Suspicion is the Game

By Cristina Danguillecourt

Suspicion is The Game

Suspicion, mistrust, doubt, uncertainty, misgivings, conjecture, speculation, assumption, and plenty of imagination is what makes a mystery book. It's what makes this a mystery book. My favorite? Meaning and meaningless coincidences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Dreaming Pen
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990124929

Book preview

PROLOGUE

December 12th, Friday Evening

Funny, she thought, now that she knew she was dying, how dying could be so simple. She had many times wondered what she would do in a situation as such, but now… She supposed it depended on the time left, and she was amazed she had any time left, not that she knew with certainty.

Why could she not remember…how? She knew with what, it was evident, but she could not recall how, even knowing who.

Had she actually deserved this? She probably had. Not that anyone would really know why, or would they? The reason for it all? No. It was a secret. Their secret.

The idiosyncrasy, or rather perturbed issue of it all, was who would think that someone could be…so cold, or could have so much rage bottled inside, so much anger, and so much need for vengeance. And today was Friday. Fridays were supposed to be fun days!

The glow of the kitchen lights was becoming dimmer. They had been so bright, at least…up to a moment ago. Maybe that was why she felt so cold. Or did she? The truth was she didn’t feel anything other than she was very wet. It was blood. She was aware of the blood, who wouldn’t be? Why did she want to laugh? Big puddle forming! Careful or you’ll drown!

Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close your eyes or you will never open them again. Beautiful eyes they were, always full of life. Everyone said so. The color of the sky! they would say. They would all say. Were they losing their gleam? They had to be, because if not, why did it seem that her surroundings were lacking the luminosity that always surrounded this room? Not her favorite. She hated to cook. Always had. Never learned how. Never bothered.

It was getting hard to breathe.

She tried to swallow what was bothering her in her throat and remove the metallic taste from her mouth, but she couldn’t; she tried to move, but she wasn’t able to manage that either; not really. There was no way she could reach the door, and if she did…what would she do? They were alone.

Someone will come. Someone will find them and save her. Everyone always saved her—from everything. In fact, from every single mistake. No words for Andrew, Priscilla? Even if he was more than dead? He had saved her, in the measure that he could, if only for his benefit…well, perhaps also for hers, hadn’t he? He had tried, hadn’t he? Maybe not. She didn’t know. All those women. Perhaps if she had lived her life differently….

You’re evil! You deserve to be punished and pay! had been the cold words. Was she evil? She had just wanted to have fun…and to be loved, by someone, anyone. And he? He had had something shiny, hadn’t he? Shiny is good, isn’t it? All things good are shiny. Where were her shiny things? What had she done with them…? She had given them away….

Her chest was heaving. The object was obstructing her throat and windpipe. She wondered how she could still breathe at all. How had it gotten there? She felt like a fish pulled out of the water, closing its gills and opening them with force, trying to drag the oxygen from the air into its body in a very ineffective way. In her case? Her mouth was open, while her jaw trembled up and down; she couldn’t stop it. She laughed.

She suddenly heard the low dramatic voice of her mother: How unladylike, Priscilla! Indeed. But she wasn’t really a lady; she never had been, and neither had her mother. Who were they fooling? Just the name of her father had sustained them. The difference? Her mother had tried very hard. She never had. No, she was just a girl who wanted to have fun. She always had been, even now, if she were able. She smiled.

What was that iron stench? Blood, silly! she told herself. You’re swimming in it! The puddle, remember?

Oh! That was strange…it seemed she was beginning to feel a slight sting from her stomach.

You both must pay! You both must be punished! Those were the words said before…before…she couldn’t remember. Why…? Yes, that was what had been said. So, yes…maybe she did deserve this, after all.

Priscilla, don’t close your eyes. Breathe! Breathe! Try! Just don’t close your⁠—

CHAPTER 1

DECEMBER 12TH, FRIDAY NIGHT

He closed his eyes while listening to the waves brush softly against the beach on his right. From where he sat, up on the ledge on his motorcycle, it was a harmonic contrast with the drumming of the waves against the rocks below. The combination? Peace interrupted by turmoil, overpowered even; or, for those who were lucky, turmoil taken over by peace—if one really preferred. Such a strange mix, like death, always depending on how one’s life had been led.

He heard the smoothness of a motorcycle approaching. It was her. As usual, unpunctual. Her Red Flame, as she called her glimmering motorcycle, which could be easily heard and seen even now in the darkness of the crescent moon, was a color that resembled blood, as her helmet. He should know, lately he had seen a lot of it. The true color of blood, not what was shown in the movies.

He had his helmet on, but now took it off, brushing his dirty blond hair with his fingers. She came from his left and parked next to him. Like him, she remained on the bike, only taking off her helmet, letting her dark auburn hair fall to her shoulders. Unlike him, she didn’t turn off her motorcycle.

How does all that hair fit in the helmet? he wondered.

Done, she said.

He waited.

She took out a small package from inside her black leather jacket and passed it to him.

How many? he asked, not bothering to open it, letting his eyes scan the package as he turned it from side to side.

