Where the green grass grows ch 8

The Security Log Breakthrough

The glass-walled manager’s office of the Beverly Hills Beach Club was unusually quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic tapping of Dixon Wilson’s fingers against his desk. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the pool deck, where affluent members lounged under pristine white umbrellas. But inside, the atmosphere was strictly business.

David Silver stood behind Dixon, leaning over his shoulder with his arms crossed, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned. His eyes were locked on the bank of high-definition security monitors displaying various angles of the club’s private loading dock.

"Run that tape back from 2:00 AM, Dixon," David said, his voice tight. "The inventory count for the upcoming Scott Scanlon fundraising auction didn't match the manifests that the campaign committee submitted. We’re missing two crates, and we have three extra canvases that nobody accounted for."

Dixon tapped a command into his tablet, reversing the footage. "I'm on it, David. As General Manager, I don't care how popular Scott Scanlon is right now—nobody brings bulk freight through my back doors without a signed delivery bill. Look right there."

The security monitor flickered, showing the dimly lit service alley behind the Beach Club kitchen. A white panel van had backed up to the loading ramp, its headlights killed. A tall, gaunt man in a rumpled linen shirt stepped out of the driver's side, looking anxiously over his shoulder before opening the rear doors. He began wheeling heavy, oversized canvases wrapped in thick industrial plastic onto the loading dock, completely bypassing the standard check-in station.

David gasped, straightening up instantly. "Unbelievable. That's Colin Robbins."

"Kelly’s ex?" Dixon’s eyes narrowed as he froze the frame, zooming in on Colin’s sharp, anxious face. "What is a washed-up gallery owner doing playing night-shift delivery boy for a political fundraising auction?"

"He’s not delivering art, Dixon. He’s staging something," David said, his mind flashing back to the warning signs Dylan had hinted at during the fundraiser. "Dylan was right. There is something completely rotten behind Jasper's operation, and they’re using Scanlon's event to host it. Call Dylan. Tell him to bring Jack and get over here right now. They need to see this."

Ten minutes later, the office door clicked open. Dylan McKay walked in first, his denim jacket slung over one shoulder, followed closely by his son, Jack. Jack carried his laptop bag, his young adult posture vigilant as he looked at the array of security feeds.

"What do you guys have?" Dylan asked, skipping the pleasantries as he walked up to the monitors.

Dixon hit play, letting the footage run again. "Watch the loading dock, Dylan. This happened right after the club closed last night. Colin Robbins personally brought three massive expressionist canvases into our staging room. They’re labeled as part of the Scanlon campaign's charity lot for tomorrow night’s VIP auction, but he didn't log them into our central inventory tracking system."

Jack stepped closer, squinting at the frozen image of the canvas frame. "Look at the depth of those custom borders, Dad. Those aren't standard gallery stretchers. The wood is twice as thick as it needs to be to hold a canvas that size. If you were looking to hide physical weight—like stacks of unrecorded cash or loose jewels—that's exactly where you'd hollow out the structural support."

Dylan’s jaw tightened, a cold realization settling into his chest. "He's using the high-society crowd at the Scanlon fundraiser as a clean exit point. If someone buys those paintings at a premium auction, the money looks like a legitimate political donation or high-end acquisition, and the hidden cargo walks right out the front door with an elite buyer who has absolutely no idea they're acting as a cartel mule."

"Exactly," David said, leaning against the desk. "We can cancel the auction, but if we do, Jasper and Colin will just pull the inventory and vanish into the wind. We won't have any proof to hand to the authorities, and they'll just set up shop somewhere else."

Dylan looked at the frozen frame of the white panel van, his eyes tracking the partial license plate visible under the alley security light. He looked over at Jack, who was already running a digital cross-reference on his laptop.

"Jack, can you track that vehicle destination log through the local transit cameras?" Dylan asked.

"Give me two minutes, Dad," Jack said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "If he came from Malibu, he had to take the Pacific Coast Highway. I can trace the registration anomalies if Dixon gives me access to the club’s perimeter gateway."

Dixon quickly tapped his tablet, authorizing the digital handshake. "You’ve got full clearance, kid. Knock yourself out."

Within moments, a map of the coastline popped up on Jack's screen, a red digital tracer pinging along the coastal highway before stopping at a secluded commercial zone just off the main road. "Got him. The van is registered to a commercial holding company. The physical address is a private storage facility and industrial warehouse tucked back in the Malibu canyons. It’s less than twenty minutes from here."

Dylan reached out, patting Jack’s shoulder firmly. "Good work, son." He turned to David and Dixon, his face stone-cold. "Keep the Scanlon fundraising auction scheduled exactly as it is. Don't let Jasper or Colin know that we've touched the security files. Jack and I are going to take Brandon and pay a little visit to this Malibu warehouse tonight while the yard is quiet."

"Be careful, Dylan," David warned, his expression deadly serious. "If Colin is mixed up with the kind of international capital Jasper is playing with, they aren't going to just throw punches if they catch you snooping around their inventory."

"Let them try," Dylan said quietly, leading Jack toward the exit. "We’re ending this timeline tonight."