by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 18, 2011 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
The Steadfasts barged through the garage door as the familial octopus they’d become, arms and legs of varying sizes jostling to cross the threshold first.
“Gently, Blaine! Put it down gently,” Alexis bellowed after the seven year old victor who approached the kitchen counter at breakneck speed.
“Mom, Blaine pushed me,” five year old Daniella squealed, already back in hot pursuit of her brother.
The second bag landed with a satisfying crash mere seconds after the first. Alexis had long suspected that Jason insisted on paper for that very reason. She didn’t buy the environmental angle, not when the trip to and from the store was made in an Escalade.
“I won! I won,” the elder child trumpeted.
“Cheater,” his sister shrieked.
“What did I say about slamming groceries,” Alexis admonished. “And, Blaine, don’t push your sister.”
Jason propped the door open for her with his backside as he held two bags of his own.
She scooched past him with the sleeping Anne Marie in her arms. Already stocked up on groceries for the week, the colicky six month old was the ostensible reason for the redundant trip. It was the rhythm of the road they’d been after.
Tip-toeing past the carnage in the kitchen, careful to give wide berth to the flyers that were strewn all over the floor, Alexis disappeared into the deeper regions of the house.
“How many times do I have to tell you to leave the flyer stand on the coffee table,” Jason moaned, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Not that anyone’s taking them anyway,” he mumbled as he deposited his bags on the counter and began retrieving the forty nine scattered reams of high gloss photo paper. There had been fifty originally, but he’d taken one in to the office to hang on the bulletin board exactly twelve months ago to the day.
“Hey, hon,” he said as he finished up and followed her into the family room clutching one of the flyers. “I was thinking, maybe we could hold some kind of auction or something to increase the demand. Maybe raffle off tickets or …”
The thought died as he turned the corner to find a group of people seated around the sunken conversation pit at the base of the fireplace, staring at him with a tense mixture of anticipation and dread.
“Mom? Carl? What’s going on here,” he demanded.
“Hello, Jason. Please come have a seat. There’s something we’d like to discuss with you,” a stranger sitting slightly apart from the rest of the group invited, his incessant blinking exacerbated by an ill-fitting pair of bifocals. His bald head looked hot in the glow of the 1980’s vintage canned halogen lights.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the invitation to sit down in my own house, but I think I’d rather stand, thank you. What’s this all about, Gerry,” he asked, turning towards the well-groomed man in the grey slacks and pullover sitting closest to the de facto master of ceremonies.
“Just hear the man out, Jason,” Gerry answered.
“Hear him out about what? What is this?”
“This is just a group of your friends and family that cares about you, Jason. Very much,” the stranger responded.
“Oh my God. I’ve seen this on TV. This is an intervention, right,” he asked, panning each face as if he were polling the jury after a guilty verdict.
“If you want to stand on formalities, yes, this is an intervention. Really, though, it’s just a chance for those who care about you most to share their concerns and offer their support,” the stranger replied.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Is it about the coffee? I mean, I know I probably drink more than the next guy, but-”
“It’s not about the coffee, Jason,” his wife said from off to his left. He hadn’t seen her reenter the room.
“You’re in on this,” he asked in horror.
“I invited them, Jason.”
He stared at his wife with mouth agape, trying to wrap his mind around the scope of the betrayal.
“Judas,” he hissed.
“Your wife asked us here today because she loves you, Jason. No one is here to attack you. We are here to help. Now, are you willing to listen to what your friends have to say,” the stranger asked, his fleshy Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his double chin with each syllable.
“Not until someone tells me what this is all about,” he answered. “And where are the kids?”
“The kids are in good hands, Jason,” the stranger assured him.
The room fell into a pronounced moment of uncomfortable silence. The assembled guests looked back and forth at each other, willing one another to break the seal.
“It’s your price, Jason,” Gerry finally informed him to the room’s relief. “We are concerned about your list price.” He started to run a soft hand through his slick-backed, black hair before thinking better of it and smoothing the disturbed follicles back into place.
“What about my list price,” Jason challenged his Realtor, crossing his arms in defiance.
“It’s, um, well it’s … it’s high, Jason. It’s just too damn high,” Gerry spilled, punctuating his words with a year’s worth of frustration.
“Too high, huh? Like the Crawford’s place down the street was too high,” Jason countered.
