by Rick Chesler
“Nada,” he said, giving up on the instrument. He turned to face them. Juan returned his gaze, contemplating the unspoken question. Hours had passed since last contact with their pilot. This floating fiesta could only last so long.
Where would they be—and what options would they have—when it ended?
FBI FIELD OFFICE, LOS ANGELES
Tara ate lunch at her desk, reviewing missing persons alerts and hoping for a call from the techies who ran the tattoo database, when her assistant stopped by.
“You won’t believe this,” the young woman said, tossing a magazine next to Tara’s mahi mahi sandwich. Tara always found it odd that she loved seafood even though she hated the ocean.
“Caught cheating,” Tara read aloud, not sure at first what she was supposed to be reading. Then she realized who it was on the cover and put down her food. Her eyes went straight to the mystery woman’s ankle.
She shoved her lunch aside and placed Imaging’s tattoo enhancement and the gossip rag side-by-side on her desk. Then she produced a magnifying glass and studied the ankle tattoo in each photograph.
“Mr. Reed . . .” Tara said to her assistant while still peering through the lens. “Find out where he is, please.”
CHAPTER 32
BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL
Mr. Reed took the podium to a hearty round of applause. Flashbulbs sparkled as the celebrity-studded audience settled into their seats. The crowd of five hundred had paid a thousand dollars per plate (with the exception of the celebrities who were comped in return for their appearance) for the privilege of donating to charity while dining in the company of Hollywood mogul George Reed.
George had been told about the tabloid cover by a hotel events coordinator. He wasn’t pleased, but he refused to let it rattle him. He’d been in the public eye during periods of personal stress many times over the course of his career, and he was not about to let it deter him now, at this new height of success.
Eager reporters were kept at bay by a small army of hotel security staff working with private bodyguards. Nothing that might distract Mr. Reed was to be allowed in the room—with the exception of Mrs. Reed—only she wasn’t there. She was supposed to be sitting at a front-row table with a close circle of George’s most trusted associates and their wives, girlfriends, or escorts, as the case may be. But even though the lights and flashbulbs made it difficult for him to see, it was clear that they had found a seat-filler to take her place. A striking female seat-filler, George couldn’t help but notice.
In light of the tabloid, George wasn’t surprised that his wife hadn’t shown. He figured she’d leaked the photo to the press in order to publicly humiliate him and had known all along she wouldn’t be going to the event. No way she’d want to be seen here with that smut circulating.
“C’mon, George, you old dog, don’t keep us waiting!” one of his colleagues cat-called from the table at which Mrs. Reed should have been seated. Mr. Reed realized he had been just standing there at the podium, staring off into space.
He recovered quickly, though, and launched into one of the politically incorrect, joke-laden speeches for which he was known. “For those of you who are not here from the network,” he said at one point, “we’ve got a new little show by the name of Wired Kingdom.” George paused a moment, letting the expected wave of applause peak and recede. “I’m thinking of putting one of those web-cams on my wife, it’s impossible to track her down!” This was met with raucous applause.
But in the silence that followed, before George should have started speaking again, a small commotion ensued at a secured rear entrance intended only for staff.
Knowing exactly when to bring a suspect into custody was a tricky business, but one for which Tara Shores was well regarded. Bring them in too soon and you run the risk of being altogether wrong. Bring them in too late, on the other hand, and you give them time to cover their tracks, flee, commit more crimes, or all the above. Tara also knew that the timing of an arrest could weigh heavily on a suspect’s willingness to cooperate. There were those who preferred to keep things nice and quiet, to maintain a façade that all is well. These suspects tended to put up a pretense of cooperation by continuing to respond amiably to requests to come down to the station, answer phone calls, all while lawyering up and continuing business-as-usual. As long as the case doesn’t rear its ugly head high enough, they continue with their lives. But there were times when it was advantageous to knock the suspect off balance. And right now, Tara decided, was one of those times.
By taking George Reed down in his own backyard, in front of his colleagues, peers and Hollywood at large, Tara would be ensuring that he couldn’t hide behind an anonymous wall of high-priced attorneys. Paparazzi would capture the whole encounter. It would make the evening news. He’d want to settle it immediately, do whatever he could do to get his life back to normal. At least that’s what Tara was counting on as she burst through a second contingent of security guards, her badge parting the way like a swordfish through a school of mackerel.
Mr. Reed may be unconnected to the girl’s death, Tara thought—the fact that he had a relationship with her did not mean he’d killed her—but with no other leads, he was at the very least a “person of interest.”
Tara hadn’t expected so much attention from the paparazzi directed her way, but the word spread once she showed her credentials. She strode past women in designer dresses. Nothing that impressed her. She was fairly blinded by flashbulbs by the time she emerged though a short hallway, out a door, through a gauntlet of security personnel, entertainment reporters and paparazzi, to the main floor.
The podium at which Mr. Reed spoke was elevated on a small dais. Tara watched the man in between the bright spots floating across her eyes from the flashes. She could see him looking in her direction, but he continued his delivery without breaking stride. Those in the front rows, however, could plainly see that something was going on. Soon many were indicating for him to look to his right.
