Wired Kingdom

by Rick Chesler

“Mr. Reed!” He froze, his mouth open, twisted in fear and pain. “Sit down!” He sat. Hung his head. Tara walked around the table to stand opposite him and began again. “The tattoo in this picture was taken from the whale’s web-cam. It appears to match the one in the tabloid shot. If that proves true, then Crystal was the victim in the whale’s video.”

  “This shot came from the whale video?” Mr. Reed asked without looking up.

  “Yes, Mr. Reed. It did.”

  George shook his head as if confused. “I’d say they’re the same tattoo—I’m not denying that. In real life—on Crystal—the color was more purple than it looks here.” George flashed back to his tongue tracing the outline of that tattoo, looking up to see Crystal giggle at him . . . telling him to have his fun while she watched herself on TV. Just until the next commercial . . .

  He forced himself back to the present. “It could be her. I don’t—but I have no idea how she would have ended up in that video.”

  “Let’s talk about that for a moment, shall we, Mr. Reed?” George shifted uncomfortably in the stiff chair. Those watching from the other side of the one-way glass noticed he was looking a bit less dignified now. More like a subject settling in for what he knew would be a long day of questioning.

  “So if Crystal wasn’t a stripper, what was she? What did she do and how did you meet her?”

  Mr. Reed took a sip of water before answering. “She was a part-time actress who had a couple of minor parts on one of my reality shows a while back, before Wired Kingdom started.”

  “Which show was that?”

  “Sex Coach. It was a show where sex therapists made house calls to married couples looking to spice up their love lives. On some segments there were models who would . . . simulate various lovemaking positions for the couples. Crystal was one of those models.”

  If Mr. Reed was embarrassed by the type of programs he did before Wired Kingdom, he didn’t show it. Tara could almost hear the snickering from the other side of the observation glass.

  “I see,” she said. “And the personal relationship you had with her—was it sexual?”

  He was back on the couch with Crystal again, watching TV . . . “It was.”

  “And she knew you were married?”

  “She did.”

  “What about her? Was she married? Any boyfriends, anyone close to her besides yourself?”

  “She said she’d never been married and I believe her on that. Said she didn’t have a boyfriend. But it’s not like I was with her all the time, so who knows.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Can I smoke in here?”

  “As long as you answer my questions, sure.”

  Mr. Reed produced a cigarette and lit up. Tara disliked being around smoke, but hoped that if her suspect was more comfortable he’d continue talking.

  “Mr. Reed, did Crystal know, or was she ever introduced to Trevor Lane?”

  George gave Tara a condescending smirk. “Not that I know of. No. They didn’t work together. And to my knowledge they never met in a non-working capacity, either. Why—”

  Tara cut him off. “Had she come into any large sums of money recently?”

  George paused while he appeared to think about this. “Well, I bought her some nice things, if that’s what you mean, but large sums of cash? Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” The question hung in the air with George’s cigarette smoke while he pondered the answer.

  “Actually, the day this photo was taken was the last time I saw her,” he said, nodding at the print on the table.

  “And this was taken two weeks ago?”

  “Correct.”

  “And during the course of your relationship how often did you typically see each other?”

  “Not very often. Maybe once a week.”

  “Did you want it to be more than once a week?”

  He looked surprised. “No,” he said rearing back in his chair, “of course not. She was a temporary diversion. It never should have happened. I was under stress from putting together the Wired Kingdom deal, and Sex Coach was coming to an end. I suppose she was a little tense, too, and we just . . .” He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray.

  “But didn’t you call her after a week went by? That would have been per usual, right? Why haven’t you seen her since this?” Tara said, pointing to the tabloid photo on the table.

  “I don’t . . .” Mr. Reed held his head in his hands, as if trying to remember. “Okay, I did call her—twice, I think—but she never returned my calls. I figured maybe she was busy with another acting job, plus my wife was beginning to suspect an affair—as you can see,” he said, indicating the tabloid. “So I didn’t pursue it. Next thing I know, you’re telling me it’s her in that ghastly whale video.”

  “So you’re saying you’ve got no idea where she is now?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “What’s her phone number, please?”

  George stared at the cell phone that had suddenly materialized in Tara’s hand. He opened his mouth before shutting it again without having said anything. Then he gave her a number. Tara dialed. She enabled the speaker mode so Mr. Reed and the agents listening in could hear. A bubbly, high-pitched voice said, “This is Crystal. Do your thing at the beep.”

  At that moment there came a knock on the door. She ended the call and opened the door. A case worker waited, holding a fax. The young woman appeared out of breath as if she had been running, which in fact she had.

  “Special Agent Shores,” she began, “a park ranger on Santa Cruz Island found the partial remains of a body on a beach about an hour ago.” She looked down at the paper in her hands, making sure she got it right. “Says it looks like a female Caucasian shark-attack victim.”

  Tara took the fax and read it over, turning toward the glass and giving a thumbs-up to her concealed colleagues when she was done. Then she turned back to her assistant. “Get me a warrant for the address that corresponds to the billing for this phone line.” She handed her a piece of paper with Crystal’s phone number. “We’re looking for latent prints—maybe she has a record. And get her toothbrush, hairbrush, things like that we can use for DNA. We’ll be looking for a match with the body on the beach.”

