The Girl on the Yacht (9 page)

Michael had strained at the difficult bike ride up the steep hill the day before. He decided to return the stolen three-speed beach cruiser for the more robust twenty-four-speed mountain bike that he found within a short walking distance from his last undetected theft.

The plan was similar, except he headed for the cliff house instead of the downtown Laguna Beach shop. It was a perfect day to be outside—not too hot, cool breezes, and lots of sun. Michael changed gears and blended in with the multitude of other bike riders out for a relaxing day in the beach community.

He had a good recollection of the older house at the far northern outskirts of the artists’ colony of Laguna Beach. It sat amongst a row of small houses built in the late 50’s or early 60’s that crowded the cliff and had spectacular views of the gleaming blue Pacific––or more descriptively, at the edge of the steep falloff of the eroding sandstone hillside.

While he cranked the pedals, he studied the surroundings. All the way along the east side of the road, a sheer rock face shot straight up to the sky a good two stories to the next level of homes that were completely out of sight at his level.
Good, no one will see me from up there
. Along the right side, Sutherland’s side, the houses with their high front fences pushed out toward the water from their perch above Coast Highway.

Sutherland had always been a sort of recluse when he was not in his shop
, Michael recalled. Unmarried and unattached, the shop owner rarely went out socially. His routine was predictable––he would be home at five, after the store closed.

It was still early when Michael came to the small green house with the for sale sign. He took a final scan of the neighborhood and headed for the gate. Michael closed the solid wooden door behind him when he entered the yard. He leaned the bike against the block fence.

It was quiet when he turned to take in the magnificent view of the open sea in the foreground. At the far reaches of his vision, he caught sight of a lone sailboat. It appeared to be motionless at that distance, but wind filled the two white sheets. The boat rolled to one side, and its miniature figures leaned to the other in an attempt to keep the vessel steady.

He pulled off his backpack and took out his Smith & Wesson with its long cylindrical silencer. He slipped on the gloves, tucked the gun in his belt, and slithered over the fence into Sutherland’s yard. Michael walked over to the back of the house and peered in through the glass door. No one home. He turned and faced an outdoor kitchen complete with sea-blue marble countertops, a built-in grill, refrigerator, and stainless steel sink.
Nice setup
.

With an hour or more to wait, he settled in on the slate tile walkway between the house and the block wall. Potted lemon trees, at varying distances, broke up the uniformity of the space. Beyond the patio, a small patch of grass ended abruptly where the yard dropped off some sixty feet to the coastal road below.

The automatic garage door opener came to life at the front of the house.
You’re early.
He quietly pulled the slide on his weapon and chambered the round.

Cameron drove her unmarked Prius into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot with John’s car close behind. By the time she got out of her car, he had pulled in next to her.

He slid out of his sleek dark-emerald Maserati.

“Nice ride,” Cameron said.

“I always said that if I had the money, I’d own an Italian sports car. Now I wish I had gotten a hybrid. The gas this thing eats is nuts.”

“Good thing you didn’t get a Ferrari––I hear they can’t pass an open gas station without growling.”

“That
would
be a ride,” he said.

Inside the station, Cameron gave John a visitor’s pass, and they proceeded to the evidence locker in the basement where she checked out the laptop from lockup. He followed her to the back of the building into the sterile looking forensics center. Dressed in a T-shirt and cargo shorts, John looked like he belonged in a cell upstairs rather than in the pristine laboratory.

While John opened the laptop, a woman in a white lab coat walked directly toward them from across the room. “Who’s this? What’s he doing with my evidence?”

“Dianne, he’s with me. John’s an expert on computers.”

“I don’t care who he is. He can’t mess with evidence in my lab.”

“Relax, Dianne.” John smiled. “The government trusts me. I just want to help, and I understand that your people are having some difficulty getting the password.”

“He’s just going to get around the password and then turn it over to us for analysis, or do you already have the password?” Cameron asked.

“Not yet.” Dianne stared at the disheveled intruder. “What does he mean, ‘the government trusts him?’ You’re not with the FBI, are you?” She glared at Cameron. “I told you we could handle it.”

