Monterey Peninsula, California
February 2000
Strong winds heaved spray into the fleeting daylight above the craggy Monterey Bay shoreline. Patricia stood straight-legged on a protruding boulder a stone’s throw from shore, large waves pounding its slippery surface. There was obvious danger, but she seemed unaware. The plaid slacks, knee-length red windbreaker, and flowing blonde hair of the silhouetted figure would have appeared all but gray to anyone else surveying the scene. But Andrew, her brother, sitting in his wheelchair on the large redwood deck overlooking the sea, saw these details clearly, perhaps only in his mind’s eye.
Andrew worried about his sister. She took chances when she needn’t. He wanted to warn her about the dangers of the ocean, to tell her to come in. But his voice couldn’t overcome the wind’s fury, and even if it could have, it wouldn’t have mattered. As a child, his younger sister had never listened to him, and there was no reason to believe she would now.
His attention unexpectedly diverted, he turned his head in time to see a male figure streak toward him across the deck.
* * *
Embezzlement within a family business is a tricky undertaking. The wrongdoer could argue that he was merely stealing from himself and that the crime was of no significance. Conversely, it is unlikely that other members of the family would agree to such a generous definition of the term. And so it was in the Baxter family, majority owner of Baxter Enterprises, designers and manufacturers of custom communications equipment.
Kenneth Baxter, patriarch of the family and founder of the company, had recently celebrated his seventy-seventh birthday. Still, he had his wits about him, and he drove into the office daily. Caroline, his only natural-born child, held the title of Chief Engineer. She had designed the CB1000X, their most popular two-way communications device.
Father and daughter sat across from each other in the boardroom in downtown Monterey.
“Daddy, for the past six months I have been tracking a leak in our operations. Someone’s embezzling money. There are only three possibilities.”
The old, serene face revealed surprise, and then sadness. “You don’t have to tell me. I know all too well.” Smoke rose in a steady curl from his glistening walnut pipe as he stared beyond his daughter at the opposite wall. “I have three children, and they alone have that sort of monetary access. Of course, you are one of the three.”
Caroline smiled because she knew her father was joking. From childhood, she had been his favorite. “That leaves only Andrew and Patricia, doesn’t it, Daddy?”
* * *
Five years after Caroline’s birth, the Baxters adopted two babies, a brother and sister, only a year apart in age—Andrew and Patricia. Perhaps because she was his own blood, Caroline commanded the bulk of her father’s time and attention. She had it all: good looks, her father’s brains for engineering, and his unwavering support for anything she wanted. That said, Andrew and Patricia would have agreed that their parents had treated them well.
More disconcerting to Andrew and Patricia was Caroline’s attitude that because she was the eldest, and natural-born at that, she deserved more.
“Wake up,” Patricia joked as she entered Andrew’s office. He sat at his desk poring over spreadsheets and columns of numbers.
“What’s going on? Anything you can share with me?” Andrew was resplendent in his tailored Brooks Brothers suit with two-tone white shirt and apricot tie. He knew he looked the part of an executive, even if he didn’t always act it.
Patricia shifted backward in her comfortable Timberlands. Compared to her siblings, Patricia cared much less how her clothes looked. She had said on more than one occasion that in clothing and footwear, comfort far surpassed whatever came in second.
“Caroline requested an audit of our books. Why, I have no idea. I think that’s why she’s been meeting with Father. Are you aware of any irregularities?”
Andrew fidgeted and avoided a direct look. “I think we’re soon to find out. Did you get the e-mail about dinner this Saturday?”
* * *
Temperature and noise in the bar bordered on the uncomfortable. The bespectacled man looked around nervously before he faced the balding chap across the table. Money would change hands, but not quite yet.
“I’m told you have resources that can be trusted to complete an unpleasant task.”
“It is possible. What do you have in mind?”
“My client wishes that some harm come to someone in his employ. He is certain an unfortunate, deadly accident lies in his future.”
“An accident costs more, but it can be arranged.”
“Good. It is done, then.”
The two men shook hands and exchanged manila envelopes, one thicker than the other.
* * *
Family dinners at the Baxter mansion on Jack’s Peak, in the hills above Monterey, came infrequently—usually during the holidays and on other rare occasions, at the whim of the senior Baxters. For everyone to be invited to a sit-down in the middle of February held some significance. The short invitation list included only the parents and the three children. There were no spouses or grandchildren, much to the parents’ irritation.
