Bill Walton 

First-time landings at San Diego are as scary as putting down on a short strip on a Caribbean island. If you have traveled to the sun-Meccas of the south, you know of those short, narrow asphalt runways that end near a beach, surrounded by shrubby thorn bushes, where only planes that have burned off their heavy loads of fuel even attempt to land - islands where you take off and then stop at a longer strip to take on enough fuel to make it to the mainland. As we banked left on approach at San Diego, I could see from my window in front of the wing what appeared to be a freeway without cars, then I realized the pilot was lining up for this little stretch of black asphalt. We came in with lots of power and full flaps, touching down right on the button and braking hard with the wheels, reversed thrusters roaring. I would not like to abort a landing here because there were hills right in front of the landing strip. I understood now why we were flying American Airlines and why Air Canada did not fly its largest airplanes into San Diego. As I found out later, the airport had been used during World War II as a fighter delivery strip for an aircraft manufacturer. When the company shut down the plant to move to quarters where they could deliver jet aircraft from a longer runway, they gave the property to the city. The city kept trying to stretch the single strip and at the same time build skyscrapers right in the approach path, the result being a major city without a proper airport.

Nancy had reserved a car for us and we were soon on our way to the San Diego suburb of La Jolla. It was only about a fifteen-minute drive up the freeway but then it took us fifteen minutes to find the hotel. The Cove Suites was tucked away just across the street from a park fronting on the ocean.

The park was lined with tall palms and an island of Torrey Pines - those gnarled, misshapen pines that are unique to this one little place on the planet. The park was obviously a favourite spot for families and young people. There was a group playing Frisbee football - we call it Ultimate Football in Canada - and a female quarterback was throwing the Frisbee with the accuracy of a John Elway. There were a few trinket and Tee shirt sales tables but the sellers were not bothering the park visitors. Buskers were strumming their instruments in complete compliance with San Diego By-law 0502.76 that says no music may be louder than to be heard for more than 50 feet. They should apply that same bylaw to car stereos.

The four-storey Cove Suites was a cement block building that had been around for a while, but the rooms, although not fancy, were clean and quiet. The swimming pool and putting green were cut into the hillside behind the main structure. From the pool terrace, one could see the ocean just over the flat roof of the main building. Our balcony gave us a perfect view and we sat out, enjoying a drink of scotch as the orange sun dropped quickly into the Pacific Ocean. Like all ocean sunsets, it was a brief display of orange and then dark. I often wondered how island people would adapt to our twilight evenings where darkness comes slowly, giving time to prepare for the night, time to complete tasks begun late in the day, time to sit and linger over a drink, summing the successes of the day.

Nancy and I quickly got into a vacation routine, catching up on our sex life, walking hand-in-hand along the beach paths, sharing little laughs as we people-watched from our balcony. It was good to be alone, away from the cares of the office. The first two nights we telephoned home to see how the children were but then we grew comfortable in their absence, knowing that Mary and Philip were very capable of caring for Marisa and Justin. The intimacy that comes with an escape like this was good for us, giving us time to dedicate ourselves only to each other. No matter how much one tries to keep the romance kindled in a fast-paced working household, it slowly falls into the commonplace of routine. We even had sex after breakfast one morning, a spontaneous romp on the bed as we were about to change into our swimsuits. We promised each other that we would have to take a coffee break at home at least once a week when we returned to the office, each knowing this was only a fantasy to be cherished for a while.

We planned to visit at least two art galleries per day during the week we were in La Jolla and on Wednesday we had worked our way through about a quarter of the shops on Prospect Street. La Jolla is an up-scale village where everything is a little pricey, but still there is something for every taste. The stores were not unlike the better boutiques in our own Yorkville area, and I supposed from reading the tourism blurbs about La Jolla, the history paralleled that of Yorkville - from hippies to yuppies in a few strong economic years. From the playground of the Hollywood set to the home of the rich and somewhat famous.

Nancy and I were playing at buying paintings and jewellery, pretending to ourselves what pieces we would buy had we the money, but not carrying our charade to the extent of leading on the sales staff. To them we were typical tourists, I suppose. Then we walked into the Eagle Fine Arts Edition, a small shop that advertised Art and Antiques. Something had caught my eye as we had walked past this shop before but as soon as I entered the shop, it hit me. Morcos! There were over twenty pictures - reproductions and originals - in the place. Nancy sensed my excitement.

"Do you like these paintings, Honey?" she asked.

"Uh, yes. I find them very interesting. I have seen one or two of these works before, but I never realized the extent of his work." I had not told Nancy about the paintings in Sewell’s place. I was attracting the attention of the sales clerk now. She had been busy doing some bookwork and had only briefly acknowledged us when we came in.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked. "Are you familiar with Maher's work?"

"No, I can’t say as I know anything about him, but I certainly like his work."

"Maher has matured into a very accomplished artist," the clerk said. "He taught himself to paint when he was very young and developed a unique ability to capture light. If you would like to come into the back room here, I’ll show you what I mean by using some proper lighting."

The back room had pot lights that were controlled by a rheostat and the sales clerk explained how Maher Morcos' work changed in character with the lighting. We had just visited a gallery where the same sales technique had been tried on us. Yet I had to admit that Morcos' paintings did appear to have something just a little more to them than those we had been viewing the past few days. He was very bold with his white, using the white as some painters would use bright reds or chromatic yellows to focus the attention. I remembered the horse's eyes on the painting in Sewell’s office. The collection of Maher's paintings was very eclectic, everything from western pastorals to seascapes to portraits. There were two security cameras in the office.

"I notice that all of these portraits are of Middle East subjects. Is there some significance in his topics?" I asked.