“We’ve discussed this, Jason,” Gerry reminded him. “That comp is three years old.”
“I know what this house is worth. We just need the right buyer,” Jason said.
“No, Jason,” Gerry retorted. “You know what this house WAS worth. Lotta market fallout under the bridge since oh seven. Besides, that home was fully remodeled from the ground up. Yours … could stand a little work.” His eyes darted to the imitation crystal behemoth masquerading as a chandelier in the adjoining dining room.
“That’s not what you said when you took the listing, Gerry,” Jason accused. “I seem to remember you going on and on about our indoor-outdoor carpeting when you were trying to get my signature.”
Gerry hung his head in shame. The reflection in his brilliantly polished black shoes captured an enabler’s remorse.
“He’s a Realtor, Jay. What’d you expect,” the man sitting to Gerry’s right asked. “Look, there’s no excuse for him shining you on in the beginning like that, but he wanted the business. He’s trying to atone for it now.”
“I’d expect this from him,” Jason replied, jerking a thumb towards his despondent agent, “but not you, Carl. I mean, my own flesh and blood …”
“Come off it, Jay. I’ve been telling you all along that your price is stupid, but would you listen to your big brother? Nooooooooo.”
“What do you know about housing values, Carl? You’re in pharmaceutical sales, for crissakes!”
“Doesn’t take an economist to know your house isn’t worth a hundred grand more than you paid for it back in the boom years. Gerry showed me the last round of comps. It’s ugly, Jay.”
“You can’t stand to see your kid brother do better than you, can you, Gerry? It’s just like that time with the bike. I get a new ten-speed when you were still tooling around on a hand-me-down Schwinn, and you manage to accidentally crash it into the Flanders’ queen palm. How convenient.”
“Jesus, not the bike again. It was an accident!”
“Sure it was, Gerry,” Jason snipped. “Sure it was.”
His big brother shook his considerable head and looked to the couple on his immediate right to pick up the baton.
“Bruce? Maggie? What are you doing here,” Jason wondered, taking in their presence for the first time.
“The Maguires are here as concerned neighbors, Jason,” the ringleader interjected, his glowing dome now verging on spontaneous combustion.
The elderly couple eyed each other in evident discomfort, hoping the other would take the lead. Finally, Maggie spoke.
“It’s just that Bruce is getting ready to retire, Jason,” she began. “Now that the kids are gone, we’re thinking about putting the house up for sale in the spring. It’s more than we need, and we’d really like to do some traveling.”
Gerry perked up at that, reaching into his wallet for a business card.
“That’s great, but what does it have to do with me,” Jason asked.
“We’re worried about the effect your home is having on values,” Bruce answered. “You’ve been on the market so long that people are going to start wondering if there’s something wrong with the neighborhood.”
“That’s absurd,” Jason boomed. “You’re coming down on ME when everyone else on the block is just giving their homes away? You should be thanking me! The Smiths or the Gundersons are who you ought’a be talking to right now, not me.”
“I’ll admit that I was happy to see you give it a shot when you first went on the market,” the old-timer said, scratching a suspicious looking cluster of basal cells on the tip of his leathery nose. “Hadn’t seen a price like that in ages. I thought you were nuts, but figured you’d drop the price until you eventually found the market.”
“The market is where we’re priced, Bruce. These buyers and their agents are just too stupid to realize it. If they expect us to give them our house for what the short sale and foreclosure trash is going for, they’ve got another thing coming,” Jason argued.
“For a smart guy, you sure are dumb. The market is what a buyer is willing to pay you, son,” Bruce sighed. “Look, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us. We still have a little equity in our place, and we need every penny we can get out of it. Figure at least thirty percent for the down payment on the condo in Sun Lakes, another fifteen thousand or so for the medical bills that Medicare won’t cover and a few other expenses, and there isn’t much left. Every day you sit on the market at that ridiculous price, our golden years get a little less golden.”
Maggie removed a tube of ointment from her denim purse and passed it to her husband. Bruce smiled his thanks and applied a substantial dollop to his angry nose. The musty aroma of wet putty filled the room.
“Not to be rude, Bruce, but how is any of that my problem? I’m holding the line here so that all of us get the prices we deserve. I’m doing you a favor.”
Maggie patted her husband’s knee as Bruce shook his head.
“It’ll be alright, sweetheart. We’ll just have to wait another couple of years. I’ll ask Agnes about picking up that night shift at the diner.”
