Wild Riviera

by Tripp Ellis

There was a long silence.

  Isabella was my point person at Cobra Company—a clandestine organization made up of former spooks and spec-war operators that worked on a contract basis, doing all the dirty deeds that the intelligence community didn’t want to be held accountable for. There was no phone they couldn’t tap. No computer system they couldn’t hack into. No code they couldn’t crack. And they didn’t have to play by the rules.

  Isabella finally sighed, “Fine. Give me the number."

  I did.

  "Don't bother looking for Cartwright,” Isabella grumbled. “He's long gone by now."

  "I figured."

  She hung up before I finished speaking.

  We returned to Port Hercule. My bag was still aboard the Silver Screams. I had an unsettled feeling in my stomach as I walked down the dock toward Bree’s yacht.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here,” Liam said as I stepped aboard.

  His eyes were filled with pure hatred, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. Rage and sadness swirled within him. The veins in his neck bulged.

  "I don't know if you've heard the news, but Bree’s death was ruled an accident,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.

  Liam's eyes narrowed at me. “I can tell you, it wasn’t an accident.” His face flushed. "You need to leave."

  “I didn't kill her. And what makes you so sure it wasn’t an accident?“ He knew Bree far better than I did, and I wanted to get his take on the incident.

  “Why are you here?” he said, disregarding my question.

  “I need my bag.”

  We stared each other down for a long moment.

  "Get your things, and get out!” he said through gritted teeth.

  There were a few other people in the salon that I didn't recognize. I went below deck and into the master stateroom. I took a moment to breathe in the room. The subtle traces of Bree’s perfume still lingered in the air. I thought about how much fun we had in this room, and how somber things were now. Her death left a gaping hole in many people’s lives. I felt it, and I had only known her for a day.

  I grabbed my roller bag and returned to the main deck. “Has anybody talked to the neighboring boat owners?"

  Liam clenched his jaw. "What part of leave did you not understand?"

  "Look, I'm just as distraught as you are."

  "I doubt it. You knew her for what, a few hours?”

  He was hurt and grieving, and I was the focus of his rage. It was understandable. Everyone close to Bree wanted someone to blame for this. It seemed too bizarre to be an accident, but I guess stranger things have happened.

  I left the Silver Screams and rejoined JD on the dock.

  "That's a hell of a boat," he said, marveling at the magnificent vessel.

  "I think you should get one just like it," I said.

  "You want to go in halfsies?” he suggested in jest.

  I chuckled. “Talk to me when I'm rich and famous."

  "You're about to have the famous part. I'm not so sure about the rich." He paused for a moment. "I've got a room at the Hôtel Impérial. It's not the Hermitage, but it will do. I suppose we can catch a flight out in the morning?”

  "I think I'm going to stay for a little while."

  JD frowned. "I knew you were going to say that."

  "I'm not so sure I buy the drowning thing."

  "Why not? It happens. She gets drunk, pops a few pills…"

  “This case got wrapped up a little too neatly, don’t you think?“

  "You're complaining because you weren’t charged with murder?” JD asked, incredulous.

  "You know what I mean. Come on… think about it. It's not good business when celebrities are murdered. Bad for tourism.“

  JD gave me a skeptical look.

  "I'm just saying… If she drowns, it's a tragedy. If she was murdered, that means there's a killer on the loose."

  "Okay, Detective. Let's just get a few things out the way. We're in a foreign country. I don't have a gun, do you?"

  "No."

  "We have no authority here.”

  "Our authority back in Coconut Key is tenuous at best."

  JD made a face at me.

  "And when has that ever stopped either of us, anyway?”

  "How about we just enjoy a few days on the French Riviera, then go back home?”

  "I've got no problem with that. You can enjoy the French Riviera, and I’ll search for the person that killed Bree Taylor."

  JD’s face tensed, clearly annoyed at my stubbornness. ”You can't be sure she was murdered."

