Sam Slade, Marine Investigator, In The Case Of:

              The Boat That Wouldn't Sink

The jangle of the phone startled me out of a not very interesting daydream. But what I heard in the earpiece made me put down my ham sandwich.

"Sam, how'd you like a Mexican vacation?"

Sadie's not the kind of dame you want to talk to through a mouthful of ham and cheese—and the tone of her voice had me packing my bags and hailing a cab. I never knew a Sadie yet I didn't want to know a whole lot better.

"When you call, Sadie," I said, "it's never a vacation."

"Oh Sam," she said.

"Oh Sadie," I said right back. She works for Jack Bogner at the marine insurance company. They had a claim they wanted me to snoop. Swell, I had nothing better to do. "What you got?"

"A 72-foot sportfisher went props up off Cabo Los Muertos. It was supposed to sink, but refused."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Search me, Sam—that's what Jack told me to tell you. I just work here. He says get your tail down there yesterday morning."

"I'll be on the next dog-sled, sweetheart."

"Have a taco on me."

"I would if you'd lie still."

She laughed.

"Or is that sexual harassment?"

"I'll think it over."

Waiting for Sadie's e-mail with the facts of the case, I scanned my voluminous mental files for adventures in Mexico. Great place, as long as the palms stay open and don't fold into brass knuckles. I'd had good times and bad down there, all of them my fault. But I'd never been to Cabo Los Muertos. Cape of Dead Guys. Charming. It was a gringo resort with a big reputation. I'd see. Now, where did I stash the Lomotil?

 

 

Sadie's e-mail made a great read on the plane south. The sportfisher that wouldn't sink was named Cream-Puff II, a 22-year old Francis-Craft 72. According to the most recent marine survey, she was somewhat the worse for wear. Weren't we all.

But Cream Puff IIhad great bloodlines. Before Francis-Craft Industries went knockers up for the last time in the late '80s, its CEO—Rollins T. Francis himself—had Fran-Dance (her name at launching) custom built to his specifications. She would be his corporate hooker, with all the pasties and tassels—the embodiment of everything grand that Francis-Craft Industries stood for. Belowdecks, she was lined with seamless straight-grain hardwood. Rolls-Royce-grade Connolly leather upholstery covered everything else but the toilet seat. Should something terminal happen to the company's finances (if I know these guys, it should), R.T. Francis would sell his 72-footer in the back pages of the big yachting magazines—a "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity"—and stroll away with a train-load of cash.

The boat had changed hands twice since launching. The previous owner used her for charters and worked her hard. When the present owner, one Augie Blanc, bought her a year ago, her twin 1292 diesels had very high hours.

And Augie, said the e-mail, was in car sales. Cream Puff . . . I get it. Swell.

When the plane landed in Cabo, the late-fall sun beat down on my head like a scorched-tortilla hat. I was looking for somebody named Marty Loach, ex-cop from L.A. Sadie said I wouldn't have to find him. He'd find me. He did. He was 70 if he was a day, but his eyes were full of action. It had been a spell since he'd gone after his last Bad Guy. He had a white, scruffy five-day growth, and his sun-trashed straw hat looked like it had been hit at close range by a 12-gauge trench gun.

"Sam?" he said. Before I could nod, he was leading me to the parking lot. We climbed into an ancient Dodge slant-six that had been hit by the same trench gun. The backseat was unfit for human habitation and he sank way down in the driver's seat starting the engine—after decades, its sat-out cushion had assumed the form of a toilet seat. Long as he could see out the windshield, was his opinion.

First thing he said after starting the engine was, "You don't have some pesos, by any chance. Lupita's about outta gas and we got some driving to do."

He didn't seem like the kind of guy to give a car a name—on the other hand, who knew what 20 years in this sun would do to a man's brain. We filled up the tank, which toned him up several notches. From the look of things, retirement had not been kind—but he still had that unblinking cop look. He was all right.

He brought me up to date. Augie Blanc showed up in Cabo with Cream Puff IIabout three weeks ago, and not subtly. He arrived with 200 cases of motor oil stowed on deck. Made the Mexican authorities perk right up.

"Two hundred cases of oil!"

Loach's eye twinkled. "They thought the same thing. Brought him in to discuss it, but his wallet explained everything. Welcome to Cabo. He put the boat in the marina, went back up to Los Angeles, then came back four days ago and reported it stolen."

"Any idea how long it's been gone?"

He snorted. "They don't know boo. Then three days ago, the Mexican navy finds it up the coast near Rincon, upside down."

"Rincon?"

"Scruffy little resort—nothing much. But a few miles off the beach, it's 1500 fathoms straight down."

"Oh?"

"Real deep, good place for storing unwanted possessions. The navy rolled the thing over and dragged it back to Cabo full of water."

"Okay, let's go."

Loach nodded willingly. Less willingly, pinging and detonating on its new tank of no-octane gas, the Dodge slant-six showed off every one of its several remaining horses.

The Mexican navy was courteous but all business—nobody likes insurance investigators. After I identified myself, Lt. Chavez told us Cream Puff II was being held as evidence.

