by Tim Tigner
Frost continued speaking, but I wasn’t really listening. “It’s easy to diagnose as a cause of death because a fatal dose turns the cheeks cherry red. We see it a few times a year between suicides and accidents. Such a—”
The professional part of my brain suddenly kicked in like a safety light during a power outage. I interrupted Frost. “Why wasn’t Katya killed as well?”
“We’ve been looking into that along with the source of the gas. Well, the source was the yacht’s engine, obviously, so rather we’re investigating how the gas circumvented the exhaust system and safeguards. Technicians are still on the scene. As for Katya’s survival, we’re working on that too. She’s younger, slept in a different room, and got up early to work at the dining table. Apparently she has an important presentation coming up. Do you know anything about that?”
“She’s scheduled to defend her doctoral dissertation in a few weeks, after five years of work. She’s very nervous about it. It’s in mathematics. Apparently people frequently fail the first time. Some never pass.”
“Doctoral dissertation. In mathematics, no less. So she’s practical? Clever?”
“She’s brilliant.” As the words came out of my mouth, Frost’s line of reasoning came together in my head like a clap of thunder. I knew what he was up to. I felt my sea of grief becoming a swell of anger, but before my numbed mind computed my next move, someone knocked on the door.
Frost got up and stepped out into the corridor. When the heavy lock clicked behind him, I found myself facing the worst day of my life.
I took one deep breath, then another, counting down from six as I exhaled. My mind was racing, my pulse was pounding, my heart was broken. I knew how to rein in the physiological reactions. Controlling those had been a professional requirement. The grief, however, threatened to topple the cart.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Not now.
Not until Frost believed in my innocence.
Chapter 7
Four Bags
TO RETURN REASON to the driver’s seat, I had to relegate emotion to the back. To accomplish this, I did as I was trained. I painted my grief as a big gray blanket on the canvas of my mind, heavy and course and damp with tears. I folded it in half and half again until it was a manageable size. Then, reverently and temporarily, I set it aside.
Sometime later I heard the lock click. The door opened, and a very different detective walked in. She was ship-shape and petite and a good ten years younger than Frost. A huge and pleasant contrast.
The first thought to cross my refocused mind was that she too had to be either pretty darn good or well connected to get a plum detective job with her demographic profile. My second thought was that she hadn’t brought me coffee either. Rather she was carrying a black backpack by the top handle as though it were a briefcase. She set it down on the floor and came around the table to introduce herself with an extended hand and a courteous smile. “I’m detective Flurry.”
Her greeting surprised me. Not her words, but her actions. When I rose to shake her hand, I was a full foot taller and twice her size. Her hand disappeared into mine like a baseball into a glove. I could have tossed her like a ball too, literally pulling her in with my right while hoisting her over my head with my left, and sending her sailing with no more effort than a Sunday morning yawn. The contrast put me in a psychologically dominant position at a time when traditional police tactics called for the opposite. I watched her eyes closely as we shook, but she gave absolutely no sign of discomfort.
I liked her immediately. Decided to test my instincts.
“Why start with a lie?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be establishing trust?”
“Pardon?”
“Santa Barbara’s population is only what, a hundred thousand? I’d be surprised if there were more than two detectives in the crimes-against-persons unit. You’re telling me the two happen to be named Frost and Flurry?”
“You should find that reassuring.”
“How so?” I asked.
“The names are real.”
I chewed on that for half a second. “So you have a daily reminder that coincidences do happen.”
She smiled.
One point for Flurry.
“I’d like you to take a look at something for me. Four things, actually.” She unzipped her backpack and extracted a bunch of clear plastic bags. Evidence bags. She pulled them onto her lap where I couldn’t see them. Setting the first on the table, she said, “Look, but don’t touch.”
The bag appeared empty.
Flurry studied me while I studied it.
I looked back up at her with a blank expression. She didn’t comment either. She just dealt the second bag as if it were a poker card, watching me all the time for a reaction. It appeared empty at first too, but this one was less crumpled and the room’s fluorescent light hit it at a different angle. I saw that it contained a piece of clear packing tape. I tilted my head to reexamine the first and then saw that it contained tape too.
I allowed my face to show my confusion.
The third bag was a bit more interesting, but still not very. It held an empty tube of superglue rolled up like a toothpaste tube to extract every last drop.
I said, “Three strikes.”
She said nothing.
The fourth and final bag presented something very different. Something I definitely had seen before. That was when the worst day of my life became the worst day imaginable.
Flurry picked up on my reaction immediately. She finally asked a question that I could answer. “Recognize this?”
I said, “I’d like to speak to an attorney now.”
Chapter 8
Emerging Sea
WHEN I INVOKED my right to counsel, Flurry didn’t sigh and shake her head and slowly get up to leave the interrogation room. She didn’t pull out her radio and inform Frost. Instead she said, “I believe your attorney just arrived.”
That solved one mystery, but created another. Now I knew why she’d rushed to get my reaction to the evidence. She wanted to be sure she got it before I lawyered up. Another sound tactical move by an impressive detective. But I had no idea how my lawyer could have arrived. I didn’t have a lawyer. I didn’t know a single lawyer in the state of California. My best guess was that Katya was ahead of me, but that seemed a stretch for a foreigner just in from Moscow.