  Then Tara’s boss, Will Branson, appeared in the doorway behind the case worker. “You know what this means, right Shores?”

  “Sir?”

  “In terms of jurisdiction. All of Santa Cruz Island is a—”

  “National Park,” Tara finished for him. “That’s why the park service notified us so quickly—which makes the Jane Doe who washed up a federal case!”

  “Exactly, Shores.”

  Tara felt an adrenaline surge. She’d been worried that after she had done the leg work in the case, when she had uncovered all the evidence, she would find it was out of her jurisdiction. They’d had no way of knowing when they were first alerted to the video. Now she was one ID away from unchallenged authority over the most publicized murder case in the country.

  She looked at the reality television mogul, who appeared to be digesting this new development. “Mr. Reed,” Tara said, “anything you’d like to add at this point?”

  He rested his head in one hand and muttered, “I can’t believe it.”

  Tara and her boss exchanged glances. Was he about to confess?

  “Mr. Reed?” Tara prompted. George shook his head as if to clear his mind.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with Crystal’s murder,” he declared. “I had an affair with her. It was consensual. The last time I was with her was on the beach in Malibu. I know nothing about what happened in the whale video.”

  “You’ll want to call your attorney, Mr. Reed,” Tara said, “because right now you’re under arrest for the murder of Crystal—last name as yet to be determined.”

  George Reed bolted up from his chair. “You’re out of your mind! I’m leaving this instant.” He started for the door but was smothered by no less than six agents who poured pa
st her into the room, wrestled him to the ground and restrained him in handcuffs.

  Tara raised her voice to be heard over the scuffle. “If the ID determines the body that washed up is not that of the woman you had an affair with, then you’ll be free to go at that time.”

  “I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “Then you better pray we get our hands on that whale’s web-cam unit, Mr. Reed, and that it shows someone besides you committing the murder.”

  That reminded Tara. She glanced at her watch. In less than four hours the whale’s GPS would be functioning again. Branson, reading her mind, signaled for her to step outside. “Good work in there, Shores.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve already got our underwater unit on ready alert status. We need those coordinates as soon as they come in.”

  “I know it, sir. I’ll send an evidence unit to Santa Cruz Island to collect possible fingerprints and DNA from the body to submit to the lab for testing. While they’re doing that, I’ll go myself to get the GPS data from Dr. Reed’s lab.”

  CHAPTER 34

  USC CAMPUS

  Tara could hardly contain her excitement as she drove onto the University of Southern California campus. An oasis of collegiate tranquility amidst one of L.A.’s rougher neighborhoods, the private school was home to the laboratory of esteemed scientist, Dr. Anastasia Reed.

  Tara had told herself on the drive over that Branson’s handling of the actual extraction of the whale-cam was a good thing. She had been delivered from that part of the case, and now needed only to present the underwater team with the GPS coordinates of the whale’s position. When that was done, she’d have satisfied her obligations to this case—another notch on her belt.

  An armed security guard in a kiosk checked her credentials and handed her a campus map. A gate arm lifted. Tara had called Anastasia’s cell phone and her Wired Kingdom office but had received no answer.

  Tara parked her Crown Vic in the visitor lot for the Department of Biological Sciences and walked into the building. She checked her watch. Three hours now until the Coast Guard GPS jam-testing ended. She found the main office and was surprised to find it buzzing with activity on a Saturday.

  A secretary, casting a surprised glance at the badge Tara wore on her belt, asked how she might be of service.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. Special Agent Tara Shores, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to see Dr. Anastasia Reed, please. Her father told me she was working here today.”

  Several secretaries looked up from copiers, workstations, and phones to stare at the real-life special agent in their midst. The eldest of them, apparently the office manager, addressed Tara. “She’s in a meeting now, until about three o’clock.” The secretary cocked her head, indicating that the meeting was taking place in a room just down the hall.

  “I’m sorry, but this matter cannot wait. I need to see her now. Can you get her for me, please?”

  There was no way Tara could wait for two hours. She needed to confirm with Anastasia that her equipment would, in fact, be receiving the GPS data stream once it was available.

  A silver-haired man who’d been standing in a corner conversing quietly with one of the secretaries stepped forward. “Pardon me,” he said to Tara, “my name is Peter Young. I’m the chair of this department. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Used to being deferred to higher-ups, Tara patiently repeated the purpose of her visit.

  “She’s in an important funding meeting right now. It’s the reason we’re all here this morning. Any chance you could come back after three? Or I could have her get in touch with you?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Young, but it’s critical to our investigation that I speak with her now.”

  The department chair looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then seemed to snap out of it. “Do you mind stepping outside with me for just a moment, Agent Shores?” He turned back to the secretary he’d been talking to. “Take in a fresh pot of coffee and the chips and things at the top of the hour, please.”

  He and Tara stepped outside the office into an empty hallway. Peter Young spoke in hushed tones as if he wanted to keep this matter as private as possible. “Allow me to ask, if you please, detective, whether this is about the complaints filed against Dr. Reed.”

