Wild Riviera

by Tripp Ellis

  I grabbed Bianca’s phone from the bar counter, and JD and I decided it was best if we vacated the vessel, pronto.

  We moved down to the swim platform and climbed aboard the tender. We cast off the lines, and I started the outboard motor. With a twist of the throttle, we banked around and headed back toward Monaco.

  We tossed the pistols into the water along the way. Getting caught with a weapon that was responsible for multiple deaths didn't seem like a good idea.

  There were several crew members left aboard Stocks and Blondes. They were smart and stayed below deck. They didn't involve themselves in Nails’s business. Working for the mob, you learned to keep your head down. See nothing and say nothing. The less you know the better.

  The Zodiac whined as I kept the throttle on full, heading back to the harbor.

  We pulled to the dock and climbed out of the boat. I set it adrift in the harbor, and we hobbled back toward the hotel.

  I had cuts and scrapes all over my face, arms, and back. The square metal tubing that made the framework of the coffee table had done a number on my back when Blondie and I crashed into it. It hurt like hell, and I knew I was going to feel it in the morning.

  The police were waiting for us when we returned to the hotel. We were surrounded the minute we stepped into the lobby, and cold steel handcuffs slapped around our wrists.

  With Bianca’s dead body in our hotel room, I had some explaining to do. I wasn't too worried about it. I had the video evidence of Bree’s murder and figured I could talk my way out of this.

  They stuffed us in the back of a police car and weren’t too gentle about it. JD and I both groaned. All I could think about was stealing a few pain pills from him.

  At the station, we were put into an interrogation room and our personal effects were confiscated. I had Bianca’s phone in my pocket and they took that as well as my own.

  We sat in the interrogation room for half an hour. The plain room with dingy white walls and brilliant fluorescent lighting was enough to drive a person mad.

  Inspector Géroux finally entered and took a seat at the table opposite JD and me. "The hotel recently installed security cameras in the alley and around the premises. I have reviewed the footage and saw that you were kidnapped. I'm assuming the men who took you were responsible for the death of Bianca Reshetkova?”

  "You would be correct,” I said.

  "I also saw the video on Carolyn’s phone. It seems I owe you an apology. You were correct to think that Bree's death was not an accident.”

  I tried not to smile, but I wasn’t doing a very good job. "You mind doing something about these handcuffs."

  "Certainly."

  Géroux stood up and strolled around the table. He dug into his pocket, fumbled for a key, then released the cuffs from around my wrist.

  He did the same for JD.

  I rubbed my wrists as the tight cuffs had carved grooves into my skin.

  “A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Savannah Skye, along with Liam Gordon."

  I hesitated for a moment, debating whether to tell him he didn't need to bother looking for Liam. I figured we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

  "Are we free to go?" I asked.

  Inspector Géroux nodded.

  I pushed away from the table and stood up. I shook hands with the Inspector on the way out.

  "Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Géroux said.

  We left the jail and caught a cab back to the hotel. Management had moved us into a new room. Once we got situated, I popped a few of JD's pain pills, and he took a handful as well.

  The bottle was getting dangerously close to empty.

  I washed them down with a glass of whiskey then took a shower. The water stung as it hit the lacerations on my skin.

  28

  When I woke the next morning, it felt like someone had stabbed a knife into my lower back—piercing pain that radiated down my left leg.

  My whole body was tight.

  It took a moment before I could move. I peeled my eyes open and wiped the sleep away as the morning light blasted into the hotel room. A freight train would have done less damage. I made a mental note to stop getting into fights with guys bigger than me.

  It was wishful thinking.

  I sat up on the edge of the bed and hovered there a moment, stretching and groaning, trying to get my blood flowing again.

  I had the inclination to pop another pain pill, but I abstained. There was no point in going down that route. The last thing I needed was an opioid addiction.

  I stood up, stretched, and staggered to the bathroom. I figured a hot shower would loosen things up, and it did, somewhat.

  My phone rang when I got out of the shower. The caller ID read: Joel Agent.

  "Have you seen?"

  "Seen what?"

  "Turn on the news."

  I turned on the TV and got dressed. JD was pulling himself out of bed and didn't look pleased about it.

  To my shock, Savannah Skye had been apprehended, and was in custody.

  The broadcast was in French, but I was fluent. A reporter interviewed Inspector Géroux. “This morning Savannah Skye was apprehended in connection with the death of Bree Taylor. There is incontrovertible evidence to suggest Ms. Skye is responsible, along with a co-conspirator."

  Several other reporters shouted questions, but Inspector Géroux ignored them.

  Géroux continued, ”This new evidence would not have come to our attention without the assistance of Tyson Wild, and I would like to take this opportunity to state publicly he is no longer a person of interest."

  “What about my contribution?” JD griped.

  “I’m sure he just forgot,” I said with a grin.

  “You’d still be in jail if it wasn’t for me,” JD said with a playful scowl.

  The news broadcast cut to footage of Savannah’s arrest. The look on her face was priceless. All of her hopes and dreams were going up in flames. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

  Video of Bree’s murder had leaked to the press, and they aired a highly edited clip.

