“Been talking to Dan,” Terry said as soon as he answered. “The Millsberg Investigation Report will be out later today.”
“What’ll it say?”
“He wants to discuss the results with us in person. He’s getting off night shift at 8 a.m. Wants to meet in Hermosa at 9.”
Ridge checked his watch. “Where in Hermosa?”
“Where else? The Ocean Café. And this time, he said you pick up the bill.”
“Fair enough. And once Dan is done, you can update us on your Goleta trip. That way, more bang for my buck.”
After ending the call, Ridge found Jayne finishing her coffee on the porch. “Bad news. My world-famous pancakes must wait. I need to meet Dan and Terry at the Ocean Café. The Millsberg report is out. Want to come?”
“I would, except the alarm guy will be here within the hour. I’ll settle for cereal and the L.A. Times. By the way, I know Terry has a surprise for you about Goleta, but he swore me to secrecy. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Great, keeping secrets from your husband?”
Jayne blew him a kiss. “Every marriage needs some.”
When Ridge arrived at the Café, Terry was waiting. They walked in together and took their favorite booth in the far corner. That way they could each sit with their back to the wall, looking out at who comes and goes at the restaurant. Old habit. Defensive posture. Like gunfighters of old. And, yup, they all knew it was a bit paranoid. But it was always best to see who’s coming at you.
The Ocean Café was a favorite meeting place. And a time machine. With its long counter, red booths, refrigerated glass enclosure by the cash register where homemade cakes and pies teased customers on the way out, the place was a snapshot of the 1950s. The walls were decorated with ads for tiny-screen TVs, transistor radios, phonographs, box cameras, ringer washing machines, and tank-like Detroit cars. The shelves fixed near the ceiling held vintage toasters, waffle cookers, mixers, and other cooking utensils.
A big white board featuring daily specials in grease pencil hung behind the counter. And the specials actually changed each day. Best of all, everything on the board or the menu was always fresh, homemade, and delicious. As soon as Terry and Ridge sat, Robert, one of their regular waiters, brought coffee, OJ and ice water. When Dan arrived shortly afterwards, they ordered. Ridge decided on Jack’s Omelet, with diced turkey, feta cheese, garlic chunks, salsa, and flour tortilla. Terry ordered a garden-vegetable omelet. Dan, who announced he was finally cutting down on donuts, ordered coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie.
After a fork-full of pie, Dan began. “Look guys, more than ever, everything I say here is confidential. Krug is on the war path again. All 6-foot 2-inches, two-hundred and fifty pounds of pure ornery.”
“OK, OK,” said Ridge. Both he and Terry knew what a bear Lieutenant Krug could be. “Mum’s the word.”
Just then, Terry nudged Ridge’s left arm and glanced pointedly toward the door. Two white guys, 20ish, athletic builds, with similar dark glasses and black baseball caps, sauntered into the café. Each about six-feet-tall, each wearing brown shirts, jeans, and black boots. Faces, clean-shaven. No tatts. They slowly scanned the café, left and right, as if looking for someone. Ridge and Terry smiled and focused on their food.
Dan said, “What?”
Terry squinted both eyes. “Car chase?”
Ridge raised the right side of his lips, as if chewing on something. “Or Goleta twins?”
“That too,” said Terry, slowly dropping his right hand. Below table. Closer to his leg piece.
They watched as Robert walked over to the two men. “Guys, sorry. Tables full right now. Want to wait outside? I’ll send free coffee out to you.”
“No sweat man,” said one. They turned and walked toward the door.
Robert said, “Black right? They turned again, both nodded, and went outside. As Robert walked toward Ridge’s table to get coffee from the nearby stand, Ridge motioned to him, “Hey Robert, those two regulars?”
“Every Thursday morning. Like clockwork.”
“Thanks.” Ridge exhaled and turned to Terry. “False alarm.”
Dan looked lost. “What?”
Terry said, “We thought both looked like the guy from the car chase. Or maybe two hombres Eric met in Goleta. But no go. So, tell us. The Millsberg Report.”
“OK. Here goes. The report comes out at 11 a.m. today. But as part of the CSI team, I got briefed yesterday. Bottom line: Accidental Death. But the background I got later from a buddy on the OC team proved a lot more interesting.”
After a bite of his omelet and a swallow of coffee, Ridge said, “How interesting?”
Dan swallowed another fork-full of pie. “The word is the Assistant D.A., Rob Jones, rushed to judgment on this one. But not before he and Dr. Sanchez got into some long, intense arguments. The good doctor wanted a continuing investigation because of open questions he documented in the draft report about injury patterns, CO saturation levels, and physical evidence. In fact, the draft report had concluded: ‘Death by Suspicious Circumstances. Possible Accidental Death or Suicide.’”
Swallowing some broccoli, Terry said, “Suicide? Where’d that come from?”
“With the permission of Judge Millsberg’s family,” Dan went on, “the lab guy stripped out the data on the hard drive from her home computer. Turns out she had something of a gambling problem. First on-line, then Vegas. She owed nearly $100K at the time of her death.”
Ridge broke in. “Judges make good money. A hundred grand is plenty to owe, sure, but no reason for suicide. Not for someone like Juliet Millsberg. Don’t believe it for a second.”
“That’s what ADA Jones said,” replied Dan. “He used prosecutorial discretion to slam the book shut on the whole case, replacing the draft report with a final that concluded: ‘Accidental Death.’ No mention of suspicious circumstances. Not a word about suicide.”
“OK,” said Terry, “but that doesn’t answer Dr. Sanchez’ open questions, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Ridge, “and I hope the ADA didn’t throw out the proverbial baby with the dirty bath water. I agree with Sanchez. Something’s not right here.”
“Terry, let’s talk about Goleta,” Ridge said, “Jayne tells me you have a surprise for me. By the way, I’m assuming you’ve been keeping Dan up to date on our adventures?”
Dan chuckled. “Assault. Break-ins. Shootings. Car chases. Aerial reconnaissance. You guys certainly keep busy.”
Terry washed down the last of his veggies and eggs with orange juice. “First, I talked to a lot of realtors and came up zero. So, I called Jayne, our resident computer expert, for help. She searched Santa Barbara County property records back to the beginning of time. And that did help, big time. She discovered that Sixteen Road divides federal land that Teddy Roosevelt set aside for public use in the early 1900s. In the ’80s, part of that land was sold to a private company, Coast Development, Inc., who subdivided it into fifty lots centered on Sixteen Road. But that’s as far as Coast got, before going belly up in the recession of the early ’90s. The land reverted to the feds and, except for hunters and squatters, remains untouched today. Virgin forest, including the areas north and east where you found the old cabin and dilapidated barn.”
