by Bill Larkin
I noticed a palm-sized flat device near Tremayne’s router and network connection. I guessed it was a portable back-up drive that he kept separate from his laptop. When Marian Yu wasn’t looking, I pulled the cord and slid it into my back pocket.
Chapter 8
It was late in the day, and after leaving UCI, I had a Double Double with fries at In N Out. As I drove to my rented townhouse in the Eastbluff area of Newport Beach, I put my thoughts in order, but the missing holes were too big for logic to see how it all connected.
The body was Miles Dennison, business partner and co-professor at UC Irvine with Barry Tremayne. It was anybody’s guess where Tremayne was. He could have killed Dennison, or he could be dead himself, or he could be running from whomever killed Dennison. The Newport Beach detective, being a procedural guy with no intuition and a shitty attitude, would be up my ass again soon.
I thought about who could have committed the crime—setting up a yacht for an explosion. Some criminals are deliberate and careful. They plan and execute. Others have no impulse control: people who don’t care about consequences or who don’t think about penalties.
Rigging the explosion clearly took some technical expertise, and required knowledge that the victim would be on the boat at night. Clearly the former category. Who was supposed to be the victim, Barry Tremayne or maybe April Tremayne?
At my place, I cracked a beer, sat on my sofa with my laptop, and plugged the drive into my computer. After a moment, the drive contents came up. One section was encrypted and required a password. I had no hacking expertise, so I left that alone and opened an unencrypted video file. I played it.
The picture was from a digital video camera in one of the lab testing rooms used by Tremayne and Dennison at the University of California at Irvine. The shot showed ten students sitting in chairs. The camera perspective showed the student’s faces. In front of the students were two older men, one turned so I could see his face. I immediately recognized Barry Tremayne from the pictures at his house. His balding head was well tanned and a gray-speckled goatee sprouted from his already prominent chin.
The other man I presumed to be Miles Dennison, but wasn’t positive. He was short, with a plume of dark hair and dark features. The audio was low, but understandable.
Tremayne stood in front of the small group and was making an introduction.
“Each of you volunteers will be administered the test separately, in private, and each test only takes fifteen minutes. You’ll sit in front of a large monitor and you’ll be hooked up to sensors. Professor Dennison, do you have one over there?”
“Right here,” Dennison replied as he lifted what looked like a bike helmet with a bundle of wires exiting the rear.
Tremayne continued, “It has three hundred and seventy-two sensors inside and it will read all sorts of your brain activity.”
A guy in the back of the student group turned to his buddy and said, “Or inactivity, in your case.” The second student flipped off the first. The others were more serious and listening to Tremayne.
“Don’t worry, it won’t tell us what you’re thinking, just where in your brain you are thinking. Once you are hooked up, the monitor will display a photo collage. There will be about a dozen images on the screen, all random. Things like cars, books, tools, toys, sports equipment, household items, and other miscellaneous items. You will have thirty seconds to look the various objects and memorize as many as you can. After thirty seconds, the screen will go blank. Then the same collage will appear, with one object missing. You will individually answer the questions using the keypad in front of each of you.”
Tremayne raised his eyebrows in anticipation of questions. There were none. Dennison looked toward the camera, raised a hand, and it went dark.
After a few seconds, there was a new picture. The camera had been placed inside the smaller room. A male student was wearing the helmet and the wires from the helmet fed into a black box on the table, then into what appeared to be a regular laptop computer. Dennison was giving this test.
“The computer will ask you to type in the name of the object that is missing. You need to use simple words so if it is a hammer, just type hammer. If you don’t know the missing object, you can select ‘Don’t Know’ as an answer. Lastly, there is a ‘None’ answer, in case nothing has been removed from the image.”
“Ok. I’m ready,” the student replied.
“Starting now,” Dennison said.
I couldn’t see the laptop screen clearly, but I would tell that each time the student entered an answer, a series of numbers appeared on Dennison’s screen, followed by a symbol in bright green. I assumed that meant everything was accurate.
After about five minutes, Dennison said, “Good. Great. Now, for the last part, you are going to see similar collages. But this time you will study for thirty seconds, then be given a screenshot with four statements. You need to choose the statement that is false. For example, if there is a red apple on the screen and one of the questions says there was a green apple on the screen, you choose green. There will only be one false statement.”
The student asked, “Like, so if there is a bear on the screen and a statement says there was a lion on the screen, I pick the lion statement?”
“Exactly. And if you aren’t positive, hit the ‘Don’t Know’ response. Only answer the ones you know to be false. You have to be certain, ok?”
“Sure.”
Again, I watched Dennison’s laptop screen and it appeared to be showing the same numerical responses, but this time the indicators were red. The student was intentionally lying to the machine and it was viewing his brain while doing so. After the test ended, the video showed another test with another student. I forwarded through it and it was basically the same thing. I counted the tests, and all ten students test had been recorded. The last four tests had been conducted by Tremayne instead of Dennison.
There was nothing to explain the technology, and I wondered if it would be used the same way as the polygraph. This machine didn’t appear to detect heartbeat or sweating, just brain activity.
