Wired Truth

by Toby Neal

  “On the other hand, how convenient this all is! The case wrapped up nice and tidy, with the criminal’s body a suicide to seal the deal.” Sophie firmed her jaw and turned to Raveaux. “We need to go in and try to determine if this is a homicide. Once the police get the case, we will have no further access to anything here.”

  Raveaux reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handful of latex, holding the rubber gloves out to her. “Let’s do what we can to minimize trace.”

  “You come prepared.” Sophie tugged on the stretchy rubber gloves.

  “I’ve been around the block a time or two.” He snapped on his gloves with a flourish. He pulled a black knit cap out of his pocket and put it on, tucking his hair inside. Sophie wrapped the scarf tied around her neck up over her own curls, containing them. They brushed down their clothing for any loose hairs or fibers, then approached the back door, which opened into the kitchen. Sophie stood back, scanning for any interference, letting Raveaux do the honors with his lockpicks.

  Once Raveaux had the door open, he slid out of his shoes, proceeding on stocking feet into the house. Sophie did the same, looking for any disruption, such as a pet or burglar alarm. She tiptoed across the kitchen’s immaculate linoleum, one hand on her weapon.

  That strange scent that Sophie had smelled on Samson’s hair and clothing filled the house, a perfume of death now in full bloom. The woman had lost control of her bowels, and that ripe stench overlaid the rest. Raveaux walked a perimeter of the kitchen and dining room, as Sophie approached the body directly.

  Samson hung from a decorative beam in the center of the living room. The rope was utilitarian hemp; a slipknot rather than the traditional hangman’s noose. A chair lay on its side on the carpeted floor. Her caftan was rucked up on one side, exposing her legs from the knee down.

  Raveaux entered, but continued to roam the perimeter, presumably looking for a note. Sophie took out her phone to take photos, scanning the body, looking closely for any sign of foul play. She stepped up close, breathing shallowly through her mouth.

  Yellow and green bruising dotted Samson’s pale, puffy arms in the nook of her elbows and at her wrists—likely the site of injections or blood draws. Sophie touched the woman’s arm gently. There was no give to the flesh—stiff with rigor.

  She walked around the body, examining it from all angles. Samson’s face was dusky purple, her eyes bulging and fixed with petechial hemorrhaging—she’d strangled without enough of a drop from the chair to break her neck. She hadn’t put on her head wrap. A few pitiful hairs decorated her mottled scalp. Sophie wished she could cut the woman down, close her eyes, give her some dignity, but that was impossible. “I’m so sorry, Mel,” she whispered.

  Raveaux called from the bedroom. “I found the suicide note.”

  Sophie turned and walked back through the dining room and turned left down a short hall into a bedroom that was as pristine as a nun’s cell: white comforter, white walls, and even a painting done in white, thick with impasto, was mounted where it could be viewed from the bed. Leaning against a framed photo was an envelope with Elisa written on it in bold cursive. Sophie leaned close to examine the photo: it was a candid of the same young girl on Samson’s desk, only grown, wearing a cap, gown, and college graduation tassels.

  Raveaux picked up the note. Very carefully, holding it by the edges, he turned it over. The envelope was not sealed, and he worked the paper out gently.

  “Dear Elisa,” he read aloud. “I have decided to end my suffering ahead of my natural expiration date. It is the final gift I can give you, along with everything I have. Be happy. Grow old. Enjoy your life, and remember our good times. Your loving Mel.”

  Raveaux refolded the note and slid it back into the envelope. They both scanned in the room, hands on hips. Nothing was disturbed, nothing out of place.

  “I see no sign of struggle,” Raveaux said.

  “So far, everything is consistent with suicide,” Sophie said. “I know she was planning this. I’m just surprised it was so close to our meeting. I can’t help but think our meeting prompted her action.”

  “Agreed. It’s a shame.”

  Sophie met Raveaux’s gaze. His eyes were liquid and soft; she was surprised by that and felt an answering upwelling of emotion. Her eyes prickled. “I’m sorry we pushed her over the edge.”