The door opened as if on cue and two men in dark suits and bright ties walked in. I recognized both from Bouchon. The first was Vaughn Vondreesen, the uber-charismatic guest and master of ceremonies. The second had also given a toast. He was handsome as well, but a mere mortal, and I didn’t know his name. He spoke first. “Detective, I’m Casey McCallum, Mr. Achilles’ attorney. Kindly give us the room and complete privacy.” He motioned toward the camera on the ceiling.
As soon as the door clicked behind Flurry and the blinking red diode went out, Vondreesen closed the gap between us. “Casey’s the best criminal defense attorney in the Bay Area. The minute I heard what happened to your family I took the liberty of asking him to stick around. Just in case.” He put a hand on each of my shoulders. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your father was the best man I knew.”
Vondreesen radiated energy from his hands and eyes in a way that I found both comforting and disconcerting. Casey had a similar energetic vibe about him. Perhaps it came with being a captain of Silicon Valley. Perhaps it was a prerequisite. In any case, I was encouraged to know that it would be working for me against the aggressive detectives in the Santa Barbara Police Department.
Vondreesen lowered his arms with a final reassuring shoulder squeeze and I stepped forward to offer Casey my hand. “Thank you for coming. Your presence and Vaughn’s prescience are most welcome.”
Casey shook my hand reassuringly and then got right to it, a quality I was glad to find in a man who was undoubtedly charging my father’s estate an astronomical hourly rate. “What have they told you?”
“They haven’t told me anything,
directly. But given the fact that they’ve been questioning rather than consoling me, they’re clearly leaning toward a homicide ruling. Just before you walked in, Detective Flurry confronted me with four evidence bags. The first two contained pieces of clear packing tape. The third held an empty tube of superglue. They meant nothing to me. The fourth, however, contained a piece of PVC pipe with collars at both ends. I’d seen it last Sunday. As soon as she showed it to me I stopped talking and asked for counsel.”
“Always a smart move. Where did you see it last Sunday?”
“When I first boarded the Emerging Sea I found it on my bunk along with a full tube of superglue and a roll of packing tape. Right there in the crease where the bedspread meets the pillow. I gave it a once-over, then put all three items in a drawer. Didn’t think about them again until Flurry pulled out the piece of PVC. The moment I saw it, the darkest day of my life became midnight black, because I understood two things.” I held up my fingers to count them off. “One, my family didn’t die in an accident. They were murdered. And two, I’m being set up to take the fall.”
Chapter 9
Deep Freeze
CASEY’S FACE reflected serious concern. He clearly shared my conclusion. But figuring out who was setting me up, and why, would have to wait. First, we had to deal with the evidence against me.
Casey wasted no time with sugarcoating or sentimentality. “So the police have your fingerprints on what we assume will be the piece of exhaust pipe that was loosened to release the carbon monoxide into the yacht’s bedrooms. And if that proves to be true, then no doubt the tape and superglue will also be linked to the crime and covered with your prints. Have they fingerprinted you?”
I held up my hands in a reflexive but pointless display. “No need. My prints are already in the system.”
Vondreesen chimed in for the first time. “Tell Casey about your professional background. He was a Marine, way back. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
I looked at Casey who nodded. “Please.”
“I used to work in the CIA’s Special Operations Group.”
“Used to?”
“I left a year ago, after five years of service.”
“And what do you do now?”
Casey’s question was simple, my answer anything but. “I’ve been traveling in Europe. Climbing rocks and contemplating life while trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of mine.”
“You’re not currently employed?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have a family of your own?”
“No.”
“But you’ve got family money. A recent development, from what I understand?”
I acknowledged what we both knew was coming. This was not going to look good. “My father was a physician in the Air Force. Not a highly paid position, but he enjoyed it and put in his twenty. Then he spent the last fifteen years working in biotech, kind of a continuation of his military specialty. Ten of those years were with a company that got acquired last year for half a billion. His net from stock options as their chief medical officer was around ten million dollars. He was going to retire then, but as I gather you know, Vaughn talked him into joining another start-up, Vitalis Pharmaceuticals.”
Casey didn’t comment.
“My stepmother wasn’t wild about him giving up retirement, so as a compromise he bought the Emerging Sea and agreed to take her on a month-long cruise in conjunction with his sixtieth birthday. Then, as is so often the case in Silicon Valley, Vitalis folded and the birthday bash became a retirement party as well.”
“And now you’ll be inheriting an estate worth at least ten million?”
I knew the smart move was to come clean right away. While Casey watched, I double-checked that the camera was still off before replying. “I haven’t seen the wills, but would expect to be the primary surviving beneficiary. Martha had no children. As for the money, I helped my father move it overseas, so I know your estimation is accurate.”
“You helped him move it? Overseas?”
“A certain amount of know-how came with my CIA job.”
“That won’t look good if they find out, but at least it puts the money out of the court’s reach for the moment. Can you access it?”
