Beyond Reasonable Doubt (Keera Duggan), page 3
“Not at present.”
“How long has it been since the divorce?”
“Daughter said it was ‘complicated.’”
“What does that mean?” Rossi asked.
Pan’s brow furrowed. “She said she’d explain it to us.”
Rossi glanced at Ford. “Pretty ballsy. She in law enforcement or politics or something?”
“Lawyer.”
Rossi looked again at the license plate. Definitely her car. “Anyone talk to the two people across the street looking over here but acting like they’re not interested?” he said without pointing or nodding.
“Responding officers, but only briefly,” Pan said. “They didn’t see or hear anything. I’ll get the next-up team to interview them and the other neighbors.” They wanted to determine if anyone close by saw anything suspicious like an unfamiliar person or car in the area, or whether they heard a gunshot, what most civilians would equate to a car backfiring. They’d seek out any security camera footage as well.
Pan checked his watch. “I’m going back inside. I’ll also call the ME and CSI and get an ETA. Billy will fill you in on the rest, what there is.”
“The rest?” Rossi asked his partner.
“Media will be here,” Pan said. “So do like Lady Gaga says and put on your poker faces.” He marched through a door that led to a covered walkway between the garage and the house.
“Lady Gaga?” Rossi said to Ford.
“He’s got a teenage daughter same age as my son,” Ford said. “Though my son is into Kendrick Lamar.”
“Never heard of him.”
“We’re not supposed to have heard of him. We’re old.”
Rossi looked again at the house and the car. “Who is this guy?”
“Victim? Sirus Kohl.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“Most recently he was indicted by the US Attorney for wire fraud and conspiracy to commit wire fraud.”
“Ponce de León . . .”
“Restorative Technology,” Ford said. “PDRT.”
“I would have got it . . . eventually,” Rossi said. “The technology company in South Lake Union that went belly-up a couple years back.”
“You got a mind like a steel trap.”
“Am I wrong?” Rossi asked.
“Not wrong. Just incomplete. Five or six years ago, they tried the CEO, Jenna Bernstein, for the murder of the company’s chief science officer, Erik Wei. He’d threatened to blow the whistle that the company was a sham, and got a bullet in the head.”
“You looked that up on the internet before you got here,” Rossi said.
Ford grinned. “Maybe.”
“She got off,” Rossi said, “that I remember. Patsy Duggan represented her. That was when he was still at his best.”
“Bernstein testified,” Ford said. “And made it appear Kohl had greater motivation to kill Wei.”
“Reasonable doubt,” Rossi said.
“Prosecution didn’t see it coming,” Ford said. “Bernstein and Kohl were supposed to be close. Lovers.”
“That’s the Irish Brawler,” Rossi said, using Patsy Duggan’s nickname. “You can fault his methods, but not his results.”
“Maybe not you. You got a thing for the daughter.”
“Keera?”
“‘Keera?’” Ford imitated him. “You look as guilty as my son listening to inappropriate rap music in his room. Thought maybe something was there between you two . . . when she worked in the prosecutor’s office. Thought maybe you rekindled that flame on the Vince LaRussa case.”
“There was never a flame. And now she works for the opposing team, so . . .” Rossi changed the subject. “Let’s get a couple more uniforms here, have them put up sawhorses at the cul-de-sac, keep the media and brass as far back as possible.”
“Way ahead of you, partner. Backup should be here within five.”
Rossi turned to the shrubbery behind the garage. “What’s behind that wall?”
“Volunteer Park.”
Ford reached into their go bag at his feet. He handed Rossi Tyvek shoe coverings and blue nitrile gloves and took a set for himself. After slipping them on, the detectives approached the uniformed officer holding the sign-in log and standing at the door in the covered walkway. Rossi signed his name and wrote his badge number. “You let the fire department trample my crime scene?” he asked.
“No need,” the uniform said. “The guy was clearly dead. I told them to stand down, and they left.”
“Good man. Pan said the daughter called it in. Where is she now?” If she was first on the scene, she was a suspect until they cleared her. Patricide involving a daughter killing her father was rare.
“Still inside.”
“She live here?” Rossi asked.
“No,” the officer said.
“Why is she here so early in the morning?”
“Said she and her father had a meeting to go over some legal matters. She called the house this morning to confirm, but the father didn’t answer or respond to her text messages. Daughter said she worried something nefarious had happened to him.”
“‘Nefarious’? Too early to be throwing around four-syllable words,” Rossi said, wondering why that would be the daughter’s first thought.
“She’s a lawyer,” the uniform said.
“Heard that.” Rossi glanced back at the Porsche. Definitely hers.
Rossi followed Ford into the house, checking the door and the jamb. No signs of a forced entry. They walked through a mudroom into what looked like a family room with an open-plan kitchen. Rossi made a mental note to have CSI check the appliances for fingerprints and the toilets for urine spatter. Killers had been known to use one or the other, sometimes both, before leaving a crime scene.
