The Breakwater

By Greg Picco

The beach community of Venice, CA is stunned when a local girl's body washes up on its shore. The cause of death is no mystery. Leti Molloy, a 26 yr old artist, was shot in the head execution style. Joe Rivas, a special forces combat veteran and experienced homicide detect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Picco
• Release date: Apr 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781778390678

Greg Picco

Greg Picco is a native of Los Angeles where he currently practices law. Prior to law school, he lived in New York, London, and a few months in Morocco. He still credits his six months as a New York City cab driver as the major contributor to his "higher" education.

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Copyright © 2024 by Gregory L. Picco

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

ISBN HARDCOVER: 978-1-77839-110-1

ISBN SOFTCOVER: 978-1-77839-066-1

ISBN EBOOK: 978-1-77839-067-8

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PROLOGUE

Pristina, Kosovo, 2001, two years after the Bosnian peace agreement...

The young reporter, on his first foreign assignment, had been warned.

Stay off the streets, kid, his editor had ordered. Just hang at the hotel. The Sheraton’s bar is filled with Western journos, that’s where you’ll get your stories. The war might be over, but Kosovo’s still a shit show. Reprisal killings every day by both the Serbian army and Albanian militias. Nobody’s safe, it’s bad.

But he hadn’t stayed off the streets. He wanted an exclusive, not some second hand, booze fueled bullshit from the hotel bar. He had enlisted the friendly cab driver Val who had picked him up at the airport.

The reporter had naively trusted the stocky cabbie, like himself in his early twenties, who started calling the reporter California after learning he was from Los Angeles. Val could not stop asking questions about California and the City of Angels. The reporter was excited when the cabbie finally agreed to take him to a backstreet tavern, Café a Go Go, where he and his friends drank and played foosball.

Later that evening, as they drove from the hotel to the outskirts of Pristina, the reporter noticed that Val’s demeanor had changed. The usually talkative cabbie was silent, his eyes carefully watching every other car on the road. It was after 10 p.m., and even the main streets were practically unlit except for the occasional bar or café.

The reporter noticed the small neon sign in front of the Café a Go Go as they pulled over. Suddenly there was a loud commotion and two men were dragged out of the tavern and into the street by several men.

What’s happening, Val? he asked. Collaborators, Val said quietly.

The two men were pushed to their knees and their hands tied behind their backs, all the while being cursed loudly by the dozen or so surrounding them. The reporter saw the leader shout the others down, and slowly walk up to the two on their knees, a short black knife in his hand.

The reporter looked at the cabbie. Drive, Val--get the hell out of here!

Val ignored him, and turned off the car’s engine. They watched the leader grab one man’s hair, pull his head back and slit his throat, then do the same to the other.

The reporter gasped, hardly able to make a sound, as the leader slowly turned back to look at them, then nodded.

It’s not me he’s looking at, the reporter realized, as he watched Val the friendly cab driver return the leader’s nod.

Val turned to the reporter with a grim smile. Welcome to Kosovo, California.

CHAPTER 1

Oscar Navarro was a real bastard—-real as in illegitimate according to the laws of California and just about every other state--who had never met his absentee anglo dad. Oz’s first home was in Hollywood, a duplex near Sunset Boulevard. His mom, Maricela Navarro, had hopes, just like a million other teens, of working in the movie business. After getting a production assistant job at Paramount Studios, she dropped out of college to pursue her dream.

That dream ended with an unplanned pregnancy when she was 21. Oscar was born, and after a couple of years, Mari left the nest with Oz in tow, and moved into a Latino neighborhood in Venice.

Oz grew up tall and skinny, one of the few blond, blue-eyed kids in the Venice barrio. Oz was a beach rat, more comfortable in the surf than anywhere else. Growing up, his best friends were the fellow surfers and skateboarders in his neighborhood, Joey Rivas, Pat Molloy, and Jenny Carrillo

Like many of the people in his surroundings, Oz was a pocho, an American of Mexican ancestry, assimilated, who spoke some Spanish but mostly English.