Caesar salad, poached salmon, steamed asparagus, followed by crème brûlée, coffee, and brandy accompanied polite conversation. The air lay thick with apprehension as Kenneth Baxter spoke. “I have called you here tonight because we have a serious problem. Someone is embezzling money from Baxter Enterprises. Unfortunately, they’ve done a good job of hiding their tracks.”
Baxter allowed himself a pregnant pause. “An audit has revealed that nearly three hundred thousand dollars is missing. Does anyone have anything to say?”
To an outside observer, all at the table would have looked innocent, party to some accusation in a strange dream.
* * *
Following drinks in front of the fireplace, Patricia and Andrew left the house and drove down the long hill toward Monterey and Pebble Beach.
Patricia spoke first. “Can you believe it? It’s clear Father suspects us. How ridiculous. As if we don’t have enough pocket money.”
She continued, the pitch of her voice rising. “No! Do you know what I think? I think Caroline’s staged the whole thing. I wouldn’t put it past her. Daddy would never believe his darling little daughter could do anything wrong.”
Patricia gripped the wheel of her BMW, her jaw muscles clenched. She took the last turn before the main highway traffic light with tire-squealing speed. She knew that her driving didn’t alarm Andrew. Patricia had taken no fewer than three race-driving courses at the Skip Barber Racing School at the local Laguna Seca Raceway. She could handle an automobile better than most men.
Before Andrew could contribute to the conversation, Patricia spouted. “She’s up to something! I know it.”
Further conversation died as they headed to their shared home overlooking the Pacific.
* * *
“What’s your take, Caroline?” the elder Baxter asked as they continued their drinks in the parlor. Mrs. Baxter had excused herself minutes earlier.
“I think one of them is lying. That’s what I think.” Caroline held her brandy to the light from the blazing logs and then swallowed the last of it. She looked her father in the eyes. “What do you think, Daddy?”
* * *
By the following evening, the weather had turned sour. From the deck, Andrew squirmed in his chair as he watched his sister balance precariously on the rocks. Why was she always taking such chances?
Andrew’s head turned suddenly. From the adjoining sliding glass door, a male figure ran across the deck. He grabbed the wheelchair from behind and pushed it hard toward the open stairs that led to the beach. Andrew scarcely had time to cry out before the jagged rocks below rushed to meet his face.
Any consciousness left after the intense pain began would hardly have noticed the minor twinge from the needle in the artery on the side of the neck. Within minutes, the injected narcotic caused respiratory paralysis and death.
* * *
Many—the family, as well as all Baxter employees—attended the funeral. All were in disbelief. Although he had been a paraplegic since a motorcycle accident years earlier, Andrew was no klutz. And, truth be told, many would agree that Andrew was in better physical shape than most of them. They also could not imagine that he accidentally rolled off the deck. Although Patricia suggested an autopsy, the senior Baxters would not hear of it.
The family lingered at the gravesite.
Caroline spoke first. “Accident? I don’t think so. I think he took his life on purpose. And I think we all know why.”
* * *
Patricia discovered the clue first. Someone had to clear Andrew’s office. A week had gone by, and no one had volunteered.
In the desk, top right-hand drawer, in the back. A ledger with dollar annotations summed: $30,000, $20,000, $50,000, and so on. With the last entry, the amount totaled more than $290,000. There were accompanying dates. And a post office box number!
Patricia looked at the list in disbelief. Blackmail? What else could it be? Sure, he had been the wild teenager, but nothing she could recall was worthy of blackmail.
Following Andrew’s motorcycle accident at the age of twenty-nine, Patricia had become the nurturing sister who suggested they live together. The first year, with its grueling rehabilitation, had been difficult. But then, consistent with Andrew’s resilient nature, his life returned almost to its pre-accident state. He continued his desk job at Baxter Enterprises. Sure, he couldn’t engage in certain athletic activities he had once enjoyed, but he adapted well. In fact, he had little need to continue their cohabitation. Nonetheless, their shared living arrangement worked well and had lasted for eight years.
No. Patricia could think of no reason why anyone would blackmail Andrew.