  “Complaints? What complaints are those, Mr. Young . . . or is it Dr. Young?”

  “Doctor, yes, but that’s quite all right. How can I put this . . . ?” Tara waited for Dr. Young to formulate his thoughts. Whatever it was he was trying to say, it was clearly uncomfortable for him. “Anastasia’s brilliant, the finest researcher our department’s ever had. Her publishing track record is unprecedented, but we have had . . . social issues with her, although they’ve been more than offset by her remarkable scholarly output.”

  “What was the nature of these ‘issues,’ Dr. Young?”

  “In the last couple of years we have had two separate complaints filed by two different students, complaining of . . .” He paused awkwardly yet again, as if unsure how to phrase what he was about to say.

  “Complaining of what, Dr. Young?” Tara prodded.

  Young craned his head around to make sure no one was within earshot before continuing. “Complaining of unwanted sexual advances to students during office-hour visits,” he finished, looking her straight in the eyes.

  Tara did her best not to look surprised. “And these complaints were found to be legitimate?”

  “Yes, unfortunately they were. One of the students even retained an attorney at one point, threatening the university with a lawsuit, but the matter was settled out of court.”

  “The student who settled, did he have a past history of these kinds of problems?” Again, Dr. Young appeared extremely uncomfortable, almost blushing, Tara thought.

  The secretary emerged from the office with a tray of coffee and snacks. Dr. Young waited for her to pass down the hall before continuing.

  “The students who lodged the complaints were both female, detective.”

  Tara’s mind lighted on her interactions with Anastasia the past two days. “I see.” Tara forced herself to stay focused on getting the GPS coordinates. She was less than three hours away from wrapping the case, after which she’d be free to go back to the more familiar robberies, identity-theft rings and counter-terrorism operations she was used to. “But I’m not here to investigate that, Dr. Young. My reason for being here has to do with the whale tagged with Dr. Reed’s device.”

  “Oh,” Young said, letting the news sink in. “OH!” he repeated, his tone brightening as he realized the investigation was not centered around his department’s brightest star. He cleared his throat.

  “I do need to see her right now,” Tara reminded him.

  Dr. Young frowned for just a second and then motioned for Tara to follow him down the hall.

  ABOARD PANDORA’S BOX

  Pandora’s Box floated on a calm sea. Drifting for hours now with no sign of the Blue, the crew were showing signs of impatience. The beer and tequila had run out. Bodies lay in various states of repose around the deck, some sleeping, some just plain drunk. Only Eric Stein, Pineapple, and the hired divers were still alert.

  Pineapple wanted to turn the ship around and head for the marina. He spoke in a low murmur, so as not to wake the crew—or panic the Mexicans—but his voice retained a sense of urgency. “If we can’t find this damn whale, Eric, no one else will be able to either.

  “I know that.”

  “So why don’t we pack it in for now?”

  “What about these guys?” Stein gave a subtle tilt of the head toward the divers. “What if they freak out when we get close to port?”

  “We can’t stay out here forever just because we picked these guys up. We saved their frickin’ lives, we don’t owe them anything. Let’s drop their asses off!”

  At this the divers, who had been semi-dozing on a pile of wetsuits, sat up and openly paid attention.

  “Chill
. They know we’re talking about them.”

  “I don’t care, Eric. Look at you, man, you’re still bleeding all over the place.”

  Stein looked down at his thumb. A jagged, crusty ridge of caked blood snaked its way through the web between his thumb and forefinger. There were new blood splatters around the deck where his hand continued to drip. “No worries. I’ll go patch it up.”

  “The first aid kit’s out of gauze because some girl, who’s not supposed to be here anyway, cut her foot on the bottle you broke.”

  “Okay,” Stein said, picking off a protruding flap of skin and flinging it overboard. “Maybe we should just go in.”

  “I agree. However, we’ve got illegal aliens on board, and everybody, including you, the captain, is completely drunk. We don’t need another Coast Guard citation, Eric. They’ll take our boat. What I’m saying is that we need to plan out how to go in.”

  “You’re just full of good cheer, aren’t you, Pineapple?”

  “Hey, at least I’m taking some responsibility here. You’re not doing jack.”

  Stein drained the last of his beer and let the bottle drop to the deck. “What the hell is your problem, Pineapple? You don’t like OLF anymore? Then leave. I don’t care. Go start your own deal.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that. Your organization’s losing steam anyway.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We just haven’t done anything. This whale thing seemed like a good idea at first, but it’s making us look bad. The media’s making us out to be a bunch of punk losers more than environmentalists. Our approach isn’t working.”

  “Maybe you’re not working.”

  Pineapple took a step back, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. The divers were. Everyone else was more or less comatose. “Great, Eric.”

  “You know what, maybe I’m sick of your BS. You should just take the tender back to shore.” The tender for Pandora’s Box was an eight-foot Boston Whaler with a five-horsepower outboard. It was fine for ferrying passengers around a marina or in to a beach from anchor, but nearly fifty miles out to sea it would be like playing Russian roulette with the weather.