The Black Vulture

By Erik Olson

An American college student disappears studying abroad in Lima, Peru in the 1980s while the country is in the throes of the Shining Path and MRTA communist insurgencies. Her wealthy father hires ex-Green Beret and struggling private eye Michael Dane to find her. The chances of success seem miniscule and the risks innumerable and high, but Dane badly needs the money, and Richard Eastman is offering it – plenty of it.

THE BLACK VULTURE is the story of Dane’s quest to find out what happened to Linda Eastman in a convulsed, alien land. His search puts him at odds with a pornographer in the San Fernando Valley, the CIA, hostile Peruvian state police, and armed and motivated communists, none of whom, it seems, care to see him succeed. Someone is following his every move almost from the very beginning, perhaps the same someone who keeps trying to kill him. What will it cost – lives lost, friends betrayed, a deal with the Devil – for Dane to uncover what happened?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Olson
• Release date: Dec 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370978861

Erik Olson

Erik Olson grew up in Lafayette, Louisiana, attended college at Georgetown University, and spent five years working in the publishing industry in New York City before earning his law degree at University of California Hastings College of the Law. The inspiration for his first novel, THE BLACK VULTURE, came during his “bar trip” to Peru after law school graduation. He is an attorney in San Francisco, where he lives with his wife, Laura, and their daughter, Rose. When he is not working or with his family, he is likely somewhere playing or watching basketball, or thinking about playing or watching basketball (probably a Golden State Warriors game).

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The Black Vulture

Erik Olson

Copyright 2017 Erik Olson

All rights reserved.

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Cover Art by Marisa Schneidman

This is a work of fiction.

For Laura

Table of Contents

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I.

In the old El Centro section of Lima sits the Parque de la Exposición. It is home to the Museum of Art, an amphitheater, and various statues, fountains and pavilions. One pavilion, in the Moorish style, stands near the southeast corner of the parque: a cruciform room with tall windows of ornately stained glass atop a loggia of brick columns. The pavilion serves no apparent purpose but to sit there and look pretty.

On one of the benches that surround the pavilion sat a striking young woman holding a book. She was clearly out of place, for she was a true blue-eyed blonde, a rubia in a city and country of morenos. She was not trying to hide her beauty, but she’d done nothing to enhance it. She wore no makeup on her Grace Kelly face, and she’d pulled back her hair in a simple, all-business ponytail. She had on a man’s white dress shirt, blue jeans, and a worn leather jacket. The skin of her face was smooth and without wrinkles, but her brow was creased in thought, her lips drawn tight. The book she held was Mario Vargas Llosa’s Conversación en la Catedral, but she was not reading it. Instead she held her place with a finger as she gazed up at a vulture perched atop the ledge of a seven-or-eight-story building on a street bounding the parque. The bird was black, from beak to talon, and stood with its wings held open, as vultures sometimes do, as though airing out its armpits, or laying claim to the dirty streets below, the final suzerain of all the deaths slowly unfolding there.

On another bench a young couple leaned in close to whisper and kiss. An old man with a bag of popcorn sat on a third. He tossed one kernel at a time on the ground before him, watching the pigeons peck and jostle each other for it before he would throw another. The sounds of car horns and children playing in the parque filled the smoggy air.

As church bells somewhere began to clang their announcement of midday, a man approached the pavilion on a shaded walk. He wore a brown summer wool suit, new and well-tailored. A white silk handkerchief formed a perfect triangle in his breast pocket, and he carried under his arm a folded copy of the Financial Times. He was of medium age, medium height, and medium weight, his face unremarkable, the kind you might forget immediately after meeting him. He had dark eyes and hair, but was fairer-skinned than the average Peruvian. He glanced at the rubia and the book on her lap as he passed. He took the empty park bench next to hers and opened his paper, pretending to read it for a minute while stealing glimpses of her. He seemed to be considering something seriously for a long moment before he closed the paper.

I see you’re reading Vargas Llosa, he said in Spanish.

He is incomparable, she replied, also in Spanish.

How old are you? he asked in English.

What does that have to do with anything? she replied, also switching to English.

The man frowned and looked away.

I’m twenty.

Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?

Of course I do. And I could do without the condescension.

He turned to her again. Forgive me. That’s not my intention. But before I got into this business, I had no idea how serious it was.

I’ve talked to the professor. I know the stakes.

Do you? He glanced at the couple and the old man on the other benches to make sure they weren’t paying attention. Not even the professor knows everything.