"Yes, there is. Morcos was born in the Middle East - he came to America as a child but he is now interested in his roots. He has been quite successful and now has enough income to be able to paint what he likes, if you know what I mean, and his focus has changed to his Egyptian heritage." She laughed and continued, "It turns out that the demand for his work has increased. The 'Aida' that you saw in the back room is listed at $119,000 and he has an offer on it. Maher wants to keep it for a couple of years in the gallery as part of his display but it may go out soon. I think he and the buyer are making some deal on the number of reproductions that he will make."

"What would you get for a reproduction of that painting?" Nancy asked.

"We usually ask ten percent, so the prints would go for about $12,000."

"Wow!" I said, thinking that Sewell had paid some serious coin for those originals in his office.

"Well, it may seem like a lot, but when some of the Maher Morcos paintings are hanging in the White House and in the Palace in Saudi Arabia, you can see the prestige of owning a Morcos original. The 'Gentleman in the Market', the small painting over here by the window, is listed at $29,500. And if you are interested in sculpture, I have this piece here," she said, indicating a rather fine jade work depicting a native on a horse.

"I’m impressed," I said, and I really was. "Do you mind if we spend some time looking at the work?"

"Not at all. If you find something you like, I’ll be happy to have it wrapped for you."

"Oh, we probably won’t take anything tonight," Nancy said. "We’re here on vacation and carrying paintings on aircraft is so much trouble."

"Oh we can have a painting delivered anywhere in the States," she volunteered.

"We’re from Canada," I said hoping this would excuse us.

"Really? I thought from your accent that you might be New Englanders. What part of Canada are you from?"

"We live just outside Toronto," Nancy replied.

"Well isn’t that interesting. We have a client in Toronto. I forget his name - let me get my book and I’ll see if I can find it."

Once again, people think that if you are from a little country like Canada you must know their acquaintances. Our population belies the massive size of our geography. Nancy and I gave each other the knowing glance but continued to look at the paintings as the clerk went through her order book.

"Here it is," the clerk announced. "A Mr. Jerry Sewell - do you know him? I’ve never met the man, I’ve just seen his orders in the files."

Before Nancy could say anything, I said, "No, I don’t think so. But it’s interesting to think that someone in Toronto has one of these paintings."

"Oh, Mr. Sewell has several works. I think he has three originals. They are smaller paintings, but it is a very nice start to a collection. He also has a couple of reproductions that he bought for his board room." Three originals at the prices the clerk was quoting meant some serious coin. Perhaps our Mr. Sewell was hooked on Morcos. Maybe the bait to get him to surface was here in this store - or directly with Morcos. I would have to get a look at their books.

"Really?" I said. "Well, we should be going - we have dinner reservations at the Crab Catcher and we don’t want to be too late."

"The Crab Catcher is one of my favourite restaurants in La Jolla. Here, let me give you my card and this booklet on Maher. Perhaps you may change you mind and take something back to Canada with you," she smiled.

We thanked her for her hospitality and headed for dinner. I had a grin from ear to ear and Nancy asked why. "I have a feeling that we’re onto something, darling. Jerry Sewell and the Morcos paintings! This may be the connection that we need to find Sewell." I told Nancy about the paintings in the office and the missing ones at Sewell’s apartment.

"Just because the guy bought a couple of paintings isn’t much of a connection, Frank. Really, I think you’re dreaming if you think anyone takes those paintings that seriously. They’re good, but not in a collector's class!" Women were just too pragmatic. Of course, it was not much of a clue, but that is how cases are built - the little things, using intuition - something women were supposed to be good at.

"Well, they’re not that bad. The artist has a lot of technique and a good sense of how far he can push a colour - especially the whites. And Jerry Sewell did take two of those paintings with him. It’s worth thinking about." Despite what Nancy thought about the paintings, I did like them. The ones on display were perhaps a little gaudy, yet there was some link between the old men sitting at their games board and the ancient ruins in the background. The painting titled the Pharaoh’s Eternal Dance that the clerk had used her lighting trick on was good. Again the connection between the past and present - the stone sculpture showing its age and the young women feigning modesty, wrapped in modern fabrics. Maybe Maher had found his roots. Was Jerry Sewell looking for the same thing or was he investing in a collection that he thought would appreciate? Money and art. Which was Sewell= s greater love?

I called Robbie Quick on Thursday to inquire if we had any new information but there was nothing. Sewell’s girlfriend was still missing and Robbie was checking the last of the passenger manifests for the week preceding Sewell’s disappearance. We had a meeting scheduled in Pittsburgh with the FBI on Wednesday next at which time we would exchange information with the Americans. They had assigned a five-person team to investigate the affairs of Sewell’s partner, Hogarth Attward.

Nancy and I spent the rest of Thursday visiting Balboa Park, seeing only enough to ensure that we would visit again. Perhaps in a couple of years, when the children were older and could enjoy the San Diego Zoo, we would return and spend more time in the Park. Friday we whale-watched aboard the Hornblower, an older harbour tub that seemed to be on horn-tooting acquaintance with every naval boat in the huge San Diego dockyards. We saw three whales that seemed to know the Hornblower and did not mind us taking their pictures. We dined outdoors that night in Old Town, the historic part of San Diego that proudly shows the Spanish heritage of the coast. The tall margaritas, guitar-strumming troubadours and laughter everywhere were a perfect ending to our brief holiday. I was rested and ready to return to work. Our luggage enjoyed the holiday even more than we did as it stayed away for an extra four days. I knew I would soon be back in La Jolla. The best clue we had on Jerry Sewell was his fondness for Morcos’ paintings.