Patricia decided not to share the desk-drawer evidence with anyone—or the fact that she considered Caroline’s suggestion ludicrous. Andrew would never have taken his own life.
* * *
Finding the source of the blackmail from the post office address was simple. Only a few hours’ work by a detective in Patricia’s hire ferreted out the name and address of a Rich Waterston.
Fearless as always—a trait unappreciated by her late brother—Patricia knocked on the front door of the small stucco house in neighboring Pacific Grove.
“Are you Rich Waterston?” Patricia demanded.
“Who wants to know?” The slender figure in blue jeans and T-shirt leaned against the doorjamb, cigarette bobbing up and down with each word.
Patricia was nothing if not direct. “I want you to tell me why you were blackmailing my brother. And while you’re at it, tell me why you murdered him two weeks ago.”
The smug expression vanished, and color drained from the reddish complexion. “Whoa! Wait just one minute. I didn’t do nothing like that. Murder? Was it murder? I read about Mr. Baxter’s death in the paper, just like everybody else.”
“I might believe you. If you’ll tell me what you know, there’s a good chance we’ll call it even. Anything you say won’t go any farther than this doorway.”
Later, on the drive home, Patricia reflected on two new pieces of information. She didn’t understand either, but for different reasons.
Andrew had indeed been blackmailed, but not for anything she had imagined. He had supposedly had a homosexual relationship once, for which Waterston had specifics (including a name) that constituted the threat to Andrew. This revelation surprised Patricia because Andrew had been quite the lady’s man both before, and since, the tragedy. Still, hardly a public figure, he shouldn’t have been susceptible to any such intimidation. Unfortunately, from earlier family conversations, Patricia knew her parents well enough to understand that both would have been devastated by the news. Indeed, if their father had found out, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume he would have disinherited Andrew.
More troubling was Waterston’s forceful assertion that the blackmail hadn’t been his idea. He never even knew Andrew. He had simply been a go-between, for an easy 10 percent. And his services had been solicited anonymously!
Contacted initially through a disguised phone voice and later through e-mails, Waterston swore he knew nothing more. Despite his sliminess, Patricia believed him. Once he received the cash at the post office address, Waterston would deliver the bulk, 90 percent, to the blackmailer. When he had money to move, he would place a blue strip of masking tape at the entrance to the underground tunnel that separated the older part of Monterey from New Monterey. Anyone driving by could see the tape, if they knew where to look. Waterston then would hide the money in a cloth satchel behind an earthen bank at the far end of the parking lot at the local community hospital. He stated that the money was always retrieved at night.
With Patricia’s assurance that she had an interest only in the blackmailer, Waterston agreed to leave one final strip of tape by the tunnel. And one more sack, containing nine thousand dollars.
* * *
Patricia had baited the trap. The following morning she drove to the tunnel entrance to confirm that the tape was in place.
Patricia realized that her plan had risks. She hoped the blackmailer would assume that this sign indicated the last of the payments made before Andrew’s death.
In preparation, she acquired an inconspicuous rental car at the airport, drove to the hospital, and confirmed that Waterston had accomplished his end of the bargain. She located the bag just where he said it would be. She then looked for a parking spot that would afford a clear view of the area surrounding the bag. Leaving the rental, she taxied home. She returned to the hospital parking lot later that evening to stand watch.
Patricia accepted the real possibility that she might lose a night’s sleep and have nothing to show for it. Hours dragged by. It happened during the second hour of AM talk radio after midnight. The pre-midnight shift at the hospital had long since gone home. Only the wind in the trees disturbed the quiet.
Abruptly, Patricia saw movement to the left. A slim figure, dressed in slacks, midlength coat, and baseball hat, wandered among the shadows, avoiding the overhead lights. The ambiguous shape walked the length of the parking lot, looked around, and returned. Patricia watched this process repeated twice. On the third circuit, the figure darted behind the earthen bank, grabbed the bag, and calmly walked back toward the hospital.
Patricia sat stunned at the reality of what had transpired right in front of her. Letting curiosity and hatred ball up inside her at once, she leaped from the car. Scarcely a hundred feet separated the two.
Patricia took off running. She had closed the gap considerably when the thumping of her feet on the pavement gave her away. Without looking back, her quarry began running as well. Patricia ran faster, her heart pounding inside her throat.