What’s that supposed to mean?

A look of worry crossed his face. Really? I’d heard you were quite smart.

Please stop patronizing me.

He didn’t reply. Instead he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Want one?

No thanks.

He shrugged and lit one for himself. He took a couple of drags, glancing around at the people on the benches, at the fountains, at the lead gray sky. Shall we walk? he said, standing and gesturing down the path. She got up and followed him.

Are you sleeping with him? he asked.

The rubia stopped dead in her tracks. That’s none of your business.

That’s true. He puffed silently again for a moment and then went on anyway. But if you’re not already, take my advice and don’t. He’ll tell you things in bed that he shouldn’t, and everything he tells you is a liability to you.

The rubia pursed her lips.

And if you are already sleeping with him, stop. Stop, and get out of the country. Now. Today. Go back to America. This will all seem silly to you in a couple of months.

I didn’t come here for relationship advice. I came here for an assignment.

The man raised his eyebrows. So you are a true believer?

That’s right.

You understand that once you begin working with us you cannot walk away?

Yes.

And that mistakes are not forgiven?

The rubia didn’t answer.

I see. He puffed silently again, fixing the rubia with a cold stare. Let me be clear. A person who makes mistakes is an unnecessary risk. And when the stakes are what they are, unnecessary risks cannot be tolerated. Understand?

The rubia clenched her jaw and made a quick, yet deliberate nod.

So I ask you again to reconsider.

No. She frowned like a schoolchild determined to work out a difficult math problem.

Fine, he said, flicking away his cigarette and throwing the newspaper into a garbage can. We will consider you warned. He clasped his hands behind his back and they continued down the path.

Go tomorrow at eight in the evening to Juanito’s in Barranco. You know it?

Of course.

Good. Bring this same book with you and order coffee. You will be approached by a short, stocky moreno with a scar running from here to here, he said, drawing a line with his thumb from the left side of his mouth down to his chin. He will use the same password. You are to use the same password. His name is Pablo. He will take you where you’re needed. He stopped. The rubia turned to him.

We likely won’t see each other again. That’s the nature of this thing.

I understand.

Well, then, good luck. He extended his hand, and she shook it. He started to walk away but turned after a few steps. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again, seeming to have thought better of it. He nodded a goodbye and the rubia nodded back. He turned away again as the church bells chimed the quarter-hour.

The rubia watched him go for a while, but by-and-by allowed her gaze to drift up, toward where she’d been looking before he’d arrived. The vulture was no longer on its perch. It had taken flight, turning slow circles above the parque.

II.

Michael Dane stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. He held his surfboard under one arm and shaded his eyes with his other as he examined the swell. The sky was overcast but the visibility good. The sets were sizable and coming in steadily. There were only seven or eight other guys already out and plenty of good waves to go around. He jogged out into the water, put his board down, and began to paddle.

The paddle out at Ocean Beach was the hardest Dane had ever experienced, and he’d been surfing now for a quarter-century. The water was always frigid, even in a full-body eight-millimeter wetsuit, booties and hoodie. There was a rip current that was legendary and lethal. Real surfers died out here, and signs were posted all along its length reminding you of that. But the waves were large, powerful, and plentiful. If you had the strength, wind and courage to make the paddle out, the reward was usually worth it.

And today was no different. If Dane had been slightly groggy when he’d zipped up, he was fully awake now as he duck-dived under breaking wave after breaking wave to get past the scrum just offshore. He could taste the salt, could smell it on his lips and in his nostrils. He could feel his fingers and toes tingling from the shock already. He pulled mightily at the water with his arms. It took all his concentration to make the most out of each stroke, to keep his breathing regular, to time each dive just right. Perhaps the paddle out was precisely why he liked surfing Ocean Beach so much. He could never get used to it, never find it easy. Each time was a ferocious baptism, beating the sin out of him, beating the sense back in. It focused his mind.

When he reached where the other surfers were floating on their boards just beyond the break, he nodded his hellos. He’d seen them all before, knew a few, and considered one a friend. His name was Robert Scott, and he was about Dane’s age, making him old among this crew. He was also about Dane’s height, six feet, but more powerfully built, like a linebacker to Dane’s free safety. But he was no meathead. He had that serene look in his eye of one who has spent his whole life in Northern California and surfed many of his days. Dane could never figure out what exactly Scott did for a living. When it came up, Scott always said he was an investor. But that could mean anything. Dane suspected that he was either from old money or a drug dealer. Maybe both. Either way, it was fine with Dane. He was no law, and even if he wasn’t rich himself, he didn’t see any harm in having rich friends. Whatever it was Scott did, though, he did it well. He drove a BMW and lived alone in a grand old Victorian in the Haight. Dane liked him very much. He was generous, genuine, and kind. But he was no wimp. A couple of years ago he’d broken some punk’s jaw who’d tried to mug him in a parking lot.