At the end of the last test, Tremayne appear to be talking to the girl who had taken the test. I pause, rewound, then played the interaction.
The girl asked, “What exactly does this detect?”
“The first questions detect your short-term memory. In other words, recall. But the last section, where you pick the wrong answer, the brain doesn’t work the exact same way. After checking the memory bank, to answer incorrectly, your brain has to access thought creation. This instrument can tell the difference.”
“You mean like an electronic Pinocchio sensor?”
“That’s a good way to describe it.”
“Try asking me questions. I bet you can’t catch the lie.”
Tremayne smiled at the challenge. “Make three statements to me. Two of them true, one of them false.”
The girl gave him three statements and Tremayne watched the laptop. After the second statement, a red indicator illuminated.
Tremayne let her finish all three, then said, “You were not born in London.”
“Wow! That is amazing. Is it accurate?”
“Extremely. The one area that is not perfect is that some longer-term memories become tainted by selective recall. It’s like a bunch of old friends gathering to tell stories about the old days—everybody’s version is a little different. So, a person may believe that they did or saw something many years in the past, and even if it’s not true, it will register as true. But any time there is uncertainty, or lying, we will know.”
She took off the helmet and asked, “So, three hundred seventy-two sensors, that’s it?”
“Intricate sensors that feed into a mathematical algorithm.”
The video ended and I pondered the implications. A sophisticated replacement for the polygraph. So assholes in internal affairs in police departments all over the planet could have a field day. It would probably have a lot of other commercial applications, but wa
s it valuable enough to kill for?
I Googled Tremayne, Dennison, and Marian Yu. They all had PhDs and teaching resumes. Yu had an undergraduate degree in Chemistry from USC, which caught my attention. That might be helpful in understanding explosions, igniters, accelerants, fume characteristics, and other things that could make a boat explosion successful. A real stretch, but you never know.
I called down to the Harbor Patrol office and asked the dispatcher to run her name. She came back to an Irvine address, was co-registered on two cars, and interestingly, a boat.
Chapter 9
The next morning, I came back to my place from a five mile run on the Back Bay. Newport Beach Police Detective Van Ness sat in a Crown Vic in front of my place. He got out when he saw me.
“You’re in a shitstorm of trouble, Schmidt.”
I pulled out my earphones. “Want some coffee?”
“No. This is a courtesy visit.”
I shrugged and opened my front door. He followed and stood in my living room as I made some coffee.
“Out with it, Van Ness.”
“You had a prior relationship with April Tremayne. You know boats. Right now, we have one suspect.”
He raised his index finger to emphasize the point.
“You don’t still think Barry Tremayne was the vic, do you?”
He fumed a moment, knowing that I had some inside information.
He said with casual carelessness, “The victim was Miles Dennison and it doesn’t matter. The intended victim was Barry Tremayne. The guy has had no threats or disputes. Your ex wouldn’t pull off a caper like this. Women don’t kill with explosions.”
Guys like Van Ness were like just like mosquitoes to a yellow light. Dim-witted and, hopefully, could be led to self-destruction. I just needed to work on it.
“Yeah? Just me? Come on, you’re not going to prove any kind of relationship with April in the past six years. And that’s because it hasn’t existed. I know you’re a little slow, but you can’t possibly be that desperate to find a case angle.”
“The girl is beautiful. I’d think about doing the same thing. Rich husband, no kids, inheritance when he dies. Difference is that I wouldn’t really do it. You tried. And messed it up. You’re already under investigation at the Sheriff’s Department. Your IA guys are going to be working with me.”
“Is this the reason for your courtesy visit? To tell me that you’re going to IA?”
“That and to let you know she isn’t going to be rich. We pulled credit reports and other records last night. The Tremaynes got themselves into debt. They owe more on the castle than it’s worth. Owe on the cars, the yacht, the credit cards. Christ, I don’t know how he makes his monthly nut. Didn’t know that, did you?”
I poured myself a mug of coffee. “I didn’t know that. Why would I know that?”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that. You got a window to cooperate. That window will close tomorrow. You know how this works, Schmidt. You going to talk about this and tell me where Barry Tremayne is, or what?”
“Why isn’t he the suspect?”
Van Ness looked around, “Providing he isn’t another victim, he is. But it doesn’t make any sense for Tremayne to kill his partner on Tremayne’s own boat. And why would Tremayne be hiding if he’s alive? I’m thinking there is a double murder trial in somebody’s future. What do you think, Schmidt?”
I thought that Van Ness hadn’t spent much effort over the past twenty-four hours to try to find Tremayne. He was assuming that Tremayne was also dead. Which was certainly possible, but it didn’t feel right.
“I’m the one who’s about to do you a favor and halt your fishing expedition. You met with Marian Yu yet?”
“No. Who is that?”
“The department chair at UCI where Tremayne and Dennison teach. She—”
He interrupted me, “How do you know that?”
“Went there yesterday. The Sheriff’s Department is helping your investigation, just in case Tremayne is somewhere in the harbor. This investigation is a model of cooperation.”