A shortcut! She would cross over the concrete divide that separated the two halves of the lot. Her eyes fixed on the figure ahead, she didn’t see the additional concrete curb hidden in the shadows.
Patricia became airborne and immediately felt a sickening feeling in her stomach at the thought of the pain in store for her from sliding on the hard surface ahead. Worse was her horror, a split second later, when she realized that more than asphalt lay in her path. A parked Honda Civic, to be exact. She instinctively reached out with both hands to protect her head as she hurtled toward the right rear tire.
Patricia’s lower left arm snapped, and her head hit the wheel full-on.
* * *
If you’re going to have an accident that requires medical attention, a hospital parking lot isn’t a bad choice. Patricia’s good fortune included a night guard who discovered her stumbling to her feet. She looked down to see her blood pooled on the pavement.
Minutes later, Patricia lay in the emergency room, conscious, and more than a little upset. The physician said he had less concern about the loss of blood and the broken arm than the blow to her head. He ordered a CAT scan.
Patricia was firm. “Patch me up, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Sorry. We need to keep an eye on you, at least for the night. You can’t be too careful when it comes to head injuries.”
The doctor stitched the cuts and set the arm. Disdaining any painkillers, Patricia clenched her teeth but did not scream. She was assigned a hospital room, sedated, and given drugs to control swelling of the brain.
Admitting personnel asked Patricia if she wanted to call a friend or relative. Seconds after hanging up, Patricia realized the absurdity of her choice. Must be the drugs, she thought. “Caroline, this is Patricia,” she had said to the voice mail. “I’ve had an accident, and I’ll be in the hospital overnight. I’ll be all right, though. Didn’t want you to worry when you don’t see me at work in the morning.”
* * *
Caroline Baxter arrived at the hospital around four that morning. She appeared in disguise, with a red wig, glasses, a green pants suit, and an English accent to boot.
“Can you tell me where Patricia Baxter is? I’m her friend, Amber. What happened? Please tell me she’s all right.”
“Your friend had an accident, was treated for multiple cuts, a broken arm, and a concussion. She’s had a rough time, but she’ll be okay.”
“Can I see her, please?”
“It’s a little late. Or should I say early? Visiting hours don’t start until nine.”
“Please, ma’am. Patricia and I are like sisters.”
“Okay, but don’t stay long. Room 107 down the hall to the left. Be aware that she’s been sedated and may not respond to you.”
Caroline walked slowly down the hall. The rooms were quiet and dimly lit.
The raspy voice hardly exceeded a whisper. “Who is it? Who’s there?”
“It’s me, your sister Caroline. Don’t worry. I’m here to take care of you.”
“What?”
Caroline held the pillow for a good two minutes. Her heart raced as she struggled to hold down the writhing body. Arms and hands flailed but eventually slowed and fell to the side of the bed.
Caroline retraced her steps past the receptionist.
“I trust you found your friend, ma’am. I apologize. She was moved next door to 106 just an hour ago when we needed the room for the young woman from that terrible accident on Highway 68. I’m just now updating my paper chart. No harm done, I suppose.”
The nurse’s head turned suddenly, drawn to the shrill tone of a monitor down the hallway.
* * *
Patricia had been awake for some time when she heard the obnoxious sound. What’s all the commotion?
Her head ached, and her arm throbbed in numb pain. If only she hadn’t tripped. How stupid!
A nurse looked in and closed the door. First, I get moved from one room to another, and now this. How does anyone get any rest around here?
No matter. She couldn’t sleep anyway. The shock of what had occurred and its implications tormented her. Poor Andrew. If only he had come to me.
Patricia reflected on what was becoming more and more obvious.
* * *
Patricia checked herself out of the hospital the following morning. Her left arm hung loosely in a sling. Her forehead was bruised and bandaged. She walked stiffly but counted herself fortunate that it hadn’t been worse.
Against the hospital’s advice, she drove home in her rental. But not before she retraced her steps of last night. No hint of blood remained.
Arriving home, Patricia leaned back in the car seat and reviewed what she now suspected. It had to have been Caroline. The silhouette she had seen, if only in shadows, had been the right size and shape.
It was now all too obvious. Caroline had been blackmailing Andrew. But why? Was it simply a means by which she could have him killed and then make it look like he had taken his own life because of his embezzlement? And Caroline knew the reason behind the embezzlement; she had created the blackmail that caused it. She had planned the whole thing to get rid of Andrew!