  "This is going to be great for your career," Joel said, his excited voice filtering through the tiny speaker in my phone.

  I rolled my eyes. "I really don't care about a career."

  "You will when you see the first paycheck. Oh, by the way, I’ve got the tickets to the Grand Prix, courtesy of Susan.”

  "JD's flying out today. He's got some family issues back home."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. You're going to stay, right? I'd like to set up a few more meetings."

  I hesitated.

  "It will be worth your while."

  "I'll think about it."

  "I gave Bree’s sister your number. She's going to call you to express her gratitude." Joel could barely contain his excitement. "Get ready for a wild ride. We'll talk soon!”

  I hung up and waited for JD to shower and get dressed, then we headed down for breakfast. There were pancakes, blueberry waffles, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and fresh coffee. Somehow it tasted better than usual.

  In the back of my mind, I worried about reprisals from Nails’s organization. I wasn't sure if he was the big man on the totem pole, or a mid-level boss? If the latter, there would be someone above him who was angry that a good earner had been put out to pasture. But I was no stranger to having angry people gunning for me.

  After breakfast, JD gathered his bags, and I saw him off as he took a cab to the heliport, then transferred to Nice. It was a long flight home, and he was worried sick about Scarlett—even though he pretended not to be.

  The streets of Monaco echoed with the roar of race cars as they snaked their way through hairpin turns on the first day of Free Practice. It was Thursday. Qualifying was on Saturday, and the race was on Sunday.

  I figured a few more days in Monaco wouldn't kill me. And I had to admit, I was looking forward to watching the Grand Prix.

  That afternoon, I heard from Bree’s sister, Wi
llow. "I hope you don't mind me calling. I got your number from Joel."

  "He mentioned you'd be getting in touch."

  "I just wanted to thank you for everything that you've done."

  "I'm just glad the truth came to light."

  "Do you have a chance to meet for coffee?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "There's a great little beanery on the corner of Avenue du Port and Rue Grimaldi."

  "I know the place."

  “Let's say 4:30 PM?”

  “Perfect."

  I had never seen Willow before, but it wasn’t hard to pick her out of the crowd. She had a striking resemblance to Bree, though not quite as glamorous.

  She seemed shy and unassuming. She didn't command attention, and I assume that was largely by choice. She wasn’t wearing high-end designer fashions, and she didn't look like she was about to step onto the red carpet.

  She spotted me right away as I stepped into the coffee shop. "Tyson?"

  I smiled and greeted her with a hug.

  "I recognized you from the TV." She smiled. "Thanks for coming."

  We ordered our drinks and took a seat at a table on the sidewalk. It was a nice afternoon. Blue skies with a few harmless clouds. A cool breeze blew through the streets. The city was relatively quiet in between practice sessions.

  “Bree’s death would have haunted me for the rest of my life if I hadn't known what truly happened,” Willow said. “I am forever indebted to you for that."

  "I needed closure myself."

  "Were you two close?” Willow asked with a quizzical look on her face. “She hadn’t mentioned you before."

  "We’d just met. But, I think had we gotten to know each other better, we would have been great friends."

  "Bree could just hit it off with some people," Willow said. "People were drawn to her. Obviously. But she just had that thing about her." Her eyes teared up. She casually wiped them away. "I don't have that."

  I smiled. “Oh, don’t sell yourself short.”

  "She always was the outgoing one. She never met a stranger,” Willow said. “I, on the other hand, am perfectly content to mind my own business and stay home with a good book."

  We chatted for a little while, and I think Willow needed to connect with me on some level. I was the last person to really spend any time with her sister. And getting to know me was perhaps a way of understanding what the last moments of Bree's life were about.

  "I won't take up any more of your time,” Willow said. “But you have my number. Please keep in touch. If there's ever anything I can do for you, please let me know."

  She thanked me again, and we hugged before she left. Her eyes were teary again, and she wiped them dry and flashed a smile before turning away.

  I watched her go and hoped that she would find a way to process her grief. I knew from experience that it was a long process. It doesn't seem real when it first happens. You feel like it's happening to someone else.

  When my parents were murdered, I had the overwhelming feeling that they were still around, just out of sight. It took a long time for reality to actually sink in. You never get over the loss of a loved one, you just learn to deal with it. To put it in its proper place. To be grateful for the time you shared, but not be crippled by the loss.

  Over the next few days I watched the qualifying sessions and enjoyed a VIP Paddock Club pass. The tickets to this exclusive club cost €6000 each. The studio handed them out like they were candy.

  The VIP Terrace was filled with the glitterati, drinking champagne, snacking on hors d’oeuvres, gossiping, and making deals. There were flat-screen displays that showed the action from multiple angles.

  I got to stroll around pit-lane and see the cars up close and talk to some of the drivers.

  Joel introduced me to several famous directors and producers. It was more of a networking event for him than anything else.

  On race day, I leaned against the railing and watched from the terrace as the race cars tore up the track.

  “You lied to me,” a stunning brunette said in a thick French accent as she leaned against the railing next to me.

  I’d recognize that velvety voice anywhere.

  Katya lowered her sunglasses and arched an eyebrow at me.

  “I didn’t lie to you,” I said.