Whenever he came home from his local surf break, to the craftsman bungalow he moved back into after Mari died, he returned to a tough neighborhood. It would have been a lot tougher for him without Joey.

Joey grew up in a tough family of underwater salvage divers, his dad and two older brothers, and had been helping out on the boat and diving since his early teens. He managed to avoid getting jumped into the neighborhood gang, the Venice Lobos, with the help of his cousin Carlos, who lived down the block. Carlos Granados was prez of the V-L, and nobody messed with Carlos.

Although Joey avoided the Lobos, and Carlos looked out for him, Joey never backed down from a fight. It was soon understood that if you tangled with any of the Rivas’s, it would hurt.

Right out of high school, the four of them went their separate ways. Oz and Jenny went to college while both Pat and Joey armied up. Pat saw combat in the first U.S. war with Iraq, the one in Kuwait. After one tour, he returned to Venice, married Jenny, by then a registered nurse, and started a family.

Sadly, at the young age of 39, Pat suffered a fatal coronary while chasing a wave at the Breakwater. He left a widow, Jenny, and their two teenage daughters, Moira and Leticia, known to everyone as Leti.

It was Joe who organized a paddle-out ceremony for Pat at the Breakwater—-a gathering of surfers out beyond the surf line, sitting on their boards in a circle, observing moments of silent prayer or meditation or speaking of Pat.

While Pat’s family and friends gathered on the shore before the paddle-out ceremony, Joe had showed up with a three-soldier color guard in full dress uniform. As a soldier played taps on a trumpet, with the occasional wave lapping at his shiny boots, Joe presented a neatly folded American flag to his widow, Jenny.

CHAPTER 2

Nine years had passed since Pat’s death.

Oz was now virtually unemployed, except for a part time job uploading the surf forecast for the free Venice Beach newspaper, and lived with an orange tomcat named Sam. Sam had adopted Oz and his dearly departed mother’s Craftsman bungalow years ago. He came and went through a flap cut in a window screen. He brought home his trophies: rats, birds, and the occasional squirrel. Nocturnal alley fights had left him with lots of scars and only one good eye.

In his living room, Oz had hung a self-portrait painted by Mari, an accomplished artist. Oz had daily conversations with that portrait, conversations that he regretted never making time for when Mari was alive. She had spent the best years of her life working as a department store clerk, making sure Oz would have every opportunity. All the good things in his life, he belatedly realized, he owed to her.

And on a day in May at 7 a.m., glancing at her face, Oz knew she was worried about him and he could hear her lament.

...you’re 47 years old...in debt... behind on the mortgage...no job, what the hell mijo!

Et tu madre? Oz thought. He had worked for the last twenty years at the L A Times, first as a war correspondent then as an investigative journalist, and he had loved it. Then the digital world had come calling, and he was one of its casualties.

Oz needed cheering up, and in that department, the waves had never let him down.

He winked at her portrait as he grabbed his surfboard.

...keep the faith mom, I got this...

By the time Oz made it to the Breakwater, there should have been thirty or so surfers already in the water.

Instead he found lifeguard jeeps with lights flashing, and a small crowd at the water’s edge.

A tall, middle-aged Hispanic man broke from the crowd. He wore a tie, but was coatless and walked toward Oz with his head down. Sergeant Joe Rivas, now a detective with the LAPD, Robbery/Homicide Division, was still Oz’s best friend.

As Joe approached, Oz had a sense of foreboding. He caught Joe’s eye and waited for him to speak. Joe pointed back at the crowd.

Don’t go over there, he said. Why not?

It’s Leti.

It took a few seconds to register. Leti who? Oz wondered. He saw that a police forensic team was examining the entire area. He looked back at Joe, and suddenly went numb.

No man, no, it can’t be her. Oz sank to his knees, catching a glimpse of a young woman with tangled black hair lying face down in the wet sand. She was dressed in a wet hoodie and jeans. If she were alive, she would be receiving medical attention, but none was being administered.

Oz stood up slowly and moved toward the body, shaking his head, but was intercepted by his friend, Joe.

It’s Leti Oz, I saw the ink on her wrist. ‘R.I.P. Papi, 2009.’ That’s her tat.

