Dawson's Web (3 page)

So given this background, one can understand why John and Stephanie agreed to look for something they could share together and why they were driving to Portofino in Redondo Beach to see the yacht broker.

They wanted to rekindle the love they had when they were dating. Back then John, on a whim, would whisk Stephanie away on an adventure to go skiing up in Big Bear, or walk hand-in-hand on the beach in Malibu. After which, they would have a wonderful steak and lobster dinner at Moonshadows, followed by hours of love-making.

But that was then.

This was now.

They had been married for over ten years and the blush was off the rose, so to speak, and now they didn’t talk unless it was absolutely necessary. John was absorbed in his work at the law firm. To avoid her, he often either did not come home or came home so late she was asleep. On several occasions, he had to hear her complain that his work schedule caused her to cry herself to sleep. (“Boo hoo,” he thought when she was berating him.)

This was their last chance to survive as a couple.

Either they would do this or their marriage would end.

They pulled their car up in front of the Pacific Mystic yacht brokerage and got out of the car. It was a modest place; with a small neon sign in the window with only two words “Yacht Sales” flickering in sea-blue neon. The building was termite-ridden and run-down, clearly not a place you’d expect to purchase a $500,000 hole in the water.

With only two or three sales agents who worked part-time, it was more like a front for someone to launder money than a real business, especially with the economy the way it was. But the owner, John MacTavish, didn't really care. He had made his money in the 80’s. He now thought of the brokerage as a tax write-off rather than a source of income and a place where he could hang out and meet interesting people until he died. Mac was 72, and at the rate of his alcohol consumption, that wouldn’t be long.

Mac wasn’t a good businessperson, but he still made enough money to keep the brokerage afloat even though the Portofino had raised his rent over 80% in the previous 5 years. He also had enough to live on as a result of an insurance settlement he received when a drunk driver ran his wife off the road and killed her in early 1992. The $5 million life insurance settlement would have allowed him not to work another day in his life, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he didn’t work so he continued.

Stephanie and John walked up to the Portofino Inn, which stood out on a spit of land that stuck out at the end of the Redondo Beach Harbor.  They approached the small office and notice a wall near the office had an enclosed bulletin board. In it were several Xerox pictures of boats for sale. The Xerox images were curled and faded by exposure to the mid-day sun. That should have been their first clue. It looked like a bulletin board in an old folks home with cleverly worded “for sale” items strewn about hanging on rusted thumbtacks.

"Are you sure you really want to do this John?" Stephanie asked looking at the bulletin board. She was having second thoughts.

"Absolutely," John replied as he looked at the listings of the boats being offered for sale.

“But you don’t have any boating experience. Neither do I.” Stephanie argued.

“It really doesn't matter. Sailing, motoring, -- what's the difference? We would be out on the ocean. We would be alone. We would get a chance to reconnect. We would have to depend upon each another. You could learn to cook. I could learn to…. I don't know, maybe even fish. I catch the fish. You prepare it.”

“But you don't even like fish.”

“I know, but maybe I could learn how to like it. It’s supposed to be better than red meat, and I could probably stand to lose a few pounds. Anyway, it's our last chance at our marriage. You know that.” He looked longingly at her. In his heart, he was almost committed to making this work. Part of him knew it was their last chance to connect.  The other part of him wanted to get her out on the boat so she could have an “accident” and he could be free from her forever.

He reached over, grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes. At that moment, he saw a glimpse of the coquette he had married. Although she had a few crow's feet surrounded her beautiful blue eyes, he still liked her face. It was the other parts of her personality he couldn’t stand. “Reconnect my ass. I want to be rid of her,” he told himself.

She looked back lovingly at first. He was a handsome man as well.

She studied his graying temples and his winning smile. She knew she had loved him too. But that was in the past.  Now she looked at him and noticed his nose hairs, which needed trimming. He was also growing ear hair. How gross. She was such a perfectionist. His imperfections drove her more insane than she already was. In that one brief instant, she knew he had to be replaced by a younger, less-used model.  The thought crystallized a plan. She could use the boat as a lure to attract younger men and be finished with him.

