Trevor Vogel hadn’t responded to seven texts. I sent an eighth.
Regina called. “Bravo, Poirot. PDF to your inbox. She’s a doozy.”
Per the California DMV, Shelby Fuller IV owned a ninety-five-foot 2012 Benetti yacht, purchased used in 2019. His registration was current. Licensing categories maxed out at a hundred grand, so no way to know how much he’d paid. But I would wager a hundred grand that it was more than a hundred grand.
I whistled. “Serious boat.”
“Serious fucking boat,” she said.
“That,” I said, “remains to be seen.”
Chapter 28
The lot attendant at the East Bay Yacht Club glanced over his phone as I walked by but otherwise didn’t stir.
Entering the clubhouse, I caught the aroma of coffee and shrimp cocktail. The décor was ropes and anchors and driftwood. Beautiful, burnished-leather seating rescued it from sheer hokeyness.
I asked for the membership director. His name was Ryan, and he was in his thirties, with a paintbrush of mousy hair, wearing the club uniform of black shorts and a bright-blue polo. Everywhere the clothes ended, a nutmeg tan had set in.
He shook my hand, offered bottled water, and escorted me to the leasing office.
“Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I represent a family from out of state,” I said. “They’ll be relocating to the area, and they’re interested in a slip. I was hoping to get some information about your facility, maybe tour the dock.”
Ryan grinned. “You’re the recon party.”
“Guilty as charged.”
He gave a good-natured laugh. We were two ordinary guys, me and Ryan: two regular, hardworking dudes earning our keep tending to Big Money.
“What’s the vessel’s length o/a?” he asked.
“Ninety-five-footer.”
“Suh-weet.”
“How they roll.”
“I hear ya. Listen, I’d love to help, but we top out at eighty.”
“Darn. Okay. Thanks, anyway.”
“FYI, most marinas around here can’t accommodate that. I know Oakland can’t. Berkeley might, and I think Alameda? Those spots tend to fill up pretty quick, though. You’ll have better luck if you try farther out. Richmond’s pretty. Great views.”
“The primary residence is in Piedmont. Ideally they can leave the house, be on the water thirty minutes later.”
“Gotcha, gotcha. Well. In that case, you might try over at Haven Harbor,” he said, thumbing down the peninsula. “They have bigger slips. Usually they’re full. And it ain’t cheap. But.” A cheeky smile. “I’m guessing you’re not on a budget.”
I laughed. Me and Ryan, two dudes.
“Ask for Elyse Todd,” he said. “Use my name.”
At the public marina, no attendant, just a pay station. Dock access was via a scratched gate with a mechanical keypad. I walked the water’s edge, using my telephoto lens to hunt for the Benetti’s hull number. Even the biggest boats looked well shy of ninety-five feet. I moreover doubted Shelby IV would feel comfortable mingling with the hoi polloi.
Haven Harbor was more his speed.
Full-on barrier wall, security booth, CCTV. The club insignia of intertwined H’s adorned a driveway gate painted a dark, dignified green.
Behind it loomed the clubhouse, a gleaming white cube.
Behind that, a forest of masts, jousting in slow motion. Taller, brighter, stiffer.
My mast is bigger than yours.
The booth guard had a Taser and a tear gas canister on his belt and wore a starched white uniform with too-large golden epaulets. Luxury is in the details.
“Elyse Todd, please,” I said.
The guard eyed my car. “Did you have an appointment?”
“I’d like to inquire about a membership. Ryan at East Bay Yacht Club sent me.”
He phoned back for clearance, then copied down my information, returning my driver’s license along with a parking hanger.
“Any open spot,” he said.
The gate rolled open, and I rolled through.
The property was shallow — a constraint of building on a man-made peninsula. Layered planting supplied an illusion of depth; wind-driven sculptures moved the eye along. To squeeze out more space they’d kept the parking lot compact.
What a lot, though.
Chockablock with Mercedes EVs, Bentley Continentals, top-end Teslas, Rivians, Land Rovers, BMWs like Fuller’s, exotics I didn’t recognize.
Pocket of affluence, a short drive from tent encampments and impromptu RV parks.
That was what the guard was for.
Welcome to the Bay Area.
Elyse Todd greeted me on the clubhouse steps. Petite Black woman in her late twenties; khaki skirt, green logo polo, matching logo fleece.
She shook my hand and we stepped inside a lobby styled like a boutique hotel. Subtle nautical touches tamped down the formality. No wall-mounted marlins here, no anchors or gauges. Rope and driftwood, yes, but used sparingly, even tongue-in-cheek.
Filling me a glass of lemon-cucumber water from a crystal urn, Elyse saw me to her office, walled in olive-green leather. One white peony sprouted from an ikebana vase.
She pulled out a club chair on casters. “Please.”
I gave her the spieclass="underline" rich family, big boat. My reluctance to name names didn’t faze her in the slightest. She of all people understood.
“What’s your timeline?”
“Next couple of months.”
“And you said ninety-five feet.”
“Please tell me you can accommodate that.”
“Our end berths go to a hundred ten.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Now you’re going to tell me they’re all taken.”
She smiled as she scrolled. “I’m looking at the leases, and the Dock One end berth is set to expire in February. Usually I’d have a signed contract by now, but I’ve been chasing this individual for a bit and I’m sensing that they might not renew. I know that’s longer than you wanted to wait. I could try reaching out to ask about a lease transfer.”
“Could you? That would be fantastic.”
“No promises.”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much.”
“Dock Nine... That member has a sixty-foot vessel. So they could fit into a finger berth without an issue. They just happen to prefer an end. I don’t know how they’d feel about moving.”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”
“Well.” Elyse made a face. “It might.”
“I’m sure my bosses would be amenable to compensating them for their trouble,” I said. “If that makes a difference.”
“It might.”
We laughed together. Regular folk, amused by our wacky jobs.
“While we’re on the subject,” I said, “I also wanted to inquire about the fee structure.”
“Initiation is two hundred sixty-five thousand. Dockage is billed at seventy dollars per foot per month paid annually, plus a monthly maintenance fee of two thousand five hundred. Fuel is available at market rate plus three percent. Items such as catering or party rentals we can arrange as needed.”
I typed on my phone. “And what do the monthlies cover?”
“Power, water, concierge, security, Wi-Fi, unlimited non-alcoholic beverages. Parking, but we operate a local shuttle if you prefer to be picked up. You also get unlimited guest passes and access to all Haven Harbor locations.”
She unfolded a world map brochure. Gold stars twinkled at the edges of five continents.
“We currently maintain twenty-three marinas,” she said, “with four more in the works. And we have reciprocity at several Pacific Coast clubs. You can call ahead and tie up overnight. Many of our members find that to be a real convenience.”
“For sure. Can I keep that?”
“Of course.”