The chairman’s office suite, while more spacious than others on the senior management floor, still conformed to a GSP & L policy of being relatively spartan. This was to impress on visitors that shareholders’ and customers’ money was spent on essentials, not frills. Nim, following custom, went to a lounge area containing several comfortable chairs. Eric Humphrey, after crossing to his desk to pick up a file, joined him.
Though it was bright daylight outside and windows of the suite commanded a view across the city, all draperies were drawn, with artificial lighting on. The chairman always evaded questions about why he worked this way, though one theory held that, even after thirty years, he missed the view of his native Boston and would accept no substitutes.
“I presume you’ve seen the latest report in here.” Humphrey indicated the file which was labeled:
PROPERTY PROTECTION DEPARTMENT
Subject: Theft of Power
“Yes, I have.”
“Obviously the situation’s getting worse. I know in some ways it’s a pinprick, but it makes me damned angry.”
“A twelve-million-dollar loss per year is a whopping pinprick,” Nim observed.
The report they were speaking of, by a department head named Harry London, described ways in which stealing of electric power and gas had become epidemic. The method of theft was through tampering with meters—usually by individuals, though there were indications that some professional service firms were involved.
Eric Humphrey mused, “The twelve million figure is an estimate. It could be less, or perhaps a whole lot more.”
“The estimate is conservative,” Nim assured him. “Walter Talbot believed that too. If you recall, the chief pointed out there was a two percent gap last year between electric power we produced and the amount we were able to account for—billings to customers, company use, line losses, et cetera.”
It was the late chief engineer who had first sounded the alarm within GSP & L about theft of service. He, also, prepared a report—an early and thorough one which urged creation of a Property Protection Department. The advice was acted on. It was one more area, Nim thought, in which the chief’s contribution would be missed.
“Yes, I do recall,” Humphrey said. “That’s an enormous amount of unaccounted-for electricity.”
“And the percentage is four times higher than two years ago.”
The chairman drummed fingers on his chair arm. “Apparently the same is true with gas. And we can’t just sit back and let it happen.”
“We’ve been lucky for a long time,” Nim pointed out. “Power theft has been a worry in the East and Midwest far longer than it has been here. In New York last year Con Edison lost seventeen million dollars that way. Chicago—Commonwealth Edison—which sells less electricity than we do and no gas, set their loss at five to six million. It’s the same in New Orleans, Florida, New Jersey …”
Humphrey interrupted impatiently, “I know all that.” He considered, then pronounced, “All right, we’ll intensify our own measures, if necessary increasing our budget for investigation. Regard this as your own over-all assignment, representing me. Tell Harry London that. And emphasize I’m taking a personal interest in his department, and I expect to see results.”
7
“Some people around here have the misguided notion that stealing power is something new,” Harry London declared. “Well, it isn’t. Would you be surprised if I told you there was a recorded case in California over a century ago?” He spoke in the manner of a schoolmaster addressing a class, even though he had an audience of one—Nim Goldman.
“Most things don’t surprise me; that does,” Nim said.
London nodded. “Then get a load of this one.”
He was a short, craggy man with crisp speech which bordered on the pedantic when he set out to explain any subject, as he was doing now. A former master sergeant of Marines, with a Silver Star for gallantry in action, he had later been a Los Angeles police detective, then joined Golden State Power & Light five years ago as assistant chief of security. For the past six months Harry London had headed a new department—Property Protection—specifically set up to deal with thefts of power, and during that time he and Nim had become good friends. The two men were in the department’s makeshift quarters now—in London’s office, one of a series of cramped glass cubicles.
“It happened in 1867 in Vallejo,” London said. “The San Francisco Gas Company set up a plant there and the man in charge was an M. P. Young. One of Vallejo’s hotels was owned by a guy named John Lee. Well, this Lee was caught cheating on his gas bills. What he’d done was put a bypass around his meter.”
“I’ll be damned! That long ago?”
“Wait! That isn’t the half of it. The gas company man, Young, tried to collect money from John Lee to pay for the gas which had been stolen. That made Lee so mad he shot Young and was later charged with assault and attempted murder.”
Nim said skeptically, “Is all that true?”
“It’s in California history books,” London insisted. “You can look it up the way I did.”
“Never mind. Let’s stick to here and now.”
“You read my report?”
“Yes. So did the chairman.” Nim repeated J. Eric Humphrey’s decision about intensified action and his demand for results.
London nodded. “You’ll get results. Maybe as early as this week.”
“You mean Brookside?”
“Exactly.”
Brookside, a bedroom community some twenty miles from the city center, had been mentioned in the Property Protection Department report. A pattern of power theft cases had been discovered there and now a more thorough investigation was planned.
“D-day in Brookside,” Harry London added, “is the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s Thursday. I hadn’t expected you could set things up so fast.”
The report had indicated, without specifying when, that a “raid” on Brookside was planned. It would be spearheaded by the Property Protection staff, comprising London, his immediate deputy Art Romeo, and three assistants. They were to be supported by a contingent of other GSP & L employees—thirty specially trained meter readers, borrowed from Customer Service, plus a half-dozen service engineers and two photographers who would record any evidence on film.
