Accidental Droning

By Pete Liebengood

Bo Granger loses his job as the manager of a country club golf shop and turns to flying his private drone as a pastime.

Accidentally he captures video with his drone of a woman being murdered by drowning. Bo is torn over whether or not to turn his video over to authorities. He is afraid of reprisal by the person who owns the mansion where the drowning took place, and he worries that his invasion of privacy will derail his wifes campaign to become governor of California as she is defined as a state legislator by her privacy platform.

Bo endures a series of misadventures as he wrestles with doing the right thing. He is nearly shot to death by a goon hired by the dead womans husband, hes falsely charged with sexual assault by his wifes housekeeper in a dirty politics scheme, and he gets involved in a torrid romance with a female newspaper reporter who is determined to get the story of a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503537606

Pete Liebengood

Pete Liebengood is a retired former TV sportscaster (KCRA-TV Sacramento, KRON-TV San Francisco) and play-by-play contributor to ESPN (college basketball, college football, boxing, and tennis). He is the author of four mystery/thriller books the latest of which is Rendez-Vu. Raised in Santa Barbara, California, he attended San Francisco State University. He was the cocreator of the first local TV news magazine at KCRA-TV and also produced AM San Francisco for KGO-TV. He presently lives with his wife, Alicia Aguirre, in Redwood City, California.

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CHAPTER 1

S AGE BELCHED LONG and loud after taking a gulp of Guinness. The force it generated was nearly enough to raise dust in the old place—a dive bar affectionately called the Daze by Miramar Bay locals. Happy hour was winding down, but the night was just beginning for Sage, who was sitting on a barstool, slumped over his drink. He had plans for another Guinness or two, some weed, and a possible late-night nude swim with Kirsten, a new surfer girl who’d just moved into town from Carpinteria. Out of the corner of his eye, Sage noticed a bald, powerfully built black man dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a purple muscle shirt enter the bar. He rocked enough tattoos to be mistaken for a mural. He scanned the thinning bar crowd and then headed for Sage.

"You answer to the name Sage?" the big man asked, pulling up a convenient stool.

Sage nodded.

I was told to look for a skinny, long-haired, carrot-topped surfer dude.

Who wants to know? Sage asked as several of the bar’s customers strained to hear the conversation.

Big Don, that’s who. The big man calmly stroked his bushy goatee. Says you’re way behind on your payments. Claims he gets you the best Aunt Mary on the market and doesn’t get paid in a timely fashion. He repeated the word timely. He figures you must be using some of his product yourself.

How much? Sage asked.

Three large, friend. Within the hour.

He knows I’m always good for it.

He’s changed his business practices because of shitheads like you.

Sage returned to his Guinness. I don’t have that kind of jack, man.

The big black man, who had arms the size of Rhode Island, moved off his stool and got in Sage’s face. "Big Don has a standing rule, friend. If you don’t pay, you will pay."

It wasn’t Sage’s nature to pass on a scrap. He’d earned a reputation in town for getting in fights—especially with wannabe surfers who would get in his way in the barrel of a wave. But the big black guy represented more than one person. Without pausing to weigh the big man’s words any longer, Sage tossed down the last of his Guinness, jumped to his feet, pushed his stool to the floor, and bolted out the tavern door. The black man didn’t seem to be surprised by Sage’s quick exit. He calmly turned to Nick, who was the joint’s longtime bartender, and said, Don’t expect him around for a while. His physical therapy could take months.

To the best of anyone’s knowledge, Sage didn’t have a last name—never used it, anyway. He was the son of a drunk and a runaway mother. He was one of a kind: he’d never owned a car, homesteaded an abandoned self-storage shelter just off the beach near the end of Highway 92, and ate the fish he caught in the cold Pacific surf—mostly striped perch and rockfish. For a guy who lived on the border of Silicon Valley, Sage was an anomaly. He had never owned a computer, a tablet, an iPod, a smartphone, cell phone, or pager. He did, as a kid growing up in Santa Cruz, have a Walkman for about ten minutes before one of his surfer buddies made off with it as a gift for his girlfriend.