Four, as you said, and where you said they would probably be. You know? They didn’t even look at⁠—

Anything I should worry about? Or fix?

No. I used the uniform, she said. It was easy. All of it.

He looked up at her. His light hazel eyes, which in the daylight could frequently be confused with green, seemed to look right through her tonight, or perhaps that was her perception because she felt guilty and she hoped he didn’t know why. Not yet, at least. So she answered him, tilting her head in a light flirt, letting her violet blue eyes do their magic.

Don’t worry, the uniform is back where I got it from, none the wiser. I even got a free—ride, so to speak.

No reaction as usual, even though he didn’t take his eyes off her.

He put the small package inside his leather jacket. He felt the plastic shoe coverings and gloves still in his pocket. He needed to discard them, he reminded himself.

You think⁠—

I need to go. He put his helmet on.

Sure, right, yeah! She crossed her arms. Listen!

He lifted the visor.

Just once in a while, how about a…I don’t know, a—thank you? Or at least a smile? She turned to the view, hurt. She felt so alone, and he reminded her constantly that she was.

He took off his helmet. Sorry, he said.

She nodded.

It’s hard for me to keep a balance. I see too much of— He wrinkled his brow. And it’s not who I am, but who I need to be…temporarily. He looked at the horizon. Pitch black if not for the moon. Sometimes it gets to me. He glanced sideways at her. Sorry. His eyes drifted back to the view.

Hey, we all got our thing! she said, renewing her flirting.

There was no reaction; he didn’t even look at her. He started the engine.

New bike? she asked him, her eyes focusing on the black bike. She had never seen it. She also noticed he was dressed all in black. She wondered where he had been.

A loaner.

So I guess you’ll be giving me a rain check? she asked.

He looked confused.

To at least have a coffee? Someday?

He didn’t answer. Truth be told, he seemed somewhat absent.

She watched as he put on his helmet, and turned his motorcycle toward the road.

She saluted as she sometimes did, watched him accelerate with ease, reaching the coal-colored asphalt road. He looked both ways, and turned left.

knife-ornament

She too turned her bike around and approached the road. She glanced one last time in his direction, watching him take the curve, blending with the blackness of the road and night, the murmuring sound of the motor dying below the sound of her bike. She accelerated, smiling as she heard the roar. She turned to the right. She’d call Freddie. Maybe he would pick up now. She smiled as she went on her way.

She hadn’t passed. Again. Well, technically she had, but if she wanted to stay on McNeil’s team—she hadn’t. She closed her computer after looking at her mark for the…twelfth time? Dina, no matter how many times you look at it, it’s not going to change, she said to the emptiness. She sighed, wrapped herself in her blanket—she was always cold in her home—opened the rocky road ice cream container, and plunged the spoon inside. It was already soft, so some dripped over the sides due to the force with which the spoon had penetrated. She was going to have it all! It was only sixteen ounces and she deserved it!

It was Friday, and there she sat all alone about to watch whatever the channel picked for her, not that she cared. She looked at the clock in her small living room. It was 10:39 pm. Nope! Michael wouldn’t be coming or calling after all. Maybe on a job?

They had mutually agreed they would never complain about lack of calls or canceled dates; both knew the type of life their work entailed. If a call didn’t come in, it was because it couldn’t be made. Period. If a date was canceled, well, it was because it needed to be canceled.

In her case, she could usually tell him why she needed to cancel or why she hadn’t been able to call. For some reason, it seemed he couldn’t; in fact, many times when she had asked he had circumvented her question. In those cases, she loved to point out that she knew he was sidetracking her. He would smile, with that warmness that burst out when he let go of it, and continue on another subject.

She thought about the precinct. Too many men! had said Captain McNeil. I need you on board, Dina! Get the damn mark I need you to get! Alice, who everyone referenced as the person to emulate, had retired; Lucy had been promoted to captain and moved to precinct nine; Lisa went into the private sector; Carol, who everyone loved for her humor and easygoing ways—had been shot. Her death had been a big blow to all of them. The four detectives on the team had carried her casket. She had been Jordan’s partner and, although he was now partnered with Koo, even until recently, every now and then, he could be found looking at what used to be her desk.

She knew they had been a very cohesive team, even with all their quirks, jokes, and quarrels; it was the reason she sometimes wondered if they saw her as an intruder. She had recently become a fixture in their group. And yes, the term was fixture, she reminded herself.

As to their captain, McNeil, he seemed to want to expand the team to its original number, eight, with hand-picked officers. At least before becoming commander of that same precinct, as it seemed he was going to be—lucky for him and them. They were in need of more detectives. She needed to pass, yesterday! Procedure. She hadn’t reached the mark needed due to the questions on procedure, something she couldn’t believe!

Was she really going to eat the entire ice cream container? That wasn’t even healthy! Maybe Martha, when she came back from her maternity leave, would want to go through the testing and trials as well.

The music on the TV suddenly sounded familiar. Clue? I haven’t seen that movie in ages! Professor Plum, in the library, with the wrench! She wished crime could be solved that easily, like in the game.

