by Mark Nolan
The officers glanced at the video camera pointed at them, and they were not happy about it. This lawyer was threatening to sue the city, throw every law in the book at them personally, plaster their names across the media and internet, and ruin their careers. And it was all being broadcast and recorded so they couldn’t talk their way out of the situation later on.
Bartholomew saw the doubt in their eyes, and he pressed on, hoping to seize the advantage. He knew they were just doing their jobs, but his client was obviously not a killer so it wouldn't hurt to let her go home on her attorney’s pledge that she would not leave town.
“My client requires medical attention for shock, and she should have been covered in a blanket and treated by paramedics immediately. Due to your negligence, you could be held personally financially liable for any physical and mental health complications she might suffer as a result of how you willfully deprived her of necessary emergency first aid.”
“She wasn’t deprived of anything,” the male officer said. “The paramedics were kept outside because there was no need for them. One person at the scene was already dead, and other one only had a single bruise on her hip.”
Bartholomew knew that the cop was correct, so he skillfully changed the subject to interrupt the officer’s winning argument.
“If my client is not under arrest, I demand that she be released to my care and allowed to leave at once to seek medical care. If she is under arrest, she will say nothing, and I will follow you to the police station, bail her out immediately and then have a long talk with your Chief about all of your mistakes in leadership that I believe you have made here today.”
The officer scowled at the lawyer and silently wished the best of luck to whoever was shooting the bastards. They all heard the sound of rapid footsteps on the deck, and the elderly neighbor man who had called 911 was escorted by a uniformed officer to where Bartholomew was speaking.
The escorting cop briefly explained what was going on. “This is the neighbor who called it in. He says he witnessed the murder, and he claims that the woman had nothing to do with it. He also saw some kind of unusual object in a tree. One of our guys climbed up there and found a high-tech crossbow type of weapon with a video camera, mounted on a tree branch.”
The older neighbor man nodded his head in agreement. He started to speak, but the cop cut him off.
“According to this witness, it looks like the young lady was telling the truth. She’d been standing over there by that broken champagne glass. That’s where she fainted. She’d gone to look at the view before walking back toward the hot tub. That probably saved her life. For all we know, if she was in the tub she might have been shot and killed too.”
A morgue unit technician spoke up then and said, “I can confirm that she was at risk. The arrow was poisoned with a particularly deadly and fast-acting neurotoxin. Soon after the arrow hit the victim, the water became poisoned too, from the victim’s tainted blood. If the woman had been sitting in the tub when the crime occurred, she could have been killed when the toxin was absorbed through her skin, or when she fainted and drowned, or both.”
The technician smiled kindly at Kelli and added, “You are very lucky to be alive miss.” He tipped his police ball cap hat to her and went back to work.
Bartholomew said, “Now do you plan to handcuff this other important witness and make him stand at attention in his underwear while you yell at him and threaten him too? Or are we done here now, and are we free to go, officer?”
The officer wanted to take the hot bikini babe downtown and question her further. Any male cop would. This kind of thing didn’t happen every day, and he wanted to make the most of it. As he stood there and glared at the attorney, another police officer came up to him and said, “They found a note, in the tree with the weapon, mocking the lawyer.”
The officer held up a note in a plastic bag, and he read it out loud.
DON’T BOTHER CALLING A DOCTOR.
The officer in charge was about to say something when his mobile phone buzzed, and he saw the number of his boss, the Mill Valley Chief of Police. He groaned and answered the call.
“Yes Chief. Yes, that is correct. What? On TV and the internet right now? Understood, sir. The Mayor? Sorry, sir. No sir, I won’t. Yes sir, right away. Consider it done. Immediately. Yes, Chief I will. I’m sorry sir. Goodbye.”
The officer put away his phone, glared in the direction of Jake and his camera and then took the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket. He let out a loud breath and then held the key up so Kelli could see it. With a forced smile on his face he said, “May I?”
Kelli slowly held her hands out in front of her and the officer reluctantly unlocked the cuffs and removed them from her wrists. When she held out her hands, it spread open the coat, and the cop looked at her body one last time. Kelli’s body twitched in fear when the big man touched her wrists. She stepped back away from him as soon as he was done taking the cuffs off.
The officer said to Bartholomew, “The Chief asked if you would bring the witness, Miss Ivarsson, down to the police station tomorrow for an interview. She is now released on her own recognizance with your word that she will make a voluntary appearance tomorrow.”
“You have my word she will be there,” Bartholomew said. “Right now I’d like to take her to see a doctor. If there is nothing else that your boss told you to do here, we will be leaving immediately.”
“Be my guest, she’s free to go, and she is your responsibility now,” the officer said, and he motioned away from them with a sweeping and dismissive motion of his hand.
“Thank you officer, but before we go, there is the matter of Miss Ivarsson’s clothing,” Bartholomew said. “Has anyone bothered to look for her clothes or were you all enjoying ogling her bare skin too much to even think of her needs? I’m sure she did not arrive here wearing a swimsuit, and I’ll be damned if she will leave here that way.”
