SECRETS AND SPIES

Chapter Two

Standing in the middle of dad's wrecked study I'm thirty seconds into my conversation with Detective Yorkie and I lose it.

"That's bullshit, and you know it," I say, perhaps more aggressively than I intended.

"Absolutely not, Ed. This often happens when a notable death makes the headlines."

"I still call bullshit, and my name's Mr. Cullen, or Sir to you. Only family and friends call me by my first name."

I'm bristling and he's bristling as we face one another. To any on-looker watching, it's plain we're both having great difficulty staying in control. Detective Yorkie, compelled by his badge to remain calm and professional; the grieving son valiantly trying not to punch a slight-framed, smug-faced, condescending asshole who's casually dismissing his concerns to his face.

"Mr. Cullen," he begins again in a patronizing tone. "Your father was very well known in San Francisco and apparently revered like a God in Silicon Valley. His death was front-page news with obituaries in every national newspaper and the place and time of his funeral were all over the media. You may as well put a neon sign above a house saying 'Nobody here Thursday. Come and rob me!' I'm surprised there wasn't a queue forming on the sidewalk waiting for you guys to leave. I've seen this happen so many times to folks who haven't got the wit to keep anyone guarding the house while they're at church or wherever."

"I'm not buying that," I hiss at him, even though I can see his logic but won't admit it. "This was a professional job. The study's been cleaned out and that wasn't done by opportunists. They were after something in particular."

"Mr. Cullen," Yorkie sighs and he's not even trying to hide he believes he's dealing with a moron. "Your father was a Tech genius. I've learned in the past week that Bill Gates and Steve Jobs would have been nobodies without his inventions. So I agree, this probably was a professional job, carried out by industrial spies wanting to steal whatever your father was working on. The information on his desk and inside his computer was probably worth more than any painting on the wall or jewelry tucked under the bed, which is why they went for his study. Do you know what he was working on?"

"No … my father never discussed his work with me. I'm not in the least bit interested in computer technology. I'm a landscape gardener – I work with my hands, not my head."

Yorkie scratches his own head and looks around the study.

"Okay, Mr. Cullen, this is how I see the situation. Your house was burglarized while you were at the funeral. That's the story. Shame you didn't think about securing the house with an alarm or leaving someone here to look after the place. Did the neighbors see anything suspicious?"

"No, but the burglary isn't as important as the other shit that's not happening; like a proper investigation into my father's death for instance. I wasn't in the best place in the last seven days to think straight. Now I've had time to reflect on what happened and nothing adds up."

Yorkie opens his mouth to respond to my assertion but I'm fully wired now and ready to launch into the tirade I've been practicing while lying awake at night. There's no way Yorkie is leaving this house until he's heard what I have to say, which is the truth regarding my dad's life and his state of mind.

"Firstly, Detective, my father's car was his pride and joy. He went on his honeymoon in it. When I was born he brought me and mom home from the hospital in it. He carried her out the house and took her for a ride in it a week before she died and he promised to leave me it in his Will. A year ago, a football star offered him a quarter of a million dollars for it. He turned it down as he loved the kick he got when he saw people pointing at it when he drove up and down the hills around here. So there's no way in the world he'd set fire to it and die in it, and nothing or no-one will convince me that's what happened."

Yorkie's eyes visibly widen when I mention the car's worth.

"The wreck was an old Mustang. Why ...?"

"The Mustang is the same model, the same year, the same color as the Fastback Steve McQueen drove in Bullit," I interrupt ever-so-slightly arrogantly. "That car has about as much iconic status in San Francisco as the Golden Gate Bridge."

"Shit!"

"Which is why I'm insisting the chassis and whatever's left comes back to where it belongs. The car is still worth a mint to me, and to enthusiasts who could rebuild it from spare parts. I want it returned, to my drive, by the end of the week."

"I'm sorry, Ed … Mr. Cullen. It's already been sent to the auto wreckers."

"Then get it back. Any wrecker in this city would instantly recognize what it is and wouldn't crush any part of it, so find it, immediately. That car is my property, and if it's not back here in seven days I'm suing the city, and don't think I won't."

As I'm talking Yorkie's cell starts playing the Hawaii Five-O theme tune. He fumbles in his pocket and switches it off. "Anything else," Yorkie growls, looking appropriately embarrassed.