She dropped her view to the ice cream container. Its contents were beginning to look like soup. Yep. All in! No one here to share, so not sharing!

CHAPTER 2

DECEMBER 18TH, THURSDAY MORNING

Michael, I can fix it today, but I do need at least three to four hours," said Yang, as he looked at the motor of the blue motorcycle, scratching his short black hair.

Very typical of that brand of motorcycle, said a voice behind the two men, who were crouching, looking at the motor.

Hello, Sheila, said Yang, not bothering to turn to look at her as she bent over, placing her head between theirs.

That’s why I don’t ride this brand. She stood, pushing her long, dark auburn hair behind her ears, her red helmet held in her hand by its strap.

Michael also rose and looked at his watch.

Late for work? Sheila asked him.

No, not yet.

She looked at his badge and his gun, which were visible.

What do you want, Sheila? asked Yang, getting up.

Him. Her violet blue eyes scanned the more than six-foot FBI agent.

Michael, who briefly met her gaze, turned his light hazel eyes to the motorcycle, pushing back his short dirty blond hair. She tilted her head flirtatiously, her long hair falling to one side, visible to both men, but only catching Michael’s attention, although fleetingly.

Well, I can’t do anything about that, said Yang, still only looking at the motorcycle.

Nope, it seems no one can, she said, scanning Michael again and openly nodding with approval while she stepped closer to him. Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you! It seems I only get glimpses of you, five-minute glimpses. I bet she gets more time.

Again their eyes met briefly.

Do you have a loaner? Michael asked Yang.

No, said Yang. Not today, sorry. The last one went yesterday. But I promise I will start on your baby immediately, and by this afternoon it should be good to go.

Wow, special treatment, Sheila said, smiling at them both. I can take you to the office, she said to Michael. If you have time to spare, we can stop for coffee. My treat? She wondered about the black motorcycle he had used last week. But maybe she wasn’t supposed to mention it? He had said it was a loaner anyway.

Michael was about to answer when his phone began to vibrate. He read the message. Great! he said when he saw who it was and what he was demanding. Yang, can you please text me when you’re done? He picked up his helmet and slowly, reading the rest of the text, walked to the big open doors of the repair shop.

Sure, said Yang.

Michael stopped; he seemed to be rereading the text. Lifting his eyes with a wrinkled brow, he stood staring out at the street through the opened doors.

Thanks, he answered, almost automatically to Yang.

Hey, you want me to take you? asked Sheila.

No, you can’t. It’s a crime scene, and there may be reporters by now, he said, stepping just outside, glancing one more time at the message.

I look good in photos, and you must look great in them too! she said, scanning him again from head to toe.

Sheila, you are incorrigible. Sorry, I really don’t have time for this.

And is that a good thing? she asked, hopeful.

He didn’t answer. He was focused on the phone.

I promise I won’t vomit if I see something yucky. I can behave, if I want to.

He still didn’t reply; he was answering whoever sent the text, or so it seemed.

She lifted her arms in complete surrender. Okay, tell you what, she said. I’ll loan you my Red Flame and then meet up with you…around…five? You can buy me dinner.

Sheila, I don’t know what time I’ll be done today, and I already have a dinner date if I can make that as well.

She sighed with resignation. Thanks for not hurting my ego. You’re still seeing the cop?

Dina. Yes. He made a point of meeting her gaze.

She rolled her eyes. Okay. Let’s do this: text me when your blue ‘pet’ is repaired or when you plan to pick it up, and I will meet you here. No dinner. Just fill the tank.

It’s okay. I’ll call a colleague from the Bureau.

You’ll be late.

I’m going to be late anyway due to the distance, he said, glancing at his directory while deliberating about who he could call.

Are you always so serious on the job? I know how you are when not on the job, but on the job as well? she asked, dangling her motorcycle keys in front of him. You could at least crack a smile, Michael.

Sorry, he said, glancing briefly at the keys and shaking his head before looking back at the directory.

Go ahead. I know you don’t like that it’s red, nor the brand, but, hey, it’s your best option.

Their eyes met.

You’re absolutely sure?

Yes, I’ll just hang around here. Learn from the best, you know.

I’m the best? asked Yang, who passed by where they stood, pushing a motorcycle to the other side of the shop. He would have to attend to it another day to do Michael’s now.

Don’t let it go to your head, said Sheila, winking at Yang.

Thank you, Sheila, Michael said, taking the keys and smiling down at her.

Hey. I’m your friend…at least. And…who knows? I never give up, and will always hope. She laughed. But you’ll owe me!

Scary thought! he said, putting on his helmet while walking toward her red motorcycle. He started it, thanked her again, and drove off.

knife-ornament

Is this the place? Dina asked herself, interrupting the voice of Phil as he sang You Can’t Hurry Love. The house was a gray stone mansion on the outskirts of LA with a black slated roof, surrounded by a stone wall with an iron gate. The number 1143 on the side of the gate indicated it was the place.