  "I can't be sure she wasn't."

  We kept talking as we strolled down the dock.

  “You didn't hear anything that night? No commotion? No screams for help? No splashes in the water?"

  "Nothing. I hadn’t slept in 2 days, my belly was full of whiskey, and I just had some of the best sex of my life."

  Jack was green with envy. "Got any leads?"

  I shrugged. "A few. Seems there were a lot of people that didn't really like her."

  "Why? Was she a raging bitch?”

  "That's the thing,” I said, perplexed. "She was really nice. Genuine. I think there was a lot of jealousy around her. When you become that successful, people hate you just for breathing. They root for you when you are an underdog, but when you get on top… all they want to do is tear you down."

  “I can relate. People have been trying to tear me down for years,” he said without a hint of modesty.

  I rolled my eyes. Nobody was trying to tear JD down—except, maybe, his ex-wife.

  “The way I figure, we’ve got a week to solve this thing,” I said. “Once the film festival is over, most of these Hollywood types are going back to the States.”

  We went back to the Hôtel Impérial. It wasn’t the fanciest place in Monaco, but it was reasonably priced and clean. The rooms were a bit on the small side, but there was WiFi, air conditioning, and a complementary breakfast. It was on Avenue Prince Pierre and was in walking distance to just about everything.

  I took a shower, and by the time I got dressed, my stomach was rumbling. There was an Italian restaurant across the street that JD and I decided to try. But we were mobbed when we hit the street.

  11

  Cameras flashed and reporters shouted more questions. We escaped into the restaurant, and the vultures hovered outside, waiting for our exit.

  I could understand why celebrities punched these guys. They stuck camera lenses an inch from my face and were completely shameless in their attempts to snap a marketable picture.

  The D&D restaurant was a small place on the corner with marble floors, modern mahogany chairs and tables, and pop art on the walls. The maître d' seated us at a table in the back, away from the windows.

  The smell of marinara and Italian seasonings wafted through the air. The subtle murmur of conversation filled the restaurant along with the clink of forks against plates. Ice rattled in glasses, and Pellegrino fizzed as a waiter poured the sparkling water at a neighboring table.

  A pretty brunette waitress took our order. There were over 30 varieties of pizza and pasta dishes. We decided to split a margarita pizza. Simple and effective.

  I kept glancing out to the street. The paparazzi hung around like stray dogs, smoking cigarettes and chatting amongst themselves. The vultures weren’t going to give up anytime soon. At least they had the decency to leave us alone while we were in the restaurant.

  “Maybe we should just go back home tomorrow,” I said.

  “Whatever you want to do.”

  “Maybe Bree did drown, and my imagination is running away with me?”

  “Trust your gut. Has it ever been wrong?”

  I shook my head.

  “I know you. When you get these hunches, you’re normally spot on.”

  “I don’t know. It’s just so hard for me to believe. She was next to me when I went to sleep and gone when I woke up. She died sometime between midnight and 8 AM.”

  “That’s a
lot of time. Anything could have happened.”

  I frowned as I thought about it, racking my brain. I was mad at myself for letting it happen. Her death occurred on my watch, so to speak. I told her I would keep her safe, but I never imagined she’d fall off her own boat and drown. I didn’t hear anything that night, and I’m usually a light sleeper.

  It was one of those things that would haunt me for the rest of my days if I didn’t figure out exactly what happened.

  I gobbled down the pizza in a distracted state. The food was excellent and reasonably priced. I’d find out later that it was regarded as some of the best pizza in Monaco.

  “Look at it this way,” JD said. “We’re already here. We both deserve a vacation. Might as well have a little fun in the sun? It will give us a few days to dig around and see if anything turns up. If nothing does, you can put it to rest.”

  JD knew me well. I didn’t have to tell him what was going on in my head. He could see it for himself.

  We left the restaurant and were hounded again by the paparazzi. This time I decided not to fight. I stood there and let them take pictures, and I answered questions, keeping my answers short and vague. When they had their fill, they left me alone.