Tara merely stood watching Mr. Reed speak—something about how he was really going to give the network’s investors something to look forward to once the next Nielson ratings came out—like a cat stalking her prey. There was no need to pull him off the podium in mid-sentence. He was simply being brought to the field office for questioning.
Then the audience was clapping, some even standing up to do it, and Mr. Reed was thanking them for being there, reminding them how important they were to the cause of the moment—something about preventing animal cruelty. When George stepped down from the dais, Tara was there to greet him. He tried to breeze his way past the special agent, throwing her a wave as if she was just another fan. Tara had expected no less.
“Mr. Reed, I need to speak with you,” she said, raising her badge high. When he ignored her, continuing to walk past, she grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Now, Mr. Reed.” She waved the tabloid photo in his face. “Who is this woman?” He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Lemme see that,” he growled as he took the photo. He appeared to study it for a moment, then said, “No comment.” He started away. Tara grabbed him again, more forcefully this time.
“I’m not a member of the press, Mr. Reed. Your response is not optional.”
“What? What’s going on here? Am I under arrest?” The paparazzi were really going crazy now, circling tighter, straining to hear the exchange.
“If you don’t come with me and answer some simple questions, you will definitely be under arrest. Comply with our investigation, and you’ll be back in time for desert.” Unless I can prove you’re guilty.
He started to say something, then saw a reporter swing a boom microphone over, and thought better of it. He leaned in close to Tara and asked, “What about my attorney?”
“Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I—look, I don’t think this is an appropriate place to talk about his,” he said, fishing his sunglasses out of his jacket and putting them on.
“Shall we go, then?” She motioned
toward the exit.
“George, what’s going on?” one of Mr. Reed’s associates called out.
He waved him off. “Talk to you in a bit, Klaus.” He turned back to Tara. “Look, Agent . . .”
“Shores. Same as it was when we spoke yesterday.”
“Agent Shores, that's right, yesterday you were a guest in my house. I answered your questions then. I think that demonstrates my willingness to cooperate. I’d like to oversee my event here. How about you give me your card and I’ll stop by your office tomorrow? Say about twelve—hey, we could even do lunch. I know this excellent Caribbean cuisine place that just opened over on—”
“Keep moving your feet, Mr. Reed, if you do not want to be arrested under suspicion of murder right now.” An exclamation of surprise rippled through the crowd. Tara had raised her voice intentionally, knowing Mr. Reed would be more uncomfortable the louder she became.
“Okay, okay, just keep it down. There’s no need to make a scene.”
“Making scenes is what you’re all about, isn’t it, Mr. Reed? Lead the way out, please.”
The man Time Magazine once labeled “the most successful executive producer in Hollywood” ran a gauntlet of paparazzi and reporters to the street outside. Along the way Mr. Reed spat out statements that did nothing to quell the crowd’s curiosity. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back” seemed to be his favorite, followed quickly by “Some routine business to take care of.”
Tara had heard it all before and recognized the signs of a nervous man. Surrounded by their peers and on public record, a lot of people feigned cooperation. But after some time to think about it on the drive to the field office, they would stonewall every effort to elicit valuable information, making her jump through every legal hoop they could conceive. George Reed would be no exception.
They reached the door to the street, where a small gathering was already beginning to congregate. Tara’s Crown Vic was there, the FBI placard in the windshield allowing her to park in the red zone.
“I’ll have my driver bring my car around,” George said, preparing to dial his cell phone. “That way when we’re done I can just—”
“Please get in the car, Mr. Reed. I promise that as soon as our business is concluded you will be dropped off right back here.”
“You’re arresting me, aren’t you? I mean, no handcuffs, but I don’t have a choice about this, do I?”
“You’re not under arrest at this time, Mr. Reed, but we need you to answer some questions.”
“At this time? At this time!” George trilled.
“Get in the car.” She opened the front passenger-side door. He hesitated a moment, peering into the vehicle, as if unsure of what it contained. Then he turned around and waved to the crowd. “Go back inside, have fun. I’ll be back shortly to join you.” And with that he got inside the car.
Tara made a quick radio call to inform her field office that she was coming in with a suspect. The coded language kept Mr. Reed from knowing exactly what was said, but he could tell it was about him. She drove fast. She wanted to get her suspect into the controlled setting of an interrogation room without delay.
“Okay, I’ve been good enough to play along with you. I demand that you tell me what this is about!” Mr. Reed said sharply. “Should I have my attorney meet me at your office?”
He removed a cell phone from his jacket. Tara kept a close eye on him, and had to swerve back into her lane.
“Who was the woman you are having an affair with, Mr. Reed? What is her name?”
He hesitated, glancing out the window.
“The woman in the tabloid photo, Mr. Reed. You are having an affair with her, correct?”
“Yes, but that’s not illegal is it? I mean, well yes—I know it is, since I’m married—but since when does the FBI treat people with marriage difficulties as criminals?”