Oz stared at Joe, a lot of girls lost their dads in 2009, maybe...

Her right hand, Joe said.

Even 20 feet away, Oz could see the flash of turquoise from the ring he had given Leti on her 21st birthday. It had belonged to his mom, Mari, and Leti wore it always.

Oz started toward Leti, but Joe grabbed his arm. I need to see her, Joe, just for a second. I’m her godfather, I have to see her.

No, you don’t. Trust me, Oz, you don’t.

But what happened, Joe? I mean...she could swim like a fish.

Joe gazed out over the Pacific. What I’m about to tell you stays here, seriously man, not a word to anybody, no social media, at least for now.

Joe walked Oz further away from the crowd, searching for the right words. Oh hell, he thought, just say it.

She was shot at close range. Looks like a pro hit, Oz, an execution. Time of death, just a few hours ago. The current’s running north, so I’m guessing she was dumped in the water, maybe off the pier. If the tide wasn’t coming in, we might never have found her.

CHAPTER 3

Summer afternoon, 1991.

At Ala Moana, on the south shore of Oahu, the double overhead sets were thumping through every five or six minutes.

On the beach, two California surfers, tall Oz and short Pat, with one dinged-up long board between them, watched the waves.

Pat looked iffy. Shit, bro, its mackin’! he said. So what? said Oz. This is why we parked cars all year. We’re in the Islands, dude!

Oz started waxing the board. We’ll share it, he said. You first. I’ll swim out to you.

Pat watched the sets rolling in. I don’t know, man. It looks gnarly. Hardly anyone out, not even the locals.

I’m going. We gotta have some ass-kicking rides to talk about with Private First Class Joey. He’s comin’ all the way from Fort Whatthefuck, Texas, so come on, man!

Pat shook his head...this is fucking nuts, he thought, as he picked up the board.

Oz watched as Pat paddled out. Oz was the stronger swimmer, having played water polo in high school and one year at college. He timed the sets, then swam hard to get to safety outside, before the next set rolled through.

A hundred yards out, Oz realized he had misjudged how far out the waves were breaking, how big they were, and how much the morning surfing had taken out of him. He was already tired. He stopped and looked at the horizon, watching the ocean darken as the first malevolent wave of a set began to build—- the worst feeling in the world, deep in your gut, when you’re caught inside with no hope of escape.]

Oz swam in a sprint to get outside, knowing it would be close and, if he didn’t make it, he would get maytagged--tumbled about and held deep under by the white water.

He dove for the bottom. A huge wave crashed and he felt its energy go by, just above him. He surfaced and started swimming out to sea, knowing that the rest of the set would be bigger and would break farther out. He was almost out of gas. He knew it wasn’t about surfing anymore, but survival. He dove under the next wave as it thundered above him and roared past. He barely got to the surface and sucked air.

He had made it outside, but he was too fatigued to try to swim back to shore between sets.

He looked for Pat. He saw nobody, nobody to hear a call for help.

...so this is it...

He was sinking beneath the choppy water. He made one last effort to stay afloat, but his arms and legs wouldn’t respond. He was done.

Pat had managed a short, cautious ride on the last wave of the set and was paddling back out. He had spotted Oz treading water outside the break, but now the chop and sun’s glare made Oz hard to see.

Suddenly Pat saw the top of Oz’s head just above the surface. He paddled as fast as he could...grabbed Oz’s hair and pulled him onto the board.

Oz coughed up water, then looked up at Pat and croaked, About fucking time.

CHAPTER 4

The day after Leti’s death, two women walked arm in arm through the front doors of the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office in Boyle Heights, accompanied by Joe Rivas. After going through a metal detector, they approached the counter.

Can I help you? Behind the counter, a young male sheriff’s deputy looked at the two women.

Moira Molloy said, We’re here to identify my sister. The deputy looked at his computer monitor. What’s your sister’s name?

Joe flashed his LAPD name tag at the deputy and said, The deceased is Leticia Molloy. This is Leticia’s mother, Jenifer Molloy, and Leticia’s sister, Moira.