She would have liked to believe it didn’t look as gloomy as what she knew she was going to see in a few minutes, but it most definitely was. Maybe that had been an unnoticed omen for the owners?

She stopped her car at the gate and showed her badge to the officer, who nodded and indicated with his finger she continue. It had probably been a peaceful place, gloomy, but peaceful. It would never be so again. Such a shame.

She accelerated listening to how her car’s motor and its tires, moving over the graveled lane, overtook the last part of the song Phil was singing. She stopped her supposedly silver car once she reached the house entrance, looking for a parking space. She found a small opening among the cruisers and unmarked LAPD cars. She squeezed in, careful to not bang the brown car on her left, which was Koo’s for sure.

Okay, Phil, enough for now, she said, turning off the car and, consequently, the music; the rest of the song, which followed the four initial notes of One More Night, would have to wait for later.

She wondered why the press hadn’t hounded them all yet. No one really knew how they found out about these tragic circumstances, but they did have a special hunter’s instinct for crimes, especially when they happened to prominent families, and the Burdons were considered no less than illustrious.

She mentally reviewed her research.

Mr. Burdon belonged to a long line of a small but solid family-run perfume company. In the beginning, he had made, like those who had preceded him, a nice income out of two products, which afforded a comfortable life. But in his late thirties, his career had suddenly skyrocketed and his company had become bigger, escalating to become one of the most important perfume companies in the country. How? By making three more products, which became extremely prestigious. Then, a year ago, his company had formed a joint venture with Valentin’s Perfume, only to eventually buy it.

What was very sad was that the owner of Valentin’s Perfume, Nicholas Smirt, had killed himself two weeks ago. No one understood why. He had bought a hotel with the money the sale of the perfume company had given him, and when all was going well, closing shop one could say, he threw himself from his office window.

As to Mrs. Priscilla Burdon, née Elton, she was the daughter of a rich socialite who had lost his son, so she had become the only heiress to his fortune. She had inherited at the age of sixteen, after both her parents died in a private plane accident. In her youth, she had been what was known to all as a loose screw. She had smoked it all, drank it all, and the men in her life seemed to come and go as if she had a revolving door set up at her home. There had been scandal, after scandal, after scandal. She had also liked to gamble; in fact, in one blow, she lost what would be the equivalent of two years of cash income produced by the investment a trust handled for her. Finally, she was admitted into a rehab center on her own accord—well, under the threat of the trustee that she would never again receive any income unless she cleaned up her act. A year later she met Andrew Burdon, married him, and had been a model citizen ever since.

Both had been born and raised in Nebraska. There they had met, there they had married, and there they had lived until they moved here to California three years ago, give or take.

In a way, she didn’t blame them. Nebraska was beautiful from what she was told…but the temperature! Brrr! It had to be awfully cold. You’re only half Jamaican, but I would swear you’ve lived there all your life! What is it about you that you abhor the cold? Dina’s mother would say to her.

Will you focus please! she told herself, picking up her iPad and briefly searching the last information she had found on the Burdons.

Although not social buffs, they were always included in the gatherings, parties, or social events and charities where one would expect to see them.

They hadn’t been blessed with children, but they hadn’t seemed to care, not openly; quite the contrary. Mr. Burdon’s brother had four, and that alone had supplied them, on more than one occasion, with the active little feet they could sooner than later wave goodbye to without feeling any remorse or moral affliction due to the lack of responsibility they had toward them to begin with. At least, that’s what Mrs. Burdon had once blurted out during a charity dinner for homeless children.

Satisfied, she closed her iPad, put it on the passenger seat, and energetically got out of her car. She looked around to see who else had already arrived. Captain McNeil, and…FBI? Interesting. Of course, what occupied the entire entrance was the well-known forensic vans, parked, as usual, in front of the house.

She made her way inside through the two thick, large, open oak doors.

The interior lights were on and it seemed as if the house had been invaded by all sorts of uniforms, ranging from blue-uniform officers, like her, to plainclothes detectives; however, it was the white-suited pathologists who mostly captured everyone’s attention. They seemed to be everywhere.

Dina approached Captain McNeil, who stood in the hall entrance on the opposite side from Captain Sheridan, FBI. Both men had the same height, but while Captain Sheridan had white hair and, in her opinion, icy-blue eyes, Captain McNeil was almost bald with brown hair on the sides and brown eyes, which always mirrored his humor.

Sir, she said, watching Jordan and Koo approach; they had been exchanging notes.

As usual, Jordan’s suit, today pale green, was already wrinkled and it was only nine thirty in the morning. Koo’s gray one looked as if was still hanging on a hanger and had been recently starched. Jordan’s bushy red hair was uncombed as expected, contrasting with Koo’s shiny bald head.

We’re just waiting for the pathologist to finish in the kitchen, Captain McNeil said, as he watched some of the forensic team go upstairs after closing the living room door.

So is this ours or theirs? Dina asked, watching Captain Sheridan look at his watch with impatience for the second time.