She turned to John.  “You know you’re right. We do need to get alone together. I’m in for buying a boat if you are.”

They entered the sales office.

Mac got up from his chair, finished the last bite of his tuna fish sandwich and immediately introduced himself, wiping the mayo from the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.

“So, you must be John and Stephanie. I’m glad you called.” Mac said sizing them up to see if they might be a good match for what he had to sell. (Basically Mac was doing what he did with all new clients…trying to find out whether or not they had enough money to buy what they said they wanted or whether they wanted to buy at all.)

His ability to categorize people after only meeting them for a short while had been honed over the past thirty years. This saved him countless hours during the sales process.  Early in his career, he would show any client any boat, which was very inefficient. Now he narrowed the process quickly. If they weren’t interested or couldn’t afford what they were looking for, he would brush them off. If, on the other hand, they could be up-sold, which would be much better for him, he would do that too.

Mac looked at John's attire first, which gave him a good indication of his potential client’s overall financial status.

John was dressed in designer jeans, had on a pullover Polo shirt and Sperry Top-siders. His hair was a little bit over his ears, but he was well kept (except for his nose hairs). His fingernails were clean, and his hands were very soft. This indicated to Mac that John was not a sailor, nor was he an outdoorsman by his pale skin, which likely hadn’t seen the sun in years.  The six-carat heart-shaped diamond on Stephanie’s hand was an additional clue as to their wealth. He turned his attention to the parking lot and noticed a brand new Maserati Quattroporte GTS.

“Is that your car?” he asked.

“Yes,” John answered with pride. “It had a list price of over $140k and has a maximum speed of over 190 miles per hour.  I got it for $120K.” John boasted, setting himself up as a shrewd negotiator.

Seeing the car gave him all the information Mac needed.

They were obvious candidates for upselling. 

They had money.

They didn’t know boats.

And they were in his yacht brokerage.

How perfect was that?

He turned his attention to Stephanie. She was a very attractive brunette, 5 foot 6, 105 pounds, and obviously well taken care of. He noticed the original Gucci handbag she clutched. Her French nails were perfect. Her hair was perfect. She was gorgeous. Also, her triceps had little to no overhang of flab and seemed to be sculpted from hours at the gym. She probably had the upper body strength needed to be a sailor. He wasn’t so sure John did.

By their questions, Mac knew the couple was nautically naive. He would adjust his approach accordingly. All he needed to do was guide them through the buying process. This was a couple who knew nothing about sailing.  They were into comfort.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

To sell them anything, he had to focus on that.

And he did.

He had them sized up in five minutes and within two weeks; they were the proud owners of a 51 foot, 2015 Bavaria Cruiser 51 sailboat worth over $400,000. Mac’s commission check was $40,000, which was more than he grossed in the last six months.

Jeff Dawson was a man's man. He was 33 years old, weighed 180 pounds, and had not an ounce of fat on his six-foot one-inch frame. He had steely blue eyes, and the physique women died for……. literally.

Jeff glanced up at his reflection in the rearview mirror as he rounded the corner on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu and smiled.

What a night he had had.

He met some young chick at a bar. They got together, and when she became too questioning of his marital status, he did what he had done several times before. He eliminated the problem, but not before having his way with her.

He accelerated his black Mercedes to 65, well above the 35-mile an hour speed limit, trying to make the light. The fact that it was 5:30 in the morning made this maneuver a little safer, albeit not entirely so.

Two early morning anglers were in the crosswalk 50 yards ahead when Jeff rounded the corner. He flashed his bright lights, honked his horn and gunned the engine.

The illegals dropped their poles and dove for cover.

Jeff rocketed through the intersection and didn't even look back. He had no intention of harming them, but they didn't know that. It was all merely a game to him anyway. He had to be at home by six to change clothes and get the call from his wife, Sherry, who would be giving him the time when her plane would land at LAX.