  “Me too. But discovery of her theft only pushed up her timetable. The outcome would have been the same.”

  They retraced their steps, passing by Mel Samson’s body. Sophie was glad she’d accepted the gift of Samson’s painting. She would choose to remember this woman’s keen eye for art and love of beauty, rather than the terrible scene of her death.

  She followed Raveaux out through the kitchen. They re-locked the door, donned their shoes, shucked off their gloves and headwear, checked that the coast was clear, and walked rapidly across the lawn and down the street.

  Sophie ticked over their options aloud as they walked. “We could call this discovery in on our cell phones, and just make it quick, but that would leave a trace on our phones if we were ever questioned. Or, we could call it in from a pay phone, say that we were walking by and saw the body. Another option is that I could call my contact in the HPD, and report that we came out on a home visit and spotted the body. Disclose that we have a case that possibly relates to the death, that we might have pertinent information. That would embed us in any investigation.”

  Raveaux cocked his head thoughtfully as they reached the Security Solutions SUV. “If this were a homicide, I would recommend that you make the call directly to your HPD contact and we give them all we have. But since we’re in agreement that it’s suicide, nothing is gained by disclosing anything about our investigation and violating our client’s confidentiality.”

  “Pay phone it is,” Sophie agreed.

  Raveaux pointed to a metal half-booth attached to the community center. “There’s one right there. You or me?”

  Sophie thought of Raveaux’s accent. Perhaps he could disguise it, but Sophie felt responsible for having discovered the body. “I will make the call.”

  Raveaux nodded and beeped open the SUV, getting in. Sophie waited for a car to pass, then crossed the street.

  She stepped up to the shiny rectangular phone unit which was sheltered by a plastic and metal hood and picked up the handset. A dial tone met her ear, and “Deposit coins or enter card number” tracked across the LED display below the square, numbered digits meant for dialing. She patted her pockets. She had no change and had left her backpack in the car—not that she’d want to enter a card number and identify herself . . .

  Staring at the phone, Sophie smiled ruefully. She’d never actually used a pay phone in the United States to make a call—but perhaps a 911 call would go through without payment.

  She decided to give it a try.

  The call connected. Sophie suppressed her accent, channeling Southern California. “Oh my gosh! I’m calling to report . . . I was going through a yard and . . . I think I saw a body!” She gave the address and street number, but hung up before the operator could collect anything more.

  She hurried back across the street and got into the SUV. Raveaux had already started the vehicle, and they pulled out. He glanced over at her. “Hungry?”

  Sophie barked a laugh. “Hardly. But I haven’t had breakfast. We should eat and discuss what’s next for the investigation.”

  The GPS guided them to a nearby Zippy’s, a local chain restaurant. Sophie took extra time in the bathroom to wash her face and arms to the elbows, trying to slough off the pall of their discovery. Later, over a hearty vegetable omelet, she felt her equilibrium coming back. Raveaux had ordered French toast and eggs, and she smiled at the sourness of his puckered mouth as he ate with mechanical precision.

  “Not to your taste?” Sophie asked.

  “No.” But he kept eating, cutting the thick, soggy white bread into squares, swirling them in a puddle of syrup, and forking them into his mouth efficiently. His e
ggs were already gone.

  “Are you a—what does Marcella call it—a foodie?”

  “Foodie?” Raveaux’s brows lifted in an incredulous arch. “Is that like a selfie? Some bastardization of the word gourmet?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Sophie hid her smile in her teacup. “Please, refresh me on the meaning of the word.”

  “A gourmet is a connoisseur of fine comestibles. You will notice that both gourmet and connoisseur are French words.” Raveaux pushed his empty plate away. “This country, however, favors large portions of mediocrity.”

  Sophie inclined her head toward his empty plate and tipped up her own. “Americans want speed of service, basic quality, and value for money. We got all of the above, today.”

  Raveaux snorted. “The body has needs . . . but the palate should be better appeased.” His dark eyes gleamed as they met hers. “I will cook for you and show you what I mean.”

