Page 1 of Wild Fever
1
By the faint smell, I figured he’d been dead about 9 hours, give or take. It wasn’t overwhelming yet. Not enough to sour your nose or unsettle the pancakes in your stomach. Just a hint. Enough to let you know something bad had happened here.
We had followed the sheriff to the Seven Seas. The luxury resort was the perfect oasis—a private man-made beach, five-star cuisine, and a relaxing pool adorned with skimpy bikinis and tanned skin slick with oil. There were a mix of opulent suites and private cabanas.
Red and blue lights flashed atop patrol cars, and the medical examiner’s van was on the scene when we arrived.
We parked in the lot and took the private path that led to the cabanas. Camera flashes spilled out of the open door. Uniformed deputies milled around, keeping the curious at bay.
No news crews had arrived yet.
We stepped into the Pineapple Cabana, which had a kitchenette just off the foyer. A spacious living area was home to a comfy couch, a few chairs, a glass coffee table, a large flatscreen display, and an office area with a desk. Pastel seascapes hung on the wall. The sliding glass door offered a view of the patio and the beach beyond. Teal waves crashed against the shore, providing a soothing soundtrack.
More camera flashes spilled from the bedroom.
Brenda hovered over the remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves.
A dark-haired man in his late 50s lay atop the king-size bed, wearing tighty-whities and black dress socks. His dark, lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling. He had a square face and a pudgy nose.
Another sliding door in the bedroom opened to the patio. A laptop sat atop another desk—a security screen prompted for a password.
Forensic investigators chronicled the scene.
By the faint bruising around the victim’s neck, the cause of death appeared obvious.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Room is registered to Yan Zheng,” Brenda said. “Matches the ID in his wallet and his passport. You’re not going to like this.”
I cringed.
She didn’t elaborate. “No cash in his wallet. The tan line on his wrist tells me he normally wears a watch. But it’s not there now.”
His gray slacks had been haphazardly tossed on the floor, along with a white dress shirt and black tie. His suit jacket loitered on the edge of the bed.
“Time of death?”
“Between 1 and 3:00 AM, give or take. Petechial hemorrhaging and bruising are consistent with strangulation, but I’ll do a full work-up. No signs of blunt force trauma.”
“Dust all the door handles, glasses, and that laptop for prints,” Sheriff Daniels said in an annoyed voice.
We’d barely solved the last murder, and here we were again. It was never-ending, and I didn’t expect people to stop killing each other anytime soon.
I pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and rummaged through the gray slacks, looking for Mr. Yan’s cell phone.
I pulled the device from his pocket and held it in front of his face. The security screen didn't clear. I tried it again, but it was obvious he didn't have facial recognition enabled. It was a smart security protocol. Law enforcement couldn't compel your cell phone passcode, but an officer could hold your phone in front of your face—that wasn't protected under the Fourth Amendment, according to the courts.
I found his passport, and a grimace tensed my face. This case just got complicated. I showed the passport to the sheriff, and he groaned.
I used variations of Mr. Yan’s birthday as a passcode, but nothing worked. The screen still didn't clear. I couldn’t access his phone.
Mr. Yan was a foreign national.
This case just became a federal matter. We’d have to notify the FBI and the State Department. Before long, this place would be crawling with feds—FBI, DIA, NSA, and possibly even the CIA.As soon as the Chinese got wind of this, the Consulate General would dispatch an officer or legal attaché. A "cultural affairs officer" might show up—code for someone from the Ministry of State Security. Everybody would want to get into this room and collect evidence. This case was about to get taken away from us.
The sheriff knew what was coming. In a hushed voice, he said, "Canvas the area. Talk to guests and the staff before the feds get here. See if there's any security footage. This might not be our case anymore, but someone was murdered in my county. I want to know why.”
"We're on it," I said.