Tara pulled up to a red light separating them from a short freeway ride to the field office. “Tell me about your marriage difficulties. It seems like you and your wife had been fighting when I interviewed you yesterday.”
Mr. Reed appeared aggravated. “Look, my wife told me this morning she hired a private investigator to follow me around. I guess he shot the picture that ended up on the tabloid today. Probably split the money he got for it with my wife, for all I know.”
“So your wife knew about your affair with—what’s the woman’s name?” Tara did her best to appear to be concentrating on the road. This was a big moment, and one for which she would prefer to be in the field office, but she had him talking now, and would keep him talking.
“Crystal. Her name is Crystal.” Tara immediately picked up on the use of the present tense. “Crystal what? What’s her last name?”
George Reed blushed in the front seat of the special agent’s car. “I don’t know,” he said, anticipating, and getting a doubting stare from Tara. “I know it sounds bad, but I don’t know her last name. I don’t think I ever knew it. We only went out a few times.”
“Was she a stripper?”
“A stripper? Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Sounds like a stripper name. They only use their first names. And older married men only want one thing from younger women. . . . While younger women want only one thing from older men. . . . A stripper fits that profile.”
“She wasn’t a stripper, as far as I know. I don’t know her life story; I only dated her for a little while.”
“What’s a little while?”
“I don’t know, maybe two, three months.”
“Was it closer to two, or closer to three months?”
Tara exited the freeway and turned right.
“Three, I guess. Look, I really don’t see the point of all this. Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“We’re almost at the field office. When we get there I’d like to show you a photograph.”
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
CHAPTER 33
SANTA CRUZ ISLAND
Channel Islands National Marine Sanctuary ranger Ben Stacy pulled his Land Cruiser to a stop on a gravelly switchback. After patrolling this natural laboratory all morning—checking for poachers of wild boar, foxes or pheasants; looking for illegal campers or boaters in trouble—Ben needed to stretch his legs.
He particularly liked the scenic vista at which he now found himself. Not many people visited this part of the island. There were boaters who camped on the side facing the mainland, but most of the land mass was off-limits to all but park personnel and visiting scientists brandishing research permits. The impact of humans was restricted.
To get a sense of what California looked like hundreds of years ago, before it was heavily settled—when it was populated primarily by Native Americans—one would do well to visit Santa Cruz Island. At ninety-six square miles (four times the size of Manhattan), Santa Cruz is California’s largest island. Lying about twenty-two miles off the Santa Barbara coast, its rugged coastline protects a dynamic interior. Beyond the jagged cliffs, sea caves and empty beaches, the island supports diverse habitat types including two mountain ranges with several peaks over 2,000 feet, low-lying grasslands and a forested central valley.
At the base of a narrow canyon lay one of the most striking beaches the ranger had ever laid eyes on. Though he had witnessed it countless times in his decade of employment with the park service, he swore that the hypnotic crescent of light brown sand grew more impressive each time he saw it. In the foreground of Ben’s view were yellow flowers tumbling down a green hillside. The far end of the beach seemed to melt into a cascade of rolling emerald hills, well over a mile away. Heavy, demanding surf drummed in from a dark blue ocean that stretched all the way to Japan.
In such a harmonious environment it was easy to notice when something was amiss. Far below on a beach devoid of footprints, he saw a pile of something unusual. That was how he described it in his own mind, just a pile of . . . something. But he’d been here yesterday and it hadn’t been there then. He knew what everythin
g was around here. He knew what it was not: it wasn’t a pile of kelp (too light), and it wasn’t part of a shipwreck (not angular enough).
And so it was that park ranger Ben Stacy was prompted to put down the fresh halibut sandwich he’d been eating, jump down from the Land Cruiser’s hood where he’d been sitting, and go for the binoculars he kept in the glove box.
FBI FIELD OFFICE, LOS ANGELES
“Have you seen this before?” Tara directed the question at George Reed, who somehow managed to look dignified sitting in one of the interrogation room chairs. He and Tara were the only two people inside the room, but George was correct in his assumption that they were being monitored closely by agents in adjoining rooms.
An eight-by-ten of Imaging lab’s frame capture from the whale’s murder video sat on the table. Mr. Reed hunched forward to study the picture. He cocked his head to one side. “It’s a tattoo. A dolphin,” he said and looked up from the print. “So?”
“Have you seen it before?”
“Why would I?”
Tara’s heavy gaze tempered Mr. Reed’s defiant attitude.
“I—if this has something to do with Crystal . . . she had a tattoo on her shoulder. A butterfly. And . . . and a dolphin on her ankle.” Tara glanced toward the one-way glass pane. “How did you get this picture? She’s not in some kind of trouble. . . .”
“Mr. Reed, this is a frame capture of the video taken by the whale-cam. Of the murder,” Tara added quickly.
He remained impassive for a moment, the expression on his face revealing the process of deduction working in his mind. “What are you saying?”
“We believe—”
“You’re not telling me that Crystal’s dead. That she was murdered. . . .”
“Mr. Reed, please—”
“Wait a minute.” He began to stand, raising his voice. “You’re not suggesting that I had anything to—”