In recent months Sage had used his only form of transportation—his mountain bike—to take a job as a bicycle taxi driver in Miramar Bay. He’d make in the neighborhood of seventy dollars a day, including tips, while pedaling tourists around town, stopping at bars and restaurants, and showing them every single one of the historical sites that the fogbound town of fourteen thousand had to offer. Sage did his homework and worked up an entertaining monologue about the history of Miramar Bay. He was particularly fond of telling his customers that during Prohibition rumrunners took advantage of the town’s dense fog to service roadhouses, inns, and a few bars, many of which were still operating. The Daze—its walls and ceiling seasoned by the smell of rum and whiskey wafting through the decades—had been a customer.

His heart racing, Sage unlocked his bike from a parking meter outside the Daze. Shit! he thought. He pedaled with all the energy his quads could muster, wishing he’d had time to detach the taxi carrier seat in the back. He needed all the speed he could get. He headed north up Main Street, a blur to tourists walking the sidewalks. After several blocks, when he figured it was finally time to check over his shoulder for pursuit, he was surprised to discover there was no chase. The big man was neither after him on foot nor by car. Perplexed, Sage began to relax and periodically coast his bike as he continued in the direction of Highway 92.

No sooner had he resumed normal breathing, than Sage was presented with a spectacle he’d never witnessed before. Out of nowhere, hovering some twenty feet above him, was a whirling, helicopter-like object, painted white with red stripes on the forward propeller blades and displaying red and green lights under its body. It made a noise that was only slightly more subdued than a radio-controlled airplane. Sage guessed the thing was a couple of feet wide from propeller to propeller and half expected to see tiny aliens at the controls. We’ve come for you, Mr. Sage, he imagined a voice from inside the vehicle saying. What puzzled Sage was that the thing kept its position above and just in front of his bike as he again began pedaling in scramble mode. What the fuck?

With designs on ditching his space-age pursuer, Sage pulled into the Shell station at the corner of Main and Highway 92, hoping the metal canopy over the gas pumps would separate him from the device. Not so. The thing dropped down to less than ten feet above the ground and hovered right next to him as he brought his bike to a stop. A chubby twentysomething snack-bar attendant rushed out of his cubicle to get a better view of what he’d seen through his window.

First one of those I’ve seen in action, he said, his eyes, behind his black-rimmed glasses, as wide as the ocean.

What the fuck is it? Sage asked, rushing his words.

The attendant shot Sage a quizzical look. Don’t you know a drone when you see one?

A drone?

"Yep, a miniature spy device. A lot of hobbyists have ’em. Been readin’ about ’em in Eye Spy magazine. The attendant, who was as pale as the moon and sported a Shell Oil pocket protector, walked over to the hovering drone to get a closer look. The hum of the drone’s propellers helped drown out the loud rap music blaring from a customer’s jacked-up car stereo. This thing is probably taking video of us right now. The attendant turned back toward Sage. If I had to guess, I’d say somebody’s tracking you. Whoever is operating it can see whatever that camera sees." He pointed to a GoPro-like camera under the belly of the drone.

Sage paused a minute to consider the attendant’s remark. Fuck me.

Whoever it is probably wants to know where you’re going. The attendant put his hand on the steering grip on Sage’s bike. You in some kind of trouble?

None of your business, Sage shot back.

The attendant appeared startled by Sage’s aggressive response. Give you a tip, he said, looking off at the drone with a sense of wonderment. You can escape this thing by outlasting its batteries or its two-mile range.

How do you know all this?

Told you, I read.

How long’s this fucker’s battery good for?

Twenty-four minutes, tops. A slight grin crossed the attendant’s face. He suddenly seemed to be enjoying showing off his drone knowledge. When the drone’s battery is about up, it knows it and returns to where it was launched. It has built-in GPS, man.

