"Kayaker" Archives
Episode I (below)
Episode II
"Kayaker"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode I
Welcome to a new Francie LeVillard story at here at the
renowned Monterey Mystery.com. It’s called "Kayaker" and it’s a
quickie – only two parts. But you’ll have to wait until the very
end of the second part to find out what happened to her
marvelous bait. But first, Episode I of "Kayaker."
* * * * *
The story seemed simple enough, but when you’ve been reading
news items professionally for as long as Francie LeVillard has – for
a decade as a reporter and almost as many years as a consulting
detective-slash-news junkie – you can get a bit jaded. To the
extent that sometimes she smells a rat when there isn’t one. Or
sometimes there is, but it’s not her case to solve. Only three
out of five murders in the U.S. are solved, at least to the
satisfaction of law enforcement. That’s according to the FBI. The cops don’t always get their man, at least not the right
one, or woman.
The fact is, or should it be said that the best estimates
are, that fifty thousand or more Americans are in prison for
crimes they didn’t commit. Most of those are not for capital
crimes, and many people copped a plea for a crime or crimes they
did not commit in order to pull a shorter sentence. Right, you
say, at least they’re behind bars. Sigh, yes, for the time
being. However, California’s recidivism rate is 67%.
But that’s not what this story is about. It’s more about a
couple of people who had committed crimes, or at least
transgressions, and had done no time.
It started with this news squib Francie saw online. It was
about a call to 911 from a guy saying he was kayaking off the
Malibu coast and was suffering chest pains. A patrol boat went
out to look, arriving a half-hour after the call. They found an
overturned kayak. They found a life vest. On shore the company
that had rented the kayak said it was theirs and they hadn’t
seen the guy who rented it. In their parking lot was a car
belonging to that guy. Authorities over flew the area a couple
of times and sent some trekkers to walk the area beaches. They
didn’t find a body. They didn’t find anything related to the man
or the call.
As noted, it all seemed simple enough. The cops learned that
the missing kayaker was 55 years old. A check with his doctor
said the guy's cardio-vascular system hadn’t been in great shape.
And that’s where the investigation stopped. A week went by, and
two, and still no body showed up, and they usually do in that
area of the Southern California coast; missing swimmers,
surfers, victims of boating accidents, and victims of more
deliberate activities.
This guy’s death could have been quickly written off as the
result of a heart attack and drowning. The faster police can
clear a case – especially when it involves a death – the sooner
they can go on to the backlog of obvious crime cases that has
grown ever larger as state and local budget cuts have reduced
the resources necessary to tackle actual crimes. As opposed to
misadventure or accident.
But in this case, there were a couple of problems that made
the lead investigator reluctant to move the folder from his desk
to the "Closed" file drawer. The first was that there was no
body. Not a stopper by itself, but then there was the fact that
this guy was an experienced kayaker. It was certainly plausible
that he could have tipped the boat, but why would his body have
fallen out? If you’ve ever gone kayaking you know that you are
semi-fastened in with a skirt designed to keep water out. Also,
why he would he have removed his life vest?
There had been no other boaters reported in the area; no
reports of the man having been seen by other kayakers. This was
not surprising, considering that he had paddled up the coast a
bit to a cove that was surrounded by rocks and inaccessible
except by boats without a keel, like a kayak or a canoe. There
was no question about the voice. The police played the 911
recording for Sissy Langdale, the man’s wife – she wailed loudly
-- and his doctor, who acknowledged that it was the voice of his
(former) patient. Also, computers pinpointed the origin of the
call to that cove.
The lead investigator, confronted by a stressed bureaucrat
who wanted to know why the open file hadn’t become a closed
filed, relented as far as pushing it to a back corner of his
desk, atop a dozen other such files that he thought should have
time to percolate.
Why was Francie – sitting comfortably in her lovely little
house hundreds of miles up the same Pacific coast, south of
Monterey – interested, let alone doubtful about the obvious?
Because it was too pat. Also, she knew of this man and his wife.
The daughter of a college friend of hers had been ripped off in
a real estate deal, and these two miscreants had been the
rippers. They owned a real estate company, and the fine print in
their custom contracts, which the young woman had unwittingly
signed, without understanding it, had cost her the down payment she’d made on a starter
home.