"He’s waiting for the Prodigy to arrive," said Jordan slyly, his brown eyes seeming to hold the same mischievous smirk Koo’s black ones held.

She ignored them both and continued to look at Captain McNeil, who didn’t seem to understand the reason for his two detectives’ facial expressions, or the meaning or intention of their words; with Captain McNeil, however, one never knew.

Lieutenant, you need to put on the shoe coverings and gloves, he told her.

Yes, sir, sorry, she said, going to the boxes, temporarily on a chair on one side of the entrance door. She didn’t know how she hadn’t seen them, or thought of it. Perhaps because she had been dazzled by the entrance hall’s chandelier, which was on and sparkling a rainbow of color all over the room. She was grateful she was still on board with the team, having not obtained the mark McNeil wanted on her detective test, but she wondered for how long. She needed to stop making these types of mistakes!

When did it happen, sir? she asked, once attired properly.

Jordan answered before the captain could put in a word. Estimation, according to Winnie in a preliminary view, Friday, probably evening, could be the weekend. Brother found them because he had been calling and no one responded.

No housekeeper? she asked.

They used a company, but something must have happened because the service had stopped, said Koo, also answering before the captain did. I’m going to interview the manager in two hours.

"Massive TV in the media room. They have Frankie paused on the screen. I bet when it’s on you can hear him throughout the whole house, because there’re speakers connected all over the place to a sound system station and the TV," said Jordan, pointing to one of the speakers.

Yes, they must have paused it to go eat in the kitchen. The rest of the house seems untouched, minus the unmade bed in their room, said Koo.

McNeil didn’t say anything; he hadn’t even looked at them. She wondered if he’d heard the conversation at all. She watched as he uncrossed his arms and briefly paced the entrance hall, distancing his position from her and the two detectives, still in deep thought. He glanced at Sheridan with impatience but held his tongue. He didn’t know why he needed to wait if the LAPD would be in charge. But Sheridan was a nice guy, easy to work with, not like him. So, he’d wait. Just in case. If he was here—better yet, if Winnie had called him—it was for a reason.

They heard a motorcycle, not because it made a lot of noise, but because they had been eager to hear it. Dina knew who it was immediately, although the sound of the motorcycle…was different.

She saw him come in, helmet in his left hand. He was not in uniform or in a suit; he hardly ever used one. He frequently wore the jacket or the bulletproof vest with FBI on it, but that was it; today he was wearing the FBI jacket over his shirt.

He seemed to always be undercover. He rarely worked with anyone, as far as she knew. At least she had never seen him with anyone as a fixed partner. No one knew why, in the same manner that no one knew exactly what his responsibilities were other than the profiling and crime scene analysis on an on-and-off basis. Sometimes it seemed to her that he didn’t have a very clear idea about what they were either, or preferred to comfortably give that impression so there wouldn’t be any questions.

He set his helmet on a chair at the entrance and unzipped his jacket as Captain Sheridan approached him.

You’re late, Michael, he said admonishingly.

Yes, sir. I’m sorry, but I was on the other side of the city, as I said in my text, he answered while putting on shoe coverings and then gloves. He also nodded toward Captain McNeil, who nodded back. He briefly glanced at her, no one else.

Winnie wants you to see the crime scene, said Captain Sheridan, nudging his head to Captain McNeil, indicating they were ready; McNeil nodded back.

Yes, sir, Michael said, making his way to the kitchen behind the captain. He passed another plainclothes agent who had also been lingering between the entrance and the kitchen. Dina had only now become aware of him. It was Special Agent Ray O’Sullivan. Michael didn’t even look at him. O’Sullivan, was all he said as he passed in front of him.

Renaldi, answered O’Sullivan. His jawline tensed, then he shook his head and followed.

Captain McNeil, Jordan, Koo, and Dina followed as well, but not before Koo bent down and asked her, Certainly bad blood there. Would you know anything about it?

She ignored the hook. Everyone knew Koo loved gossip more than anything else, and she’d never let her tongue run loose, especially, as in this case, if she didn’t know what it was about.

The kitchen doors, two large swinging doors, were open, so as she approached, a metallic odor mixed with the putrefaction stench was the first thing Dina noticed. Yes, she could believe they had been dead for six days, at least.

The kitchen was humongous!

A large white-gray-streaked marble countertop island occupied the center of the area. Its four white barstool chairs were grouped on the left side corner of it; they seemed out of place. On the island was an empty opened bottle of wine and two filled glasses.

On the opposite side, as one entered, were two ovens under an eight-burner stovetop with a flat grill in the middle. Ivory-colored cabinets with shiny silver handles decorated the room, some displaying their shelved contents through paneled glass doors while others disclosed nothing. All the countertops in the kitchen were the same color marble as the island.

On the left side of the large room was the refrigerator, freezer, and a wine refrigerator, which captured the eye due to their size. To the far right was a kitchen table that could seat six, and beyond it a sliding glass door that led to a terra-cotta terrace with a brick barbecue and an iron table with a cream-colored stone top, which also seated six. In front of the kitchen table was the pantry door, framed by a shelved wall with cookbooks and photos.