"I know," I said. "That's why I'm here."

"No, as evidence," the navy repeated as though I hadn't heard correctly. "There was a murder on this boat—three murders, it is said."

I looked at Loach. The look he gave me back said, mind the flying cows.

I nodded back at the navy. "Who was murdered?"

"We don't know yet."

"How do you know there was a murder?"

"We are investigating."

"Can I look anyway?"

"You can look, but you must not go onboard. The boat is evidence."

"Fine," I said.

He took us into the yard.

Humiliated boats always look the same, like a once-beautiful woman after way too long in a POW camp. Cream Puff II had been a fine craft once, but propped up on hull stands in the yard now, she looked lost and ashamed. To starboard of her keel about midway back, the hull had been stove in. Going by the gouges, she'd run up onto a rock pretty hard—then backed off again. I snooped and sniffed long enough for the navy to get thoroughly bored and wander off. Then I climbed aboard.

As I expected, belowdecks I found 22 cut hoses, one for every vent line. A pure scuttle. Everything of value had been stripped out except the high-hours engines and gen-set. Cream Puff II was meant to disappear in 1500 fathoms.

So why didn't she sink?

I looked closer. Twenty-two years ago, Rollins T. Francis had made sure she wouldn't sink. The hull, decks, bulkheads, and even the cabinetry, were all foam-cored. Surprise, Bad Guys! This baby wouldn't sink if she was run down by the Forrestal.

I hopped back down to the ground on the far side so the navy couldn't see. I studied her waterline—and above her waterline. On the port side, I found the beginnings of tubeworm coral growth. She had been heeled over on that rock she hit for a good while. What I needed to know was, how long does it take for tubeworm coral to form? I'd make a call to the States from the hotel.

Marty and I went back to the office and I asked the navy where to find the boat's owner, Augie Blanc. As luck—and gringo dollars—would have it, he was staying in my hotel. Loach drove me over, telling the stories every retired cop tells. I checked in at the hotel and phoned Blanc. He wasn't glad to make my acquaintance. No surprise. He sounded like a Spaghetti Eastern. Straight out of Flatbush—all deeze and doze and dems.

I said I needed to get a statement from him and he grunted.

I went to his room.

Augie Blanc had a deluxe suite, complete with a grand view of the harbor and the chicken patch next door. He didn't smile and he was huge—not in the athletic sense, in the ate-cream-pie-for-a-living sense. He was drinking something tall and green, and it wasn't his first or his second or his third. His skin was pale and clammy looking and he had that hunted look a guy gets after 30 years of lemon laws and bait-and-switch weekend sales. Nothing surprised him anymore. Maybe never had.

He told me the whole tragic tale—how he left his darling safe and sound in Cabo Los Muertos Marina, came back down from L.A. a couple of weeks later and it was gone—no trace. He reported it. The navy found it at sea. Dragged it in. He shook his head. So much crime in Mexico—nothing was safe.

"So what's this about a triple murder?"

"Search me," he said. "That's just what I heard."

"Where?"

"This guy told me."

"What guy?"

"Guy in the harbor—don't know his name. He went back to the States."

"What did he look like? Where did you see him?"

"I don't know, just a guy. Six feet. Hair. You know."

"Yeah, I know."

No surprises.

Trying to look cordial, he put out his hand to shake. It was soft and meaty, like a slab of liver.

But if Augie Blanc had been in used-car sales too long, I'd been in marine fraud too long. Walking down the hall, my belly was clenched tight as a fist. It was late afternoon and there was a beer in my near future.

I met Marty Loach in the bar. He was drinking a Coke.

At last, a surprise.

 

 

I took my beer up to the room and called S.I.U., the insurance company's Special Investigation Unit. I told them something was rotten in the state of Baja. They said they would notify the National Insurance Crime Bureau. Then I called Doc Petersen in the Marine Biology Dept. up at U.C. Santa Barbara.

Too late in the afternoon. Gone surfing.

Of course.

I decided I'd go with my hunch. Next morning, I went to the Cabo police station. The cop I spoke to at the desk had that dull-eyed, finished-out-of-the-money look honest guys get in his trade. I liked him. He helped me get a bulletin sent up and down the Lower Baja coast, especially the cops in Rincon—if there were any.

There were. Two. It was a tiny resort, Loach said, the place where Mexicans go to get away from gringo prices . . . and gringos. I could imagine that.

My bulletin offered $15,000 and a hearty handshake for information leading to an arrest.

I went back to the navy to see about getting Cream Puff II released so she could be taken to the States and gone over carefully. No dice. Three people had been murdered, said the navy—she must be held as evidence . . . yah-da-yah-da-yah. I asked if they had any witnesses, any missing persons connected with the boat. Nothing. Again—no surprise. The "murder" was Blanc's way of keeping the boat—and evidence that it had been scuttled—out of the insurance company's hands. I explained to the navy that to be reimbursed for his loss, Mr. Blanc must get the boat back to the States.

That broke something loose in the navy's eyes. Just like I thought it would.

But it happened again—my belly was clenched tight as a fist. I would get no further with the navy.