"Oh yeah; I've only just started. I want to know why no-one questioned me or any of my father's friends about his state of mind in the days before he died. I would've thought at least one witness was mandatory before being able to be confident enough to name suicide as the probable cause of death, wouldn't you agree? So while I have your undivided attention, I'm going to tell you some facts about Carlisle Cullen.

"For a start, he didn't suffer from depression; he was exceptionally healthy for a man of sixty-four. He socialized with friends regularly. He was busy and active. He didn't have financial problems. He loved this house and his car. He'd just filled up his fridge with fresh food. Most importantly though, my father loved me; we had an awesome relationship. So there's absolutely no way he'd depart this life without leaving me a message telling me why."

Yorkie tries to interrupt but I'm not finished yet.

"This means, Detective Yorkie, the only conclusion I can come up with is my father was murdered, and I want to know the reason why the San Francisco Police Department closed the book on this case without so much as one day of effort on yours or anyone else's part to find out what really happened that night."

"Because there's no evidence to suggest he was murdered," Yorkie whines irritably. "His body showed no signs of trauma and the car was locked from the inside."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Were the keys in the ignition?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe the keys?"

"Just one key."

"Interesting. Nothing else with the key, like keys to this house, the picture of my mother and me set in a glass key-ring and no bottle-opener?"

"No."

"Then I'm calling bullshit again. Those weren't his keys. What was in the trunk?"

Yorkie opens his mouth to respond and hesitates. It's obvious by his expression my questions are making him uncomfortable and he doesn't like it. He's plainly not used to being interrogated by anyone, least of all by a young, smart guy who isn't the least bit wary about fronting up a senior member of the police force.

"I'm not answering any more questions, Mr. Cullen. I've taken on board what you've said and I'll go over the case with my Chief. If he believes there's a possibility of foul play then we'll re-open the case. That's as much as I'm prepared to offer at the moment."

"And if he says no?"

"Then that's it … no investigation. You can yell at him next time."

"Believe me I will, although it'll be after I go to the media."

"That's your prerogative, Sir. I'll arrange for a forensic team to dust for prints today. If any match our database I'll be in touch."

I walk him to the door and open it. "Update me on the car by the end of the day or I'll be on to my lawyers."

Yorkie doesn't respond to my threat, walking past me without saying anything including any form of goodbye. I can sense he's anxious as I'm sure Carlisle Cullen having a Rottweiler for a son couldn't have been anticipated when he stamped 'closed' on dad's case file. I slam the door behind him and have to control a sudden urge to punch the wall. Instead, I find my cigarettes, light one with shaking hands, and head towards the back yard.

Feeling totally wound up but still relieved I got that off my chest, I slump into the closest of a pair of Adirondack chairs which were a 60th birthday present to dad from me. As I'm filling my lungs and consequently my brain cells with calming nicotine, I'm acutely aware of my heart which is thumping in my chest due to the confrontation with the detective. I've absolutely no regrets though about anything I said to the arrogant shit who'd initially spoken to me like I was a teenager.

I know I look young for my age and this morning I'm scruffier than usual as my hair is long and unkempt, and I'm wearing some old gardening clothes I keep here. I probably look like a hobo. I was thirty-two last birthday, well-educated, a business-owner, worldly-wise and stubborn, and there's no way I'm allowing myself to be fobbed off by some know-it-all, couldn't-care-less detective. I've always had the greatest respect for the law enforcement agencies that protect this city and the country, but I've never had to deal with them directly before. The attitude of the San Francisco police from day one has been a wake-up call for me.

I recall dad's warning in the FYEO letter about not investigating his disappearance, although there was nothing in his words about not investigating his death. Dad couldn't have foreseen the manner of his end when he was writing the letter, and surely, if any son or daughter made zero attempts to find out what happened to their father, that in itself would look mightily suspicious.

There isn't a family in the world who'd accept without question their loved one had committed suicide, without some sort of inquiry into why, especially if no note was left and there weren't any extenuating circumstances, like illness, depression, or family trauma. They would be banging their fists on the table demanding answers, which is exactly what I'm doing. Detective Yorkie will rue the day if he chooses to ignore the son of Carlisle Cullen.

I find myself automatically taking another cigarette from the pack but return it unused. I've been smoking way too much in the past week and my chest is feeling the effects. Being unable to breathe Colorado air, which tastes totally different from the polluted atmosphere of the city below, hasn't helped either.