Sage shook his head in disbelief, then pointed his taxi bike in the direction he’d come from and sprinted off. Much to his dismay, the drone circled the station’s canopy and resumed its position about twenty feet above him. His heart pounding once again, Sage took a hard right onto Kelly Avenue, passing a school and the county sheriff’s substation. He considered finding sanctuary in the sheriff’s facility, but quickly realized he’d been informed by more than one deputy that he was under investigation for selling dope to teens. He might survive the drone but end up in jail—not a good trade-off. Instead, he zoomed across Cabrillo Highway, hoping the drone would give up as he turned laps around the parking lot at Tres Amigos, a popular Mexican restaurant. No luck. The drone’s persistence flustered Sage. With fatigue setting in, he enlisted what he figured was his last option. He pedaled hard against traffic along the edge of Cabrillo Highway. Passing cars honked as they saw the drone keep pace.

Sage knew of a small tunnel that ran under the highway just south of Sea Horse Ranch, where rental horses crossed under the highway to Miramar Bay State Park. Without hesitation he exited the highway and headed straight for the tunnel. He did what he’d seen the horse riders do: he ducked his head to avoid the low ceiling made of corrugated metal. Once inside, he jammed on his brakes and waited to see if the drone would negotiate the passage. It chose not to but, instead, hovered at the entrance to the tunnel.

Twenty-four minutes, Sage hollered. Then you turn into shit. Some kid’s going to find you lying in a field, and you’re gonna end up in someone’s recycling bin.

Sage waited and waited, dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with a handkerchief, all the while dreaming of a refreshing dip with Kirsten and eventually getting into his stash of Big Don’s weed—a ritual he practiced daily. Finally, the drone disappeared from the tunnel’s entrance. Sage was more than a little relieved to hear its propellers fade in the distance. Soon there was just the sound of passing cars from the highway. Sage dropped his forehead onto his handlebar. Whew! Damned if that nerdy gas-station attendant hadn’t saved his bacon.

CHAPTER 2

T HE LINE OF club members was out the door. Sequoia Country Club’s pro shop was under siege from filthy-rich golfers—club initiation fees had recently topped three hundred thousand dollars—wanting the newly arrived, multicolored umbrellas. Part of the reason for the unusual customer demand was a steady rain that had swept across the peninsula in the early morning hours. Another was the genius of shop manager Bo Granger, who’d paid a meteorologist out of his own pocket for a long-range forecast the week before. Even though April was still considered the rainy season in the Bay Area, he’d gambled on a big storm hitting precisely on the morning of the club invitational, which boasted a field of 150 golfers. He’d ordered three dozen of the splashy Leroy Neiman-like designer umbrellas that featured a well in the shaft suitable for housing airplane-sized bottles of booze. He’d been smart, too, in sending e-mail notices to all members announcing his upcoming rainy-day special. Bo figured the huge run on club merchandise was going to be a hit with his new general manager.

Bo had been with the club a little over four years. He’d felt secure enough in his position to warrant this bravado with the umbrellas. Even at a discounted seventy-five dollars a pop, he stood to rake in sales of $2,700 if he could unload three dozen. It was not yet nine thirty in the morning, and he’d sold twenty-four.

Bo was well regarded by the majority of the club’s 550 members, most of them Silicon Valley millionaires. In addition to being a shrewd buyer and mover of golf merchandise, he was very likeable. He had a way of making every club member who came into his shop feel special—especially the good-looking women. He’d almost married one of the better-looking ones, Sally Anne Perkins. She was the daughter of a venture capitalist and had graduated a few years back from the prestigious Stevenson College in New Hampshire with a degree in green anything. During the time Bo dated her, she didn’t work; in fact she’d never had a job—didn’t need one with Daddy’s money. She mostly stayed at home and watched game shows. Despite her abundant free time, she didn’t volunteer much—the annual beach cleanup along the San Martin County coastline being the exception. After dating for a year and a half, they broke up. Sally Anne had caught Bo tossing recyclable materials into the garbage yet again. She took a picture of him in the act and posted it on Instagram with the tag, Should I marry a man who’s this insensitive to our carbon footprint? She received 547 responses saying no.