So I tried the other side of the slot machine—Augie Blanc. He was still drinking something tall and green, and not the same one.

"Mr. Blanc, we have a problem," I said. To him, it wasn't news. "We have to get your boat up to the States before we can release payment for your loss."

"Whyzzat?"

"We have to impound the boat—that's the way it works."

"But you can't do that," he said, "the boat's been seized!"

"Oh," I said and let myself smile. "Well, that's not good, then. Did you read your policy, Mr. Blanc?"

"Course I did."

"Then, you know anytime a boat is seized for legal reasons, it's no longer covered. It's in every policy."

He said nothing.

"That could cost you a lot of money. In fact, everything."

Still nothing.

"You should call your agent, he'll tell you."

He took a tall green swallow. "Well, I'm sure there's some way around this."

"Not if the boat's seized as legal evidence. You said there's been a murder or three."

He nodded. "I bet I can get them to release it."

"I bet you can. Then, there's no problem."

It's like watching an iceberg break off a glacier. This huge wall of blue ice looks like nothing in the world will ever disturb it, then suddenly the whole damn thing comes crashing down.

Sort of like big, tough Augie Blanc.

 

 

By the next morning, Blanc had worked his magic.

All it takes is money.

I made arrangements for a salvage tug to come south from San Diego. It would take 18 days all together, at $1800 a day, getting Cream Puff II stateside. And the Cabo constabulary needed $54,000 in impound fees to release the boat.

All it takes is money.

But I had a long way to go. The hoses had been cut and the boat scuttled, but I still had no solid suspect. In my gut, I knew who it was, just as sure as you know your mother's maiden name. But I needed evidence.

And sometimes the hardest part of this job is doing nothing and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'd tried Doc up at the university in Santa Barbara several times, with no luck. Surf was up.

Then a day later, I got a call from Officer "out-of-the-money" down at the stationhouse. My bulletin had gotten a response. A Mexican woman, who baked gringo-style bread for a restaurant in Rincon, said she recognized the boat. It had been in Rincon for several days a week before. She had sold bread to the three men aboard. The cop started going fast in Spanish, too fast, so I handed the phone to Loach. He translated for me. "They were having a big party," he said, " . . . it went on and on for five days."

"Ask who 'they' were," I said.

Loach listened a moment. Then grinned.

"Politicians, she says—two District Attorneys from San Lucas." It was a fair-sized city on the mainland down the coast. They were there for several days and took friends out on the boat every day. Then suddenly, no one was invited anymore."

"Ask where they were anchored," I said.

Loach nodded and waited. "In different places, at first. Then they stayed anchored in the same place out near the point for two days. They brought all their things ashore the second day, and the next morning, the boat was gone."

Loach was grinning like a forty-niner seeing flash in the pan.

"Marty," I said, "you just earned yourself a steak dinner."

"Carne asada, to you, gringo," he grinned.

 

 

A little more legwork with some photos led to a positive I.D. of the San Lucas D.A.'s. It began to look fairly routine—until the very end. The night before the Cabo police notified the San Lucas police, the same two D.A.'s, trying to land on a small airstrip near San Lucas in the dark, snapped the landing gear on their Cessna twin—and incredibly, they began desperately trying to cover it up and disguise the wreckage! But at dawn, a car driving past the strip saw that a plane had crashed. The police arrived, and before anyone could say, caramba, the D.A.'s were arrested for possession of a plane-load of cocaine.

Ole!

Senora Constancia, the baker from Rincon who identified Cream Puff II and its party-down politicians, also identified my new pal Augie as a fellow partier. He denied it, of course, just as he denied any connection with the crashed cocaine. But my belly didn't even have time to clench. The two pols, now so far up the creek there wasn't a paddle big enough, said, no, no, the scuttle and cocaine were on his dance card too. He had loaned them the boat for their party, but when she went up on the rocks, he decided she should disappear. The two 1292 diesels were shot anyway—both had bad main seals—but like any savvy used-car salesman with an oil-burner, Augie just kept adding oil. Thus the mysterious 200 cases of oil when he arrived in Cabo.

He would say she was stolen and claim the $720,000 insurance. With her two boat-anchor 1292's for flotation, she'd sink like a stone.

But Rollie T. Francis' foam-core construction 22 years ago outsmarted him.

I sensed a beer in my future again. So Marty Loach and I had a party in Cabo that night. He kept nursing a Coke—didn't drink anymore, he said. Didn't shave much anymore, either, I said, and he allowed as how it was so. But I didn't have to ask why he didn't drink. We've all got our twists. One No. 9 tub of guacamole and two slabs of carne asada later, we were both happy as porpoises on a waterslide.

Next morning, before filling up Marty's slant-six for the last time and heading to the airport, just for the hell of it, I gave Sadie a call. She'd heard all about it, of course. She was impressed.

"Does it help my cause any?" I said.

"It could," she said. "Remember that taco we spoke of? When you get home, come on over and have it on me."

"Just checking, Sadie . . . but isn't that sexual harassment?"

"What do you care, genius," she purred.