The deputy checked their ID. The elevator will take you downstairs to the morgue, he said.

Joe and Moira held Jenny’s arms gently on the way down. As they entered the morgue hallway, Moira said, Wait here, Mom. I’ll do this, just wait here.

Jenny looked straight ahead. No, mija. Moira’s right, said Joe. Stay here, Jenny. I’ll go in with her.

Jenny shook her arms free. Goddamn it, I’m her mother. I brought her into this world and I need to say goodbye, alone.

Softening her voice, she told Joe, I’ll be okay, you stay with Moira.

A female coroner’s assistant guided Jenny down the hall to a large window. Behind the window, the assistant pulled aside a curtain and Jenny saw what someone had done to her daughter.

Pobrecita, pobrecita, said Jenny quietly, through tears. She put her hand flat on the glass. Adiós, mija...vaya con Dios.

Joe came and stood at her side. Jenny said, I want to hold her hand and pray for her. Please.

Not yet, Jen, he said. They haven’t finished the examination. I’m sorry. Stony-faced, Jenny slowly took her hand from the glass and walked away.

CHAPTER 5

Oz walked down his home street, headed for Jenny’s house a few blocks away. She still lived, by herself, in the home she had grown up in. Her mother, Mama Lupita, lived in a small guesthouse in the back, which had been converted from a two-car garage after Pat died.

Oz hadn’t seen Jenny in a few years and he was feeling guilty about that. It had been a week since her daughter’s murder and he hadn’t spoken to her.

In short, Oz/Jenny was always at least a little complicated.

They had dated at Venice High School. Jenny was smart, pretty, and, though Oz and his friends wouldn’t admit it, she could out-surf all of them. Jen could flat- out shred, and when a storm swell rolled in, she was out there, dropping in on overhead-plus waves that only a few of the locals dared to ride.

They continued dating after high school, into their 20s.

Their break-up, Oz had assumed, would be temporary. Meanwhile, they each did their own thing, Oz pursuing journalism and Jenny pursuing nursing.

But the months became years. When Jenny started dating Pat, the best friend who had saved Oz’s life in Oahu, Oz was crushed. Oz served as an usher at Jenny’s and Pat’s wedding, trying to hide his feelings, but watching Jenny Carrillo become Jenny Molloy was hard to take. He left immediately after the ceremony.

From then on, Oz dealt with it by concentrating on his career as a reporter, volunteering to cover stories anywhere in the world, the further away from Venice the better.

That lasted until Jenny and Pat had their second child, Leti, and showed up at Oz’s front door, asking him to be Leti’s godfather.

At first Oz declined, saying, I have lots of bad habits, I’d be a bad influence. Also, How can I be a godfather when I don’t even believe in God?

Jenny just narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to one side as if to say, Who in the hell do you think you’re kidding?

Pat, standing behind her, laughingly mouthed the words, You owe me.

Oz accepted the assignment.

After Pat’s death, Oz visited Jenny and her family every week or so. Gradually he visited less and less frequently. Over the past few years, he had sent Jenny only an occasional text.

CHAPTER 6

Jenny opened the front door and invited him in without a word. She had changed very little in the years since he had seen her. Still trim with a few gray hairs in that black mane, except today her face was drawn and pale.

In the living room, opposite a makeshift shrine of candles and photographs of Leti, Moira sat sipping a glass of wine, her eyes puffy.

Jenny walked back into the kitchen. Oz sat next to Moira, who didn’t seem to notice him, and joined her in gazing at various recent photos. One, a graduation photo of Leti in a cap and gown, beaming from ear to ear, with mom Jenny standing proudly beside her, and another taken at what looked like an outdoor art class, Letty standing next to a mural, a work in progress, with five or six others, including someone he guessed was the instructor, older, in his mid-thirties or so, one hand pointing toward the work, the other on Leti’s shoulder.

Oz, Moira said. Thanks for coming. It’s been a while.

Too long, Mo. I, uh...I’m...

Moira shook her head, then took his hand. No need to say anything, Oz. None of us can really say anything, we’re all just...numb. She