m a detective with the LAPD. I’d like to ask you some questions about your listing at,” he gave her the address.

  There was a brief silence.

  “Is this a joke?” Sullivan said at last. “The asking on that house is just under eighteen million. Nineteen five if you want the furnishings. Minus the art, of course. If you really are who you say you are, I’m guessing that’s out of your price range.”

  “I’m not interested in buying the house. I’m calling on police business. I’d be happy to give you my Captain’s name and number if you’d like to call him.”

  “Is everything okay at the house?”

  Kaye gave her a basic rundown, mentioning only that there had been an incident on the golf course and he thought a person of interest might have gone through the property.

  “Why do you think that?” Sullivan asked.

  “The padlock on the back fence gate was cut. I have reason to believe someone went up and down from there.”

  “Was anything vandalized?” Sullivan asked, and Kaye heard a tinge o
f anxiety in her voice.

  “Not that I could see from the back fence,” Kaye said. “I did not enter the yard.”

  “Thank God,” Sullivan said. “Can you wait there until I get there? Probably close to an hour, maybe more depending on traffic.”

  “Sorry, no. I have somewhere else I need to be. Would you mind answering just a couple quick questions while I’ve got you?”

  “You’re kidding! You won’t wait?”

  “I can’t,” Kaye said. “If there’s a problem when you get here, call the police and an officer will come out. Is the house occupied?”

  “No,” Sullivan said. “The owners anticipated a fairly quick sale, so they went ahead and moved. Didn’t exactly turn out that way. The house is vacant, but furnished, if that makes sense.”

  “Where did the owners move to?”

  “Northern Italy, near Lake Como.”

  “Does the house have a security system?” Kaye asked.

  “Of course. State of the art, monitored, with armed response.”

  “Have there been any problems recently?”

  “Not that the security company has made me aware of, and I’m the designated contact.”

  “Who’s the security company?”

  “SecureLife Security,” she replied.

  He recognized the name as reputable.

  “Who else has access to the property?” Kaye asked.

  “Licensed realtors, of course, if they have a showing. But I assure you, Detective, at this price point deals are almost always cash and nobody gets in without their financials being checked.”

  Kaye flashed back to when he and Amy had first looked at their house overlooking the Pacific. They’d had a very difficult time getting a showing because their credit reports showed their occupations as cop and teacher.

  But Amy had pestered the agent relentlessly until he finally agreed to a showing just to get rid of her.

  They loved the house and location and told the agent they wanted to make an offer. When the agent gently chided them for their lack of knowledge about how real estate worked, Amy had had enough. She bluntly told the agent that she was legally Amy Kaye, but her professional name was Shaeffer Kaye, she was a writer, and possibly the agent was aware that her latest book had been Number One on the best-seller list for eighteen straight weeks, and that her agent had just optioned the movie rights for considerably more than the asking price of the house.

  Kaye had thought the agent was going to faint.

  “Yeah, been there,” he mumbled.

  “Excuse me,” Sullivan said. “I missed that?”

  “Not important. Who else has access?”

  “The landscape and pool maintenance people,” Sullivan said. “They contract with our agency for all our listings. They’re licensed, insured and bonded. I trust them completely.”

  Kaye asked for, and got, the name of the company.

  “Anybody else?” Kaye asked.

  “Well, there’s a cleaning service that comes once or twice a week and it’s usually during the night,” she replied, and gave him the name of the company.

  “Thank you, Ms. Sullivan. I’m sorry I can’t wait for you. I’ll call if I need to get into the house, but I doubt that will be necessary. If it is, I’ll have a warrant so there’ll be no questions from the owners.”

  “I appreciate that. Thanks for letting me know about the gate.” She hung up.

  He checked the time again, although he knew exactly what time it was.

  It was time to talk to Ziva Geller.

  It took Kaye only a few minutes to get to the Geller house.

  It was an elaborate French Country place on at least two acres and, unlike the houses lower down the hill, it was visible from the street.

  Not that it wasn’t fenced and gated. It was, and as Kaye rolled up to the gate he idly thought that the guy with the wrought iron fence business in the neighborhood must be doing well.

  He punched the intercom call button and held his badge up to the camera mounted on the gate post.

  “How may I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Detective Kaye, LAPD. I need to speak with Ziva Geller.”

  “What about?”

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Geller privately.”

  “I’m Ziva Geller,” the voice said. “If this is about Avi’s murder, there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  Kaye was taken aback.

  “Mrs. Geller, how and when did you find out about your husband’s death?”

  “Well, I wasn’t there, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “This is Hollywood. News travels fast. I’ve already spoken with my attorney, who advised me that I don’t have to let the police in unless you have a warrant and that I am not required to make a statement.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got your bases covered,” Kaye said. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  There was a long pause, but the intercom light stayed on, so Kaye waited.