The white marble floor also depicted the same gray streaks of the island countertop. It had probably always reflected the bright lights from the ceiling. Today, however, the invasion of dry murrey-red puddles and parched streams of blood obscured any possible brilliance it could offer.

Four forensic team members were still at work with their cameras and other instruments, as was their Chief Forensic Officer, a woman known as Dr. Winnie Clampton. As soon as Winnie saw Michael, she nodded and he stepped forward. Ray also began to move, but Captain Sheridan held him back. Again Dina saw his jaw tense, not that she understood it. Michael Renaldi, known as the Prodigy, was one of the important crime scene analysts for the FBI in the state, despite his age; they all knew this. There were others, but he was usually the one they relied on; Michael never spoke about it.

Winnie looked at the others. Don’t worry, I’ll speak loud enough for you to hear me. In a minute or so you will all be able to come inside and join the fun. Her British accent brought a smile to Dina; it was always refreshing to hear.

Michael pointed to the barstool chairs as he briefly scanned the entire room, carefully walking in.

Didn’t move them, Winnie replied.

Michael nodded, then shifted his view to the floor. He stood for a while, looking down at Mr. Burdon’s body, not visible to Dina or the others because the island blocked their view of it. He first seemed bewildered. Then—then there was no expression on Michael’s face that would even hint what he was thinking, and it seemed to Dina he stood without moving for at least an entire minute. Then he crouched down to examine it closely.

Winnie passed two photos done with her ‘old faithful’ polaroid camera to the rest of them, so they could follow her explanation until they could come inside. "Mr. Andrew Burdon: Male. Late fifties. Stabbed in the stomach, as if they were looking for the Crown Jewels. Throat received the slash openly perceivable. Probably not dead until the slash, but he was getting there; he died faster than she did.

"Body is in a diagonal position, pointed toward the left, between the counter and the island. He lays on his right side, looking forward, almost at her.

Time of death was last Friday evening around seven, an hour sooner or an hour later. At least, that is the time we are setting until we obtain and analyze all we need to confirm, but we are pretty much spot on, I’ve no doubt.

Michael rose and pointed two feet away to the body of Mrs. Burdon. Winnie nodded indicating he could approach. Michael walked to where she lay on her back, and crouched again. This body was visible to all who waited patiently at the door.

Mrs. Priscilla Burdon: Female. Early fifties. Stabbed in the back right shoulder, also in the stomach—hang on. She looked at one of the pathologists, who had whispered her name and now nodded to her. "All right, the rest of you can come in now. Just try not to splash in the dry red puddles, and careful you don’t slip in the equally dried red streams."

Dina looked at her inquisitively.

I’m being sarcastic! Winnie chuckled, winking at her.

Jordan had seemed to pale. Koo smirked at him, but he changed his expression when he saw Captain McNeil’s countenance.

Where was I? Oh, yes, she died at a slower pace without a doubt. I’ll know more when she’s on the slab, Winnie said.

She tried to get away from him, said Jordan, pointing at the drag marks on the floor.

Winnie wrinkled her brow, not convinced that had been the reason for the dragging.

She didn’t think she had killed him? asked Dina. Not even after slashing his throat?

She must have been in a panic, said Jordan. And not having any experience in slashing anyone’s throat, well, she probably thought he would go after her and wasn’t out of danger yet. She did get far, considering. He smiled at everyone, feeling proud of himself.

Throat has been expertly slashed, from the front, not in haste, left to right, two clean swipes…one minute, probably less, until death? asked Michael, glancing back at Mr. Burdon’s body, then at Winnie, who confirmed his assessment. His left hand is on his throat. He was trying to stop the blood from coming out. He looked at Jordan, pointing at the neck and left hand of Mr. Burdon. "He was in no position to chase her to explain the distance she achieved in her drag.

Mr. Burdon’s stomach wound looks as if done in rage, as you say, digging in and around with no care. In her case it doesn’t seem as aggressive. Knife went in and out? Michael asked.

Yes. I quite agree…for now, said Winnie, who always waited for the slab to confirm.

Blood splatter…?

She’s soaked. A few more drops in the big red?

Michael indicated he wanted to turn Mrs. Burdon and Winnie nodded; he did so. The stabbing on her right shoulder looked the same as the one in her stomach: clean in and out, definitely from above her, or a standing position. He pointed at the bags surrounding the hands.

Winnie tilted her head from side to side and said, Nothing under the nails, as far as I see, that would indicate a fight, not a scratch on either one of them. But until they’re on the slab, I don’t know. I put those on them as a precaution; you know the drill.

In other words, no defensive wounds, Michael said, looking at the arms.

None. She raised her eyebrows, knowing where he would go with that. It was one of the reasons she’d asked him to come.

Weapon? asked Michael, turning Mrs. Burdon back to the position she’d been in. Then he stood up.

A knife? Ray said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Michael ignored him and remained looking at the body, waiting for Winnie’s answer.