  We walked down the street and got a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café. Without the swarm of paparazzi, we could enjoy the breezy afternoon.

  JD decided that cocktail hour was fast approaching. We left the café and strolled down Avenue du Port to a bar that overlooked the marina called After Hours. It was a swanky upscale place with a sleek modern interior and LED panels under the bar and in the walls that slowly changed colors over time, giving the bar a different vibe every hour. Pop art paintings of American rock stars lined the walls—Jim Morrison, Keith Richards, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray Vaughn.

  It was full of men in designer suits and women in expensive dresses that were barely there. Stiletto heels and toned legs, flawless make up, and styled hair. The clientele wasn't cheap, and neither were the drinks. The staff was friendly, and the ambience was unparalleled.

  I leaned against the bar and ordered a whiskey-rocks for JD and I with a beer back. I took in the sights and tried to relax.

  The next thing I knew, I was rubbing elbows with a gorgeous brunette. She wore a gold strapless dress. It was hard not to drop my eyes to her sumptuous valley of cleavage that longed to spring free of the taught fabric. Her gravity defying assets were prisoners in desperate need of liberation from the oppressive garment.

  The hemline of her dress rode high on her toned olive thighs, barely concealing the holy land. The dress sparkled, and her skin shimmered. She had legs that could start wars, and her sculpted features were classic. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her full pouty lips just begged to be kissed.

  She had to be a model.

  "I know you," she said with a thick French accent.

  I smiled. "I don't think so."

  "No, I mean I know your face. You are a someone famous, no?"

  "No,” I chuckled. “I’m not famous."

  Her eyes narrowed at me, and her long black lashes fluttered. "You are here for the festival in Cannes?”

  "I'm just here."

  "So many celebrities are in Monaco, traveling back and forth. It's very exciting this time of year."

  "It is indeed." Exciting was an understatement.

  "Will you stay for the Grand Prix?"

  "Possibly."

  "I love watching the races. So fast. So dangerous. My favorite driver is Armond Lémieux. He's so cute." She paused for a moment. "But not as cute as you."

  "I'm flattered."

  JD leaned around me to get a better look at her. His eyes ogled her shapely form. Her perfect curves were on full display as she leaned against the bar beside me.

  "I have it now," she said. "I know who you are."

  "You do?"

  "You are the suspected killer, no?"

  I was getting tired of telling people Bree drowned, especially when I didn't believe it myself. "I'm… I was just a friend."

  "You two were having an affair, no?"

  I didn't say anything.

  “That’s what they say in the papers, anyway.”

  “Do you believe everything you read?”

  Her eyes brightened with intrigue. She inched even closer and spoke in a sultry voice. "Did you know that the French word for orgasm is La petite mort. It means the little death."

  "I knew that."

  "I think I would like you to give me a little death. You are a killer, after all," she said with a lustful glint in her eye.

  I smiled. "That's very tempting, but I just spent the night in jail. My friend just died. I'm not in the right headspace."

  JD looked at me like I was crazy.

  "But I give such great headspace," she said in a pouty voice, followed by a naughty grin.

  JD nudged an elbow into my ribs. He muttered in my ear, “If you don’t get on that, I will.”

  12

  I was fairly confident that JD could take care of himself. He was a big boy. I left After Hours with the stunning brunette in the gold dress. Her name was Katya.

  We caught a cab back to her condo, and part of me worried that I might wake up in the morning missing a kidney.

  It seemed a little too good to be true. I mean, I had always done reasonably well with women, but in the last few days, I was batting a thousand.

  This seemed almost too easy.

  Maybe she had a couple guys waiting with lead pipes ready to pummel me and take my wallet?

  I almost laughed at the idea—it was a little paranoid. But a healthy dose of paranoia can keep you alive.