  “Let’s just say I’m not disappointed that the miserable, cheating bastard is dead. Saves me a trip to the courthouse to file the divorce papers.”

  The intercom light went out.

  Kaye rolled the Harley back and out of camera range and pondered his next move.

  He definitely wanted a face-to-face with Ziva Geller, but he knew he’d be better off giving her some time to calm down and absorb the reality of her husband’s death.

  He called Captain Thompson and left a voice mail to let his boss know he planned on going to talk to the fireman about the Ferrari in the morning, so not to look for him first thing.

  Then he headed down to Sunset before turning west toward the beach and home.

  ***

  Kaye sat on the mat, feet spread almost to a full split, back straight and arms extended overhead with palms together, and took a moment to soak in the view.

  In the deepening dusk he could just make out the swell marching toward the beach down the canyon beyond Pacific Coast Highway.

  South swell. The surfers would be out in force tomorrow.

  Refocusing, he lowered his hands and placed them flat on the mat, shoulder-width apart, directly in front of his legs. Keeping his back straight, he leaned forward until all his weight was on his hands, lifted himself from the mat and, still maintaining the split, rotated up into a handstand.

  It was a move worthy of an Olympic gymnast. For a man scraping six foot one and almost three hundred pounds it was an amazing display of strength and flexibility. Kaye’s unusual build, with a short torso and overly-long legs and arms, helped.

  He held the handstand splits for ten slow, controlled breaths before raising his feet to the traditional handstand position. Another ten breaths, focusing on them and not his body. With a slow, controlled movement he raised his head to look toward the sea as he arched his back, bent his knees, and slowly lowered his feet toward the back of his head in a variation of Vrischikasana, the Scorpion Pose.

  Then he started doing handstand push-ups, lowering himself until his chin touched the mat and pushing back up until his arms were straight.

  His target was not a number, it was failure, and he grunted with the effort of the last five before stopping and slowly lowering his feet until he was in the arching bridge of Chakrasana. He held the position for ten breaths, then bent his elbows to ninety degrees, pushed mightily, and rose to stand in Tadasana.

  Kaye possessed amazing, almost preternatural, strength, but flexibility had always been an issue. During physical therapy for a shoulder injury suffered in the Marine Corps he’d discovered that the exercises he was doing were yoga positions. He immediately became an adherent, and while he knew that his bulk would preclude ever attaining some asanas – try as he had, he’d never touched the back of his head with his feet during Scorpion -- his level of accomplishment was significant.

  Yoga led him to Eastern philosophy and, to the great dismay of his fervently Christian mother, eventually to Zen Buddhism. While he didn’t consider hims
elf a practicing Buddhist; his mind was simply too Western to go there; it was the philosophy he’d found that most closely matched his world view.

  He held Tadasana for twenty breaths, slowly relaxing.

  He took a drink of water from the bottle on the patio table, fetched a cushion, sat down, and assumed the half-Lotus position. After his recent return from Colorado, his first task had been to visit Kyokoku-Dera monastery to see for himself that Roshi, his teacher, was okay after everything that had gone on during the End of Days plague panic. The two had spent hours discussing Kaye’s experiences in Aspen, but, as usual, Roshi had offered few answers to Kaye’s questions, instead reflecting them back upon his pupil so that Kaye could find those answers for himself.

  “Your questions are insightful, Benkei,” Roshi told him. The old monk was convinced Kaye was the reincarnation of the legendary 12th Century Japanese warrior-monk renowned for his strength and purpose. “I believe it is time for you to move on to shikantaza zazen to maintain your progress.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It is a more advanced meditation technique than what you have practiced until now. I have observed you during zazen, and your concentration, and thought processes when we discuss the koans, tell me you are ready.”

  “I’ll try,” Kaye said. “What do I do?”

  Roshi laughed.

  “You ‘do’ nothing, Benkei. It is zazen. But rather than concentrating inwardly or puzzling out a koan, which you have learned leads only to another question, your attention is now devoted outward to your surroundings. The goal is to see and hear your environment without letting it distract you from your Self, from your concentration.”

  “Is there a trick to it?”

  Roshi laughed again.

  “No tricks, Benkei! Hear the wind. Hear the jet flying overhead even if you cannot, and feel the wind from the wings of the birds in the garden. Hear the wind chimes if they ring, or their silence if they do not. Expand your Self to encompass all, and be in the moment. That is the success of shikantaza.”

  “How will I know if I’m successful?” Kaye asked.

  “There is no formula,” Roshi said patiently. “When you become one with the moment, you will feel it.”