“And what about you, Mom,” Jason asked the diminutive figure to Maggie’s right. “You can’t be in on this. You just can’t.”
A single tear started the slow journey from her false eyelash to the point of her skeletal chin, leaving a contrail of mascara in its wake.
“Oh my, sweet, sweet boy,” she blubbered before breaking down into soul-rattling sobs. “How could I have let this happen to you?”
“Don’t cry, Mom,” he pleaded. “Please don’t cry.” His lower lip started quivering as Alexis walked over and put a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. He collapsed into her waiting arms.
“Let it out,” she cooed in his ear. “Let it all out.”
Jason did exactly that. He cried openly for the first time in his adult life, purging his body of the shame and frustration that gushed forth with his tears.
“I’m sorry,” he wailed. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Hands engulfed him as Jason suddenly found himself at the epicenter of a group hug.
“It’s okay,” one voice said. “We’re sorry, too,” said another.
“So what now,” Jason asked of no one in particular when the cluster loosened, all still dabbing at moist eyes.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Stephan Crawford, of Crawford and Associates Appraisals,” the previously unidentified master of ceremonies revealed. “We have our top residential appraiser scheduled for ten AM tomorrow. It’s all arranged and paid for. All you have to do is be here to let him in.”
Jason blew out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.
“You mean tomorrow? But I’ve got an appointment in the morning, and-”
“It’s taken care of, Jason. We’ve cleared it with your boss,” Stephan assured him. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”
A dour looking man entered the room from the kids’ wing with Blaine and Daniella in tow. His black on black attire was at odds with the Little Mermaid tiara that sat atop his mussed silver hair. He had the desperate look of an aristocrat who had just spent the weekend in county lockup.
“Mr. Samuels,” Jason gaped.
“Hello, Jason,” the new arrival began. “You are not welcome at the firm until this situation has been … resolved.” He chewed on the last word as he removed the undignified adornment from his angular head.
“But, sir,” Jason protested. “The Mayfair file-”
“Will be waiting for you when you get back,” his cadaverous boss interrupted. “You’re not doing anybody any good right now. Craig Tallman will handle all of your files until you get your head screwed on right.”
“Tallman,” Jason snorted. “He couldn’t hang a jury with twelve feet of rope and a stepladder.”
“And neither can you in your present state,” the senior partner countered. “The billing errors, the first year lapses in judgment … need I mention the fiasco with the character witness in the McElroy case? Put your house in order so we can get you back to your winning ways. That’s an order.”
Jason nodded his resigned acceptance.
“Besides,” the humorless lawyer continued. “We took a vote at the latest meeting of partners that you managed to miss. One more mention of your house or your lousy agent-”
“Hey,” Gerry objected.
“-and we strap you to the one-way gurney ourselves,” Mr. Samuels concluded behind arched eyebrows. “Understood?”
“Understood, sir,” Jason confirmed. “I know how difficult this has been on all of you. I know I have a problem, and I’m ready to get help.”
“Anything you need, Jason,” Stephan offered on behalf of the group. “We’re here for you.”
“I know that, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me,” he acknowledged, taking a step towards the kitchen. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m parched. Can I get anyone a drink?”
Several requests for water followed him into the kitchen.
“Well, that went about as well as it could have,” Alexis suggested, hugging her children to her hips.
Stephan glanced at his watch.
“Five, four, three, two ..”
Heads turned sharply at the sound of a slamming door. Moments later, a massive engine springing to life preceded the squeal of tires as a vehicle careened down the driveway.
“Jason,” Alexis screamed, running after him.
“Let him go,” Stephan advised.
“What do you mean, let him go,” she demanded, stopping to stare at the weary appraiser.
“He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
“But he’s sick,” she protested. “He could hurt our equity!”
“Yes, he could,” the appraiser admitted. “But he has to make the choice voluntarily. All the comparable market analyses in the world won’t do a bit of good if he is not open to the possibility of change. Sometimes an FVA has to hit rock bottom before finding the strength to accept treatment.”
“FVA,” she asked.
“Former Value Addict.”
“And if he never comes around,” she posited.
“They always come around,” Stefan assured her.
“But if he doesn’t?”
“Then we move to phase two,” Stephan informed her.
“What’s phase two?”
“You don’t want to know,” he answered.