Sherry, an equally attractive woman of 32, was a flight attendant. She was coming in from San Francisco on the early morning flight. That gave Jeff about 15 minutes to change. He then had to make the hour trip back to the airport with probably 10 or 15 minutes to spare if he was lucky, and the traffic on Pacific Coast Highway didn't back up.

Jeff saw a stop light up ahead. Only this time instead of accelerating, he slowed, put on his blinker, and turned left into his driveway that was a mere 5 feet from the southbound lanes of Pacific Coast Highway.

The garage door opened, Jeff pulled his car in and shut the engine off. It was 5:55 am when Jeff walked around to the back of his car, opened the trunk and pulled out the gym bag.

It still had a few bloodstains on the exterior. He then carefully rolled up the plastic tarp he had lined the back of his truck with on more than one occasion and took it over to the sink, rinsing it carefully and spraying it with bleach.

He would deal with the gym bag later.

Across town, Fred McCallister took the last sip of his hot cocoa, wiped the powdered sugar from his mouth from the donut he had eaten in two bites and put five dollars on the counter.

“Is that all for you?” Sally, the waitress, asked as she scooped up the money.

Yeah, hon. I have to get back on my beat. In three more weeks I can retire, turn in my badge and head up north to Bridgeport to spend the rest of my days fishing for trout, hunting, and skiing. All thanks to you lovely taxpayers. I've put in 30 years in the LAPD, and I'll be glad when I’m finished.

Just then, his radio mike pinned to his shoulder squawked.

“Calling all units! Calling all units! Proceed to Dockweiler Beach. We have a report of a homicide in the public restrooms there.”

Fred shook his head and quickly got up from the table. His partner José Ramirez was already halfway to the door.

Fred rolled his eyes at Sally. "See you tomorrow!"

He turned and followed José.

It took twenty minutes to make the trip from the donut shop on Manchester Boulevard to Dockweiler. The sun was peeking over the mountains, casting a pink and purple glow on the Los Angeles sky. The pinkish haze was an indicator that the Santa Ana winds would be screaming through the canyons later on as the desert high-pressure system built strength. The dust particles were already being picked up, sent aloft and trapped in the upper atmosphere. They reflected the early morning light. It was calm for now but wouldn't stay that way for long. Still, for early September it was going to be a beautiful warm Southern California day.

When they pulled up, Fred and José could see six cruisers with their lights on. The county lifeguards yellow truck was in the center of the parking lot, doors wide open and there were eight officers milling about at the entrance to the public restroom.

“What have we got here detective?” Fred asked Sam Johnson as he made his way to the door.

“Not so fast soldier,” Sam warned.

“It’s a crime scene but we haven’t secured the perimeter yet.” Sam stuck his arm out to keep Fred from passing. Fred was irritated at being held back, but stopped.

“All right already. What do you take me for, a rookie? I was interested in what was going on.  That’s all.”

“Aren’t you retired yet?” Sam shot back sarcastically.

“Three more weeks, Sam! Now, what the fuck is it?” Fred demanded.

“We have a Caucasian female, early 20s, with multiple stab wounds. Someone must've really been pissed at her. I've never seen anything quite like it. The perp damn near severed her head.” Sam said.

“Who found her?” Fred asked as he peered around the corner.

In the dim light of the bathroom, he could see the corpse. The girl was laying spread eagle on the floor. Her dress was hiked up around her stomach. She was lying in a pool of her own blood and her panties were around one ankle. She had obviously been raped.

“A jogger found her about an hour ago.”

“What's his name?” Fred asked.

“Name’s John Adamson. He said he was out for an early morning jog on the Strand and had to use the restroom. That's when he found her.”

“What was he doing in the women's restroom?”

“I asked the same thing myself,” the officer said,” but when I poked my head in the men's restroom I could understand. In there, someone had vomited right in the doorway and by the looks of the mess that person had way too much Thai food and beer.”