  During the cab ride, I thought about the older version of me. The one sitting in a nursing home drooling on myself, struggling to remember the good old days. If I lived that long, that old man would probably tell me to live life to the fullest. Enjoy every moment. Take every opportunity. Don't sweat the small stuff, and never turn down a beautiful woman.

  My paranoia vanished when I saw her luxury high-rise.

  Katya’s condo was a two bedroom on the 37th floor of the Parthenon Towers. It must have cost a small fortune. It was around 2500 ft.²—and luxury real estate in Monaco was going for €60,000 a square foot. The parking space alone cost €250,000.

  The floor was imported Italian marble, and the furnishings were midcentury modern. Abstract art hung on the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the harbor.

  It had an open architecture. The living room extended seamlessly into the dining room and futuristic kitchen. It was impeccably styled, with luxurious appointments. There was a large terrace that offered a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.

  The building had a concierge that could handle any request, night or day—shuttle service, valet parking, maid service, dry cleaning, car washing, babysitting—you name it. There was even a chef on demand, and a helipad atop the building.

  This woman definitely didn’t need to steal my kidneys and sell them on the black market. She didn’t need to roll me for the contents of my wallet. I felt stupid for even harboring the thought, initially.

  Katya’s stiletto heels clacked against the tile as she sauntered to the minibar. "Can I offer you a drink?"

  "Sure."

  "What will it be?"

  "Dealer’s choice," I said, feeling adventurous.

  She poured two shots of Jägermeister and handed one to me. She lifted her glass and toasted, “To new acquaintances."

  "To new acquaintances," I said and slugged down the brown liquid that was like molten licorice.

  I enjoyed the sweet, sharp taste.

  Without warning, Katya leaned in close and planted her plump lips against mine. The taste of the Jäger lingered in her mouth, and our tongues became well acquainted.

  After a blissful moment, she abruptly pushed me away and smiled. She spun around and sauntered toward the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. Her long fingers grabbed the bottom of her skirt and pulled the hem u
p over her hips. Her pert assets swayed from side to side, and my eyes widened at the glorious sight—she wasn't wearing any panties.

  She moved to the edge of the balcony and leaned over, revealing everything she had to offer.

  I wasn't stupid.

  I knew a good invitation when I saw one, so I happily obliged her desires.

  If anyone was looking, we gave them a hell of a show on the balcony. Katya’s moans of ecstasy echoed in the night air, and I'm sure people down in the harbor could hear.

  I think she liked the attention. And I was happy to indulge her.

  When it was all said and done, she shimmied her skirt down over her hips, and I pulled up my pants. I leaned against the railing, enjoying the buzz of euphoria. The rush of chemicals filled my brain, better than any drug. My eyes took in the glimmering lights of the city, and I gazed at the horde of yachts docked in the harbor.

  Katya excused herself for a moment and slipped back into the condo. She emerged a few moments later with a cigarette, two drinks, and a gold lighter bedazzled with diamonds.

  She handed me another shot of Jäger. This time I decided to sip it.

  She sparked the flint and the amber flame flickered, casting a warm glow on her face as she puffed the cigarette until the cherry glowed red. She drew in a lungful, then exhaled into the night air—a thick cloud of smoke billowing from her full lips.

  She offered the cigarette to me.

  "No thanks. I don't smoke."

  "It's a terrible habit. I'm trying to quit. I've cut way down, but I refuse to give it up after sex. Especially good sex," she said with a satisfied glimmer in her eyes.

  "I'm sure you say that to all your men."

  She looked at me flatly. "I don't bullshit. I don't have to."

  This woman didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.

  “By now you’ve learned that I’m straightforward. I see what I want, and I take it.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Life is too short for games. Why pretend? If you love someone, tell them. If you want to sleep with someone, and the feeling is reciprocated, do it. Why deny yourself anything? Life is not a dress rehearsal. Don’t save your best for later. This isn’t a cell phone plan—the minutes don’t roll over when you die.”