The details weren’t important; such shenanigans were epidemic
during the building of the housing bubble. While there were a
zillion liar loans written on both sides of the desk, there were
also plenty of honest people who were conned in all the hurly
burly. What had happened to her friend’s daughter had been
legal, but not moral. Her father had been told by two attorneys
that it was an unwinnable case. Then he had called Francie. She
had made a few phone calls and found out that the pair had
played fast and loose with a number of clients, some of whom had
tried to sue. The one person who had won had come away with only
a fraction of the money she had lost. Plus, Francie found out
that there had been a number of complaints to the state and
county real estate boards, but nothing had come of them. She had
reported all of this to her friend, suggesting, only
half-joking, that they should hire a couple of thugs to beat
them soundly, although that wouldn’t get their money back.
So when she read the story about Cedric Langdale, she didn’t
feel any of the Donne-esque any man’s death diminishes me
stuff. Her first thought was that he had been murdered by one of
his financial victims. When she read deeper into the details,
she was sure that it was a staged event, and that Langdale was
alive. The fact that his wife had made a scene when she ID’d his
voice tickled that special place in the back of her brain that
said something wasn’t kosher. She couldn’t explain how it works,
but those red flags had never been wrong. Francie was convinced
that the wife was in on the game.
She did some further poking around the couple’s financial
history – something the cops didn’t have the time or inclination
to do – and found that they had been on the downslope for some
time. So had been a lot of people in the real estate business,
what with the collapse in the housing market, but there were
also some interesting withdrawals from their personal bank
accounts, and her guess was that they had gone into cash and
they had moved it somewhere offshore.
(You might wonder how Francie, as a private consulting
detective, would have access to their bank accounts. The fact
was that she had worked closely with state, local and even
federal law enforcement on a number of cases. She had tipped
them off several times on important matters that ranged from
gang activities to foreign nationals trying to smuggle nuclear
triggers into the United States. Her contributions had earned
her their cooperation, so when she needed some information, they
let her have access, because they knew she was on their side.)
Her next guess was that Langdale had had a sizeable insurance
policy on his life, and that turned out to be true. Seven
figures, in fact. It wasn’t immediately clear if he’d had an
accidental death rider but later that turned out to be in an
addendum to the policy. It seemed like too many people had seen
Fred and Barbara in Double Indemnity.
Francie had seen too many fake accidents to be surprised any
more. With Langdale, the newly-late missus would probably have
to wait for the body to be not found for a month before the
insurance company would fork out the second million. Considering
the man’s health – presuming the doctor had told the cops the
truth – the premium must have been sizeable, but if this was a
scam, they surely viewed it as a reasonable investment.
Knowing what she did about these two from her earlier
investigation, her sense was that they were the impatient and
arrogant type; that they had planned this scheme out together
for the purpose of bankrupting out of their investments and then
starting over with a new, ill-begotten wad and new identities
and elsewhere. She also had an idea where they might resurface –
Cozumel. She had learned from another investigator who’d gone
after them on a real estate mess, to no avail, that they had
been to the resort island off of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula a
number of times before. Apparently he fashioned himself to be a
diver, and she loved the silver jewelry.
Realizing that they had likely hatched their plans based on a
few other movies as well, Francie decided they must have known
that he would have to leave the area immediately, and with a new
identity he had crossed the border and established himself in
Mexico. The, um, widow would remain in the Los Angeles area for
an appropriate period of time; you know, to mourn and await the
check from the insurance company for the never-recovered body.
And then she might depart with only a few essentials; two
million bucks could cover a lot of bills, before they launched
on a new scam.
Francie was thinking they would have planned to wait for four
weeks, since the missus couldn’t push the insurance company any
faster. She also found it hard to imagine that she would leave,
even for a visit, any sooner than two weeks. Having tiptoed
around legalities for years and years, they would be at least a
tad concerned that the cops might be suspicious, and they
wouldn’t want to be too obvious. Drowning her sorrows in
margaritas wasn’t an image that would fly very far with
suspicious cops.
Maybe it was because she was her own boss and worked alone, but Francie believed
that everything one can enjoy can be written off, or better yet,
paid for by a client. So she called her college friend and told
him she was going after the couple who had flimflammed his
daughter, but to keep it under his hat. He was delighted and
without her asking, he sent her a check that more than covered
her expenses. This wasn’t a mercenary effort on her part.
Francie’s plan entailed getting back what his daughter had lost.