The appraiser removed a cell phone from the holster on his belt and made a call.
“Hi, Gloria, it’s Stephan,” he announced to the person on the other end. “I’m at the Steadfast residence.”
He took a deep breath and scanned the eager faces staring back at him before continuing.
“We’ve got a runner.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 15, 2011 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
Damon’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he stepped out of the stately house and into the warmth of late April in Scottsdale, Arizona. Checking the display, he recognized the number from the four previous calls he’d let roll to voicemail. Whoever it was, his mystery caller was pretty keen on speaking with him right now. He sighed as the door closed behind him, deciding to break his personal rule about taking calls while showing property.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Damon said to the young couple waiting on the porch, pointing to the phone.
“No problem,” the wife answered, running a hand over the lone straggler in her otherwise perfectly coiffed, auburn hair. “We’ll go ahead and get Maddux in his seat.”
Nodding, Damon pressed the “receive” button and put the phone to his ear.
“This is Damon,” he informed the caller in a slightly quizzical tone. Not for the first time, he wondered if he sounded helpful or confused.
“Yes, um, hi, this is Peggy Dragic. You showed my listing on Oak? Just curious what the buyers thought.”
The vein over Damon’s right eye throbbed with aggravation as his cobalt blue eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“You’re kidding, right,” he demanded, the sing-songy eagerness in his voice replaced with an icy baritone. “You’ve called five times in the past ten minutes for feedback?”
“I have a very eager seller,” she responded, by way of an apology.
“Look, Peggy, I’m right in the middle of an appointment. If you want to call back with the property address, you can leave it on my voicemail. I’ll review my notes when I’m done here and call you back,” he directed, willing his rigid jaw to relax. The last thing he needed was a trip to the dentist to fix another filling.
“Surely you remember it,” the agent pressed. “8423 North Oak – the beautifully remodeled Tudor with a split guest suite and stained glass clerestory windows in the foyer.”
He glanced at his black Yukon, where his clients were struggling to load their squirming nine month old. He couldn’t help but smile at their plight. Dylan had started reacting to his seat like a cat to an ice bath at about the same age. Damon suspected it was because he didn’t want to face backwards anymore. No longer content within his own little world, he was ready to join the big, forward-facing one.
“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell,” he lied, deciding to play along. “What day did you say I showed it?”
“Today, between ten and eleven,” the incredulous agent informed him.
Damon pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time.
10:31 AM.
“Today? We must not have gotten to it yet. Nothing but overpriced dogs to this point,” he said. His mouth curved into a toothless grin.
“But I just got off the phone with the seller! She said you were just there!”
“Wait … did you say Oak,” he asked.
“Yes, Oak! There’s a koi pond in the front courtyard,” the agent clarified.
“No koi ponds today, just a stagnant bog that someone is using to brew West Nile virus. Couldn’t have been your listing,” he assured her, looking down at the half dozen carp of varied brilliant colors loitering near his feet.
“She was home when you came through,” the agent insisted. “You were there for half an hour!”
Movement in the living room window caught Damon’s attention. A wrinkled face disappeared behind the elegant taupe curtain when he turned to look.
“Tudor, you say? We did see one Tudor, but it needed a lot of work,” he replied.
“My listing has newer appliances and a tankless hot water system,” the agent corrected.
“Well the one I’m thinking of smelled like an old lady’s apothecary chest and had the most garish flooring I have ever seen. The husband called it the “La Vida Loca House.”
“I’ll have you know that is the finest terracotta tile money can buy, imported directly from an artisan in Pienza. Each piece is handmade, baked in the sun for seventy two hours and fired in a 16th century kiln,” she huffed.
“No kidding? It looked like something my kid made in art class,” Damon responded. “And not for nothing, but Michelangelo he is not.”
“Well, what did they think about the kitchen? Is that not a gourmet’s delight,” she asked.
“If you are into cherry wood and granite, I suppose,” Damon admitted. “My people are alderwood and corian people. The kitchen would be the first thing they’d have to gut.”
“You won’t find another piece of property like this,” she pressed. “Where else can you get an acre and a half backing to state trust land in Scottsdale?”
“Maintenance would be a killer,” Damon countered. “My people are relocating from a studio apartment in San Francisco. He doesn’t even own a lawnmower.”
“How about the price,” she asked, hesitating slightly.