Bo got his name from his younger sister. She couldn’t say Robert—it came out Bobo—so his parents went with the abbreviation. Bo’s personality was pleasing. He’d been brought up to be liked by Elaine, a housewife, and Steven Granger, a Walgreen’s pharmacist. Pleasing people will get you further in life than any degree, his father had preached. Life with Elaine and Steven was vanilla. Steven made him join the Boy Scouts; Elaine made him play the piano. The most childhood excitement Bo could remember was a road trip to LA where he and his sister, Bobbie, were treated to entire days at Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm.

Bo attended Lowell High School in San Francisco, where he failed to distinguish himself as either an exceptional student or athlete—although he did play number three on the golf team—but as a senior was voted Best Personality over a guy who went on to be a nationally recognized comedian.

Bo attended San Francisco State and got his BA in business in four years. It wasn’t until his junior year that he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. He played for State’s golf team and set his mind to becoming a PGA instructor after he graduated. He figured he could make a good living at it and be exposed to beautiful women who were eager for him to teach them the game. Part of that reasoning was fostered by his good looks. His dark, wavy hair, movie-star-like strong jawline, and penetrating hazel eyes had served him well with college co-eds. He’d left a trail of brokenhearted young girls behind him at State. One of his rejections was good-looking enough to land spots in two different national TV commercials. I dated the Chick-fil-A girl, he was proud of saying.

Unfortunately, Bo never reached his goal of being a PGA-sanctioned teaching pro—three times he’d failed at putting together the requisite successive rounds of eighty-two or better. That was the golf world’s equivalent of three strikes and you’re out. His last opportunity to qualify was at the California Club in South San Francisco. Bo had carded an eighty and an eighty-two on his first two rounds. He was confident that he could post one more round under eighty-two—too confident. His premature celebration the night before his final round did him in. He wasn’t normally a cocktail drinker—he mostly stuck with beer—but the vodka gimlets he was offered by a fellow competitor’s caddy in the club’s bar went down way too easily and too often. By eight o’clock that evening, he had to be carried into the men’s locker room, where club members constructed a bed out of bench pads and left him there to sleep it off. It didn’t help that Bo had an eight o’clock tee time in the morning. It was the par-three, two-hundred-yard twelfth hole that killed him. Sitting at seven over par through eleven holes, he was just three strokes under the dreaded eighty-two-stroke maximum.

The yips caused by the vodka gimlets finally struck at full strength. He began shaking—first his legs, then his hands. He shanked a three iron off the tee so badly that it ended up forty yards to the right and even with the tee. He still had two hundred yards to negotiate. His second shot landed in one of the many bunkers that surrounded the front of the green. His lie was horrible. His ball was buried in the sand and resembled a fried egg. It took him three shots to get out of the bunker. By then he looked like a detoxing alcoholic, and it took him five putts to hole out for a seven-over-par ten. That was the end of his quest. Bo picked up his ball and walked off the course. He had no one to blame for his failure but himself. He didn’t pick up a golf club for six months. Somehow he ended up in men’s clothing, working for Jos. A. Bank and later for Nordstrom.

It was golf, however, with some assistance from his good looks, that landed him a wife. Not just any wife, State Senator and current Democratic Candidate for Governor of California Lena Jamison. Bo’s friends and family viewed the once-married, popular, local TV news anchor turned politician as the catch of catches.

The couple met at the Woodside, an iconic Silicon Valley hotel and restaurant on the outskirts of Elmwood that had achieved national renown for its Thursday night meet ups. Old and young women, dressed to entice, mingled over cocktails with Silicon Valley millionaires—mostly young ones. Thursdays at the Woodside had become the valley’s social algorithm.

Bo, who’d just celebrated his fortieth birthday the day before, had been in the bar for half an hour and was already being hustled by a physically well-preserved, seventyish woman whose only negative was that her puffy face appeared to have been altered for the worse by a fierce encounter with sandpaper.