* * * * *
What’s the plan? Does it have a chance of working? Find out
in the next and final part of "Kayaker" when Episode II is
posted on June 15th.
"Kayaker"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode II
Welcome to the second and final part of this
Francie LeVillard quickie detective story here on
MontereyMystery.com. Our wondrously brilliant sleuth has a plan
to capture a couple of crooks. Check the Archives for Episode I.
Here now is Episode II of "Kayaker."
* * * * *
The plan was simple. She flew to Cozumel, made some discrete
enquiries, and quickly discovered that an American who fit the
size and shape of Cedric Langdale had been checked into the
Sabor Cozumel Resort. She checked into the Hotel Barracuda just
up the road a bit. She chose it because it was a green facility,
but the name was catchy, too, considering her intentions.
She got a good night's sleep and the next morning found a
bikini that was skimpier than she had ever thought to wear,
though quite modest by current standards; some of her was
actually covered by cloth. Then she walked up the beach to the
Sabor and parked herself on a lounge chair by the pool, drenched
in number 50 sun block.
This was mid-week in late March. Not the heavy tourist
season. There were some professional women at the bar, but most
of the women by the pool were with husbands. Francie didn't
stand out too much, but for a guy looking for company – a guy
who wasn't expecting his wife to show up for at least several
weeks – she made a worthwhile target of opportunity.
Sure enough, Cedric Langdale – he introduced himself as
Kenley Doyle – managed to find Francie before the sun had found
the top of the sky. He hadn't changed his appearance much; just
dyed his blond hair some dark color and lost his van dyke. He
said he was a fellow American and wondered if he could buy her
lunch.
She smiled sweetly and resisted all of a minute. Then he snapped
his fingers for a waiter – Francie deplored such behavior but
managed to freeze the smile on her face – and they were directed
to a table under an umbrella away from the pool. She put her
book and towel on a chair and excused herself. That's what
ladies do, even if they don't have to. To build suspense, she
was told. Inside she chatted up the concierge on a couple of
matters, and after a bit returned to the table. Langdale had
moved the table settings so that we were sitting next to each
other; looking out together at the Caribbean, he explained. Fine
by her.
They started with drinks, all fruity to suit the situation.
In the immediate small talk of what was Francie, such a
beautiful girl doing here alone, and where were they from and
what did they do in the states, she knew he was lying and she
didn't think it mattered at whit to him whatever she said. It
wasn't like he wasn't planning on being her biographer.
(And this note, before going any further, so you get a
clearer picture of the scene, while Victoria's Secrets wasn't
clamoring for her to be in their pages, Francie is very healthy
under-forty, properly proportioned, and attractive to the eye.
Not that Langdale would have been the picky type, especially with such
slim pickings as this off-season provided.)
In any event he pretended to be interested in who she was.
Rather he was looking into her face, with occasional side
glances elsewhere, and occasionally, and then frequently,
reaching over to touch her arm resting on the table. It's not
clear to women why men are so obvious. It takes all the fun out
of being chased, which most women enjoy in the situations into
which they get themselves; when it's deliberate.. Not that she
wanted to be chased, at least not far, in this situation.
Langdale-Doyle seemed so taken with her and her story – Francie
told him that she was a glamour photographer for The Washington
Lawyer – that he could barely break away from their conversation
for them to order. Though he had signaled for a second round of
drinks. And then a third.
Francie's great-grandparents (on her mother's side) were from
the Isle of Skye, which theoretically meant that she was not
only tight with money, but also that she had a wooden leg. She
preferred to say that she was careful with money, as mentioned
earlier, but she never spent time testing her limits with
alcohol. Three drinks was nothing for her, and especially since
she had mentioned to the concierge while inside to make sure
that the drinks that were served to her were particularly light.
She didn't say his drinks should be heavy, but she counted on
his being out of shape and the warm air to raise his spirits, so
to speak. Indeed, by the middle of his third, he was getting
sloppy.
The other reason she went inside the hotel was to arrange to
be the object of the hotel tourist photographer. She paid in
advance, and gave the woman her own email address to which to
send the pix. The photographer didn't know the plot, of course,
but she knew it was to be a surprise. Thus Francie watched her
approach them from behind her sodden lunch-mate. Just before she
was ready to shoot, Francie, sporting her happiest smile, leaned
over and stroked Langdale cheek. It was so bright that there was no
need for a flash, and he was too pleased with the close-quarters
attention to immediately realize what was the clicking sound. When
he finally looked away from Francie to the source of the sound,
he saw the photographer, and he shooed her away. Too late, but
he didn't know it then.