“Department or you?”
“Listen. Yu is an unassuming lady, and I’m not sure what history she has with Dennison and Tremayne. But they work and teach together, so there can be all sorts of bad shit. Bottom line, Yu’s degree is in chemistry. That would help rig a good explosion, huh? And then you’ll find that she and her husband own a boat. Spin your wheels all you want about how I used to date April, but Yu has a current relationship with the deceased, with Tremayne, and has some technical knowledge that most people don’t.”
Van Ness’ blustery demeanor actually softened. He was angry for being a step behind, but he knew he had to get his ass to UCI right away.
“We’ll see. I was on my way to UCI this morning.”
“Re-visit your assumption about women making things go bang. It can happen.”
“We’ll see.”
“Good. I know you didn’t find any cell phone records connecting me to the Tremaynes, or Dennison, so go to IA if you want, but it won’t get you any closer to clearing the 187.”
“I haven’t reviewed the records yet, so don’t get ahead of yourself. I will be talking to you today or tomorrow.”
He left and slammed the door. I didn’t like putting Professor Yu directly in his path, but the questions I had raised were actually legitimate, even if Yu had nothing to do with the case. What was more interesting was that Van Ness hadn’t worked cell phone records yet. That reminded me about the request I had put in yesterday. I called the Harbor Patrol office and the dispatcher told me it was approved and gave me the name and number of the cell phone representative who was handling this case.
I called her, gave her the identifying information, then asked about Barry Tremayne’s cell activity. He had been making and receiving calls over the past twenty-four hours. And the phone’s GPS pinpointed the location he was spending most of his time. The Island Hotel in Fashion Island.
Chapter 10
The Island Hotel is, not surprisingly, an island-themed lavish hotel situated directly across the street from Neiman Marcus and the rest of the Fashion Island mall. Big bucks and a five diamond type of place. I self parked, walked past the uniformed valet and bellmen, and entered the posh lobby. The décor was light and bright, with polished travertine tile and tropical plants.
Tremayne’s choice of hideout location was interestingly high profile and expensive. Maybe hideout was the wrong word choice. Seemed more like a vacation. Or maybe he was protecting an image. If I door knocked his room, there’re be no guarantee he would open the door. My warrant was, well, nonexistent, and I figured the Island Hotel would be a stickler for that kind of detail.
I picked up the courtesy phone and asked for his room.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Tremayne, this is Stuart at the front desk. I’m sorry to trouble you, but we are experiencing a billing error and I’m afraid that your credit card is no longer working. If you would be so kind as to come down to the front desk, I’m sure we can figure it all out.”
“I don’t have time right now.”
“Yes, sir, I understand it is an inconvenience. It’s just that we will have to release the room, and you intend to stay, correct sir?”
“For tonight at least. I will come down.”
“Thank you, sir. Ask for Stuart.”
He hung up and I went over to the elevator bank to wait. Tremayne strolled out of the second elevator that opened. He wore casual business attire, with a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants. Nothing in his appearance gave away turmoil in his life, but his expression hinted at annoyance.
I badged him and said, “This way, Barry.”
His annoyance grew to distress. I took his arm and guided him toward a wing of the lobby where the ballroom was located. I stopped him at two comfortable looking chairs facing each other, around the corner and in full view of the front entry, but not the main part of the lobby.
“Who are you?” he asked, with some urgen
cy and apprehension.
“Deputy Schmidt, Orange County Sheriff’s Department.”
I observed him a moment. He was probably in his late 30s or early 40s. What hair he had was prematurely gray. Not a bad looking guy, but a definite age gap between him and April. Nothing unusual to have a 10 or 15 year age gap. I remembered somebody telling me about a 50 year age gap between Actor Tony Randall and his wife. How did he have that much energy?
The April Gonzalez I knew radiated self-reliance and ambition. I didn’t really see the match, but people can change. Did she marry Tremayne for love or money?
He interrupted my thoughts. “The credit card thing was bullshit?”
I shrugged and gave him a quick and subtle pat-down for weapons before sitting him in a chair.
“You keeping me here or what, Deputy Schmidt?” A certain pomposity in his voice annoyed me and was likely an attempt to bolster his millionaire power image he had probably spent years creating. Except that he was broke. And up to something.
I sat across from him and leaned forward. “After all that has happened, you’re willing to have a chat with me, aren’t you?”
“You’re here about the boat explosion?”
“Yes I am. The Newport Beach Police are also investigating, but you’ll want to be in an exceptionally good mood to tolerate their detective. I am much easier to deal with.”
“Yeah, well, ever since it happened, I have been here. Worried for my safety. Maybe my life.”
Now he was playing the victim card.
“Who wants to harm you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I took a walk, came back, and my boat was on fire. I just knew somebody had targeted me, personally. So I came here. Until now, I thought the security was good.”
“People are wondering where you went, Mr. Tremayne. Care to let me in on why you’re quiet about being here?”
“Working on a business deal. I can’t tell you more than that, but it is very sensitive.”