Time of Death

‘Dwew.’

Gary’s office door was open when Ren tried to walk past. She was dressed in a black parka that went down to her ankles…and made a lot of noise when she moved.

‘Get in here,’ said Gary.

Shit.

‘Where were you last night?’

Ren frowned. ‘Why…?’

‘Come here—’

He turned his monitor so she could see. The Denver Post’s lead story filled the screen: Top Judge Dies in Horror Fire. Under the headline was a photo of Douglas Hammond. Beneath that was a burnt-out car and the caption: The devastating crash in Genesee where Douglas Hammond died late last night.

Oh. My. God. Ren leaned on the desk for support. ‘Oh my God…’

‘Yup,’ said Gary. He was about to click off the story.

‘Wait! Let me read it. What happened?’

‘He went off the road, crashed into a tree on his way back from the city. Instant fireball.’

‘That is so awful…’ Ren scanned through the article. ‘I…it’s so hard to believe.’ Holy shit.

‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘But it solves your psych-file problem…’

Ren looked at him. ‘You are sick.’

‘Well, it is a temporary solution, you’ve got to admit…’

Ren went to her desk and saw an email from John Reiff via the El Paso PD. She had asked him to send the photos from the spring-break trip to Tijuana.

Ren pulled up the photos of Luke Sarvas and his friends. The first was a close shot, four teenage boys sitting by a pool in T-shirts and shorts, eating burgers, probably drinking the first beer of the day. The next shot was a wide one of a beautiful, sprawling, white stucco multi-story building. Ren paused.

Where the hell were you staying?

It was like something out of Conde Nast Traveler. It wasn’t a hotel, it wasn’t even like those nice bungalows in the grounds of hotels. It was a stunning luxury house, high over the sea with a spectacular view. Even if Gregory Sarvas had left $20,000 on the hall table for his son, he wouldn’t have been able to afford this.

Weren’t teenagers supposed to stay in shitholes?

Maybe they were just visiting someone. But as Ren continued through the photos as they moved from afternoon through to evening and into the night, from inside the house and out again, it was clear that this was where the boys were staying. The more empty beer bottles, the more girls and the less clothes and, by the end of the photos, there was a pool full of the happy and the naked.

Catskill ‘89, red bikini bottoms, legs wrapped around Daryl Stroud.

Ren went through the photos again.

Where did this house come from?

Ren picked up the phone and called John Reiff. He didn’t know anything about the house. He couldn’t remember the address. There was no connection to anyone who was at any of the parties. There was no connection to relatives, girlfriends, work prospects, nothing. The accommodation was free. Yes, they all thought that was weird…and awesome. And they were all so grateful to Luke Sarvas for hooking them up.

Why can’t I go on holiday to a place like that? Or would it mean selling my soul to the devil?

‘Are rich people more unhappy than poor people?’ said Ren when she put down the phone.

‘Shitty things happen to everyone,’ said Colin.

‘It’s just that I seem to be on a run of visiting well-off people in shitty circumstances,’ said Ren. ‘I’m seeing beautiful houses bearing not-so-beautiful lives.’

‘Did you see the photo of Peter Everett’s house in the newspaper?’ said Cliff. ‘Helen Wheeler’s guy.’

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Stately.’

‘What is Peter Everett’s story?’ said Ren.

‘My wife bored me with this at breakfast the other day. She used to watch Dynasty – she can keep track of family sagas. Everett married Lucinda Kerr when they were in their mid-twenties. He was a bright guy, lots of ambition, no money. Daddy Kerr set him up in business in Lupero Technologies. The marriage went down the toilet about ten years ago.’

‘Not so happily Everett after…’ said Ren.

‘Despite the money, it was amicable, apparently. Are you looking for something sinister in Peter Everett?’

‘No, by all accounts, he is devastated.’

‘And apparently he has a multi-confirmed alibi,’ said Cliff. ‘According to the detectives who notified him, Everett was as shocked as anyone they’d ever seen. He fell apart before their eyes.’

‘Wow,’ said Ren. ‘Sounds as though he was very serious about her.’

Cliff shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

‘It must have been quite whirlwind.’ Ren paused. ‘What about his ex-wife? Could that have bothered her? If they were still friends, maybe she might have wanted a reconciliation…’

‘Well,’ said Cliff, ‘switching from my wife as source, to some of the Denver PD guys who worked security for the family, Lucinda left Everett.’

‘Ah,’ said Ren.

‘But apparently, she’s a very nice woman. She dated one of her security guys. It wasn’t common knowledge. He wasn’t going around bragging about it.’

‘Ah, a love affair.’

‘There you go again, Ren,’ said Colin from his desk. ‘Looking for love in all the wrong places.’

‘God, you are painful,’ said Ren. ‘What happened to you? Who abandoned you as a child?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Colin, ‘but do you think you could abandon me as an adult?’

‘This cynical bullshit sucks the lifeblood out of me.’

‘Everything sucks the lifeblood out of you,’ said Colin. ‘I’m surprised you have any lifeblood left.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘Borrriiiiing.’ She turned to Cliff. ‘Stand between us. Break up the current.’

26

Ren turned back to her computer and opened a celebrity gossip website.

‘Why do people take those kind of photos with their cell phones?’ said Robbie, leaning in.

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘And why is it never the ugly, overweight ones that do it?’

‘Is that what you want to see?’ said Robbie.

‘Maybe…’ Ren paused.

She could see Robbie’s reflection nodding in the screen.

‘I mean, the thought of taking a photo of myself in my bathroom mirror…’ said Ren. ‘And is today my day for seeing photos of naked people?’

‘Guess who wants to hear the real story of the demise of Douglas Hammond?’ said Cliff, putting down the phone.

‘What real story?’ said Ren.

‘It was homicide,’ said Cliff.

‘No way,’ said Robbie.

Ren said nothing.