Damon allowed an audible sigh to preface his reply.
“You already know you’re overpriced by two hundred thousand, Peggy. No sense belaboring the point. It’s out of their range, but we wanted to take a look just in case it was move-in ready and the seller was willing to deal a little bit.”
“She is open to all offers,” the agent replied.
Damon realized he was pacing and began walking towards the SUV, where his clients had finally wrestled their sobbing child into his seat. He made a mental note to stop for a snack, toy, bottle of methadone or any other anti-tantrum talisman one could purchase at a Circle K.
“I appreciate that, but I just don’t see this house working for my people, Peggy. They want a split master, need an extra half bath, hate stairs …”
“Any suggestions? She really needs out of that house,” the desperate agent interrupted. “Since her husband passed away last year, it’s become too much for her to handle. Her family is all waiting for her back in Toledo.”
“Just between me and you, as a professional courtesy, it’s not going to sell while she’s living there. Her stuff is all over the place, family pictures staring down at you from every wall. Didn’t help that she followed us through the entire house, pointing out where one of her kids bumped his head forty years ago and the laundry room baseboard that Daisy, the Golden Retriever, chewed up in the mid eighties. My people felt like intruders.”
“I know, I know,” the crestfallen agent confessed. “I keep telling her to take the dog for a walk during showings. It died ten years ago, but she doesn’t know that.”
“Put her on a plane to Toledo and crash the price. It’s too far gone for a mom and pop. Your buyer is an investor.”
Damon climbed behind the wheel and buckled his seat belt while pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder in a well-practiced maneuver. After checking his passengers to ensure that everyone was secure, he started the car.
“Well, not what I wanted to hear, but I appreciate your candor,” the agent said, partially obscured by the throaty engine roaring to life.
“No sweat, hope it helps,” Damon offered.
“It does, thanks for taking the time.”
“Sure thing, Peggy. Best of luck,” Damon concluded, terminating the call and dropping the phone into the grey cup holder in the console. He looked in the rearview at the young woman in the back seat, beaming despite the now shrieking child next to her.
“So what do you think, guys? Still feeling it,” he asked.
“Absolutely, it’s everything we’ve ever wanted,” the computer programmer with the prematurely salt and pepper flecked buzz cut sitting next to him gushed, breaking from his usual recalcitrance to answer for them both.
“Terrific, let’s go back to the office and write it up. One thing, though,” Damon teased.
“What,” both spouses asked in unison.
“We’re gonna offer a hundred grand less than we discussed.”
All three smiled as they pulled away from the curb, leaving 8423 N. Oak Drive in their wake.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 13, 2011 | This & That
“I’ll dust it, but I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”
The lanky crime scene investigator known as Phelps kneeled beside the passenger door of the beige sedan and opened his kit. He shook his head as he studied the eruption of prints on and around the chrome handle, his floppy, straw-blond hair betraying his reluctance.
“Whaddya mean, waste of time,” Detective Dekker demanded. “There must be fifty prints on that door.”
“Fifty six visible latents,” Phelps corrected. “Look, Detective, these are ancient. See how the paint has oxidized around the perimeter of this one?”
Decker nodded.
“The epithelial oil has preserved the surface underneath, essentially forming a hermetical seal against the elements, while the surrounding paint shows advanced stages of weathering. If the print was fresh, the underlying paint would reflect the same level of deterioration,” Phelps concluded.
“How long are we talking here,” Dekker asked.
“Difficult to say. Lots of variables. Paint degradation to this extent would take decades if parked indoors and properly cared for. The prints would have been obliterated by routine washing and waxing, however, so-”
“Skip ahead,” Dekker growled. Patience had never been his forte.
“Couple years, give or take,” Phelps summarized.
“Run them through CODIS anyway,” Dekker ordered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Phelps returned to his work without argument.
“Got something over here, Peter,” a female voice called from inside the car. His partner was the only one who called him by his given name. Even his mother called him “Deck.”
Dekker walked around to the driver side and poked his ruddy face inside the open door frame. The familiar, dizzying combination of vanilla and lilac rose from the occupant’s flowing, jet-black hair, overpowering the close quarters.
“Whatcha got, Perez?”
“GPS. God, I love technology. Almost as much as I love the predictability of a Realtor,” she answered.
“Let me guess, a synopsis of the last five hours of his life? He programmed a route of the homes he was showing yesterday.”
