Common Place: The Common Denominator, #3

By Richard David Bach

When Raam Commoner and Kayman Karl open the door to a hidden vault beneath the crumbling old Hollywood Hills mansion they are planning to restore, they open a Pandora's Box of fifty-year old secrets and trigger the hunt for a fortune looted from the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II, a fortune whose location is hidden in an ancient Torah. Raam's Israeli mother breaks the code and they head to Geneva to retrieve the money just one step ahead of the Mafiosi who claim the funds, the ambitious politician who wants the old building to protect the family name, and a California bureaucracy determined to jump through all of the hoops in the course of renovation of an historic Hollywood mansion.

Restoration of the property, under the guidance of an outrageously tattooed performance artist working on her graduate thesis at the UCLA film school, has been a financial black hole, but the caretaker's cottage offers a secret hideaway where Raam and Kayman can sneak away to get to know each other for better and better– and avoid the murderous intentions of the politician whose motives have evolved from greed to revenge.

Raam is tall and sturdy and a former athlete; and Kayman is smart and fearless and a crack shot; but they'll have to retreat to their common place to escape the impact of a tiny blue butterfly that has the power to change everything.

COMMON PLACE is Book #3 in Richard David Bach's Common Denominator Series of erotic thrillers in which recovering lawyer and former womanizer Raam Commoner tells the captivating stories of love, life and adventure with his partner, the smart, sexy and deadly Kayman Karl.

Early Praise for Common Place


A Brisk, Riveting Read!
From the start—-and I mean from the first paragraph—the novel hooks you with anticipation of the next and then the next twist and turn of the story. The retired lawyer with his taste for jazzy cars and his hot-blooded, calculating, investigator wife tangle with a variety of "bad guys" that keep them scrambling. Their repartee is alternately clever and funny, and not the least trite. Lawyers in particular will enjoy this book.

–William R. Myer, ****Amazon Reviews

Never Deny a Woman Her Dream Home!
"Raab Commoner and Kayman Karl, husband and wife, have bought a home, one on the historic register in California. And someone else wants it. First they tried to overturn the sale, but a bit of court work ended that. Then a lawyer offered them a million dollar profit for the sale rights. When that didn't fly with the couple, murder attempts began. In a case that goes back to WWII, with politics, hit men, the mob tied in, author Bach gives us another fast moving, absorbing read of the P.I. couple. Worth a look."

–George R.Johnson "Randy Johnson", ****Amazon Reviews

"Once again, Mr. Bach has given us a good thriller and a fun group of characters. I will be patiently waiting for number four, Common Sense."

–Susannah St. Clair, ****Amazon Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard David Bach
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483505206

Richard David Bach

Author Richard David Bach was born in New York City, was raised with a younger brother by a widowed mother on the south shore of Long Island, and sleepwalked his way through an uneventful but stable and happy childhood wondering when life would begin. For Richard, life began at 17 when, in a post-war America obsessed with modern technology, he left home for Troy, New York, to pursue a Civil Engineering degree from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute and an ROTC commission as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force. It was the time of the Korean War, and while the mechanical engineers from RPI were building weapons, the civil engineering students were preparing to build targets. College was a hint of freedom from the stifling confines of a structured upbringing, and a two-year active duty tour in the Air Force overseeing design and construction of anti-missile radar sites in the Arctic followed by an uninspiring job as a highway design engineer made him yearn for more adventures. The Pursuit of Adventure: Oregon or Bust That pursuit of adventure began unexpectedly during an accidental migration to Portland, Oregon. An old friend asked Richard to drive him from New York to Portland where the friend–a recent medical school graduate–was to begin an internship. Richard took his two-week vacation and a week's leave of absence from his job and drove across country camping out and sightseeing along the way, planning to turn around and head back to NY once he had dropped off his friend. That never happened. Richard fell in love with Portland, called to extend his leave of absence (which he may still be on) and kept putting off going home until his family stopped asking when he'd come back. Years of self-introspection and therapy led him to the realization that he had probably never intended to return. Once in Portland he continued to work as an engineer, first for the Portland Development Commission designing Portland's first urban renewal project, and then for Pacific Power & Light Company as a right-of-way-agent, where one of the power company's attorneys encouraged Richard to try studying law. He enrolled in the Northwestern School of Law of Lewis & Clark College's night-school program, excelled in his studies, and (despite working full time for the power company and trying to help his wife raise their two small children) loved every minute of law school. After passing the Oregon Bar, Richard joined Stoel,...