“I did a little work at the White House.”

“Is that supposed to impress me? What were you, the janitor?”

Cameron rolled her eyes back and slowly shook her head in frustration. “Let him try to get the files open. If he can’t––it’s no big deal.”

“All right, but it’s going into the report.” Dianne stepped aside. “I don’t want any part of this.” She glared at Cameron. “And, you’re going to sign it.”

John opened the lid and inserted a CD into the slot.

“What’s that?” The lab supervisor started for the computer. “That’s tampering.” His index finger hit the eject button, and the CD reappeared from the slot. Dianne held it up and read the hand written cryptic label––pc00096backdoor UNIX REXX PYTHON COBRA.

“A few basic programs for accessing. . . .” John hesitated.

“A hacker?” Dianne’s eyes narrowed while she stared at John.

“Not exactly.”

“He’s in the security business,” Cameron said.

Dianne continued to study the CD while she contemplated her next move. Seemingly amused by the moment, she handed the disk back to John. “My best tech couldn’t get in––let’s see what you can do.”

John popped it back in. Over the next forty-five minutes, his hands flew across the keyboard in frustration at his inability to break into Laura’s computer.

“Very strange. I can’t get around her encryption using one of these operating systems.” John spoke to Cameron without looking up from the screen. “She must have been very sensitive about the privacy of her clients and installed a. . . .” He shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t even buy a program like this.” Upset, he scratched his head.

“Some expert.” Dianne reached over John and popped the CD out.

“I can do it. It’ll take me a couple of hours.”

“Time’s up, buddy. My crew will take care of it in the morning.”

“I don’t think so. That’s a level that few people on the planet have ever experienced.”

Dianne turned to Cameron. “You bring in this guy off the street?” Her eyes scrolled from John’s head to his sandals. “Who does he think he is?”

“I’m sorry.” He extended his hand. “I’m John Hunter.”

Dianne’s face went blank for an instant while she examined the man before her. “
The
John Hunter?”

“I’m certain there are a lot of John Hunters out there––I’m one of them.”

“Are you the John Hunter who owns Strategic Security?”

He nodded. “Owned, past tense.”

Cameron stared at the two of them. “Am I missing something?”

Dianne looked at her. “He’s . . . he’s the smartest guy in the room––always.”

John shook his head. “My girlfriend has me by three IQ points.” He forced the conversation back on track. “I could work out the password problem in maybe four or five hours. But, I need to connect it with my mini super computer on the boat.” He reached for the laptop.

“The computer’s evidence in this murder case, and we’re not allowed to break the chain of custody required by the courts,” Cameron said.

“I can make a copy on an external hard drive without disturbing anything on the computer,” Dianne said, acting like a kid meeting her favorite athlete. “It’ll take me awhile. I can have it for you in the morning.”

“You go back to the dock, and I’ll bring it to you around eight.” Cameron glanced over at her tech supervisor, and she nodded.

From Cam’s pocket came a shrieking sound. She pulled out her cell phone and stared at the screen. “Burglary in progress. Gotta go.” She ran for the door. “John, I’ll catch up with you in the morning.” The door closed behind her and she was gone.

From where Michael crouched outside the shuttered window, he could hear movement––first in the bedroom and then in the kitchen near the window. The stereo came on with the music of Frank Sinatra.
Why are you home so early? He hunkered down and waited.

The door opened on the patio. Sutherland came out, fiddled with the barbecue, and went back inside. Within minutes, the aroma of grilled steak floated through the air. Michael’s stomach growled while he slipped through the open door into the house.

Sutherland appeared from the bedroom, and when he saw Michael, he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Michael, what are you doing here?” Sutherland asked.

“Relax, I came for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Sutherland noticed the gun in his belt. “Are you going to rob me? Go ahead, take what you want.” He waved his hand around.

“I don’t want your things.”

“What do you mean?” The words hung in the air while Sutherland’s eyes scanned the room.