As Patricia turned off the ignition, a cold chill raced down her spine. Why would Caroline stop with Andrew?
* * *
Patricia’s house beckoned as a welcoming solace. She needed time to think and plan a strategy.
No sooner had she opened the front door than she heard the ring.
“Hello.”
“Patricia Baxter?”
“Yes. This is she.”
“This is Detective Cromwell from the Monterey Police Department. I just missed you at the hospital. It’s urgent I talk to you. A patient was murdered at Community Hospital last night and we think …”
“Could you hold on one second, please? I have another call.” Patricia recognized Caroline’s number from call waiting. “Hello.”
“Patricia, this is Caroline. I just got your message. Thank God, I’ve reached you. Can you come right over?”
“Why?”
“It’s Daddy. Meet me at Jack’s Peak.”
“I thought Mom and Dad went to Las Vegas yesterday.”
“He never made it to the airport. I tried to reach you last evening. Hurry!”
“I’m on my way.”
Patricia returned to her first caller. “Sir, I can’t talk now. My sister called and something’s happened to my father. I have to go.”
Patricia slammed the phone back into its cradle, saw the blinking light on the answering machine, and pushed the play button as she raced from the room. She stopped cold in her footsteps, halfway through the front door, wincing from the pain as her left hand smacked the doorknob.
“Patricia. Your mother and I left town so early yesterday I completely forgot about getting back to Mr. Sable concerning the CB1000X contract with Smithson Industries. Would you follow up on that one, honey? I owe you one.”
The voice of the robotic day/time stamp followed: “Friday, 6:35 am.” Just a couple of hours ago.
Patricia stood petrified, unable to move, as if she had made a mistake identical to Lot’s wife who had looked back to witness the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Everything was becoming very clear.
As if by instinct, the built-in tape recorder in Patricia’s mind replayed its contents: “… a patient was murdered at Community Hospital last night, and we think….”
Oh, my God!
* * *
This time, Patricia chose her BMW over the rental and left the house. She knew that the smart thing to do would be to call Detective Cromwell. However, if Patricia knew Caroline’s meticulous nature at all, she would have covered her tracks and could deny all accusations. Patricia had nothing concrete, only speculation. Even Waterston’s actions likely couldn’t be traced.
Someone needed to confront Caroline and force her to confess. Only Patricia knew all the details and how they fit together: Andrew’s embezzlement, Waterston’s confession to the blackmail, Patricia’s failed footrace through the hospital parking lot, the implication from Detective Cromwell’s call, and finally, the telephone message from her father.
As Patricia drove away, she acknowledged her limitations in confronting Caroline alone, not the least of which were a broken arm and a bruised body. Still, her impatience required her to do something, and now! As reason replaced reckless revenge, she formulated a plan. She chose to make two stops on her way to Jack’s Peak: her work office and then the Monterey police department.
* * *
As she drove up her parents’ drive, Patricia experienced an odd conflict of emotions. She feared coming face-to-face with Caroline, alone with the devil she now saw all too clearly. But she also felt elation that there would soon be justice. Even if she ended up dying in the process.
Her car had barely come to a stop when the front door opened, and Caroline rushed out.
“What took you so long? Daddy’s at the hospital. I told Mom I’d wait for you, and we’d drive up together.” Caroline hesitated as she looked at Patricia. “Damn! What happened to you?” She opened the door and got into the car.
The emotion elicited by Caroline’s lie now exceeded the feelings Patricia had faced less than twelve hours earlier in the hospital parking lot. Adrenaline soared and anger escalated. Patricia bit her lip hard. “Fasten your seatbelt!”
Patricia jammed the gearshift into reverse at the same time she gunned the engine. Tires squealed, first from spinning and then again from sliding.
“For God’s sake, take it easy! There’s no reason for us to be admitted to the hospital along with Daddy.”
Patricia raced down the quarter-mile driveway to Jack’s Peak Drive. With her useless left arm, Patricia now appreciated the automatic transmission in her 740i. She jammed on the brakes, the ABS pulsating in the pedal as the large vehicle stopped inches short of the road.
Flooring the accelerator, Patricia made a right turn, causing the rear end of the car to fishtail into the oncoming lane.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“You tell me, dearest sister.”
