Bewitched, Bothered, Beheaded Excerpt: Chapter 4


I settled into the seat on the aisle and looked over at Frank in the window seat. He’d changed into a long-sleeve, black turtleneck shirt and black jeans. Thrown over his lap was a black utility jacket. I looked down at my faded sweats. I was in such a rush to get our tickets and hightail it to the airport, I hadn’t even thought about changing anything but my scuffies for sneakers.

The plane was about to take off, and Frank’s head was already leaning against the window, eyes closed. It was only an hour and ten-minute flight to Reno, but a snooze was a snooze. And when you’re a policeman, you learn to catch your z’s whenever you can. From Reno we’d do the forty-five-minute drive to North Lake Tahoe in a rental car. It would be shortly after three when we arrived at the Del Vecchio cabin, last known address for Steven Kutner. Sunset was scheduled for 8:12. Plenty of daylight to do a search of the area.

Before I put my phone in airplane mode, I downloaded the JPGs of Del Vecchio’s last two wives, Claudia and Madison; his two kids, Donna and David; the twin brothers, Wyman and Winston; Mr. Wong, the butler; and Donna’s husband, Steven. Last, I downloaded the copious notes my brother sent on all eight.

I reviewed the wives’ photos first. The second and third of Marvin’s wives were real lookers, photographed in glamorous poses. I paused, wishing there was a photo of his first wife, Elizabeth Hofsted, glamorous or not. Even a passport photo would do. And we all know what those look like.

David and Donna were both super attractive. Looks-wise, they took after their mother, Claudia, and not their father. Good luck all around. Unfortunately, Wyman and Winston took after Marvin’s side of the family. The twins photographed as disdainful, belligerent, and ill-natured. Facing either one of them down first thing in the morning for a glazed doughnut or a cruller would probably have it curdle in my mouth.

From his picture, Mr. Wong was an elegant Chinese American, a year or two younger than Marvin the Magnificent. He may have spent the majority of his life as a butler, but there was nothing subservient in those eyes. What I saw was self-assuredness and intelligence. I had a feeling I would only get out of him what he wanted to tell me.

I’d saved Steven Kutner for last so I could spend time on him. Before I read Richard’s findings, I studied the candid shot of Mr. Black Hat taken at an outdoor event, pine trees in the background. Looking straight at the camera, he was a dark-haired young man with even features, exuding a warm, engaging smile. Con men always exude a warm, engaging smile. That’s the devil of them. Steven looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty in the photo.

But according to Richard’s report, by that time he’d already led a pretty dissident life. Born in the States as Sergey Kuznetsov to two Russian ex-pat parents, his father was a tenured professor of music at UC Berkeley and mother a psychiatrist of some note. They seemed to live quiet, stellar lives. Not so with Steven.

At thirteen years old he’d managed to get into the school system and change his grades from C’s and D’s to A’s and B’s. He was caught, but due to his tender age, put on probation, as long as he promised to never go near a computer again. He promised but eighteen months later was convicted of breaking into the security system of a chain of pharmacies and having controlled substances sent to an empty house in Oakland. He served six months in a juvenile correction facility. Once released, his parents shuffled him off to Moscow to stay with his maternal grandmother. In the six years he was there, even Richard couldn’t discover what he did, but suspects it was something along the lines of perfecting his computer espionage skills.

Shortly after Steven’s return to the States from Russia, he was accused of being one of five criminals who hacked into bank accounts and stole millions of dollars. He’d turned state’s evidence, the money was returned, his pals went to prison, while Steven got a slap on the wrist and bought a handgun. He even had a license to carry a concealed weapon.

That was when his parents disowned him, and he changed his name from Sergey Kuznetsov to Steven Kutner. He also managed to expunge his true identity and background on the internet. But leave it to Richard. It took him the better part of a week, but eventually, he found it. My brother has his ways.

Richard also sent me Steven’s present online bio, most of which was dog doody. The newly created Steven Kutner was born in Ohio and known as a systems analyst from Detroit. Several now-defunct businesses were listed as having hired him to do some pretty impressive things. Except, according to Richard, they hadn’t, and he didn’t. But somehow Steven managed to snow True Love Forever and currently worked for them. Three years ago, he married the former Donna Del Vecchio and lived in San Francisco, California. By the time I’d finished reading up on everyone, we landed at the Reno, Nevada airport.

“You didn’t tell me you put your gun in the belly of the plane,” Frank said, as we waited for the luggage to be brought in from the twin-engine plane to the waiting room of the small terminal. “We might be here forever.”

“Or ten minutes. All you have to do, Officer Smarty-Pants, is show your badge and you can carry it on board. I have to do a lot more cartwheels.” I became more serious. “Steven Kutner has a license to carry a concealed weapon. Did you know that?”

“On the way home, I phoned my secretary to gather his particulars. I don’t know much else about him, but I do know he carries. That’s always one of the first things we find out.”

He stopped talking and looked toward the double doors that noisily opened from the tarmac. Two men rolled in a luggage trolley containing boxes of fruit and goods, and several pieces of luggage. I saw my red overnight bag and made a grab for it. Frank reached down and picked up the gray duffel bag he’d carried on the plane.

“People like Kutner make me a little nervous,” I admitted. “You never know.”

“True enough. The man is possibly a murderer. He may also be the reason his wife has disappeared,” Frank said. “I’m glad I came along with you.”

“Me, too,” I said.

I smiled and so did he. We’d reached a truce. Glory hallelujah.

It was a sunny afternoon, not too warm, with nary acloud in the sky. The drive to North Tahoe was easy and uneventful. Frank took yet another snooze in the passenger seat and I listened to ABBA’s Arrival album, humming along with “Dancing Queen” and “Money, Money, Money.” I tried to enjoy the whole experience and not think about the possible prison sentence for murder hanging over my head. Like they say, Live for the Moment. That isn’t my motto, but sometimes I try to pretend it is.

I followed the GPS through a public park that led to a privately owned, winding dirt road that went up into the hills. Pine trees lined both sides. At the end of the road was the—ha-ha—two-story log cabin. It was about as rustic as a Hollywood movie star’s home in Pacific Palisades. The sprawling house had a dark, split-log façade that was sanded, primed, and oiled. Bright blue window boxes sat beneath a multitude of picture windows, each box crammed with vibrant red and yellow flowers. In the driveway, a shiny, late-model black Mercedes Benz sat.

I pulled onto the dirt slope on the side of the road about a hundred yards away from the house. I stopped the car and turned off the motor. The lack of movement woke Frank up.

“Are we there?”

“We are. And welcome to your average Tahoe weekend retreat. Ten thousand square feet of rustic luxury,” I said. “I think that’s Steven’s car in the driveway. I can’t see the license plates from here, but he has one like that. Wait a minute. That’s strange. The front door is wide open.”

For several moments, we sat ramrod still in the car, taking in our surroundings. We listened to the high-pitched chirps of the birds, the rustling of branches in the soft breeze, and the oh-so-apparent absence of human life.

“I don’t like this, Frank,” I finally said.

“I don’t, either.”

“I’m a city girl, and even I know leaving a door open invites wildlife to wander in, from a skunk to a bear.”

Frank pulled his gun from his underarm holster. He opened the car door and looked at me. “Okay, change of plans. I’m going in commando. And I don’t mean not wearing any underwear. We don’t know what’s going on in there. Whether he’s in there or not, if anyone’s with him or not, or if he or anybody else is armed. We know nothing.”

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