Michael knew he was gauging the distance to the knife on the cutting board in the kitchen and became amused that Sutherland thought he had a chance. He pulled the gun. “I just wanted to see your face.” He pulled the trigger, and the silenced bullet drove into Sutherland’s forehead just above the left eye. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Michael set the gun on the kitchen counter.
I’m hungry.
He took a plate out of the cabinet and a knife and fork from the drawer. On his way outside, he stuffed the gun into his pants. When he opened the barbecue cover, he froze. The two steaks on the grill told him that someone else was in the house. In the distance, he heard sirens coming from Coast Highway.
The other person in the house probably called the police.

The sirens became louder. He hesitated––
go after the possible witness, or leave before getting caught.
The screeching of brakes on the street gave him his answer––
get the hell out of here
. He jumped the fence into the deserted yard.

Predictably, the police would block the street, enter Sutherland’s house, and then search the neighborhood buying him more time.

Michael grabbed the mountain bike and rode straight toward the demarcation line of yard and sky at the back. It was not a shear drop off, but almost straight down, and he knew it would be a quick trip to the bottom. It turned out to be more of a fall than a ride. “Damn.” Twenty-feet from the bottom, Michael lost control and somersaulted to the hard ground.

Cameron’s Prius came to a stop between two Laguna Beach Police cars at the bottom of the steep road. The lead city officer controlling traffic had a big grin on his face when he waved the unmarked county sheriff’s car through.
I’ll bet you’re happy. If it happened down here, it would have been the city’s jurisdiction
. She smiled and waved back. Up another 300 yards, she approached her sheriff’s deputies. Cameron shook her head at the sight of them standing in a group in the center of the street, hands on holstered guns, waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. A sergeant came to her car.

“Where are we in this?” Cameron asked.

“The witness called in the burglary about thirty minutes ago. Since then, it turned into a murder.”

“She’s dead?” Cameron slipped on her black latex gloves.

“No, she’s over there. Local business guy named Kent Sutherland’s dead.” He pointed to the dark-haired woman sitting in the sheriff’s car at the curb. “The killer might still be in the neighborhood. We blocked the street, and I’ve got a couple of guys going door-to-door, evacuating people. SWAT’s on the way.”

“Who’s the lead investigator?”

“Jack’s inside.” He gave her the thumb over the shoulder signal.

“I’ll find him.”

Cameron walked in the front door of the house looking for the investigator.

She walked up behind the man. “Hey, Jack.” He turned around and the unmistakable expression said it all––
not you
.

“West,” he mumbled.

On the living room carpet, a body of a middle-aged man was face down in a pool of dark blood. She walked around the body looking up at the open patio door. She went down on one knee, turned the victim’s head to the side, and examined the entry wound.

“What do you think?” Jack asked sarcastically.

“A .45, not close up, but maybe ten feet away.” She glanced back at the open door and the angle of the body. Cameron walked over to the door and turned back toward the scene. She put up her hand and pointed her finger at Jack’s head, suggesting a gun. “Right about here.” She looked like she was calculating something in her head. “Pretty good head shot.”

Jack shrugged.

“The witness––what’s her story?” Cameron’s hands fell.

“She was a close friend of the vic. Pretty bad off. Can you talk to her? I’ve been trying to find the guy and haven’t had a chance to get her full statement.”

“Sure, but you’ll owe me,” she said. Outside again, Cameron walked over to the woman in the backseat of the patrol car. “My name’s Cameron.” She extended her hand. “What’s your name?”

“Maureen Young,” she said, her voice quavered.

“Maureen, did you see who did this?” Cameron touched the woman’s arm gently.

“No. I went to use the bathroom off the master bedroom.” She stopped talking for a minute and pressed her hand on her forehead. “When I was coming out of the bathroom, Kent was at the bedroom door, and he pulled it closed. Through the door, I heard two men speaking. At first, I thought they wanted to have a private conversation. When I overheard Kent say the name, ‘Michael,’ and ‘rob me,’ I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and called Nine-one-one on my cell. I was terrified and hid in the bathtub until the police got here. I never saw the guy, but I heard him outside through the bathroom window. He went over the fence when the police pulled up in front.”

Cameron called into her radio. “He went over the fence to the south. Have SWAT check the house next door.”
Jack didn’t make time to talk to his only witness? He could have been on this killer’s heels––instead he gave him a thirty-minute head start.