In an effort to escape the cougar, Bo moved to the opposite end of the bar, where Lena was sitting with her field producer—a twentysomething female with purple hair. They were dissecting the live shot for the six o’clock news they’d just finished at Stanford University’s new School of Earth Science. Lena had a penchant for a couple of cosmos in between the six and eleven newscasts. She had her favorite hangouts near the KBAY-TV studios, and the Woodside was one of her favorite road watering holes.

Bo recognized her right away. In what he would later consider a bold and uncustomary move, he sat down next to her and promptly introduced himself, all the while making it abundantly clear through his body language that he wasn’t interested in chatting up the Goth-trending producer. A lengthy conversation ensued, focusing on Bo’s job at the country club and Lena’s burning desire to learn golf. She’d been a better-than-average softball player in high school and missed athletic competition. She confessed to trying golf lessons once in college, but she’d quit when her instructor told her she had a swing that looked like someone trying to put out a fire. Bo offered to teach her, but only after she told him what happened to her first marriage to her KBAY-TV coanchor, Aaron Stevens.

Like many in the Bay Area, Bo had watched the two take their vows at Saint Mary’s church on live TV. The gaudy wedding was denounced by competing news operations as an attempt to buy ratings, which it was. The nuptials got a 7.1 rating—great for a Saturday afternoon—and the weekday six o’clock news got a 10 percent bump in viewers, which was retained over a period of nearly a year. Rival stations were incensed with what one news director called grandstanding, but there was little they could do about it after the fact. The San Francisco Gazette was the only newspaper to take Lena, Aaron, and the general manager to task—and how. This story appeared in the Sunday paper following the wedding:

Anchors Wed for Love or Publicity

by

Mia Aguilar

KBAY-TV news anchors Lena Jamison and Aaron Stevens exchanged vows on live TV yesterday—she in a sexy, strapless Vera Wang that accentuated her rich tan, and he in his blue Channel Ten blazer, complete with the station’s logo over the left pocket. The shamelessly hyped nondenominational ceremony, which featured Journey’s Steve Perry singing the Wedding Song person, has drawn critical reactions from every direction imaginable—the viewing public, station news staffers, opposing station management, religious groups, and even a labor union.

According to a KBAY-TV news source, the idea for the live transmission was Jamison’s. The woman just can’t get enough attention, the source said. In the newsroom she’s referred to by staffers as ‘the Diva of Deloitt,’ the street on which our station is located. They’ve only been co-anchors for six months, and nobody in the newsroom even knew they were a couple. They have had no public interaction other than what you see on the news set. My colleagues and I are shocked. We don’t feel like people who want and need to be perceived as serious and trustworthy journalists should publicly morph into Ken and Barbie.

KSSF-TV general manager Irwin McAllister issued the strongest negative response to the live telecast. It was reprehensible, he said. It was a publicity stunt the likes of which not even the WWE could deliver. It has the potential to set TV journalism back ten years. Jamison and Stevens were already perceived by every focus group I’ve conducted as just ‘news readers,’ and not real journalists. I can’t imagine what KBAY management was thinking when they gave that fiasco the green light.

Saint Mary’s pastor, Father Floyd O’Conner, complained of being ambushed by the couple’s wedding planner, who also doubled as the TV producer for the event. Thirty minutes before the ceremony, he said, I was told I would not be participating in the ceremony and that there would be no Eucharist. I considered calling it off.

Father O’Conner failed to mention the church was greatly in need of the funding rentals provide.

The president of Black Tie Catering was also critical of the televised event. I employ a nonunion waitstaff, and here my people are being identified on TV by union leaders all across the Bay. I wasn’t even told the event would be televised. Now, my phone is ringing off the hook from upset union bosses.

One can only assume that the couple—honeymooning in Costa Rica—won’t have heard about the public pushback. We’re going where there is no TV, cell reception, or Internet, Jamison was heard to have said. It’s probably a good thing.

At the time, Bo remembered feeling invested in their very public union. He probably wouldn’t have had the cojones to ask Lena such a question