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Donald Armsworth Lakewood was desperate and his desperation had driven him to atrocities unthinkable only six months earlier. I’m not an evil man, he told himself again and again as he searched for justification for what he was doing, but at some level he recognized that his own rationalizations resembled those of every client he had ever defended. He desperately needed what the man tied to the chair could tell him and that need outweighed everything else. The code of standards and morality hardwired into him by generations of cultural evolution and reinforced by strict church-going parents - but already dulled by years in the real world - was the first casualty of his desperation. He shut out his victim's pleas and continued, coldly and methodically, until the man broke.

It took him the best part of a day - and as soon as he was sure that the man was telling him the truth he put down his pliers and turned off the tape recorder. Then he sketched a map, held it up in front of the man in the chair and waited. Lakewood only had to glance towards the pliers to elicit a silent yes. Then, satisfied, Lakewood stood, slid the hand-drawn map and the instructions into his pocket, looked down at the pathetic figure in front of him - eyes closed, head slumped, shoulders jerking with silent sobs - and tried to feel sorry for the man. But empathy wouldn’t come, the enormity of what he was about to gain superseded any moral constraints, of which he seemed to have fewer and fewer as his desperation had deepened, and at that moment whatever conscience he still had left evaporated in a warmth fueled by the potential rewards.

Lakewood tugged on the ropes holding the man to the chair until he was sure they could not come loose. I’m going to make sure you’re telling me the truth, he said, patting the pocket with the map. And when I return we can talk about what to do with you.

As the glow of his success began to bring some relief from his desperation, he stepped over the high threshold of the narrow, low-ceilinged, sub-basement room and closed the door behind him. He listened as he secured each of the three padlocks in sequence, but could barely make out the muffled sounds coming from behind the concrete wall and reinforced steel door.

He climbed the short, narrow ladder and pushed open the trap door to the floor above - the basement proper. Stepping up into a large storage space, he carefully lowered the door into an almost imperceptible seam, and the ancient stained carpet Lakewood unrolled over the concrete hid all traces of the vault below. He knelt down and put his ear to the carpet for a moment. Then, assured that no sound could be heard, he walked upstairs, placed his notes and sketch into his briefcase, dropped the reels of recording tape into a metal wastebasket alongside his desk and dropped a lit match in after them.

Time to go on a treasure hunt, he said to no one in particular as he went out the side door after first making sure that all the other doors were locked, and climbed into the Cadillac convertible purchased so confidently and so proudly just before his world collapsed around him.

"Now it won’t have to go back," he thought, admiring the massive red fins that were defining automotive styles in 1959. He slid in and sat there for a moment, trying in vain to recall the now faded new-car smell and struggling to contain his escalating unease as the consequences of what he was doing wrestled with his relief. And then the necessity of doing something with the man in the subbasement surged to the forefront, surrounding his thoughts and blockading all other issues. He had no choice. He couldn’t let the man - what was his name, Kowalski… something like that - he couldn’t let him go.

Distracted by a search for some rationale that would devalue the man’s worth and justify what he had to do, he sped down his long, winding driveway and pulled out onto the roadway without stopping. Donald Armsworth Lakewood never saw the tanker truck - but the last thing he heard was a blast of its air horn.

CHAPTER 1

Sign here, Mr. Commoner, and here, and here… and here. Diane Warner’s highly polished brass nameplate and the spacious corner office celebrated her status as Vice President and Senior Escrow Officer of the local branch of a national title company; and the stack of neatly arranged and presented documents in front of us testified to her exhausting efficiency. Our real estate closing ceremony was a finely choreographed production, and every place I was expected to sign was clearly marked with a day-glo orange stick-on arrow. I was impressed. After watching Air Force paperwork get screwed-up on a regular basis while I was wasting my life as a JAG officer in Afghanistan for two years, I had nothing but the utmost respect for anyone who could get more than two pieces of paper stapled together in the right order.