“I can.”
Casey ran a hand through his thick gray hair, front to back, then massaged his neck for a second. “What exactly does the CIA’s Special Operations Group do?”
“We’re essentially the military arm of the State Department. We quietly attend to America’s overseas interests.”
“Military arm,” Casey repeated. “Would I then be right to assume that in addition to banking, you have a lot of practical knowledge when it comes to mechanical things like engines and weapons of all kinds, including explosives and toxins?”
“That also went with the territory.”
“How about investigations? Did your work involve those?”
“It did.”
“Therefore you understand the challenge we’re up against?”
“Ten million worth of motive, plus means, opportunity, and presumably compelling physical evidence. They’re also exploring my relationship with my brother’s fiancée Katya, in case there’s a jealousy or a collusion angle.”
Casey’s face looked nearly as grim as I felt. He was exceptionally good at projecting empathy. He had to be. His income rose with the misfortune of others, but he could never let that calculation show. His acting skills would serve me well with a jury, if it ever came to that.
There was a sharp double rap on the door and then Frost walked in, followed by Flurry. Two more uniformed officers remained in the hall. Frost spoke clearly and officially, without preamble. “Kyle Achilles, you’re under arrest for the murders of John Achilles, Martha Achilles, and Colin Achilles.”
Chapter 10
Batter Up
ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY Patrick Kilpatrick studied the two detectives seated across the table from him. They were far from a matched set. Frost was old-school. A middle-aged white male who knew how to work the system and benefitted from being married to the mayor’s cousin. He had the same rumpled appearance as television’s Lt. Colombo, but from what Kilpatrick had seen during the years they’d worked together, little of Colombo’s deductive power and none of his charm.
Flurry, on the other hand, looked nothing like a classic television detective. She was petite, vivacious, and Latina. This would be the first case he worked with her, and he was curious to see what she brought to the table. From what he’d heard, she was quick-witted and diligent, but garnered the resentment of many of her peers for a rapid rise they attributed more to her minority status than to her competence.
“I’m familiar with the evidence gathered and facts of the case,” Kilpatrick began, “but I need to know more about the players. I understand we have a potential PR complication there? Our prime suspect won an Olympic medal?”
Frost’s head whipped up from his notes. “A bronze medal. In a minor sport. No big deal.”
Kilpatrick shifted his gaze to the junior officer. “Detective Flurry, why don’t you tell me who we’re dealing with.”
Flurry began speaking from memory. This immediately differentiated her from Frost, who couldn’t think without staring at his notes. “Kyle Achilles is the son of an Air Force physician and a Russian Olympic gymnast. His only sibling was the brother who died with his father during the incident in question. Achilles went–”
“Wait a minute,” Kilpatrick interrupted. “Didn’t his mother die on the yacht as well?”
“That was his stepmother. I’m not sure what happened to his real mother.”
“Huh. Go on.”
“Achilles went to the University of Colorado, where he was a star skier. Apparently he was also an excellent marksman, as he made the Olympic biathlon team and eventually won bronze in Vancouver. Somehow he caught the attention of the CIA, and he ended up in their Special Operations Group, where he worked for five years before resigning sudd
enly, a year ago.”
“Forget the past,” Frost said, his tone dismissive. “Look at the present. At the time his multimillionaire father was murdered — along with the only other people who stood to inherit his fortune — Achilles was an exceptionally capable and highly trained but unemployed killer.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Flurry said.
“You have a better way?” Frost asked.
“Let’s keep focused,” Kilpatrick said. “What else do we know about him? What’s he been doing since he left the CIA?”
“He hasn’t earned a dime,” Frost said.
“He’s been traveling around Europe, competing in rock-climbing competitions,” Flurry said.
“He’s a bum,” Frost said.
“He’s an American hero who decided to take his college graduation trip a decade late,” Flurry said.
“Climbing rocks?” Kilpatrick asked.
“It’s his hobby,” Flurry said. “According to a magazine profile, he poured his frustrations into rock climbing after a lower-back injury ended his biathlon career. They do a lot of climbing in Colorado, along with skiing and shooting. Apparently he’s gotten pretty good at free-soloing. He set a couple of speed records in Greece.”
“Free soloing?” Kilpatrick asked.
“That’s the technical term for what you or I might call monkey-style. No ropes, tools, or safety equipment. Just special shoes and chalk for your hands.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Frost asked.
“My college boyfriend was really into free-soloing — until it killed him.”
Kilpatrick exhaled, pushed back from the table, and stood to pace. “What about the woman we found him with?”
“I checked her out,” Frost said. “Sophie Gramercy is a UCSB graduate student who waitresses evenings at Bouchon. She’s clean. They only just met at the party.”
“And the Russian girl, the brother’s fiancée?”
“Katya Kozara was our only other suspect,” Flurry said. “But whereas Kyle Achilles stands to inherit over ten million dollars from the death of his family, Katya loses. She’d just gotten engaged to Colin Achilles at that party, just set herself up to be an American doctor’s wife. She would have been in line to eventually share in that ten-million-dollar inheritance, but now she’s getting nothing.”