Taking the decision to live on the side of a mountain rather than in a city was an easy decision for me when I finished college. Mom and dad owned a cabin not far from Denver where we'd spend holidays and long-weekends when I was growing up. Dad and I continued going there after mom died even though we both felt her loss more strongly in the cabin than anywhere else. Moving to Colorado after graduation and making the cabin my permanent home before starting up my own landscaping business, had been relatively easy and the best decision I've ever made. I've had no regrets leaving San Francisco, apart from being twelve hundred miles away from dad.

Relaxing in the yard in the morning sunshine and checking out the plants and hard landscaping is a welcome distraction from my problems. Designing dad's yard had been a college project and I'm proud to say over the past twelve years it has matured into a beautiful and restful oasis. Dad told me he recharged his batteries in here every day whatever the weather. Alas, its healing properties aren't having much effect on me so far.

In the sunniest corner of the yard, I'd erected a hypnotic wind-sculpture, which is a close copy of the Manrique mom fell in love with on the island of Lanzarote in the Canaries. Initially, the sculpture hadn't meant to be a shrine to her when I included it in the plans for the garden. It became one though as dad buried the urn that holds mom's ashes among the flowers surrounding the plinth. This throws up another conundrum. If I sell the house in the future, I'll have to remove the urn and bury it elsewhere alongside dad's ashes. I know I'll find that task very distressing.

Patting the pocket of my jeans I acknowledge I'll never be able to burn anything in dad's handwriting either. I'll have to find somewhere to hide his letter when I get back to Colorado which won't be for a few days yet. Staying in touch with Rosalie and the others has been a good distraction. They've been keeping everything ticking over while I'm away so there's no need for me to rush back to work. I don't want to stay away too long though as Mitzi will be missing me. I'll facetime with her tonight to make sure she doesn't forget who I am.

When I glance at my watch I'm surprised it's almost midday. I've arranged a meeting with Jenks at four so if the forensic team turns up this afternoon and hasn't finished when I need to leave I'll have to ask Sue to come over and lock up. As I'm reaching for another cigarette to ease the stress of managing this I hear the doorbell.

I'm cautious walking to the door as there could be people on the doorstep who don't have my best interests at heart. The shapes of three bodies are evident through the stained glass and automatically I tense up.

"Who is it?" I call out.

"Forensics!" is the curt response.

On the step are two men and one woman in white coveralls laden with boxes of equipment. The man in front flashes his identification.

"Come in," I say and direct them towards the study. "I suggest you start in here."

The man with the identification grunts an unintelligible response; ignores my instruction and heads for the stairs.

"I'm checking the rest of the house while these guys get to work. You don't mind, do you?"

"Do what you like," I respond. "I haven't touched anything apart from my bedroom and the kitchen. As far as I can tell they didn't go in any of the bathrooms."

The man grunts again and disappears upstairs. I can hear him moving from room to room and note he lingers longest in dad's bedroom. After a while, he comes down.

"We'll only take prints from the study. If they weren't wearing gloves their prints will be all over the place. If they were wearing gloves, there's no point checking the other rooms."

This seems logical and after giving them my own fingerprints, I leave them to it. I go out to the yard to do some pruning then sweep the hard areas of dead leaves and other debris. Half an hour later I offer them coffee but they decline. Another half-hour later they're done.

"We'll let you know if we get any matches, Mr. Cullen," the woman says as she's packing up. "You should hear in the next few days."

I see them out and watch as they pile their equipment in the back of their truck and drive off. As soon as they're out of sight I close the door and bolt it from the inside.

Now that I'm on my own and not expecting any visitors for the next hour, the opportunity has arrived to do something I've been desperate to do since I walked in the house with Uncle Jim, and even more so after reading dad's letter.

After closing the internal doors leading off the hall, I return to the front door and push aside the sun-bleached drape which covers the side window, peering through to make absolutely certain no-one is on the step looking in. After unhooking the tie-back I tug the drape across the window and door which consequently plunges the hall into semi-darkness. The drape is full of fine silver dust that fills the air before dropping onto the polished wooden floor, and I can't help smiling guiltily as the drape probably hasn't been moved or cleaned since mom was alive.

Now that I'm satisfied no-one can see in, I switch the light on and stand with my back against the drape so I can carry out a visual check of every corner of the hall and stairway to ensure there are no hidden cameras lurking anywhere. All the light fittings, the mirror, pictures on the walls, and the furniture, are carefully examined to ensure there are no unexplainable wires poking out until I'm content no-one is watching.

