The Pallbearers

Chapter 30

Alexa woke up as I slid back into bed just before sunrise.

"Everything okay?" she asked, turning to me.

"It can wait. Talk to you in the morning," I said.

But I couldn't get to sleep. I couldn't imagine how Pop Dix, the ultimate giver, could turn up on that computer file as an embezzling thief.

My mind wouldn't stop chewing it. I was nowhere near going back to sleep, so I waited until Alexa was breathing evenly again and then slipped silently out of bed. I grabbed my clothes, dressed, and made myself a cup of microwave instant coffee. I walked into the backyard with a steaming mug and sat there waiting for the sun to come up.

The hour before dawn always reminded me of those times thirty-odd years ago when the group of us picked for sunrise surf patrol would sit in Pops old Ford wagon with our boards stuffed in the back, watching the deserted streets of San Pedro slip by while we headed to the beach. We would listen silently while he talked about the morning surf report, fantasizing about the steeps.

Now that same ageless sun was coming up over the ocean all these years later, just as it had when I was a boy. Pop was gone, and I was left behind to face a new day filled with sorrow at his passing and the dark suspicions that his unnatural death had produced.

Of course, I had questions. There were things that bothered me about all this. I certainly couldn't explain that accountant's letter. I couldn't explain the missing money, stolen with his own signatures.

But why would Pop steal almost a million and a half dollars from a place he fought so desperately to protect? For what purpose?

Only two things truly excited him-a northwest Mexican storm break with a six-foot swell and Huntington House.

When he told me two years ago about the new rubberized turf for the playground, his eyes had lit up at the thought of getting that new field for his kids. So why would he steal the very funds that might have provided it?

The answer for me was simple. He hadn't. Somebody else had. As I watched the morning sun climb in the sky, I ran through a growing list of inconsistencies that were beginning to add up and pester me.

Alexa found me out back a little after eight. She brought me a fresh mug of coffee and sat down in the nearest chair.

"What did Jack want?" she finally said. "And how much trouble did he manage to get himself into?"

"Plenty," I said. Then I filled her in on what had happened, leading her through Jack's wild-ass midnight raid at the Mesa building, the stolen evidence, and the police chase that followed. I told her about the fiasco outside Park La Brea, where I got arrested and learned about his two outstanding federal bank warrants, and took her through Jacks confession in La Cienega Park, leaving out the teeter-totter for obvious reasons. Next I described the pallbearers' meeting at four in the morning and the terrible information that we d found on the stolen flash drive.

After I finished, she just sat there frowning. She said nothing for almost a full minute.

"I hate to say this, but you were right and I was wrong about letting them be involved," she admitted. "They've fucked this up completely, or at least Jack has."

"Yeah," I said, "but here's my problem."

She sat beside me quietly.

"That accounting report accused Pop of theft. I don't believe he would do it, but this Randall Weis accounting firm has the evidence. I saw computer scans of the phony loans with Pop's signature. Now that Pop's suicide is a murder, those files might contain the motive. He could have easily been killed over that missing million five, yet if I show up at the DA's office with stolen evidence, how do I explain where I got it?"

"The truth is sometimes a good ploy," she said sarcastically.

"Right. Throw Jack to the wolves. I should ve thought of that."

She smiled ruefully.

"Here's some other stuff that's been bothering me," I continued. "Jack stole those computer files out of the offices of the Mesa Investment Group, but the audit was done for Creative Solutions, a freestanding nonprofit corporation. Since the files were in the Mesa office computer network, I'm wondering what the connection is between a billionaire's investment firm and this little nonprofit that owns Huntington House."

"You're right. That's a false beat."

"It's hard for me to believe that a wealthy guy like Eugene C. Mesa has anything to do with this. But his company had possession of the audit files, so I need to find out why. The accountant that Creative Solutions hired discovered almost a million and a half dollars missing over four years from '05 to '08. That's chump change for E. C. Mesa, but it would be big bucks for a high school dropout like Rick O'Shea.

"Both O'Shea and that other guy, Chris Calabro, had Visa cards issued by Mesa in their wallets. O'Shea's living in a million-dollar house in Calabasas. He's driving a new Escalade, but he doesn't look smart enough to make a tossed salad. I'm wondering what the connection is between these MMA fighters and Mesa Investment Group."

"All good questions, Shane."

I looked at my watch. "I got trapped into another meeting with the pallbearers at ten this morning, so I gotta go. They're upset. Deep down they don't believe Pop did this. They want to keep working it."

"Given what Jack did last night, that's probably not a good move."

"Yeah, except Vargas knows until the coroner assigns an H-number to this case, I can't stop them. He's put himself in charge. Team Huntington. They probably already have a sign-up sheet and jerseys."

"You need to stop that from happening," she said, coming completely around to my point of view.

"I also gotta put Jack in Men's Central Jail or I'm gonna have big FBI trouble over those two outstanding bank warrants. Trouble is, I sorta get it. Jack loved Pop. Even though half the time I want to wring his neck, I still kind of respect the effort."

"I would have slammed him behind bars last night," Alexa said, frowning. "Where is he now?"

"In the wind. After we found that accounting statement, I was so upset I took my eye off him. He slipped out the back and got away on foot. I was too used up to go after him."

Then Alexa took my hand. "But I'm still here. I'm on vacation with lots of free time. What do you want me to do?"

"Come with me to the IHOP for breakfast with these people. See if you can get them to stop playing police. T hey won't listen to me, but maybe you can make them understand."