The entire force would assemble downtown and be conveyed to Brookside by chartered bus. Accompanying them would be a radio van, to be used as the communications center. Walkie-talkies would be issued to key people. A fleet of small vehicles would provide local shuttle service.
During the preceding day—“D-day minus one”—the meter readers and engineers would be briefed on what was expected of them, though their actual destination would be kept secret.
On arrival at Brookside on D-day, the meter readers would begin house-to-house and business-to-business checks of electric and gas meters, searching for signs of tampering. They would also go to specific buildings, selected because of known theft patterns. Supermarkets, for example, were always prime suspects because electricity was their second largest operating cost (labor was the first) and many such businesses had cheated in the past. Thus all supermarkets in the area would be checked. As and when anything suspicious was located, the service engineers, backed up by Harry London’s Property Protection men, would move in.
“The quicker you put something like this together, the less danger there is of leaks.” London grinned. “In the Marines there were bigger jobs we did a whole lot faster.”
“Okay, gyrene,” Nim said, “I was just a dogface. But I’d like to be in on this operation.”
Although Nim’s own military service had been brief, it gave him something of a common bond with Harry London. Immediately after college Nim was drafted and sent to Korea. There, a month after arrival and while his platoon was probing the enemy from an advanced position, they were strafed and bombed by American planes. (Afterward the ghastly error was described in military double-talk as “friendly fire.”) Four U.S. inf
antrymen were killed, others injured, including Nim, who sustained a perforated eardrum which became infected, leaving him permanently deaf on the left side. Soon after, he was sent home and quietly given a medical discharge, the Korean incident hushed up. Nowadays, most of Nim’s colleagues and friends were aware they should sit on his right during conversations—the side of his good ear. But only a few knew exactly why. Harry London was one of the few.
“Be my guest on Thursday,” London said.
They arranged a rendezvous.
Afterward they talked about the sabotage at La Mission which had killed Walter Talbot and the others. Although Harry London was not involved directly in the investigation, he and the utility’s chief security officer were after-hours drinking cronies and exchanged confidences; also London’s background as a police detective had given him contacts with law enforcement agencies which he kept operative. “The county sheriff is working with the FBI and our own city police,” he informed Nim. “So far all leads have run up against a brick wall. The FBI, which does most processing of evidence in this kind of case, believe they’re looking for a new batch of kooks without police records, which makes everything harder.”
“How about the man in Salvation Army uniform?”
“That’s being worked on, but there’s a hundred ways they could have got the uniform, most not traceable. Of course, if they pull the same dodge again, that’s something else. A lot of people will be alert and waiting.”
“You think they might?”
London shrugged. “They’re fanatics. Which makes them crazy-smart, brilliant in some ways, stupid in others. You never can tell. Often it just takes time. If I hear any rumbles I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
What he had just heard, Nim realized, was in essence what he had told Ardythe last Wednesday night. It reminded him that he should call Ardythe, and perhaps go to her, soon. Nim had seen her once since Wednesday—briefly at Walter’s funeral on Saturday morning, which many from GSP & L had attended. It had been, to Nim, a depressingly ritualistic occasion, supervised by an unctuous undertaker whom Walter Talbot would have detested. Nim and Ardythe had exchanged a few stilted words, but that was all.
Now he wondered: Ought he to allow a “decent” interval before telephoning Ardythe? Or was it hypocritical, at this stage, for him to consider decency at all?
He told Harry London, “I’ll see you on D-day.”
8
It would be another scorching day in that long, hot summer. That much was evident, even at 9 A.M. when Nim reached Brookside.
The D-day force had arrived an hour earlier. Its communications center was set up on the parking lot of a conveniently central shopping plaza where a half-dozen of the utility’s vehicles were clustered, identifiable by their distinctive orange and white coloring and the familiar GSP & L logo. Already the thirty meter readers had been driven to dispersal points. They were mostly young men, among them some college students working during the summer, and each was in possession of a batch of cards showing addresses where meters and related equipment were to be inspected. The cards were from a special computer printout last night. Normally the meter readers’ job was simply to read numbers and report them; today they would ignore the numbers and search only for signs of power theft.
Harry London, emerging from the communications van, met Nim as he arrived. London appeared perky and cheerful. He wore a short-sleeved, military-style shirt and smartly creased tan slacks; his shoes were brightly shined. Nim removed his own suit coat and tossed it back into his Fiat. The sun had begun to bake the parking lot, sending heat waves upward.
“We’re getting results already,” London said. “Five clear fraud cases in the first hour. Now our service guys are checking out three more.”
Nim asked, “The first five—are they business or residential?”
“Four residential, one business, and that’s a lulu. The guy’s been stealing us blind, gas and electric both. Do you want to see?”
“Sure.”
London called into the communications van, “I’ll be in my car, with Mr. Goldman. We’re going to incident number four.”