Silence ensued as Patricia expertly slid the car around a second stop sign and flew down the hill toward the traffic light on Highway 68. A quarter mile away, the light flickered green. Patricia gunned the engine to seventy miles per hour. One hundred feet before the intersection the light turned yellow.
Caroline reached for the dash. The car careened sideways through the intersection, making the left turn onto the highway in front of astonished motorists. After another mile, Patricia smoothly negotiated the entry ramp onto Highway 1 northbound, a four-lane freeway.
“You’re going the wrong way. The hospital is—”
Patricia interrupted loudly. “We’re not going to the hospital.”
The speedometer now pushed past ninety.
“I demand you stop this car at once. You’re going to kill us both.”
“Right now, Caroline, I don’t give a damn. As far as I’m concerned, this is as good a time as any for you to go straight to hell!”
The speedometer now climbed past one hundred as the BMW weaved in and out between cars.
“Slow down!” Caroline screamed.
“Big sister, I know what happened, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Go to hell.”
“We both will. Do you remember the overpass before the four lanes end near Castroville?”
Caroline began hyperventilating and became hysterical. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m going to crash this car into the center abutment. Either I hear the truth from you now, or we both take the secret to our graves. My guess is that we have less than two minutes left in this world.”
Seconds passed. Caroline reached into her purse and pulled out a gun.
Patricia had wondered what Caroline’s leverage would be once she became the passenger.
“Stop this car, or I’ll shoot.”
Patricia laughed. “Caroline, do you have any idea what will happen if I lose control of this car? As far as I’m concerned, that’s a better choice for me. I’d much rather die of a bullet than go flying around in this metal cage once it starts flipping end over end. Make sure to hit me square in the head, okay?”
The BMW’s engine labored at full throttle, now accelerating past one-hundred thirty miles per hour.
Patricia’s eyes fixated on the open road ahead, the only constant in a vision dominated by roadside blur. “There isn’t much time, Caroline. Say your prayers!”
No traffic lay ahead, and Patricia saw the overpass in the distance.
“It’s now or never, Caroline! You have seconds left to live.”
Angling slowly from the right lane, Patricia drew a bead on the overpass abutment that separated the four lanes. With pain searing through her broken arm, she forced her left hand upward, gripping the wheel with two hands, the accelerator pressed flat to the floor. She could see death ahead but had no fear. It would soon be over.
Caroline lost control, her face contorted with pain and fear. Her anguished head shook back and forth.
There were fewer than ten seconds.
“I did it! I blackmailed Andrew and had him killed. I tried to kill you last night in the hospital. Oh, my God!”
The abutment lay a hundred feet ahead. Patricia hit the brakes and swerved hard to the right, back onto the highway. Rubber burned from the sideways motion. She overcorrected left but then managed to steer straight down the median, both feet on the brake, blasting through shrubbery and generating a huge rooster-tail of dust as the automobile finally slid to a stop.
Caroline leaped from the car, ran several feet, dropped to her knees, and threw up. Patricia remained behind the wheel for a few seconds but then reached across with her good arm to open the door.
Caroline staggered to her feet, rushed around the front of the car, jerked open the driver’s side door sharply, and dragged Patricia to the ground. Falling on her left arm, Patricia shrieked in agony.
Caroline looked across the seat and saw that her weapon had fallen into the foot well. “I sure hope you got what you wanted, little sister, because you and Andrew never deserved a damn thing. Daddy took you in because he felt sorry for you. I should kill you right now.”
As if she had staged this sudden display of anger, Caroline threw back her head and laughed. “But I won’t. There’s nothing that can be traced to me—not the embezzlement, not Andrew’s murder or, least of all, last night. It’ll be your word against mine.”
Caroline’s laugh stopped abruptly. Her facial features contorted, and her look turned menacing and, at once, evil. Caroline kneeled down and looked straight into Patricia’s eyes.
“But if I were you, I’d keep a close lookout over your shoulder. You never know.”
Patricia rolled over onto her good shoulder and peered back. “You know what, Caroline, I have only one word in response, and it’s a word that I know means a lot to you.”
“What’s that?”
“CB1000X.” Patricia reached into her blouse pocket and removed the small electronic device. “How do you read, Detective Cromwell?”
“Loud and clear.”