The Brass Verdict

checked Patrick and saw him taking glances out toward the water.
    “It said in the file you did your rehab at Crossroads in Antigua,” I said.
    “Yeah. The place Eric Clapton started.”
    “Nice?”
    “As far as those places go, I suppose.”
    “True. Any waves there?”
    “None to speak of. I didn’t get much of a chance to use a board anyway. Did you do rehab?”
    “Yeah, in Laurel Canyon.”
    “That place all the stars go to?”
    “It was close to home.”
    “Yeah, well, I went the other way. I was as far from my friends and my home as possible. It worked.”
    “You thinking about going back into surfing?”
    He glanced out the window before answering. A dozen surfers in wet suits were straddling their boards out there, waiting on the next set.
    “I don’t think so. At least not on a professional level. My shoulder’s shot.”
    I was about to ask what he needed his shoulder for when he continued his answer.
    “The paddling’s one thing but the key thing is getting up. I lost my move when I fucked up my shoulder. Excuse the language.”
    “That’s okay.”
    “Besides, I’m taking things one day at a time. They taught you that in Laurel Canyon, didn’t they?”
    “They did. But surfing’s a one-day-at-a-time, one-wave-at-a-time sort of thing, isn’t it?”
    He nodded and I watched his eyes. They kept tripping to the mirror and looking back at me.
    “What do you want to ask me, Patrick?”
    “Um, yeah, I had a question. You know how Vincent kept my fish and put it on the wall?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, I was, uh, wondering if he kept any of my boards somewhere.”
    I opened his file again and looked through it until I found the liquidator’s report. It listed twelve surfboards and the prices obtained for them.
    “You gave him twelve boards, right?”
    “Yeah, all of them.”
    “Well, he gave them to his liquidator.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s a guy he used when he took assets from clients – you know, jewelry, property, cars, mostly – and would turn them into cash to be applied toward his fee. According to the report here, the liquidator sold all twelve of them, took twenty percent and gave Vincent forty-eight hundred dollars.”
    Patrick nodded his head but didn’t say anything. I watched him for a few moments and then looked back at the liquidator’s inventory sheet. I remembered that Patrick had said in that first phone call that the two long boards were the most valuable. On the inventory, there were two boards described as ten feet long. Both were made by One World in Sarasota, Florida. One sold for $1,200 to a collector and the other for $400 on eBay, the online auction site. The disparity between the two sales made me think the eBay sale was bogus. The liquidator had probably sold the board to himself cheap. He would then turn around and sell it at a profit he’d keep for himself. Everybody’s got an angle. Including me. I knew that if he hadn’t resold the board yet, then I still had a shot at it.
    “What if I could get you one of the long boards back?” I asked.
    “That would be awesome! I just wish I had kept one, you know?”
    “No promises. But I’ll see what I can do.”
    I decided to pursue it later by putting my investigator on it. Cisco showing up and asking questions would probably make the liquidator more accommodating.
    Patrick and I didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. In another twenty minutes we pulled into the driveway of Walter Elliot’s house. It was of Moorish design with white stone and dark brown shutters. The center facade rose into a tower silhouetted against the blue sky. A silver midlevel Mercedes was parked on the cobblestone pavers. We parked next to it.
    “You want me to wait here?” Patrick asked.
    “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll take too long.”
    “I know this house. It’s all glass in the back. I tried to surf behind it a couple times but it closes out on the inside and the rip’s really bad.”
    “Pop the trunk for me.”
    I got out and went to the back to retrieve my digital camera. I turned it on to make sure I had some battery power and took a quick shot of the front of the house. The camera was working and I was good to go.
    I walked to the entrance and the front door opened before I could push the bell. Mrs. Albrecht stood there, looking as lovely as I had seen her the day before.

Eighteen
    When Walter Elliot had told me he would have someone meet me at the house in Malibu, I hadn’t expected it to be his