  A quiver of heat zipped up Sophie’s spine. Was he asking her over to his place? Admittedly, she was curious about him. Where did he live? What did he do in his free time besides read thriller paperbacks? But she couldn’t let him get the wrong idea . . . “Let’s talk about the case,” she said. “What do you think of our discovery?”

  Raveaux pushed his plate even further away and leaned back. He laced his fingers over his flat belly and tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. Light fell through the window, highlighting the silver in his hair and on the planes of his stubbled cheeks. “I thought we settled that. Mel Samson committed suicide. Sad, but not unexpected given her health. She must have decided not to chance a scandal, or being brought in on charges, once she knew we were on to the theft.” He did not open his eyes.

  Sophie poured a little more tea from a utilitarian steel pot into her thick china cup. “Something does bother me about Samson’s death. Two things, actually. Firstly: the method. Hanging. She strangled. It’s an awful way to go. Why not just overdose on medication? I’m sure she had plenty of pain pills, or could get them. And secondly: why the ruse about the master thief?” Sophie sipped. “It all seems . . . both too neat, and messy.”

  A long moment passed. Raveaux still didn’t open his eyes.

  Sophie’s phone dinged. She looked down. Her heart rate spiked—Connor had sent her a text on their secure chat room.

  Need to speak to you ASAP.

  It had to be about Pim Wat . . . She did a quick mental calculation, considering the time difference. I won’t have time until tomorrow. She texted him back.

  His reply dinged. I’ll expect you at the usual place. Evening your time.

  The “usual place” was their encoded video chat. Despite the way their last video call had gone, she couldn’t wait to see him again—would he have changed? Probably. They both had. Sophie fingered the wild riot of curls brushing her shoulders. She was softer, too, and had put on some weight. Motherhood had changed her body. Changed her priorities.

  Raveaux spoke, startling her out of her reverie.

  “There could be something to what you say.”

  “What?” Sophie had completely lost the thread of their conversation.

  “The fact that the suicide was both too neat, and messy.”

  “The question is, where do we go from here?”

  “That’s not really up to us.” Raveaux sat forward, placing his elbows on the table, and making eye contact. “We’re in the private sector now. The client dictates. We have to contact Childer and let him know that reclaiming the diamonds appears to be a dead end. I don’t know what he will consider a priority at this point, or what his superiors will want now that we’re going for a bigger picture. Samson was our best lead . . . but perhaps they will want us to keep digging, looking for traces of a master thief.”

  “Let’s start by calling Childer in the car, where we can get some privacy.”

  They paid the bill and exited the restaurant. Sophie’s phone alarm went off for her meeting with Bix. “Son of a two headed goat! I have a business meeting for Security Solutions, and have to get back to the office for it. I would call Childer on the drive back over the Pali, but we already know how bad the reception is on that highway. We will have to do the call here.”

  Raveaux nodded. Sophie took out her phone and set it in the holder attached to the dashboard. She called Childer on video chat.

  Childer looked ruddy with high blood pressure, and overdressed in a tuxedo. “Is that an ascot?” Sophie asked, peering at the screen.

  “I’m about to attend an auction and assist the auctioneer,” Childer said stiffly. “Keep this short, please.”

  “I regret to inform you that Finewell’s employee, Melanie Samson, is dead of an apparent suicide in her home. We found her when we followed a lead that ended there,” Raveaux said.

  “Oh no.” Childer clenched his fist, biting a knuckle. “I thought you said she was just sick!”

  “She was,” Raveaux said. “Terminal cancer. That was why she got involved with stealing—to pay her medical bills. Sophie followed a lead embedded in the email address she gave us to the supposed master thief, and the IP address turned out to be her own house. We checked the body and the premises before anonymously tipping off the police. Everything appeared consistent with suicide.”

  “But what about the diamonds?” Childer wailed.