Pan stood in the family room alongside a second uniformed officer. Behind them hung a large flat-screen television and a picture window providing a view into the backyard. The air smelled stale, causing Rossi to glance at the appliances that shone as if never used. Rossi and Ford stepped around a high-backed couch. The victim’s body lay facedown on a Persian throw rug alongside a glass coffee table. For reasons Rossi didn’t understand, dead bodies seemed smaller. Sirus Kohl looked like a chubby young boy.
Rossi bent to a knee and got a strong metallic odor of blood. He visually scanned the damage to the back of the head where blood matted black-and-gray hair. His preliminary assessment was a 9-millimeter bullet. The size and pattern of blood spatter on the coffee table and the couch cushions indicated a shot delivered from a short distance, under ten feet.
Rossi stood as Ford introduced both of them to the uniform. Nick Price was a big dude with serious pipes stretching the fabric of his shirtsleeves. He appeared tough, and he was doing a good job acting unintimidated, but he also wasn’t looking at the body. Dead bodies always unnerved—no matter how tough you were or how many you saw.
Price said he and his partner arrived at six thirty. “Daughter met us outside on the driveway and brought us inside—”
“Which door?”
Price pointed to the door Ford and Rossi had entered. “Back door. Once inside, we confirmed her father was dead.”
“You have a look around the house?” Ford asked.
“Cleared it,” Price said. “Empty. She said the victim lived alone.”
“No signs of a forced entry anywhere else?” Rossi asked.
“Not that I saw and not that she reported.”
“Nothing missing? Turned over?”
“No.”
“Where is she now?” Rossi said looking about the room.
Price gestured. “In the office. Just off the foyer. She’s working on something on the computer.”
Rossi and Ford exchanged glances. Odd.
“I’ve asked for a couple of extra uniforms,” Ford said. “Have them set up a perimeter at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.”
“Roger that,” Price said. He stepped outside, looking relieved.
Ford and Rossi walked through the kitchen to a white marbled foyer inside the front door. To Rossi’s right, glass doors led into an office—parquet floor, dark leather furniture, bookshelves crowded with books, a large desk, a minibar, and another flat-screen television. A woman stood from the leather high-backed chair behind the desk. Rossi noted her business attire: navy-blue skirt and jacket, white shirt, pearls, black pumps. He estimated late thirties to early forties. Dark hair fell to her shoulders. She did not look to be wearing makeup, but she had what Rossi’s mom would call “natural beauty.” He guessed Middle Eastern descent.
“Are you the homicide detectives?” she asked before Rossi or Ford could introduce themselves or offer their condolences.
“Violent Crimes, yes.” Rossi introduced them both. “You’re the victim’s daughter?”
“Sirus Kohl was my father. I’m Adria Kohl.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss.” Rossi noted a sheet of paper on the desk. “Is that something you were working on?”
She looked back and picked it up. “A timeline of what happened this morning. So I wouldn’t forget anything,” she said.
Definitely a lawyer. Possibly in shock, or still processing what had occurred. Still odd. “We understand you’re a lawyer?”
“That’s right.”
“Criminal law?”
“No. Business law and transactions.”
Rossi nodded, then pointed to the sheet of paper. “Tell us what you recall?”
“I called my father at 6:10 this morning when he didn’t respond to earlier text messages I had sent.”
“You expected to hear from him?” Rossi asked.
“My father and I had an appointment at nine this morning. We had agreed to go over things before the meeting. He didn’t answer his phone. I gave him some time, in case he was in the shower. I called again, and when he didn’t answer a text, I decided to come over.”
“You called his cell?” Rossi asked.
“He doesn’t have a landline.”
“Officer said you were worried about your father? Did he have health issues?” Rossi asked.
“No. Nothing like that. It was just . . . I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?” Rossi asked.
“It wasn’t like him not to answer his phone or respond to my text.”
“How did you get in the house?”
“I have a key to the back door.”
“What did you see when you entered?”
“I called out but didn’t get a response. I went through the kitchen, then upstairs to his room. The bed was made. I should say, it didn’t look slept in. The door to the master bath was open, but it didn’t look like anyone took a recent shower. I came downstairs to see if his car was in the garage and saw his legs behind the sofa.” She shook her head. “Then I saw the blood.”
“Did you touch his body?”
“I don’t know. The police officer asked me, but I don’t recall.” She paused to compose herself. Cleared her throat. Her voice quaked. “I called 911, and the dispatcher told me to step outside and stay on the line.”
“Are you doing all right?” Rossi asked.
“No.” She bristled and words shot from her. “I’m not doing all right.”
“I meant, are you up to answering our questions?”
She looked between Ford and Rossi. “Sorry. Yes. I’d prefer to do it now while everything is fresh. That’s why I made the list.”
“The uniformed officer said you walked through the home. Did you notice any signs of a forced entry or robbery?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I don’t know ‘ordinary.’ This isn’t my home or my father’s home.”
“What do you mean?”
“After PDRT went belly-up, and the US Attorney’s indictment, I convinced my father it was best he rent, not knowing what was to happen.”
“We understand your parents are divorced. Was it amicable?”
“Definitely not, but it was thirty years ago, and my mother lives in Palm Springs. The two haven’t had contact since I graduated law school.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Not yet.”