Santoku knife. Only one knife for all the damage you see, answered Winnie, also knowing where he would go with that. Another reason she’d asked for him to come. Found where you see the mark, next to her, on her left side, pointing downward, cutting edge toward her. She should him the bagged knife.

It’s too high—between head and neck.

It is. And, when you see the photo. It looks placed, perfectly, not dropped.

Michael still remained focused on the mark, and then turned to Winnie who shrugged and said, I agree on the confusions: the slash and leaving the knife how and where it lay.

Because she couldn’t use her right arm or shoulder? asked Michael, although the answer was clear to him already.

That is correct. The stabbing she received from behind did a lot of damage.

Michael glanced at the knife holder, which was displayed to the left of a large, counter-inserted, wooden cutting board next to the stove top. He wondered why the cutting board had been placed where it had. The island, with its size and sink, surely would have been the logical place to use as a workstation to prepare meals.

Dodging the bloody area, Michael went to examine the knife holder.

Winnie also approached. She couldn’t read his expression, but she could guess what he was thinking. "I know, not the easiest knife to pull from the block if speed was of the essence. But, was speed of the essence?

Considering his position, especially taking into account that he was slicing a squash—yes, we did find traces of that on his fingers, aside from the pieces already bagged—using this knife. She picked up a chef’s knife in a plastic bag from the counter. "This knife was a better fit for the job, to at least stab her back. She turned to look at the bodies. The way I see it, she stabbed first."

And only the Santoku was used? asked Michael, wanting it confirmed.

Indeed, replied Winnie. At least that’s what we’ve ascertained so far, and I don’t see that conclusion being overturned.

The blade of the three virtues, said Michael.

What? Three virtues? asked Dina.

It’s considered a multipurpose knife. The three virtues allude to its main uses: mincing, dicing, and slicing.

Well, now there’s another virtue: stabbing, said Winnie slightly sarcastically.

They stabbed each other while fighting for it, Ray said, pointing to the appearance of scrubbed blood and its smear on the floor. They killed each other.

Michael looked at the wine glasses still full next to the empty open bottle on the island; they had been already dusted for prints. He lifted the bottle and turned it sideways. He smelled it. He lifted both glasses of wine, looking through them with the light of the ceiling. He put them down again. Smelled them. He glanced at the two sinks’ drying racks; not a plate or glass in either. He opened the dishwashers—empty. He opened the refrigerator, and then the wine refrigerator; all bottles were extremely expensive, perfectly sealed. He checked the freezer.

He walked to the pantry and went inside. He came out and examined the books organized by size, not by their content, on the shelves flanking the pantry door. His view then drifted to the terrace.

It was locked, said Winnie, pointing to the terrace door. No prints other than theirs.

No cameras? Michael asked, looking back at the books, reading their covers, taking one and glancing at it.

No, and no alarm on either, confirmed Jordan. He and Koo had been first to arrive, and while waiting for forensics those had been the first things they had checked.

Michael put the book back. A framed photograph perked his interest. He took it from the shelf and examined it closely.

It doesn’t make sense, Michael finally said, putting the frame back and turning to face the bodies again.

Which part? I see it fairly simple, said Ray with authority in his tone and, yes, a hint of rivalry. They had an argument, and one went after the other in a surprise attack, which led to them both attacking each other, fighting for the same weapon—simple!

There are no cut marks on their hands or arms—no defensive wounds, said Michael.

Ray ignored the comment. I agree with Dr. Clampton. She stabbed first.

It was staged, said Michael. He glanced at the bodies. And very poorly at that. Sloppy. They wanted us to know.

Staged? asked Ray. Yeah! Right! He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

What were they cooking? Michael asked him.

He was just getting started, said Ray.

Well, you don’t start with just one squash. Not usually. Onion and garlic tend to be the first elements chosen. He only had the squash and nothing else. No other product.

But you can start with squash.

Michael briefly looked at Winnie, then back to Ray, who saw the glances and turned slightly red.

Okay, said Michael. "Let’s start with squash. Just one squash. Where was he going to put what he was cutting? Or better yet, what was he going to do with it once cut? There’s nothing out of place, not a single pan or pot.

Then there’s the wine. He stepped closer to the island, avoiding Mrs. Burdon’s body and blood, and raised the glasses. No lip marks or prints on the glasses or bottle. Glasses weren’t touched with anything but probably gloves, as most likely the bottle; neither apparently wiped, said Michael, looking at Winnie who nodded. Who served it? Not a single wine bottle is missing from the wine refrigerator.

And? asked Ray, raising his eyebrows with a condescending hint.

And then there’s the fact that he would never, ever have a bottle like this one.

How do you know? asked Jordan.

Take a look at what he has.

So? asked Ray.

So wine bottle was brought by someone else.

Why? asked Jordan.

So we would know it was staged.

It could have been from a visitor, previous.

Who made an extraordinary effort to not leave his prints, said Michael.

Winnie tilted her head from side to side. Is it the same wine?