How long have you been out? Dane asked.

Fifteen minutes.

Good?

Not bad.

They bobbed up and down on a huge wave and watched as one of the younger surfers caught and shredded it. They sat a little while longer while Dane caught his breath.

How’re tricks? Scott asked.

Dry as a bone. Haven’t had a case in weeks. If I had any sense or self-respect, I’d get out of this business. It’s like this too often.

Like what?

Feast or famine. Well, maybe not feast, but something to eat and then famine. I could do with something steadier.

They bobbed up and down again.

You know, a friend of mine is actually looking for a P.I. right now.

What for?

I think his daughter ran away.

Dane clapped his hands, both in enthusiasm and to warm them. Missing persons were the best. They were interesting, respectable, and more challenging – in a good way – than insurance work. He hated insurance work, but often they were the only jobs to be had. He’d relish a missing person.

Tell him to call me. I’ve got a business card in the car I can give you when we go in.

Scott smiled. Will do. You ready to surf now, or what?

Dane was. He turned to see a swell rolling towards them that looked just perfect. Going to be a good morning, he said, as he turned his board toward the shore, started paddling, and felt the water rising behind him.

III.

When Dane walked into the office of Richard Eastman, name partner of Bowles, Eastman & Ramsey, the first thing he took note of was its size. You could have parked three Cadillacs in it. The second thing was the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with sweeping views of the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island, and Berkeley and Oakland beyond. Opposite that was a wall filled with photographs of Eastman with celebrities, captains of industry, and king-makers, as well as trophies, awards, diplomas, bar certificates, and what appeared to be a saber denoting membership in some order of knights. None of it was entirely surprising for a senior partner at one of San Francisco’s most prestigious law firms.

Then Dane took stock of the man himself. Eastman was about five-ten and slightly thickset, like a former athlete, with a good tan and salt and pepper hair. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up and stood with the kind of dignity that successful lawyers of a certain age assume when they are meeting someone for the first time and want to make an impression. Dane guessed by all this that Eastman was in his mid-to-late fifties, had grown up middle class such that he knew the value of manners, was proud to have reached his current station in life, but still believed that he was a worker, a man of the people. He came around the desk and extended his hand to Dane.

Thank you for coming, Mr. Dane. Richard Eastman.

Dane shook hands. Eastman had a firm grip and looked Dane in the eye, but there was something in the man’s face that showed he was deeply worried.

Please have a seat, Eastman said, indicating a client chair.

As Eastman turned back to his own chair, Dane made a quick scan of all the photographs on Eastman’s desk and the shelves behind him. His eye landed on one of what was clearly a young Eastman in uniform with a Ranger tab on his shoulder. Dane was startled for a moment, but then something clicked. Eastman leaned down in his chair, and from his movements, Dane deduced that he was entering the combination into a safe embedded in his desk. When he sat up again, he was holding a manila file folder in his hand. He placed it on his desk in front of him and rested his folded hands on top of it.

My secretary has already told you that what we’re here to discuss is personal and confidential. I want to tell you that myself so that there is no misunderstanding. And I’d like to get your word that you will act accordingly. I understand from Mr. Scott that you know what this means.

I can’t promise that I won’t say a word about what you and I talk about. Sometimes I have to. But I can tell you that I know what discretion is and how to exercise it. Dane wondered how in the hell Scott came to be friends with a guy like this.

Eastman nodded like that satisfied him. "Very well. I have three children, Mr. Dane. Two daughters and a son. My eldest is Linda. She’s twenty and a junior at Columbia University. Last spring she told her mother and me that she wanted to study abroad in Lima this year. I was initially against the idea because of the political situation down there, but Linda is a determined and persuasive young woman, and she convinced us to let her go.

"Everything seemed fine the fall semester. We talked to her about once a week on the phone. She was enjoying herself and said her Spanish was improving daily. But right around Thanksgiving, she started calling less frequently, and when we did talk, she was curt. That was unusual. That’s not who she was.