Bartholomew always had to have the last word. The officer’s face turned red in embarrassment, and it was broadcast on live television and online. Attorney Bart Bartholomew had never been popular among the police in the Bay Area, and now he was even less so.
Chapter 43
Zhukov drove his car over the Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco. He felt curious about the crime scene back at the home of Max Vidallen so he pulled over and parked. He used his phone to view the live streaming video, and it showed that the neighbor’s deck was empty, the telescope sat there deserted.
Moving his finger across the phone display, he turned the camera toward the deck of the dead lawyer, and he saw that the police had arrived. He panned the camera further and saw Jake Wolfe standing off toward the far end of the deck and pointing a television news video camera at the tree. Somehow Wolfe had arrived quickly, and he’d already found Zhukov’s weapon and its firing position. The police would have discovered it eventually, but Zhukov felt angry that this lowly newsman was showing up at every crime scene and figuring out his carefully orchestrated plans. Zhukov moved his finger back and forth on his phone to make the camera move on its gyroscopic mount from side to side as if it was an animal shaking its head. He then turned on the red targeting laser and pointed it at Wolfe.
Jake saw the movement of the unloaded crossbow, and the laser making a red dot on his chest. He reacted without thinking, and he gave the middle finger salute to the camera in the tree, and no doubt to the assassin as well.
Zhukov gritted his teeth. At that moment, he would have gladly paid a million dollars if the crossbow could fire another bolt to kill Jake Wolfe. He decided that in the future he would add a redundant weapon to this setup. Perhaps one of those M203 single shot 40mm under-barrel grenade launchers, the kind designed to attach under the barrel of a military rifle. He imagined the immense satisfaction he would feel to fire a live grenade at the photojournalist’s smiling face right now and blow his head to pieces.
Zhukov took a deep breath and let it out. He would not let Wolfe get to him. He’d done a
masterful job of killing Vidallen. It was time to collect the other half of his money for this second murder.
He called Banks to give him a report.
“Do you have good news for me?” Banks said.
“Yes the second assignment has been completed, and it all went well, exactly as I planned it,” Zhukov said.
“Brilliant, and what about the additional problem that has developed, with that nosy photojournalist named Wolfe?”
“That problem will be solved in conjunction with the third target.”
“That is good news. It will be a relief to be rid of the cheeky bugger. And speaking of the third target, when are you going to shoot the woman?”
“Very soon, I am taking care of things in their logical sequence.”
“I don’t understand your methodology, I must admit.”
“No one does, it’s the work of a misunderstood artist. Perhaps I should file a patent on my creative techniques.”
“Always the flippant one, but you still deliver the results. I interviewed others in your line of work and asked if they would shoot a woman, but they all said no. I appreciate your open-mindedness about that.”
“Maybe I believe in true equality.”
“Very amusing, you believe only in money… and art of course.”
“Without money, there would not be as much art in the world.”
“What about the starving artists?”
“They are all doing just that, starving. But well-fed artists like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci had wealthy patrons. We might not have a statue of David or a painting of Mona Lisa if their respective artists had to dig ditches to pay for food.”
“I understand, just imagine how many more paintings Vincent Van Gogh might have produced if anyone had been his patron or bought a single one of his artworks,” Banks said. “But nobody ever did, not one of his paintings was purchased while he was alive.”
“That is a travesty, and the great man died far too young,” Zhukov said, and then his voice began to rise. “Van Gogh received no appreciation or support for his art. Now his unsold paintings are auctioned for millions if they ever go on sale at all. Thinking about that always makes me angry.”
Banks heard cursing and the sound of something shattering. Zhukov was known to smash furniture, break windows or do damage to cars upon occasion. Banks didn’t want the killer to be angry while he was going through withdrawals from his medication. He decided to pay him a compliment. A little flattery couldn’t hurt.
“Speaking of artwork that never goes on sale, is there any chance I could procure one of your highly artistic charcoal sketches? Ever since you showed me photos of them on your phone I’ve wanted one to hang in my office.”
Zhukov didn’t say anything.
“I’d pay an outrageous sum for one of your fine representations of Yosemite, for example. That one you showed me was reminiscent of the black and white photography of Ansel Adams.”
Zhukov paused for a minute while Banks waited, and then replied. “That is an unusually polite thing for you to say. You must want something from me.”
“Yes, I want one of your works of art.”
“The sketches you saw photos of were lost, but I’ll draw new ones, and you can take your pick.”
“Thank you, I’ll have the sketch framed and hung in my office in London in a place of honor.”
“You’re welcome, I’ll see you at dinner.”
They ended their call, and Zhukov wondered what was going through Chairman Banks’ mind. Something must be worrying him. Zhukov was still sitting in his parked car. He looked at the dashboard and saw that the leather was ripped, and the molded plastic was shattered. His hunting knife was stuck into the stereo, and there were broken pieces of the dash on the floor. Hmmmm, he must have attacked the dashboard with his knife while talking about Van Gogh, but he had no memory of the violent act. He realized he was at a very low point in the medicine withdrawal symptoms. Tomorrow would be an unpredictable day.
“Oh well, being bipolar just makes life more interesting,” Zhukov said.