“Close,” Perez responded, extending an olive hand to the windshield-mounted unit. Dekker’s eyes lingered on the recent addition to her slender ring finger for a moment before moving to the data that was called up on the display.
“Wait, I know that address,” he interjected.
“Of course you do,” Perez replied, turning to face him with a wicked grin. Her dark Persian eyes flared with mischief. “You’re there most every Tuesday and Thursday. Are the lunch specials as superb as everyone says?”
He felt his face warm as he flushed a deep crimson.
“Yes, I mean no. I mean I, uh … how’d you know that,” Dekker stammered.
“I’m a cop, Peter,” she said with an ironic wink. “Besides, let’s just say that I don’t have to call Quantico for any help with the profile.”
“What about the rest of his stops,” Dekker asked, eager to plow ahead.
“Airport, few more gentlemen’s clubs, a liquor store and the bank,” Perez informed him.
“I don’t get it,” Dekker mused, regaining his composure. “The wife told us he was out showing property all afternoon. Big shot investor of some sort.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a man lied to his wife about his whereabouts, Peter,” she noted, eyes darting to the floor.
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. “Something is off here, though. How did his car end up all the way out here in the sticks if he was barhopping in the city? And how do you explain the credit card records? That stop at the Quickie Mart off I-10 for bottled water, soda, ice and snacks is consistent with the contents of the cooler in the back seat.”
“He was thirsty,” Perez suggested.
“No, he was definitely planning to meet somebody,” Dekker corrected. “Those are tour guide supplies.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Perez said.
“What?”
“He made one more stop. Missed it the first time,” she confessed. “But this can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s right here,” she answered.
“Here? On purpose? How is that even possible? There can’t be any address associated with this place,” Dekker argued, gesturing to the surrounding area. “We’re in the middle of frigging nowhere.”
Surveying the fallow cornfield, his sinuses, reminded to object, began throbbing. If desolation had a taste, it was the dusty hint of maize that now sat upon his tongue.
“True, he wasn’t necessarily looking for these coordinates, just something off grid,” Perez elaborated. “Take a look at this.”
Dekker leaned in closer, doing a poor job of ignoring the electricity that coursed through his body when a few errant strands of her hair brushed his cheek. The GPS display was illuminated with the green letters, BFE.
“Is that time-stamped,” he asked.
“5:42 PM, exactly two hours after the previous search.”
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong. Something happened alright, but he wasn’t forced to drive here,” Dekker declared. “Things went bad with the mystery guest for some reason or another, and our boy had a change of plans.”
They were interrupted by a loud crash behind them.
“What the hell,” Decker exclaimed as he caught sight of the trunk bursting open in the rear view mirror. He jumped back from the doorway and sprinted the three steps to the back of the car, Perez not far behind. The shrieking CSI tech scurried around to the front bumper and ducked out of sight.
“Damn it, I thought this scene was secured!”
Perez jostled Dekker as he stopped short. She opened her mouth to chastise him, but had her train of thought derailed by the spectacle playing out in front of her slack-jawed partner.
“Whaa?”
Hopping away from the flabbergasted pair was a pale, middle-aged, white male. Save for the red garment with which he had been hog-tied, he was naked as the day he was born, his bare skin twinkling in the midday sun with each lurching movement. The gargling sound emanating from his strained vocal chords failed to resolve into coherent words.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see everyday,” Dekker managed.
The man had hop-crawled ten yards into the barren field before the detectives recovered their wits sufficiently to walk him down. They approached as one would a strange dog, palms up and cooing assurances of, “it’s okay,” and “no one’s gonna hurt you.” Closing in, they noted a light dusting of glitter on his skin to compliment the heavy stench of Scotch. He regarded the detectives through bulging, bloodshot eyes that had taken on the panicked sheen of a cornered animal before grudgingly yielding to their assistance.
“Herph mah,” he pleaded. “Herph mah.”
Phelps loped over with a blanket from the CSI van as Dekker freed the captive from the silk necktie that bound him and dislodged a crumpled up piece of paper from his throat.
“Help me,” the man croaked, wincing against the words.
The trio helped him to the backseat of Dekker’s Saturn, where Perez took his statement as they awaited the arrival of the paramedics.
Leaving the victim to his thoughts after fifteen minutes of gentle questioning, Dekker let a low whistle escape his lips when they were clear.
