stages of sunburn. Dressed
to be part of the shadows, fully clothed people flitted silently
in the background, sweeping walks and working the various
pieces of invisible machinery that spins below the surface of
any resort. Fiorella greeted them by name. They looked up to
respond with brief smiles, then saw me and quickly returned
their eyes to their work.
“Sure, I know what she wants,” I answered him. “She wants
me to prove that her father’s books weren’t fiction and that he
was murdered for revealing the secrets of some ancient sect of
mystics.”
Fiorella nodded as I explained. We stepped to one side as
another electric cart whizzed by. “Anything about this strike
you as odd?” He pressed.
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “Like why wait thirty years to
send a hit squad. The damage was long done.”
Fiorella smiled. His teeth were bright against the tanned
skin. “Good start. Anything else?”
“Why bother killing someone for revealing secrets when
most of the world thinks they’re not true anyway?”
Charlie Fiorella led me up to a bar. We sat and turned to
watch the action in a pool with a huge slide and dozens of
screaming kids. The bartender greeted him and slid two cocktail
54
Kage
napkins into place. He snapped the tops off two Coronas. The
bottles made a happy little fizzing sound. The bartender slipped
some lime into them. “I like the way your mind works, Con-
nor,” Fiorella said. He reached for a bottle. “Cheers.”
We sipped the beers for a while. The kids shrieked and
bobbed and splashed around. Their parents sipped fruity drinks
under awnings. Fiorella watched it all with a benign watchful-
ness. I’m pretty sure I detected a pistol in an ankle holster.
“So,” he continued. “I’ve got some friends on the local force.
I get copies of the crime scene report. I talk to the investigator
of record.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Eliot Westmann was a flake. His personal
life was a mess. He’d been through three marriages and would
shack up with almost anything in a skirt. Big with the New
Age crowd. Spent most of his time at his retreat up in the hills.
Nice place.”
“Is that where he died?”
“Yeah. They found him at the bottom of a staircase. Stone
steps. Hard landing, ya know? He bled a bit, but basically he
broke his neck falling down the stairs.”
“No sign of…”
“Foul play?” he asked playfully. “Far as I can tell, the people
from Stolichnaya did him in. The guy was a drinker, and the
blood work confirms that he was severely intoxicated at the
time of the incident.”
“So I don’t get it,” I told him. “The locals think it’s an acci-
dent. So do you. Why is Lori Westmann so hot to pursue this?”
Fiorella thoughtfully finished the last of his Corona. Mine
was done as well, the slice of lime sitting sadly at the bottom
of the bottle. The bartender approached and looked at me. I
55
John Donohue
shook my head no. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see
Fiorella watching the exchange with approval.
“There are any number of explanations, I suppose,” he
began. “People have a hard time accepting accidents of this
type.”
“Were they close?”
Fiorella pushed off the bar and we headed off in another
direction, away from the crowds. “That type of closeness is not
something I tend to associate with Lori,” he said judiciously.
“Her father had been mostly in and out of her life at best until
a few years ago.”
“What happened? Late life crisis of conscience?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Drunks get that way. I’m not dis-
counting it.”
Something in his voice told me that he was skeptical. “But
what?” I pressed.
He grinned, and the lines at the side of his eyes creased in
pleasure. “It’s my own little theory that he had bought that
big place out in the hills with the idea of turning it into some
New Age retreat center. And maybe, because he was a flake and
drinker, he
to be part of the shadows, fully clothed people flitted silently
in the background, sweeping walks and working the various
pieces of invisible machinery that spins below the surface of
any resort. Fiorella greeted them by name. They looked up to
respond with brief smiles, then saw me and quickly returned
their eyes to their work.
“Sure, I know what she wants,” I answered him. “She wants
me to prove that her father’s books weren’t fiction and that he
was murdered for revealing the secrets of some ancient sect of
mystics.”
Fiorella nodded as I explained. We stepped to one side as
another electric cart whizzed by. “Anything about this strike
you as odd?” He pressed.
“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “Like why wait thirty years to
send a hit squad. The damage was long done.”
Fiorella smiled. His teeth were bright against the tanned
skin. “Good start. Anything else?”
“Why bother killing someone for revealing secrets when
most of the world thinks they’re not true anyway?”
Charlie Fiorella led me up to a bar. We sat and turned to
watch the action in a pool with a huge slide and dozens of
screaming kids. The bartender greeted him and slid two cocktail
54
Kage
napkins into place. He snapped the tops off two Coronas. The
bottles made a happy little fizzing sound. The bartender slipped
some lime into them. “I like the way your mind works, Con-
nor,” Fiorella said. He reached for a bottle. “Cheers.”
We sipped the beers for a while. The kids shrieked and
bobbed and splashed around. Their parents sipped fruity drinks
under awnings. Fiorella watched it all with a benign watchful-
ness. I’m pretty sure I detected a pistol in an ankle holster.
“So,” he continued. “I’ve got some friends on the local force.
I get copies of the crime scene report. I talk to the investigator
of record.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Eliot Westmann was a flake. His personal
life was a mess. He’d been through three marriages and would
shack up with almost anything in a skirt. Big with the New
Age crowd. Spent most of his time at his retreat up in the hills.
Nice place.”
“Is that where he died?”
“Yeah. They found him at the bottom of a staircase. Stone
steps. Hard landing, ya know? He bled a bit, but basically he
broke his neck falling down the stairs.”
“No sign of…”
“Foul play?” he asked playfully. “Far as I can tell, the people
from Stolichnaya did him in. The guy was a drinker, and the
blood work confirms that he was severely intoxicated at the
time of the incident.”
“So I don’t get it,” I told him. “The locals think it’s an acci-
dent. So do you. Why is Lori Westmann so hot to pursue this?”
Fiorella thoughtfully finished the last of his Corona. Mine
was done as well, the slice of lime sitting sadly at the bottom
of the bottle. The bartender approached and looked at me. I
55
John Donohue
shook my head no. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see
Fiorella watching the exchange with approval.
“There are any number of explanations, I suppose,” he
began. “People have a hard time accepting accidents of this
type.”
“Were they close?”
Fiorella pushed off the bar and we headed off in another
direction, away from the crowds. “That type of closeness is not
something I tend to associate with Lori,” he said judiciously.
“Her father had been mostly in and out of her life at best until
a few years ago.”
“What happened? Late life crisis of conscience?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Drunks get that way. I’m not dis-
counting it.”
Something in his voice told me that he was skeptical. “But
what?” I pressed.
He grinned, and the lines at the side of his eyes creased in
pleasure. “It’s my own little theory that he had bought that
big place out in the hills with the idea of turning it into some
New Age retreat center. And maybe, because he was a flake and
drinker, he
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