My dear wife, on the other hand, wasn’t at all happy with Ms. Warner. Kayman was busily and noisily changing ‘Kayman K. Commoner’ to ‘Kayman Karl’ everywhere her name appeared in the documents. And she was pissed.

I told your secretary that I’m keeping the name I was born with. Can’t you people get anything right?

I’m sorry, Ms. Karl. I didn’t get that message. Just go ahead and make the changes in ink, but be sure to initial the changes.

That pushed Kayman’s pissed-off phase up one level. She slammed her pen down on the desk and glared at Ms. Warner. I’ve gotta sign all these friggin papers. Why do I have to initial them, too?

Please, Ms. Karl. It’s our policy.

Kayman has a whole bunch of annoyance button triggers, and ‘it’s our policy’ is right up there in the top row. In this case, though, I had to agree with her. These escrow people could be as bureaucratized as the military, and Kayman’s irritation conjured up a memory from a time back when I had been on active duty and a classified Air Force memo had come across my desk with my name on the routing slip. I read it, initialed next to my name as required to maintain some sort of security chain, and sent it on. Weeks later it came back with a note to the effect that the memorandum had been sent to me in error, and instructing me to erase my initials — and initial the erasure.

The name issue was particularly sensitive. Kayman had fought about it with Brian, her first husband, and then felt guilty when he was killed in Baghdad. So she was still peeved because she felt I hadn’t been sufficiently supportive two days earlier in her most recent go-round with my mother over the subject.

No, Rachel! Kayman had insisted, pacing back and forth in my mother’s kitchen. I was born Kayman Karl, I stayed Kayman Karl when I got married the first time, and I’m not going to give up my identity just because I married your son in a moment of insanity.

My mother was just as insistent. Kayman, darling. You don’t have to give up your identity. We’ll still know who you are. But if you’re going to be a family… have a family… you need a foundation. And a family name is the cornerstone of that foundation. What will you call the children?

I’ve told you, Rachel. We’re not ready for children yet.

If truth be told, I doubted that Kayman ever would be. As far as I could tell, her motherly instincts were stretched to the breaking point by half-day outings with nieces and nephews, and if it weren’t for my mother’s constant nagging, we wouldn’t even be thinking about starting a family. I knew better than to bring up the subject, but Rachel Commoner, half Sabra and half Jewish Mother, couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

But, darling. You’re not getting any younger. Your biological clock is ticking away.

Kayman’s biological clock, if she has one, is digital, silent running, and devoted exclusively to governing her reassuringly regular ovulation cycles — the latest of which was almost over, inspiring me with hopes of a romantic evening. But only if I could get her out of the escrow company office without an eruption of the famous Kayman Karl temper.

Come on, Babe. I patted her hand with what I hoped she would take as reassurance and not condescension. Let’s just sign these damn things and get out of here.

Kayman shrugged. We haven’t been married all that long, but I recognized that particular shrug as acquiescence to the inevitable. Her anger goes as fast as it comes. OK, she said. Whatever.

She turned to Ms. Warner, who was now riffling through the papers to make sure we had signed or initialed every place we were supposed to. When can we get the key?

Probably the day after tomorrow. We have to wait until all the documents are recorded and the funds clear escrow. I’ll call you.

That didn’t do anything to improve Kayman’s mood, and I was beginning to despair for a wasted inspiration. She stood, turned, snatched up her tote bag and stalked out without a word. I thanked Ms. Warner for both of us, picked up my file, and followed Kayman out to the parking lot and my newest toy — the brand spanking new bright red Ferrari F430 Spider that was indulging a lot of my thirty-something fantasies. She had her hand on the passenger side door handle when I caught up and turned her around to face me.

She sighed a big sigh and put her hands on my shoulders. I’m sorry Raam. I shouldn’t let myself get so annoyed by their stupid rules. She paused and shook her head. Are we making a big mistake?

Probably, I said, taking her hands and kissing her knuckles. We just paid three-point-seven-five-million dollars for a fifteen room derelict… practically sight-unseen… and it’s probably gonna cost us twice as much to make it livable again. It’d be cheaper and easier to tear it down and start all over.

We can’t tear it down. You know that. It’s on the Historic Register.