"She came home for Christmas and something was clearly different. Before she’d gone to Lima she was still a kid. She’d come home from school for the summer and spend half of it interning with nonprofits and half of it shopping with her girlfriends. She went out on dates. She took her younger brother and sister to the movies. But when she came back from Lima, she was not a child anymore. She didn’t want to see any of her friends, and she wasn’t interested in boys. She started talking to her siblings like their elder, not their sister, and she spent most of her days in her room or at the library. Imagine that, Mr. Dane: a pretty, young rich girl from Marin spending her days in a public library, reading. The girl was serious. She was cynical. She was older. She had an edge I’d never seen before.

Don’t think I’m naïve. I understand that these things happen. Kids go to college. They grow up. They start thinking for themselves. That’s the point. But I was totally unprepared for what happened at dinner a couple of nights before Christmas. The conversation turned to Reagan’s reelection. It somehow came out that I’d voted for him. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if that had sparked your normal family argument about politics. But what I said was like putting a flame to a tinderbox. Linda exploded. She called Reagan an imperialist and a terrorist. She said that the president was the most deceptive leader in the world. She talked about the invasion of Grenada and something sinister she said was going on in Nicaragua. It was a rant. We couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Then she said that she couldn’t be part of a family that supported the most ruthless person in the world since Hitler. Then she left.

Eastman paused.

Then what happened? Dane said.

That’s it. She packed up her backpack and left the house. We tried to talk some sense into her, but she was having none of it. After the diatribe, she became totally calm and collected. That’s what worries me. She didn’t stomp off in a rage and slam doors. She did everything methodically, like she’d planned it.

Eastman turned to look out the windows, shaking his head.

That should’ve sounded the alarm for me. But at the time, I was angry, so we just pretended to ignore her, the way you ignore a toddler who is acting out. The last thing I said to her was that she could come back when she’d decided to be reasonable.

Eastman paused again, turning back to Dane.

You mean you haven’t seen her since then?

Yes. And I think you’ll agree there’s something more than a battle of wills going on here. She didn’t come home that night. She didn’t come home for Christmas or New Year’s, and she didn’t leave us any word about where she was going.

You filed a missing person report?

The next day.

No results?

No.

Checked with other jurisdictions?

It’s been put out on the wire.

No responses?

None.

Am I the first private investigator you’ve spoken to?

No. I’ve spoken to a few, including Walter Sachs, whom I understand is a colleague of yours. I hope you won’t take it personally.

I don’t.

Sachs was indeed a friend. He was a good deal older than Dane and had sort of taken him under his wing when Dane had first gotten into the business. They had sent work each other’s way over the years and socialized from time to time. Dane respected Sachs. He was careful and he was competent. He was also a bullshitter, and in most people, Dane would find that annoying, but in Sachs he found it sort of charming. Dane knew that it was all good-natured, and underneath it all was an honest man.

It didn’t matter, Eastman went on. None of them could produce any concrete leads, although Sachs did say that he’d learned someone matching Linda’s description had been seen in the company of pornographers in the San Fernando Valley. Frankly, I’m skeptical. It just doesn’t make sense that she would get into something like that. Porn is for bimbos. That’s the last thing she is.

That was probably true. Dane had a hunch Columbia didn’t admit too many bimbos. But from all that Eastman had told him, he was not optimistic. He thought about whether he needed to parse his words with Eastman but decided to give it to him straight. He looked and sounded like the kind of man who wanted that.

Mr. Eastman, it’s March now, almost April. When a young woman goes missing for three months, anything’s possible. And to be honest, the way these things turn out is usually a lot worse than porn.

You mean she might be dead?

Dane nodded.

I’d thought of that. Eastman pushed the manila envelope across the desk to Dane. But I checked whether she’d been travelling. Eastman gestured for Dane to open the envelope.

Dane did and removed a sheaf a papers. On top were paper-clipped two photographs of a young blonde woman. He held them up to Eastman. Linda?

Eastman nodded.

Dane looked at them again. One was a headshot, and in the other she was standing with her family. She was tall, with a very pretty face, and had a good figure. She looked like an all-American girl any guy would be proud to bring home to meet his parents. She was smiling in both photos, a big, toothy, happy smile. Dane put these aside and looked at the first document in the folder.

That’s a printout of all her passport scans in the last two years, Eastman said. You’ll see that she’s left the country and returned since December.

Dane was impressed. This wasn’t the sort of document it was easy to lay your hands on.

How did you get this?

I have friends at the State Department.