“Dirtbag,” Perez spit as she looked back at the cowering figure in the window.
“Hey, not his fault if he doesn’t want to buy,” Dekker retorted. “Like my daddy always said, never pity a salesman.”
“Yeah, but four years? FOUR YEARS? You string somebody along like that and you’re lucky they don’t show up at your front door with a bazooka,” Perez answered, eyes narrowing.
“Touche,” Dekker said.
“This had to have been the last straw,” she decided. “Guy hasn’t had a client in his car in ages, according to the wife, right?”
“Right,” Dekker acknowledged.
“His white whale calls out of the clear blue sky and says he wants to see some multi-million dollar properties. He’s serious this time. Our guy puts on his best suit and closing tie, makes appointments, picks the whale up at the airport, gets derailed by requests to hit up every strip club and nightspot within a five mile radius. Ever the good host, he hits the ATM to pull out his last sixty bucks somewhere in the middle of it all.”
“Then Moby Dick here tells our boy that he’s too partied out to look at houses and needs a lift back to the airport,” Dekker finished.
Dekker handed Perez the wet piece of paper he had fished from the victim’s mouth. Unwadded, it was a surprisingly legible document. She handed it back after a cursory glance.
Perez nodded.
“Our boy goes all Falling Down vintage Michael Douglas. Plots a course for the middle of nowhere, strips the vic in symbolic retaliation for same, binds him, gags him with the buyer agency agreement, abandons him with the vehicle and … ,” she trailed off, scouring the horizon for signs of life.
“K-9 unit should get here before it gets dark,” Dekker told her. “They’ll find him. Nothing easier to track than imitation Aqua Velva and desperation.”
She looked unconvinced.
“A night in the desert isn’t gonna do him in if the nuclear holocaust in the housing industry hasn’t managed it,” he added. “They’re cockroaches. Can’t kill’em.”
“But if he’s suffering some kind of psychotic break …,” she began.
“Then better he’s wandering around out there somewhere than holding an open house,” Dekker interrupted with a chuckle.
“And if the dogs don’t get here before nightfall? Cockroach or not, no one is surviving two days in this heat without water.”
“He’s a Realtor, Alana,” Dekker reminded her. “We should be so lucky.”
She studied his rigid jaw for a long moment, recalling her embittered partner’s botched short sale. The stress of the resulting foreclosure had led to his eventual separation and six months spent on her couch. Not necessarily in that order.
“You gave them the wrong directions, didn’t you,” she demanded.
His light green eyes flashed grey, a tell that had chased him out of the weekly Robbery/Homicide division’s card game years ago.
“Maybe.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 11, 2011 | Home Buying, Scottsdale Real Estate
January 11th, 2011 … do you know where your tank tops are?
It’s time to talk Scottsdale vacation homes, people.
You see, while you are buried under two feet of snow, I’m mowing my lawn. In flip flops. As today is a bit nippy by Scottsdale standards, I went a little crazy and skipped the zinc oxide on my nose.
Now, I wouldn’t dream of poking fun at you poor buggers who are currently caught within exhale radius of Mr. Snow Miser’s arctic morning breath. Nope, I have no intentions of gloating or doing the verbal Ickey Shuffle all over that frozen tundra you call home. I’m certainly not going to ask you to hand deliver a message to one of the polar bears in the Coke commercials or wonder aloud about your local animal ordinances, and whether or not they allow for emperor penguin adoption.
Summer will roll around soon enough, and the mercury-bending shoe will be on the other foot.
In the meantime, however, I thought I might offer a few examples of that which a Scottsdale winter does not consist. You know, to help spread some vicarious warmth to those unfortunate souls trapped in the ice tray of nature’s Frigidaire. I’m all about paying it forward this year.