The next task is to move the antique mahogany sideboard which runs the length of the stairs, shifting it away from the wall. One end seems heavier than the other and I find it a struggle to move it without scratching the wooden floor, so how dad did this without help surprises me. When there's enough space for me to walk between the sideboard and the white paneled wall, I apply pressure to a point in the top left corner of one of the taller panels until I hear a familiar click. A crack appears at the edge of the panel followed by a waft of stale air that hits my nostrils.

Using my fingertips I prize the panel open until the gap is wide enough for me to slide my hand through to turn the light on. It takes only a few seconds of groping before I find the old-fashioned Bakelite switch which I flip downwards. A dull glow emanates from the void under the stairs so I pull the door further open and squeeze through the gap. Before moving further inside, I look down into the basement of the house to check that nothing sinister has happened there.

Below is dad's secret office, the location of which is only known to my parents and me. I'm relieved but not surprised the intruders hadn't been down here as the original plans of the house omitted to show a basement. There'd been no evidence that the sideboard had been moved after the burglary, so I'm not surprised to find the office as I remember it.

When dad purchased the house in 1984, three years before I was born, he found the access panel by accident when he was painting the stairs. The doorway hinge is invisible from the outside so it was a stroke of luck that he found it. The basement had been full of junk, so after clearing it out he installed better lighting numerous and power sockets before turning it into a secret, secure work area. He kept the Bakelite switch though as it was part of the original fabric of the house.

This is where mom and dad kept their drawings, ancient floppy discs, and paper copies of everything they'd ever invented, going back to when they first became interested in Computer Technology. The basement is also where dad would keep any paperwork or computerized information to do with whatever project he was currently working on, ensuring his designs remained totally secure against industrial espionage until he was ready to release them to the world.

I'd only been down here about ten times in my life as I suffer from mild claustrophobia. Consequently, I can already feel my anxiety levels rising. As I stand on the top step, I take some deep calming breaths before carefully descending the eleven concrete steps which lead down to what anybody would describe as a dungeon.

The rough grey concrete floor is mostly covered by a red and gold Turkish carpet that used to be in our lounge when I was a kid. On the furthest wall from the stairs is a hand-made wooden desk dad put together down here, which as usual is littered with drawings, diagrams and notebooks.

Fixed to the wall behind the desk is a massive screen linked to an ancient, bulky desktop computer with an old-fashioned twelve-inch screen sitting on top. This is the computer dad built from scratch and I smile when I recall asking him why he didn't buy a state-of-the-art brand-new computer. Dad's response had been he couldn't take the chance a bug hadn't been installed in the memory a manufacturer, which would enable them to spy on his work. This was a logical explanation as he was a world expert in Computer Design and Technology and knew better than anyone what these Tech companies could do to unsuspecting consumers.

As I glance at his scribbled writings, I'm having difficulty swallowing the lump forming in my throat as I can smell dad's aftershave. The scent has been trapped in this windowless room for the past ten days at least, and even though I don't believe in ghosts, I can sense dad's presence in this room more than anywhere else in the house.

The desk still has two matching office chairs tucked underneath as mom's chair had never been removed. I choose to sit in dad's; swinging around in a circle several times hoping that being in his seat will give me inspiration and help me imagine what dad was thinking when he came down here for the last time. I'm looking for clues in the room, only I'm at a loss where to start the search. Dad knew he was in danger so I'm positive he left me a message down here as he'd referred to the secret office in his note.

'If you're reading this because I've departed this world, hopefully the monster will have perished with me and will stay below ground where it belongs forever.'

But where is the monster hiding? I haven't got a clue what I'm looking for but know I would be foolhardy to remove any papers from this room to examine above ground in case the intruders came back one day and found them.

With one finger I delicately push each sheet of paper aside and open every notebook on the desk to read what dad had written. I stare blankly at the pages as they might as well have been written in Greek. I can't understand a single sentence. Turning my attention to the computer I try nudging the mouse to see what happens. A plain blue start-up screen appears a few seconds later and of course, the computer is asking for a password. I type 'Esme' with no luck and then 'Edward'. Still no luck. I try a few other obvious words before giving up. I'm not bothered though as I doubt dad would leave me a message on the computer without giving me the password first.

I slowly wander around the basement and try to put myself in dad's place. Every drawer, shelf, and each of the numerous storage boxes neatly stacked either on the floor or on metal racks at one end of the room are searched. I'm smiling while I'm doing this as it's like taking part in an Easter Egg hunt. It must be well over twenty years since I'd last played that game at a school friend's party but unlike then there's no prize at the end.