“You said you and your father agreed to meet this morning before going to a business meeting. Can you elaborate?”
“My father was recently indicted by the US Attorney. He was once the COO and CFO of PDRT, Ponce de León Restorative Technology. I had arranged for him to meet the US attorney to discuss a plea agreement.”
“What kind of plea agreement?” Rossi asked.
“My father had accumulated documentation to prove Jenna Bernstein, his business partner, played a much larger role in the company than she previously admitted.”
“You mean when she testified at the Erik Wei trial?” Ford asked.
“That’s correct. She made misrepresentations to investors about the LINK—the product PDRT was developing. She knew the LINK could not perform as she represented. At trial, she’d made it sound like my father withheld information from her, but it was the other way around. She made misrepresentations to potential investors and did not tell my father.”
“What kind of evidence?” Rossi asked.
“Internal text messages and emails.”
In Rossi’s experience, probably neither person was telling the whole truth. But if Adria Kohl was telling them the truth, and if Jenna Bernstein had found out about Kohl’s intent to meet the US Attorney and blame her, Bernstein had a serious motive to kill Sirus Kohl.
“Did anyone besides you and your father know about the meeting?”
“I don’t know. I told my father not to say anything until we had an agreement in writing with the US Attorney. I don’t know if he took my advice. Seems he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
She held up a cell phone. “This is my father’s cell phone. You should know my father and Jenna Bernstein both used burner phones.”
“Why is that?” Rossi asked.
“The LINK was a multibillion-dollar idea. PDRT took every precaution to prevent corporate espionage. Then, given what transpired at the trial, he and I agreed it would be best for him to continue using burner phones.” She picked up her phone from the desk. “Here. This is the number he used to call me last night.” She punched in a code, then scrolled to the last number called. “That’s my cell phone. He called me last night at 9:17 p.m.”
“And what was the purpose of that call?”
“To confirm the meeting this morning with the US Attorney, and that I would meet him here to go over things before that meeting.”
“And you think he might have told someone, and that person killed him?” Rossi asked.
“See for yourself.” She pulled up text messages on her father’s phone. “These are the last text messages he sent before he called me.”
Rossi read the string of text messages.
What goes around comes around.
What is that supposed to mean?
You shit on me in Wei’s trial. Time to return the favor.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Yeah. You do.
I took my attorney’s advice.
And I’ll take mine.
Can we talk?
We’ll see.
“My father purchased the phones from the Target store on University Way. He used a PDRT company credit card to make the purchases, and I kept a record of who got which phone. The second phone, the one responding to his text messages, was given to Jenna Bernstein.”
“Why would he tell Jenna Bernstein what he intended to do if you told him not to?” Rossi asked.
“My father was bitter about what Jenna Bernstein intimated at the Erik Wei trial, that he had greater motivation to kill Erik. He felt she had betrayed him.”
“Rumors are they were more than business partners; are those rumors true?” Ford asked.
“My father cared for Jenna, which is why he felt so betrayed.”
Rossi pushed her. “And he was going to get even by providing evidence against her?”
She gave him a withering stare. “My father was a businessman. Meeting with the US Attorney was first and foremost a business deal. But he could also be vindictive.” She shrugged. “Like all of us.”
“Where are those documents he was going to give to the US Attorney?”
“I have them.”
“We’ll need copies of everything,” Rossi said while Ford wrote a note. “And we’re going to need your father’s phone. We’ll have a copy made of his emails, text messages, calls he made, and calls he received. Any other enemies who might have had a beef with your father?”
Adria Kohl scoffed. “Every person who invested in PDRT had a beef with my father, especially after Jenna Bernstein testified that it was my father who misled their investors and their board of directors. Half a dozen death threats were made against my father after the company imploded.”
“Did your father report those threats to the police?”
“He reported them to the PDRT security team—Thomas Martin. I can provide a phone number.”
Rossi nodded. “Do you know if there are any cameras on the property?”
“I believe there is a Ring camera on the front door. I don’t know.”
“What about computers?” Rossi asked.
“He had a laptop. Look, Detectives, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job,” Kohl said, which was usually how someone began a sentence when they were going to tell Rossi and Ford how to do their job. “But the person you need to talk to is Jenna Bernstein. She was looking at the possibility of going to jail for a very long time if my father had kept that appointment this morning.” Her eyes shifted between Ford and Rossi as she spoke.
“We intend to speak with her,” Rossi said.
“You let her get away with murder once,” Kohl said. “Don’t let her do so a second time.”
Chapter 3
Keera bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. She hated the start to a morning run, when her muscles remained tight and her motivation low, but she usually loved the finish. Her insides had warmed. Her muscles had relaxed, and she still felt that exhilarating runner’s high.
Not this morning.
This morning, every step of the five-mile loop from her rented home in the North Beacon Hill neighborhood, around the periphery of Jefferson Park, and back had been a slog. In shape, she could finish the run in forty to forty-five minutes. She was not in shape. Trying back-to-back criminal cases had left little time for sleep, exercise, or much else. She’d run just a handful of times in the past three months.