Things I Am Not Doing Right Now:
- Shoveling My Driveway
- Scraping Ice From My Frozen Windshield
- Winterizing My Cactus
- Spreading Salt Anywhere Other Than the Rim of My Margarita Glass
- Ordering Heating Oil – Might Restock On Banana Boat Deep Tanning Oil, However
- Dressing Like the Michelin Man On His Way to a Potato Sack Race
- Turning the Ignition Over In My Car In Case I Might Use It in April
- Getting My Tongue Stuck To a Pole
- Dodging Porch Stalactites
- Commanding Any of My Pets to “Mush”
- Battling Seasonal Affective Disorder
- Wearing a Thermal Speedo
- Driving a Zamboni to Work
- Opening Another Window On My Summer Solstice Advent Calendar
- Eating Comfort Food By the Cubic Ton
- Chewing Seal Blubber
- Climbing Inside the Belly of a Dead Tauntaun to Ward Off Hypothermia
- Cursing the Inebriated Snow Plow Driver
- Empathizing With the Donner Party
- Pretending to Puff Smoke With Each Visible Breath
- Hibernating
- Seeing Russia From My House
- Ice Skating On My Swimming Pool
- Remodeling My Mid-Century Modern Igloo
- Being Rescued From My Mailbox By a Whiskey-Laden Saint Bernard
- Employing a Sherpa For My Trek to the Grocery Store
- Joining a Polar Bear Club
- Getting Ready For My Neighborhood Yeti Watch Shift
Fun as all that sounds, I’ve got a full afternoon of driving around in my convertible after squeezing in a quick round of golf. Depending on my motivation, I might go lay out on top of Camelback Mountain for a spell. This epidermis ain’t gonna tan itself, you know.
Want to secure your own life of leisure? We can always accommodate one more Scottsdale vacation home owner. Contact us today, or jump to our Scottsdale home search page to find your own little slice of Southwestern paradise.
*Mukluks not required.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 7, 2011 | Home Selling, This & That
To whom it may concern,
I am drafting this explanation of hardship in attempt to effect a short sale of my property located at 88 W. Tantalus Lane, Scottsdale, AZ 85258.
When I purchased the property on 1/16/2005, I was under the impression that Real Estate values never declined. That’s what the guy doing the seminar behind the Benihana on 12th said, at least. Granted, I wasn’t thinking clearly because I skipped dinner and the aroma of szechuan beef was driving me half mad with hunger, but I decided right then and there that I was going to put all sixty two of my dollars into Real Estate investing. If he could buy 764 properties for no money down, why the hell couldn’t I? Figured I could finally hang up my plunger for good.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to swab out a stall after the sponsored little league team comes through and crushes fifty happy meals in four minutes flat?
So I bought a place. And another. And another. Before long, I had both shift managers leasing houses from me. It was awesome. One time, Steve, the ball-buster who managed nights, told me I overcooked the fries. My shift ended two hours before his. I threw all his shit out in the front yard and changed the locks. Nobody complained about my fries after that.
Anywho, after my brother in law flew down from Sacramento and got his Real Estate license in like six minutes, he hooked me up with this appraiser guy. Got all the houses refi’ed for 200% of purchase price and bought this here spread for cash. I only put the mortgage on it with you guys so I could cash myself out to fund the hotel in Fiji.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I lost my job. Got laid off right after telling the regional manager that his fat $%&^ of a wife better start watering my hibiscus or they’d be on the street faster than she could cram a number eight combo down that feed trough she called a throat.
Downsized, I couldn’t believe it. With values beginning to sag, the double whammy of losing the $5.75/hour and a solid tenant was the start of a downward spiral that I couldn’t escape.
The Internal Revenue Service started coming around about this time and asking stupid questions like, “Exactly how many primary residences do you have,” and “Did you really think you could complete a 1031 exchange into a Peruvian brothel?” They seized my liquid assets. Communists.
After I got out of prison, I spent 16 months in Tijuana clearing my head. I took some part time custodial work in the entertainment industry, but as fate would have it, the goddamn donkey got the drop on me one night. Kicked me right in the lower bicuspids as I was bending down to hose off the astroturf. As medical coverage wasn’t provided by this particular employer, I was pushed further into debt by the street vendor who fashioned my new teeth out of cardboard and chicklets. Now every time I smile, I provide free advertising for “Beto’s Baja Fish Tacos.”
Despondent, I returned home to find my brother in law (who had since given up on Real Estate and was now selling Tang on Craigslist full time) had let my properties go completely to pot. Broken windows, four foot high weeds in the yard, missing air conditioning units … all of my tenants were long gone. Except for the dead guy we found in a barcalounger at the Clarendon duplex (I think you have the loan on that one, too?). That episode put me in counseling for a year. That’s when the whole drug thing really got out of hand.
So anyway, do you really want this piece of &*%^ back or what? We smoked the drapes.
Best,
Hugh Joversite