To the best of my knowledge—considering all the factors that could have intervened since the day of the murder that can influence it’s characteristics—yes, I would say it is, but you would need to check. I would also check the sinks in case some of it was poured down them.

Ray stood next to Michael feeling not so assertive anymore but willing to give his theory a try. Okay, let’s say it was a fight. Verbal fight. Then, she stabbed first, yes, after taking the worst knife for it, or not so effective. Agreed? She doesn’t know any better. She’s never done it before.

You have my vote on her choice of knife as being the worst, having other choices, said Winnie.

Michael only nodded.

Okay, continued Ray as if given permission. He turns, here, given the blood we see, when she…she must have said his name, or something—obviously when he didn’t have the knife with which he was slicing the squash in his hand, or he had just laid it down and left it as we see in the forensic photo. Okay? Okay. So, he turns, and she…stabs the stomach, with vehemence.

Rage is the term I would use, said Winnie, raising an eyebrow.

Ray smiled. Okay, rage. He paused. She turns, trips on the fabric of those sort of gray floating pants she has on, falls facedown, and he, pulling out the knife—probably on his knees due to the stabbing—stabs her back first, right shoulder, turns her around, and stabs her stomach. He leaves the knife in her and falls to the right, next to her because of the wound in his stomach. She takes the knife out from inside her, slashes with two swipes because she’s facing him, turns on her stomach, and drags herself with her hands. Then, tired, turns over—and dies, on her back. He looked up feeling pleased.

Well, forensically I can’t discuss it all as of yet, but, as for Mrs. Burdon, she would not have been able to drag herself with the wound on her right shoulder as mentioned. Tendons and ligaments were severed for sure. She couldn’t move that arm.

She could have fallen, dragged herself to get away, and then—then he plunged the knife in her back, and so on, said Ray.

Reversing your order of events? asked Winnie. Okay, so she stabs, turns, trips, falls…drags…then is stabbed on the shoulder, turned, stabbed in the stomach, he falls on his right…she slashes his neck, once she gets a hold of the knife again, with her left hand.

Drag marks would need to be different, certainly not in blood, because she wouldn’t have been stabbed yet, pitched in Michael. And she would have been able to get away due to his wound and the mobility she would have⁠—

I got it. Because she had’t been stabbed yet, said Ray slightly annoyed, wondering how he had not thought of that. No, he did know; Renaldi always rattled him.

Michael ignored the tone. Then there’s the fact that he didn’t seem to move farther than where he was stabbed and fell. I agree on your assessment that he fell on his knees first. However, and considering your first theory, Ray, once she slashed his neck, she could have pushed back, helping herself somewhat, in a sitting position, with her legs and left elbow. I do think that assumption correlates better with the drag marks. Then she stopped, laying where she is now. The only issue is, as to the slash, she needed to do it with her left hand and the slash doesn’t correlate to being done with her left hand. Then there is the fact that she is right-handed…would it have been so precise as it seems to be?"

How do you know she’s right-handed? asked Ray.

The photo, said Michael, pointing to the frame he had previously been looking at. "She is toasting with her husband with a flute of champagne, held in her right hand.

Ambidextrous? asked Ray.

Still doesn’t correlate.

Maybe it’s the only way she could do it.

Then keeping the theory that she did drag herself, pushing with her feet and left shoulder…it makes leaving or dropping the knife on her left, next to where she died, parallel to her neck, and seemingly as if placed—incomprehensible, considering he was more than dead and not moving toward her. Why not just drop it…comfortably?

Indeed, said Winnie.

Michael looked puzzled. She suffocated, not really bled to death? he asked, focusing on Mrs. Burdon’s lips and mouth position.

That is the likeliest probability.

Why? he asked her.

She suffocated? asked Ray.

Good question. I don’t know, Winnie answered Michael. At least not yet! But there is something down that windpipe. But, and here is another interesting question, she just let him push whatever is down her throat without fighting? Biting? How? When?

No defensive wounds, stated Michael again.

She nodded.

So were they murdered? asked Koo.

Faces, said Michael.

Indeed, confirmed Winnie. The third reason she had asked for him to come.

What? asked Ray.

Look at their faces, said Michael.

They all peered at them.

No violence. said Dina.

Exactly. Relaxed. No pain. No look of surprise. She suffocated and there is no real strain in the face, she looks almost peaceful, not as it should have been…. He paused. Also consider, to move back she had to be in excruciating pain due to the muscles in her abs in order to do that.

And? asked Jordan.

Well, she doesn’t look in shape, her age doesn’t help, and her face, again, does not indicate any pain. He turned to Captain Sheridan. I believe it was staged, sir. It looks as if…as if the victims were following orders.

Like you said of the Kirsteins’ murder? asked Ray in an obnoxious chuckle.

Yes. Exactly, Michael answered, eyes on Captain Sheridan, not bothering to look at Ray.

Michael, said Captain Sheridan. As to the Kirsteins’ case, there was nothing to sustain it. You know that. Not the financials, forensics…. He pointed at Winnie, who nodded. Everyone had alibis, solid good alibis. No motive.

"The couple’s relationship,