  “At this point, it appears that our only witness and best lead is dead. We can continue to look for this master thief, but there is a good chance that everything Samson said was a ploy to gain time and avoid being questioned,” Sophie said. “The trail led back to her. And now it’s a dead end, pardon the expression.”

  “That’s it? The diamonds cannot be recovered?” Childer yanked at his ascot, spoiling the knot.

  “I told you that yesterday,” Raveaux said. “Your superiors authorized a deeper investigation . . .”

  “But I was still hoping you’d get something from Samson, or maybe the master thief . . .”

  “That was unlikely,” Sophie said. “Mr. Childer.” Sophie made sure she had eye contact with the frazzled manager. “It’s our professional opinion that the diamonds cannot be recovered. You need to begin your procedure, now, for reporting them missing. As for the other aspects of the case, there are things that we can continue to investigate, in case Samson was not the only thief.”

  Raveaux leaned into the screen to address Childer. “For instance, we can travel out to the other Finewell’s locations where disappearances were reported and interview the players there, looking for what they might have discovered about their burglaries. Perhaps they have some leads. In other words, we can dig further for any accomplices. Sophie and I are not convinced that we have turned over every stone in this case.”

  “What about her computer?” Childer asked. “Have you sifted through all of her contacts?”

  “I did a preliminary scan of Samson’s laptop. It’s true, I can dig deeper, and we have the computer in our possession,” Sophie said. “But it is unlikely to give us anything that we can track to the fence that received the diamonds. They’ve been gone long enough for the set to be broken up and sold. Samson said she left them in the garbage can to be picked up at her house. I checked those garbage cans, and there was nothing in them but rubbish, and rather ripe rubbish at that. The diamonds are long gone. Deal with it, Mr. Childer, and let us know further instructions when you have checked with your superiors.”

  “But if Samson did the job herself, they weren’t left in the rubbish bin,” Childer argued. “She has a fence. In fact, she has a whole network if she is the master thief!”

  Sophie glanced at Raveaux—the man wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  Raveaux shook his head. “I guess we can keep working your case all the way to the end, Mr. Childer. I have some contacts in the gem world I can reach out to, see if they know anything about a fence that works in Hawaii. I could also contact the other branches of Finewell’s that experienced breaches, see if they have any information, as I mentioned before. And Ms. Smithson
can dig deeper online looking for the actual master thief, if it’s not Samson. It’s your company’s money.”

  “Those diamonds may be gone, but I’m not satisfied. Don’t stop working on it until I tell you to.” The man’s double chin wobbled with the force of his emotion. “I will contact my superiors.” Childer ended the call with a stab of his finger.

  Sophie sighed. “I guess we both know what we have to do. Now get me back to the Honolulu office. I have a performance review meeting to attend in forty-five minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Connor: Day Four

  Connor had caught up on sleep, then spent a productive afternoon drilling with the men and working on the Master’s business of running the compound. He ended the day meditating, sitting cross-legged atop a six-foot column of tiger’s-eye in the Master’s garden in front of the reflecting pool with its koi and lily pads.

  He’d never forget seeing the Master seated in this same spot, completely still and mostly naked, morning light turning the exotic one-foot-diameter stone pillar to fire. The man’s means of getting atop it had been a total mystery to Connor at the time.

  There was no mystery now. The means was simple: mastery of timing, matter, and space. The achievement of those things continued to be a challenge for Connor, especially today.

  He needed to calm and center himself; nervous at the prospect of seeing Sophie again, even on video. He had to contain all of that energy and focus it on the outcome he wanted: forging a new connection to her.

  Connor opened his eyes, checking the angle of the sun. Yes, she would be calling soon. He concentrated, and, riding the wave of chi that rose within him, stood up to set both feet side by side within the narrow diameter of the column. He drew a deep breath, focusing the energy that flowed through his mind and body, standing tall. He visualized his movement through the air and the landing, then flipped his body off the pillar, flexing his knees as his bare feet hit the ground.

  He’d done this dismount three times now, a good imitation of that perfect move the Master had seduced him with two years ago. Triumph made him smile. “Next time, a double flip,” he murmured.