Dane bet he did. And at lot of other places too. He looked at the printout. It showed that Linda had left Los Angeles on a flight to Lima on December 29th, had returned to Los Angeles on January 14th, then had gone back to Lima on January 18th. She’d made the same round trip again between February 20th and February 24th. That was the last scan.

The rest of the documents in the file include her class schedule at the university, her address, and the names of some other Columbia students who were studying there with her.

What about the pornographer? What’s his name?

I don’t recall. Like I said, that theory seems fantastic to me.

All the same, I’d like to know. Walter wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t think there was something there.

You’ll have to ask him to fill you in on what he knows about that.

Dane leafed through the remaining documents, then placed them all with the photos back in the envelope. He leaned back in his chair. The men studied each other silently for a moment.

Just what is it you want done, sir?

I want you to find Linda, of course. I’d heard you had experience doing that sort of thing.

I do. But I’m curious. What’s it about me that makes you think I can do this job any better than Walter?

Eastman didn’t have a ready answer.

Let me see if I can help, Dane said, placing the envelope back on Eastman’s desk. You think your daughter is probably still in South America now, and that whoever is going to find her is going to have to find her there. But any U.S. citizen with a passport can get into Peru and pretty much any other South American country, for that matter. Meaning any P.I. could go sleuthing down there for you. So I think you chose me because you were a Ranger and you found out that I was Special Forces and nobody else you found can say that. Sachs told you all that about me, right?

Yes.

Okay. So what I’m still wondering is why that’s relevant. A P.I. occasionally gets into dust-ups. That comes with the job. But as long as I’ve been doing this, I’ve never had to train any guerillas or exchange any fire with the natives. That leaves me with the sneaking suspicion that you think whoever goes looking for Linda is going to have stir the pot with the locals, and you want someone who’s experienced doing that. Does that about sum it up?

I’d also heard that you spoke Spanish.

I do. My mother was half-Mexican.

There was a long silence, which Dane used to think. His self-preservation antennae were way up now and ringing with alarm. He tended to trust such instincts because they tended to be right. Dane knew almost nothing about South America. He’d never been there, never even thought about going there. He pictured it as an extension of Mexico, perhaps a more antiquated version, like in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Filled with dark-skinned gnomes playing Pan flutes, wearing colorful ponchos and funny hats, with babies strapped to their backs. But he knew it was a more sinister place than that.

He’d also never had to leave the country for a case before, so he had no idea if it was even legal to ply his trade in these places, and he did not want to find out the hard way. The case had the smell of adventure, but adventure often smells just like doom.

I don’t usually turn away business, but I don’t think I can do this for you. I’m a P.I., not a mercenary. I got out of the Army for a reason.

Why’d you get out?

It was hard meeting girls in the jungle. Why’d you get out?

Eastman spread his hands to indicate his office. I heard the law paid better.

Dane looked through the wall of windows. There was a huge container ship creeping toward the Bay Bridge. The ship would pass under it before hooking a left toward the Port of Oakland. Looks like they were telling you the truth.

I can give you the kind of hazard pay the Army never could.

Like I said, I’m not a mercenary.

Eastman got up and walked to the wall of the windows. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out. Listen. I’m just a father who wants his daughter home. Some of us don’t have any money. Some of us have a lot of it. But my guess is we love our children the same way. Family is family, right? Eastman turned back to Dane, as if to see if his words were having their intended effect. Dane’s face showed no pity.

Eastman turned back to the windows and continued. When Linda turns twenty-one, she’ll have unrestricted access to the income of a sizable trust. I can’t prevent her from accessing the trust because it’s irrevocable. With the money from the trust, she won’t be rich, but she should be able to afford to live indefinitely wherever she likes. I don’t know how deep this rift between us goes, but if she didn’t want to see us ever again, she probably wouldn’t have to. So even if you can’t get her back, I’d at least like to know that she’s safe somewhere. Eastman paused again.

Dane still said nothing, his face impassive.

I also want you to help me because I think you’re the only kind of man who can handle the kind of danger I suspect the job may entail.

And what kind of danger is that?

There’s a political situation down there.

You’d mentioned that. But if there’s a political situation, then the CIA is involved. And if the CIA is involved, you can just ask them for help. You know that.

"Believe me, I’ve tried. I have plenty of powerful friends, but apparently not the right ones for this particular request. So I’m forced to take matters into my own hands, you see? And if I can’t get the CIA to help, do you have any better idea than