Chapter 44
At the crime scene, Kelli pointed at the deck furniture and said, “I’m going to go put on my dress.”
The policeman nodded in agreement and Kelli turned and walked across the deck to where she’d left her black silk dress on a chaise lounge. When she picked up the dress, she glanced toward the police tape and saw a familiar face. A guy she knew named Jake Wolfe was standing there operating a TV camera on a tripod. A group of other media people began to crowd in behind him. Jake smiled at Kelli and waved, and she rushed over to him.
“Jake I’m so glad to see you, thank goodness you’re here,” Kelli said.
Kelli dropped her dress and reached up with both arms to give Jake a hug over the yellow police tape. As she raised her arms, the overcoat on her shoulders fell off, leaving her wearing just the bikini. Jake returned Kelli’s hug, and it crossed his mind that their embrace might end up all over the news in a moment, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Several of the media people reacted quickly to this turn of events, and they began to flash their cameras at him. They eagerly shot photos and video of the blonde model in her pink bikini, hugging their colleague Jake, with the police “do not cross” tape between their two waists at crotch level. The news crews were all grinning because this was a classic image destined to be on the front page of various news sources and go viral on the internet. They lived for this kind of stuff and they would tease Jake about it for years to come. He’d never hear the end of it.
Jake noticed the camera flashes and knew that his guess had been correct. He was going to get the celebrity scandal type of treatment on tonight’s news. He wanted to say some friendly profanity to his colleagues, but he ignored them instead. Kelli didn’t seem to want to let go, so Jake gently released himself from her hug, but he held her hand so she would feel safe and protected. He made an effort to look her in the eyes when he spoke to her, instead of staring at her body that had won the genetic lottery.
“Hey Kelli, I hope you’re doing okay, after all you’ve been through here,” Jake said.
“I don’t know if I’m seriously hurt, but I fainted in shock and got a bruise on my hip,” Kelli said.
She pouted at him as she turned to the side and pointed to a small bruise near her right butt cheek. More cameras flashed, and video was broadcast. Jake just nodded and acted as if this kind of thing happened to him every day and it was no big deal. He’d practiced this detached demeanor while doing photography for bikini catalogs and NFL Football cheerleaders calendars.
“Let’s get you dressed and out of here okay?” Jake said.
Jake lifted up the plastic police tape and stepped under it, then picked up the black dress from the deck near Kelli’s feet. He held the dress up for Kelli so she could put her arms into it, and she tied it around her waist in the front. Jake’s police friend Craig saw him step past the police tape, and he stared hard at Jake. The look passed between them that said Craig wanted Jake to get back on the other side and make it quick. Jake nodded in agreement and held up one finger to indicate it would just be one minute.
“Jake, could you please be my hero and give me a ride home?” Kelli said.
“Sure, I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Grab your purse and shoes. They’re on that table over there.”
While Kelli was retrieving her purse and putting on her shoes, Jake picked up Bart’s long overcoat off of the deck and held onto it. Kelli returned and said, “Okay, I’m ready, can we please get out of here?”
“Yes and if you don’t mind my saying so, that was the fastest I’ve ever seen a woman get ready to go anywhere.”
Kelli nodded at his attempt at humor, but she didn’t laugh. She was still feeling the aftereffects of being in shock. Jake helped Kelli put on the long coat and then he lifted the police tape again, but this time, when he put it down, he had Kelli on his side
of the tape beside him. Craig nodded in thanks at Jake for getting behind the tape. Being friends with a cop didn’t mean you could do whatever you felt like doing. This was a crime scene, and the police were in charge. You had to respect the badge and the uniform, and Jake had shown that respect to Craig.
Jake tapped an icon on his tablet that sent a repetitive signal to Bartholomew’s tie-pin mic and caused it to vibrate like a mobile phone getting a call. Bart noticed it, and he stopped talking to the officers and looked to see his client and cameraman preparing to leave. He walked over to them so they could all leave together. That way he could make a good impression in the news, both for his client’s case and for his own self-aggrandizement.
Jake said to Kelli, “The way to handle this media circus is to look straight ahead, hold your head up, keep a neutral expression on your face and don’t say a word, okay?”
“Okay, yes, I can do it,” Kelli said.
“And you might want to put on those sunglasses; they’ll hide your eyes and make you look like a Hollywood celebrity,” Jake said. “Close the long coat too and tie the belt. When they yell questions at you, block them out like you have earplugs in your ears. Do not react and don’t turn your head.”
“Can you hold my purse for a minute?” Kelli said.
“No, sorry I’m not a guy who holds purses, but you can set it down next to my camera bag on the deck right there,” Jake said.
Kelli raised her eyebrows in surprise. She was not used to men saying no to her. She set the purse down, closed the coat and tied the belt, then picked up her purse off the deck and got the sunglasses out and put them on.
“Why would you hold the coat for me but not hold my purse?” Kelli said.
Jake smiled and said, “If I hold your coat, it means I’m a gentleman, and I am. But if I hold your purse it means I’m pussy-whipped, and I’m not so I won’t.”
“Is that some unwritten law of guys?” Kelli said.
“Yes I believe it’s on page 101 of the Guys Handbook,” Jake said.