Which we didn’t learn until after we were committed.

I say ‘we’ were committed, but Kayman was a lot more committed than I was. It wasn’t the money - I just didn’t relish the idea of pounding it down a mole hole. But Kayman had come home one evening bursting with enthusiasm about finding this big old house for sale on three acres in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. She drove me up to see it, and once I reluctantly said I wouldn’t say no, she negotiated the trustee for the estate down from the original asking price of five-point-three million. And then, once our offer had been accepted, she announced her intention to build a paddock and own a horse.

Something I’ve always wanted to do, she told me although that was the first time I could remember her ever even saying the word horse. I made a mental note to ask her mother.

Doesn’t matter that we didn’t know, she said as she climbed into the Spider. I want to make it beautiful, just like it was when it was built. Tell you what. It’s getting late. Why don’t we pick up some Kentucky Fried and drive up there to catch the sunset.

She pulled my face over and kissed me, softly and slowly. And who knows. You might get lucky when we get home tonight.

CHAPTER 2

Not only did I not get lucky, I didn’t even get any fried chicken. As my inspiration arose I pointed it and my Ferrari towards the exit to the title company parking lot and the nearest KFC, and had almost gotten away when Ms. Warner came running out of her office building waving me to stop. I rolled down my window as she came along side.

Oh, Mr. Commoner, Ms. Karl, she gasped, slightly out of breath. I’m glad I caught you.

What’s up?

I’m afraid we’re going to have to put your transaction back into escrow and postpone the closing.

Kayman leaned across the center console. Why? She’s a big advocate of instant cause and instant effect, and postponements never make her happy.

I just received a call from the lawyer for the trustee. Ms. Warner was still panting. It appears that a third party is prepared to pay more for the property, and has petitioned the probate court to reopen the estate to consider the new offer. The lawyer said a copy of the petition and the court’s temporary restraining order has been messengered to your office.

No! They can’t do that! It’s ours now! Kayman was livid. She turned to me. They can’t do that, can they?

Well, I said after I had thanked Ms. Warner and pulled out into traffic, they can file all the petitions they want. Prevailing is a different story. Let’s go back to the office and look at what they gave us. I’ll do some research and we can file a response and a motion to dissolve the TRO tomorrow.

Even though keeping up with the mandatory CLE requirements is a pain in the ass, and the malpractice insurance premiums cost a lot more than I make in fees, every once in a while I congratulate myself on deciding to keep my California Bar license current even after I killed my biggest client, quit my high-powered law practice, and joined Karl & Karl Investigations, LLC. This was one of those times.

CHAPTER 3

May I? He wasn’t very tall but he wore the dark pin-stripe with an imposing attitude. At the moment he was pointing a gold-handled cane in the direction of the empty chair alongside the small round marble-topped table where I was admiring a large cappuccino adorned with the outline of a bicycle – the barista’s artful nod to the riders of the Tour de France struggling up the Alpe d’Huez on the TV screen at the back of the authentic French bakery purportedly frequented by my target. I figured the guy in the suit for a lawyer. Wasn’t hard - you don’t see a lot of pin-stripes or gold canes in Lake Oswego, a laid- back upscale bedroom community just south of Portland, Oregon, and he had that aura of superiority that comes with self-proclaimed status. The card that he perfunctorily offered as he sat down confirmed my guess. Tobias J. Colson, Attorney at Law, with the name of his firm - a large LA firm second in age and prestige only to my former partnership. Heavily involved in state and local politics. Mostly conservative causes and candidates.

May I have a moment of your time, Mr. Commoner?

I’m busy. I was up here on a surveillance case for one of the hi-tech companies in the mini Silicon Valley just west of Portland, and I didn’t need any distractions. Besides, I’d been out of the law business for just about a year, and my feelings for the profession had continued to deteriorate in the interim. I was coming to the conclusion that most lawyers were just lubricants for greedy old guys who wanted to screw everything in sight, and my first impression placed Tobias J. Colson firmly in that category.

I can make it worth your time. He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of what had to be a three thousand dollar suit. I would like to make you an offer.

Well, then, I said, waving him away and reaching for the bag of chouquettes I had bought to go with my cappuccino. "Why don’t you call my office and make an appointment. I don’t