A response came over the radio. “House next door’s vacant. Doors locked. Doesn’t look like anyone has been in there.”

“Set up a perimeter and get SWAT to go in.”

Cameron turned to the woman while they waited. “Tell me everything about tonight.”

“Late this afternoon, I ran into Kent at the market. We hadn’t seen each other in some time, and he had just gotten back from a trip to Bogotá. After ten minutes of catching up, he asked me over for dinner. We left my car at the market and drove up in his.

Bogotá?
“Maureen, can you tell me about Kent Sutherland? How you know him––who he was?”

“I’ve known Kent since I moved to Laguna. I was twelve, and he was thirteen. We went out a couple of times in high school.” Maureen couldn’t stop the tears. “After high school––he graduated a year ahead of me––he headed to UCLA. After college, he went to work for some financial company in Santa Monica and worked his way up to president. About ten years ago, his mother died, and he moved back into his old house. Sutherland bought the art gallery to keep himself busy, and it allowed him to travel when he wanted. Not much more to tell.”

The radio came alive, “SWAT is here. We’re going in.”

“Sutherland saved your life by closing that door,” Cameron said.

The woman put her head down into her hands.

Cameron signaled for a female officer to help the stricken woman.

“He’s not here,” came a voice on the radio.

Cameron crossed the front yard and opened the gate to the backyard of the adjacent house. She slowly walked along the five-foot-high block wall that separated the victim’s yard and the vacant house. As she examined the wall and dirt at its base, she found what she was looking for—footprints—deep from landing hard on the sandy soil. The lead SWAT officer came over to her.

“Were there any signs that he entered the house?” she asked.

“No, it was locked up.”

“Where did he go?” she asked herself. Cameron continued her walk between the house and the block wall trying to pick up the scent. Almost at once, she pointed down to a black mark on the stone paver and a rut in the dirt. “He’s on a bicycle,” she shouted into her radio. The tire tracks headed toward the back instead of the anticipated front. “Where are you going?”

Alone in the backyard, she pondered what had happened to the bike and rider.
If the patrol cars were out in the front before the murderer jumped the fence, then the officers would have seen him come out on the street.

“Who was the first to arrive?” Cameron asked on the radio.

“This is Davis. I was here first.”

“Come over to the yard next door. I need to talk with you.”

Officer Davis sauntered up to Cameron.

“Did you see anyone outside walking or on a bike?”

“No one. I knew this was a crime in progress, and I was observant all the way up the street. There was no one in any direction.”

“Have they finished searching all the houses and yards in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah . . . nothing,” he responded.

“Maybe he threw the bike over the cliff and left on foot.” When she approached the edge, she saw the tracks and grabbed for her radio button. “He went over the cliff on the bicycle. Get patrol cars down to the bottom. Be careful with this guy.” She peeked over the edge and thought for a second about climbing down the steep incline—
fifty feet—no way
.

Cameron’s radio came alive with the officer at the base of the cliff. “This person must be crazy. It’s almost a straight drop. He made it out of here, though, and headed east. It looks like he crashed the bicycle, got up, and rode off. There’s a small amount of blood on a rock. We’re taping off the area.”

“Have dispatch notify all of the local police departments and our patrols to look for anyone on a bicycle. Advise that he’s armed and a killer.” She turned to the lead detective. “I’m out of here.”

“Thanks for helping with the woman,” Jack said. “You know, the witness. She was pretty shaken up when we got here, and I didn’t have a chance to talk to her.”

Her brain wanted to explode with Jack’s incompetence.
If he had talked to the woman, we might have caught this guy.

On the drive, she compared her earlier murder with this new one. She knew that coincidences in criminal investigations were rare, but these two were so dissimilar. The first, strangulation, and the second, an execution-style killing with a possible robbery. At least this one left some physical evidence, and the investigator might get lucky. Jack has ballistics, DNA, and a name. Her mind wandered on the drive home, and she kicked around the idea that Sutherland’s business might be a front for other activities––
his trip to Bogotá could have had something to do with it. Well, not my problem.