Defeated, I return to the desk and pick up a silver photo frame holding a copy of my favorite picture of my parents taken in the late nineteen-seventies. They're in their twenties and leaning against the hood of the Mustang. Dad's arm is lazily draped over mom's shoulders. Her arm is wound around his waist with her thumb tucked in his belt; her head resting on his chest. They're both smiling broadly at whoever is holding the camera. It's a picture of a young, handsome, carefree couple who are madly in love, already incredibly successful, and totally aware they had the world at their feet.

I can feel tears starting in my eyes as I look at their youthful faces, and an overwhelming sense of loss washes over me once more. My parents had their whole lives ahead of them in this picture, but they weren't to know that mom would get sick in 1999 and die in the year 2000, so their time together was limited. Also, that dad would die relatively young and would be cheated out of a well-earned retirement.

I turn the frame over and carefully remove the back panel to check whether there's a message hidden inside but there's nothing. After putting it back together I choose not to put the frame back in its place. I'll find a new home for this either in my own office or the cabin.

I stay a while longer going through the desk drawers again but the claustrophobia is getting to me and I can sense the walls of this dungeon-like basement closing in. Reluctantly I give up the search and head up the steps to leave.

As I put my hand on the Bakelite switch, in a blinding flash it comes to me what the laptop password could be. I run down the steps and jerk the computer back to life and type in the seven-letter word. The screen turns black for about ten seconds before a gruesome set of drawn images slowly appears on the screen, each with a brief explanation. As I take in what I'm seeing I realize I've been holding my breath, and as the pictures disappear one by one and are replaced by a page of closely-worded text, it's plain why dad wanted to hide what he'd been working on.

As I'm reading the document, which I'm certain has been written for my benefit as it's devoid of any technical terms, the words begin to melt away from the top of the screen. When every line of text has disappeared, the blank screen is filled by a black and white image of a laughing skull sitting on top of crossbones. This stays on the screen for about ten seconds before disappearing and the screen turns blue again. After a few more seconds of tension, I can hear the distinctive clicking sounds inside the computer signaling the internal workings are shutting down.

Moving the mouse to restart the computer so I can re-read the text does nothing. I strike all the obvious keys and turn the screen on, off, on again with no luck. The computer is lifeless, and I have to accept that once I entered the password this triggered a booby trap. Dad had rigged the system so the hard drive would be wiped once I read what was on there.

I understand now the reason dad admitted to creating a monster. Having this knowledge chills me and I shudder with revulsion. Even though my grasp of computer technology is limited, I totally understand the ramifications of what could happen if one of the Titans got their hands on what dad had inadvertently created.

As I make my way up the concrete steps I resolve to return to the dungeon tomorrow, take apart the computer, smash the hard drive into a thousand pieces and destroy every piece of paper on dad's desk. When this is done, I'll seal the door and turn the house into a fortress by installing the best security system I can afford. Only after doing this can I return to Colorado, safe in the knowledge that the monster perished at the same time as its creator.

As he makes his way down the hill towards his car after his confrontation with Edward Cullen, Detective Yorkie stares enviously at the spectacular view of the bay, at the same time patting his pockets searching for the pills his doctor prescribed for anxiety. As he throws a couple in his mouth and swallows, he wishes he'd never become involved with the Cullen case.

A good enough reason for not proceeding further with investigations into Cullen's death would have to be invented urgently, including the fate of the Mustang. It's plain to him though that Cullen's son will not be satisfied easily, and this bothers him.

Yorkie slides his slight frame behind the steering wheel and stares at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, imagining what his strict Chinese grandfather would think if any of this came out. He notices his face is flushed and wonders whether this is due to anxiety, or shame, or both. Not for the first time does he regret agreeing to change his shift that night, which resulted in him being the only detective on duty when Carlisle Cullen chose to leave the world.

As Yorkie pulls up in the precinct parking lot, he experiences an inexplicable premonition that this case is either going to be the ending of his career, or the making of it.

Yikes!

So Yorkie has a secret he's keeping from Edward. There's definitely something fishy (British expression) going on. And what the heck has Carlisle been working on? Sounds scary. You will find out soon - promise.

It's so nice to hear from 'old' Fanfiction friends again. It's been a long time since I uploaded Mysterious Graffiti - I thought you'd all forgotten about me. This is what's so brilliant about Fanfiction. Thanks so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. I hope it lives up to expectations (no pressure then - eeek)!

Joan xxx