  “You’re not a killer.”

  I shrugged. “There’s a few people who might argue with that.”

  She huffed, mildly annoyed. “And I thought I had a story to tell.”

  “You still have a story to tell.”

  “It was so much more interesting when you were Bree’s killer.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. She stuck it between her red lips and fumbled for a lighter.

  “I’m not sure you can smoke here.”

  “They can sue me.”

  I pulled the gold diamond studded lighter from my pocket and struck it. The flame flickered at the end of her cigarette, and she sucked in a deep breath, then blew out a steady cloud.

  “Now you are my accomplice in crime.” Her eyes widened. “My lighter. Where did you find it?”

  “In the casino.”

  She snatched it from my hand. “See. These are my initials, K.T.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes narrowed at me, suspiciously. “Are you sure you didn’t steal this from me when you were at my apartment?”

  I laughed and raised my hands innocently, “I’m positive.”

  Her suspicious gaze lingered.

  “It did save my life, however.”

  Her curious eyebrow lifted. “How so?”

  I told her the story.

  She handed the lighter back to me. “Then you should keep it as a souvenir.”

  “How would you ever light your cigarettes?” I asked in a sardonic tone.

  “There will always be someone to light my fire.” Her sultry eyes smoldered.

  29

  Katya wasn’t lying. A woman like that would always have men falling all over themselves to do her bidding. I must admit, I did light her cigarette a few more times. Once after we tumbled around the sheets in her apartment again.

  I wasn't big on dating women who smoked. It was usually like kissing an ashtray, but she kept her breath clean, and she always had a stick of gum handy in case of emergency. For her, I was willing to make an exception.

  She had such elegant curves that I found myself more than willing to take a few laps around the track.

  I didn't have a solid departure date. It was tempting to stay in Monaco and see just how long it would take me to die of Katya’s secondhand smoke.

  We were enjoying each other's company, but she was an incessant socialite. Out every night at all the parties and bars. She had to see and be seen. I’m not quite sure where her money came from, and I didn’t want to know, but she was loaded. It was nothing for her to drop $2500 for a bottle of champagne at a bar.

  As much fun as I was having, I decided it was time to head home.

  The Grand Prix was over. The festival in Cannes was all wrapped up. All the LA transplants had gone back home. The city was quiet, and less crowded. I'm sure the locals breathed a sigh of relief that their small oasis was returning to normal.

  I called JD and asked if he’d heard anything from Scarlett.

  “She is definitely on my shit list,” JD said. “After three days of not returning my texts and calls, she tells me she’s okay. She went on a road trip with Sadie up to New York. I’m thinking maybe you could call Aria and see if she could look in on them?”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “You think she’s full of shit? Is she really in NY?”

  “I know she’s full of shit. But I made her text me a picture from Manhattan. So, at least I know she’s there. I made her send me a photo of her and Sadie in Times Square.”

  “What about her court date?”

  “I told her if she misses it, that’s it. She’s cut off. No more funds from Dad
dy to cover legal fees.”

  I hung up with JD and called Aria. She was a little cold at first, but warmed up quickly. She said Scarlett had contacted her. She offered to let the girls stay at her place while they were in town. I decided to go to New York to make sure they stayed out of trouble. I was determined to see Scarlett back to Coconut Key in time for her court date.

  I said goodbye to Katya, and she told me I was welcome in Monaco at any time.

  I couldn't help but feel a little sad as I boarded the plane, and I couldn’t get Bree out of my mind during the flight home. It would be strange to watch her next movie that was due for release soon. She had wrapped filming a few weeks before her death.

  I didn’t know if I could watch it.

  I caught the 9:40 AM flight from Nice, and with one stop, I landed at LaGuardia at 4:54 PM local time. It was mid 70s and overcast. Thick gray clouds blanketed the sky, and a light rain drizzled.

  The flight attendants waved goodbye as I exited the plane, and I walked up the jetway to the terminal. I felt a wave of familiarity wash over me—I wasn’t home, but I was back in the United States. And it felt good. The south of France is great, but there is nothing like the good ‘ole US of A.

  The terminal was still under construction, but at least I didn’t have to take a shuttle bus to get to Ground Transportation anymore.

  I hopped into a black town car and we drove toward Manhattan. Aria lived on the upper East Side on 72nd Street. I marveled at the towering skyscrapers as we crossed the Triborough Bridge—and yes, I’m old-school, I’m always going to call it the Triborough. They spent $4 million to change the name to RFK, and replaced 139 signs, to honor the former Senator. Did the taxpayers really benefit from that?

  The cabdriver took FDR down to East 71st Street, and we looped around 1st Avenue to 72nd. The East Gardens Plaza was a modern high-rise condominium that offered a host of resort like amenities—24-hour concierge, doorman, porters, on-site valet. There was a fitness center, an Olympic size indoor pool, hot tubs, sauna, steam room, and indoor squash and basketball courts.

  I pushed into the lobby and strolled to the bank of elevators. I had never been to Aria’s apartment before. At the 29th floor, I found apartment G and knocked on the door. I heard the girls’ voices inside, then Aria called through the door, “Who is it?”