As they drove away, he told Nim, “I’ve already got two feelings. One, what we’ll be seeing today is the tip of an iceberg. Two, in some cases we’re up against professionals, maybe an organized ring.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Let me answer that after you’ve seen what I’m going to show you.”
“Okay.” Nim settled back, inspecting Brookside as they moved through it.
It was an affluent suburb, typical of many which mushroomed in the late 1950s and early sixties. Before then it was farmland; now the farms were gone, replaced by housing developments and businesses serving them. There was—at least, outwardly—no poverty in Brookside. Even small tract houses, in regimented rows, appeared well cared for, their handkerchief lawns manicured, paintwork fresh. Beyond this modest housing were several square miles of larger homes, including palatial mansions with three-car garages and separate service driveways. The community’s stores, some in attractive tree-lined malls, displayed quality merchandise which reflected the area’s prosperity. To Nim it seemed an unlikely locale for thefts of power.
As if reading his mind, Harry London offered, “Things ain’t always what they seem.” He turned the car away from the shopping area toward a gas station and garage complex which included a tunnel-type car wash. London stopped at the gas station office and got out. Nim followed.
A GSP & L service truck was also parked. “We’ve called for one of our photographers,” London said. “Meanwhile the service guy is guarding the evidence.”
A man in gray coveralls walked toward them, wiping his hands on a rag. He bad a spindly body, a fox-like face, and appeared worried. “Listen,” he said, “like I told you already, I don’t know nothing about no …”
“Yes, sir; so you did.” London turned to Nim. “This is Mr. Jackson. He gave us permission to enter his premises to inspect the meters.”
“Now I’m not so sure I should’ve,” Jackson grumbled. “Anyways I’m just the lessee here. It’s another outfit owns the building.”
“But you own the business,” London said. “And the gas and electric accounts are in your name. Right?”
“The way things are, the bank owns the goddam business.”
“But the bank didn’t interfere with your gas and electric meters.”
“I’m tellin’ the truth.” The garageman’s hands clutched the rag more tightly. “I dunno who done it.”
“Yes, sir. Do you mind if we go in?”
The garageman scowled but didn’t stop them.
London preceded Nim into the gas station office, then to a small room beyond, clearly used for storage. On the far wall were switches, circuit breakers, and meters for gas and electricity. A young man in GSP & L service uniform looked up as they came in. He said casually, “Hi!”
Harry London introduced Nim, then instructed, “Tell Mr. Goldman what you found.”
“Well, the electric meter had the seal broken and was put in the way it is now—upside down.”
“Which makes the meter run backwards or stop,” London added.
Nim nodded, well aware of that simple but effective way to get free power. First, the seal on a meter was pried open carefully. After that, the meter—which was simply plugged in to slots behind it—could be lifted out, inverted, and replaced. From then on, as electricity was consumed, the meter would either reverse itself or stop entirely—if the first, the record of consumption would diminish instead of increasing as it should. Later—probably a few days before a power company meter reader was expected—the meter would be restored to normal functioning, with the disturbance of the seal carefully concealed.
Several power companies which had suffered this kind of theft countered it nowadays by installing newer-type meters which operated correctly whether upside down or not. Another prevention method was through elaborate locking rings which m
ade meters non-removable, except with special keys. However, other ingenious ways of power theft existed; also there were still millions of older-type meters in use that could not accommodate locking rings, and they would cost a fortune to replace. Thus, through sheer numbers, plus the impossibility of inspecting all meters regularly, the cheaters held an advantage.
“The job on gas was fancier,” the serviceman said. He moved to a gas meter nearby and knelt beside it. “Take a look here.”
Nim watched as, with one hand, the serviceman traced a pipe which emerged from a wall, then connected to the meter several feet away. “This is the gas line coming in from outside.”
“From the street,” Harry London added. “From the company main.”
Nim nodded.
“Over here”—the serviceman’s hand moved to the far side of the meter—“is a line to the customer’s outlets. They use gas here for a big water heater, hot-air car dryers and for the stove and heater in an apartment upstairs. Every month that’s a lot of gas. Now look at this—closely.” This time, using both hands, he fingered what appeared to be pipe joints where the two pipes he had pointed to disappeared into the wall. Around each the cement had been loosened, some of it now in a small pile on the floor.
“I did that,” the serviceman volunteered, “to get a better look, and what you can see now is that those aren’t ordinary joints. They’re T-joints, connected to each other by another pipe, buried out of sight inside the wall.”
“An old-fashioned cheater’s bypass,” London said, “though this is the neatest one I’ve seen. What happens is that most of the gas used doesn’t pass through the meter the way it should, but goes directly from the street to the appliances.”
“There’s enough still goes through the meter to keep it operating,” the young serviceman explained. “But gas flows where there’s least resistance. There’s some resistance in the meter, so most gas goes through that extra pipe—the freebie route.”
“Not any more,” London pronounced.
A pert young woman carrying cameras and equipment came in from outside. She inquired cheerfully, “Somebody here want pictures?”