Fred had only taken one-step towards the doorway before the smell hit him. He turned his head away and covered his mouth. The coffee and donuts he ate earlier were starting to rise in the back of his throat. If he weren’t careful, he’d add to the mess.

“Okay, I guess his story checks out,” he said while he took a deep breath of ocean air to settle his stomach.

"What's his relationship to the victim?" Fred queried.

"As far as we know, he has no relationship whatsoever. He had nothing to do with the murder. Or at least that's what it looks like.”

"Did you get his particulars?"

"Yes, and we are following up now," John said. "We ran his driver’s license, and he lives in Playa Del Ray, a few miles from here. We sent a squad car over to his house, and his wife verified he jogs on the beach two or three times a week.”

The other officer smiled.

“What's the smile for?” Fred asked.

"Oh nothing. People are crazy. You know that. I know that. You don't have to be in this job long to figure it out."

Fred knew precisely what he meant. He had dealt with many lunatics over the past 30 years, and he was fed up with it.

"So what happened?" Fred continued.

"Well, when we got to his address, a woman in a pink robe came to the door. When she saw our uniforms, she almost went ballistic. Apparently, she watches too many cop shows and thought we were there to tell her that her husband had been run over. Before we could even ask her a question, she started in on us.”

"I told him he should wear those reflectors on the backs of his shoes, but he refused. He never listened to me. He never listens to me,” the woman said.

“We endured her rant for a couple of minutes, trying to tell her what happened, but she continued her histrionics. We finally had to get in her face, grab her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. We asked her if husband’s name was John Adamson.”

“He's okay; we need to know if he lives here.”

Joanne Adamson finally heard the words “he's okay” and instantly, calmed down.

“Yes, he lives here. Why are you here? Where's John? What has he done?” She asked ratcheting up her emotions again.

We continued. “Look, Mrs. Adamson, he hasn't done anything; He called 911 and reported that he had found a body near Dockweiler Beach. He gave us his driver’s license and told us where he lived. We had to check his story out because he was the only one on the scene. Now that you've vouched for him, we’ll be on our way. We then assured her we would bring her husband back in about 30 minutes after we finished questioning him.

Fred absorbed the information. "It's a good thing for him his old lady was home,” he remarked to John. Then he moved closer to the women's restroom door and scanned the crime scene with his flashlight, being careful not to enter potentially contaminating it. He stared down at the corpse.

On the floor was an absolutely drop dead (pun intended) gorgeous blonde-haired woman in her early 20s. “Why in the hell would anyone do this to her?” he said aloud.

He continued shining his light into the darkness looking for clues. It was a typical beach bathroom. Slab concrete walls, cold concrete floor. The air was rancid and smelled of ammonia. The beach city lawmakers thought that saving a few extra dollars on the beach maintenance wouldn't affect their Caucasian constituency since most of the beachgoers near LAX are Hispanics and blacks. It was as if they were saying to them it doesn't matter how bad the bathrooms are, go ahead and piss on the floor. The beaches farther south in Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach and Hermosa were not nearly as foul.  These higher-class beach cities have more money and a higher tax base.

John watched as Fred continued scanning the crime scene. Fred was inching closer to the door.

“Look, old man. You can't be in here. Neither the coroner nor the detectives have arrived yet. You don't have any jurisdiction over this case, and certainly, you shouldn't be here at all given the fact that you're three weeks from retirement.”

Fred understood, and backed up, but not before his flashlight caught a glimpse of a half broken blade of a knife hidden in a crack in the floor next to the victim.

Fred held his light steady and motioned John to come closer.

“See, right over there.”

John shook his head in acknowledgment. “You see that.”

“We’ll have the lab guys get it as soon as the detectives get here. Good job old man. You still have it. Now get on home to your wife. There's nothing more you can do here.”

Fred snapped his light off, put it back in his utility belt and walked toward the cruiser. José was already there. He fired up the engine, and they headed south on Vista Del Mar.