They had a delicious lunch, though their minds were
elsewhere, different elsewheres. After he had finished his beef
and she her fish, he his potatoes, and she her salad, she asked
him how long he was going to be around. He told her until the
middle of April. Francie told him that she was working that
afternoon – there was a lawyers' convention in town she needed
to shoot – and hoped to run into him again. He was a little
surprised and clearly disappointed. He wanted at least a hug and
a kiss goodbye but he didn't get either. She patted his shoulder
and left him with the check.
Back at the Barracuda, Francie showered off her disgust, and made
arrangements to fly home. Again, it being off-season, the
flights were empty. She got a seat out early the next afternoon.
At the airport the next day she miles'd herself up to first
class to Los Angeles. Then it was a 75-minute fllight up to Monterey, and she was in her own bed that night.
Oh yes, the pictures came out marvelously. There were three
perfect candids of the man-in-lust before he thought to see what
was making that shutter sound.
If he hadn't been such a scoundrel, and to so many people,
Francie might have felt some sympathy, but he had been and she
didn't. The next morning she called someone she'd met years
earlier while in Washington covering a news story about the
insurance industry. That someone happened to know someone high
up in the investigations section of the company that had insured
Cedric Langdale. She told that high-up person that Langdale had
been seen two days earlier at the Sabor Cozumel Resort; quite
alive, she added dryly.
She also told him that she had reason to believe that wife
Sissy would be joining him shortly, noting the obvious: that her
presence there would suggest that she knew she wasn't a widow,
and thus would make her complicit in the fraudulent insurance
claim. He understood the situation immediately – he didn't seem
very surprised – and appreciated the value to his company. He
was also smart enough not to ask her any questions except when
she thought the wife might join the husband. She asked him when
his people could be in place. She could hear him smile. That was Friday.
He said he was sure they would be ready on Sunday.
Also on Friday, Francie FedEx'd an unmarked envelope containing the
prints of the photographs of the un-late Cedric Langdale and her cute l'il self, along with a hotel brochure, to a messenger service
in Los Angeles. They were instructed to deliver the
envelope to the faux widow Langdale first thing Monday morning.
She knew it was possible that the woman would try to call
him, but she thought it was more likely that she would simply
fly there instead, albeit in a rage. First because she would
have been alert to the possibility that her phones might be
tapped, and second, because she wanted to wring his neck. She
couldn't just call the cops and turn him in, since that would
have gotten her in a peck of trouble as an accessory. She
probably was harboring the vain thought that she could work out
a deal for a share of the money, after the neck-wringing.
Bang-zoom! She flew to Cozumel the next day, and right into
the arms of the insurance agents and the Mexican federal police
who had been notified of the sting. Extradition wasn't a
contestable issue because the case was so solid; i.e., the dead
man was alive. News of the arrests was reported by a number of
American media outlets, making the front page of most of the
papers in the Southland, since the arrestees were local. The
articles were accompanied by a photo of the bracelet'd couple on
their way home; he had several scratches on his face.
The insurance company was delighted, since they had saved
themselves almost two million dollars, and got their
crime-fighting image burnished in the process. Francie had told
them to keep her name out of it; she didn't need the press, or
want it. The company wasn't quite as happy about paying my ten
percent finder's fee, which amounted to $200,000, but they made
no bones about it. She had confirmed the arrangement before she
had told their investigator who they were going to find and
where. They wired her the full amount as soon as the extradition
was official.
With their money in her bank account, Francie sent a check
for $20,000 plus the unspent expense money to her friend with
the fleeced daughter. He was beside himself, partly about the
money, and mainly because, as he put it, "The good guys had
won!" It had cost him less than a thousand dollars for the
flights, two nights in the Barracuda, and the bikini. She
thought of framing the two-piece since she would never wear it
again, but after taking another look at the photographs shot at
the Sabor Resort, she decided instead to put it in the back of
the drawer where she kept her cashmere sweaters.
* * * * *
What an exciting ending! One that you no doubt could never
have imagined! Well, grand. Coming up next, a new story
featuring Francie LeVillard, the world’s greatest consulting
detective, right here on MontereyMystery.com. Look for it on
July First.
